Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 58, February 2023

ADELAIDE

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

Adelaide INDEPENDENT MONTHLY LITERARY MAGAZINE Year VIII, No. 58, February 2023 ADELAIDE BOOKS New York / Lisbon 2023

ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine Revista Literária Independente Mensal Year VIII, Number 58, February 2023 Ano VIII, Número 58, fevereiro 2023 Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon adelaidebooks.org Editor-in-Chief Stevan V. Nikolic All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For any information, please address Adelaide Books at [email protected] or write to: Adelaide Books 244 Fifth Ave. Suite D27 New York, NY, 10001 ISBN: 978-1-958419-58-8 Printed in the United States of America

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 1 CONTENTS FICTION: LEAVING RAILAY by Lois Rustenholtz 7 I WAS A WICKED ONE TO SAVE by Brenna Carroll 18 THE BULL SESSION by Fran Schumer 31 WEDDING DRESSES by Steven McBrearty 39 CAN’T LET GO by Karen Court 51 HASTILUDE by Derek Kelly 62 A MOST DISCONCERTING TITLE by Eric Green 76 ENIGMA by Suzanne Zipperer 91 LET DOGS DELIGHT by Devin Jacobsen 105 THE STRANGER by Luis Morales-Giorgi 116 A DEAD MAN’S LAST REUNION by Shawn Dulin 120 ABYSSAL by Josh Hiatt 123 A NEW JOURNEY by Maria Fernanda 128 THE BIG WAVE by Demian Brighina 132 THE BITE by Michael Nutt 134 A NOT SO NORMAL THURSDAY by Kyle Carpenter 139

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 2 NONFICTION: THE UNIVERSE AS A FLUKE by Greg Seitz 145 XIFAKI, A SOUTH AFRICAN SOCCER GRANNY by Jean Duffy 152 THE COUNTING OF LITTLE BIRD by Deena Goldstein 158 SACRIFICE: A DOCTOR’S STORY by Seth Guterman 164 THE MISBEGOTTEN TEAM by Paul Perilli 167 CAGED CITY by Kristal Peace 172 MY BODY IS MY MEMORIAL by Barbara Ann Bush 178 LETTING GO OF “WHAT IF” – OUR PARENTING STORY by Cynthia Damon 183 THE FOUR OF US LOST THE STREET by Hellen Albuquerque 187 POINT BRAKE by Tara Layne 194 CAUTIONARY TALES by Gershom Gerneth Mabaquiao 203 EVERYTHING I LEARNED ABOUT BEING AN ARTIST I LEARNED FROM RUNNING by Carlos Cajina 215 AN INTERRUPTION IN TIME by Olga Katsovskiy 217 POETRY: THE HANDMAID POEMS by Juned Subhan 223 AROUND THE BEND by Peter A. Witt 232

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 3 REFLECTION by Dennis Herrell 238 NEIGHBOURS by Erin Jamieson 242 BATHING BEAUTY by Sandra Kolankiewicz 244 MEDITATIONS by Alan Altany 250 DRIPPING by Noee Spiegel 253 GRAVITY by Miranda Clarity 254 PRISCILLA, LET’S DANCE by Michael Lee Johnson 260 INTERVIEWS: An Interview with THOMAS RICHARDS, author of Mrs. Sinden (Global Collective Publishers, 2023) 267

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 4

FICTION FICÇÃO

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 7 LEAVING RAILAY by Lois Rustenholtz Traveling on a tight budget bought handfuls of short-lived wonders. Knowing I’d crave more when it was over made everything a bit sweeter, saturating moments with nostalgia like honey soaking into soft bread. On the shore of Railay Beach I rented a kayak, ready to venture out alone. After only fifteen minutes paddling away from the shore I was overwhelmingly nauseous, and quickly working my way through the water I’d brought with me. Early evening light bounced over the waves and teased my unruly stomach. I turned back toward the shore in hope of relief. I’d been sick most of my time in Thailand - every kind of sick except throwing up. The diarrhea never stopped, I swallowed large tablets of Tiffy medicine a few times a day to keep from sneezing my eyes out through my nostrils, my ears never popped after my last flight, and a severe dry cough made my trachea felt like tissue paper. I could barely sleep with the pain in my throat and the sweltering heat in my bungalow. But no vomiting. After returning my kayak I stopped at a touristy cafe near the beach for an iced mocha, thinking something familiar would soothe my stomach. I also needed food; I hadn’t eaten much that day. I took a seat in the rooftop dining area at a restaurant across from the cafe, and requested a plate of fried rice (something easy to digest), and a bottle of water. As soon as the waitress left to put in the order my stomach started tightening again. I felt an upward pressure in my

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 8 chest, and started salivating heavily. I downed water and considered puking over the railing into the brush below, but I desperately wanted the privacy of a toilet. I rushed to the first floor, nearly running into a couple coming up the stairs. Relief appeared in the form of a single bathroom near the bottom of the steps, unoccupied. I stood over the toilet, my stomach unsure of what it wanted to do, when the nausea shifted downward. I dropped my shorts and took a seat. Nothing. As I sat with my head in my hands, the feeling lurched back into my throat. I jumped up, spun around, and vomited the entirety of a large iced mocha. Feeling better, I shamefully hosed down some stray vomit off of the toilet seat with the wall-mounted sprayer, then returned to my table, and asked the waitress to box up my rice without having touched it. On the walk back to my bungalow I passed the tiny Reggae bar I’d been drinking at for the past few nights - JamRock. The bartender, named Oh, greeted me and asked about my day. Oh was a soft-spoken man with kind features - a bit tall and lanky, with a rounded nose and cheeks that radiated warmth. A bit of stubble reminiscent of a beard softened the edges of his face. His shoulder length black hair had some natural curl to it, in addition to frizziness from the humidity that gave it shocking volume. The massive hair further softened his already gentle face, almost hiding his eyes at times. He dressed in baggy t-shirts and khaki shorts, accessorized with a few large rings on his fingers and an assortment of thin braided bracelets. On my first day in Railay I lugged my suitcase and backpack along sandy footpaths that cut across the tiny beach town, then up the many steps to my cliffside room overlooking the Andaman Sea. After that I set out to find a spot for dinner. It was impossible to get to or from my bungalow without passing JamRock, as the only path leading to Railay Garden View Resort ran between it and the mangroves lining the shore on the Eastern side of Railay. As I passed the bar on that first day Oh called out “Hello! Where are you from, friend?” while handing me a glossy drink menu, as he did with all the tourists that passed by. It was

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 9 still early in the evening, and I wasn’t ready for a drink, but I told him I’d come back to his bar after dinner. I was the only customer there so early in the night, so he sat with me and asked me about my travels. I explained that I was traveling alone for the first time and I’d been to Thailand once before with my dad, but I’d wanted to experience more of the country and the culture on a second trip. I left out a chunk of my story about my failing relationship at home, the girlfriend I’d wanted to travel with, and the crushing weight of the unknown that I was failing to evade in a tropical paradise. As we talked my eyes wandered the bar. The small open air space was walled on two of its four sides, and the entirety of its walls were covered in chalkboards cluttered with graffiti and art. In the center of the back wall “JamRock” was written in large squarish letters above a pot leaf, surrounded by smaller notes from tourists as well as an occasional painting of Bob Marley or something floral. On the left of the back wall was an acoustic guitar in pristine condition. Both walls were lined with wide benches and Thai-style throw pillows, as an alternative to the typical table seating in the rest of the bar. Behind the bartop, painted bright yellow and well worn, the chalkboard had the words “welcome back” written across it with a few song lyrics and little drawings of mushrooms peeking out from between the shelves of liquor. The humid atmosphere was illuminated with purple and green hanging lamps, casting cozy light to soothe my eyes after a day under the hot sun. Oh told me he appreciated me stopping by after dinner like I’d said I would, and that most tourists brush him off with excuses as to why they can’t stay for a drink. Some people ignored him altogether. In a tourist hotspot it’s easy to pass by all the people who want you to stop at their bar, eat at their restaurant, or buy their skirts, and let them fall into the background. For many travelers he was just part of the scenery. I wanted Oh to know that I saw him, and I cared. Feeling raw, lovesick, and just plain sick, I would show him all the kindness I craved.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 10 We bonded over a game of Jenga and a fruity cocktail that he’d invented. I decided not to tell him how sick I was, although I suspect he knew something was wrong. He only charged me for one of my three drinks that evening. The next night I left JamRock after just a couple of drinks, saying goodnight to Oh before walking out in the direction of my bungalow. I stopped and squatted in front of the vacant restaurant next door to say hello to a gaggle of stray kittens that hung out there. I hand fed them little pieces of my leftover yogurt-marinated chicken from the dinner I’d barely eaten at an Indian restaurant. Oh startled me when he appeared from around the corner and asked “Lois, is something wrong? You are leaving early?” “Yeah, no I’m ok, thank you for asking. I’m just tired.” If I shared all my troubles with him it would make leaving in a couple days all the more difficult. The following night I approached the bar after my puking ordeal and was greeted by Oh, his older brother, and their friend who played guitar there regularly. After having spent a couple of evenings at JamRock I was familiar with Beka, the guitarist. He was another soft looking man who contributed to the vibe. Oh’s older brother also worked the bar most nights; I didn’t catch his name the first time we met and had reached the point of being too embarrassed to ask. They welcomed me to stay and hang out, but it was still early in the evening, and I still needed to eat my fried rice to replace the mocha I’d just thrown up. I promised them I’d come to the bar that night after I’d gotten some rest back at my room. Later in the evening, with food sitting comfortably in my belly and a fresh dose of medicine clearing my sinuses, I felt surprisingly ok. Despite the constant heat and humidity that the fan in my bungalow failed to cut through, I adored the place. An assortment of geckos, snakes, and ants that I shared my space with added their own strange charm. Railay Garden View Resort was a cluster of small bamboo and wood crafted bungalows with corrugated metal roofs built against the gently sloping side of a cliff. Between the bungalows, a network of stone paved paths

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 11 and stairs intersected each other and led to the main walkway below, winding through a wild garden full of coconut trees and native foliage. Behind the topmost bungalows, mine included, dense jungle blanketed the cliffside. Chirps of geckos and screams of cicadas resonated through lush greenery. Walking out onto my wood plank porch, I could see over the coconut trees and rooftops to the Andaman Sea, dotted with longtail boats traveling to and from Railay. In the morning one of those boats would take me back to the mainland. I returned to Jamrock to find that they’d drawn in a few more customers and Beka was preparing to begin his performance. At the moment Bob Marley was playing over the speakers as usual, blending with the sound of soft waves lapping through mangrove roots in the fading light, and tipsy chatter within the glow of the bar. I sat at the counter and ordered a mojito. After a bit of catching up about my day, Oh introduced me to another traveler, Emma, from Australia. He’d made a habit of introducing me to other English speaking people who were drinking alone, encouraging me to socialize. He would seat us next to each other, start a game of Jenga and a conversation between us, and leave us to get to know each other. My first night at the bar I spent most of my time sitting at an empty table with a stray cat on my lap, so I appreciated his help. Emma was already a bit drunk and conversation came easy. We talked about our travels, what we’d been up to in Railay so far, and a bit of life back home. She told me she had a rule of never being the most drunk person in a bar, but that was probably out the window. After a couple games of Jenga she grabbed a plastic crocodile head toy off the bartop, and showed me that you push the teeth down and one of those pushes causes the mouth to snap shut on your hand. She quickly invented a version of truth or dare that she called “truth or crocodile.” The rules were simple: one person asks the other a question, and they can either answer honestly or push in a tooth and risk getting bitten.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 12 Oh checked in on us from time to time and periodically brought us shots of Thai Redbull with Saeng Som rum. After a round of shots we got onto the subject of the Chicken Dance, and subsequently the fact that I didn’t know the dance or the song. Emma saw a teaching opportunity, and soon we were both on our feet singing “I don’t wanna be a chicken, I don’t wanna be a duck, I just wanna shake my butt,” complete with the butt wiggle and all. Beka began strumming his guitar, and Oh decided that she and I should perform a song for the bar. I was hesitant, but Emma pointed out that “one of the best things about traveling is you’re never going to see these people again! Who cares if you look like an idiot, it'll be such a fun memory!” Between the medicine, cocktails, and Redbull shots I was feeling pretty carefree and agreed to give it a try. After the chicken dance I couldn’t really embarrass myself more. Beka kept a thin book of song lyrics next to him while he played. Flipping through the lyric book we found that we didn’t know most of the songs, except for REM’s “Losing My Religion”. We crowded around Beka and read the lyrics off of his songbook as he played the intro. He let us do all the singing, and we quickly realized we didn’t know the song as well as we thought we did, tripping over the lyrics trying to stay in rhythm with him, both of us out of key and stifling laughter. I pitied all the customers who had to tolerate us, but after powering through the whole song I turned to Emma with a proud “Ayy, we did it!” Not long after our musical debut, Emma told me she should be getting back to her friend at a guesthouse up the footpath. We said our goodbyes and added each other on Snapchat, and after she left I continued talking to Oh as usual. I excused myself to go use the restroom - a separate open-air cement building behind the bar with a couple of damp stalls and a sink mounted to the outside wall that drained into the dirt below. Oh wandered over from the bar while I washed my hands. He gestured to his t-shirt and asked me if I knew what it meant, because other tourists had commented on it before. It was a gray graphic tee with a design and the name “Modest Mouse”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 13 printed on the front. I told him that Modest Mouse was an American band, and that I knew some of their music but they weren’t one of my favorites. I don’t think my explanation clarified anything for him. It wasn’t particularly late, but I was exhausted from my day and would need to wake up early to catch the boat to Ao Nang, then a taxi to the Krabi airport. I told Oh I’d be heading back to my room soon, and he protested, “Stay for one more drink! If you have one more, I give you my shirt.” I laughed, “Ok, ok. You don’t have to give me your shirt, but yeah I’ll have another drink I guess.” “Yes! And I give the shirt, this is a deal!” “Fine, if you want to, but you don’t have to,” I faked reluctance to be polite, but loved the idea of keeping his shirt as a souvenir. As he mixed a new cocktail for me, I took a few hundred baht out of my purse and jammed it into the neck of an empty liquor bottle that served as a tip jar. I knew he’d probably only charge me for one of my drinks and at that point I must have owed a fair amount of money. Fresh drink in hand, I was introduced to another solo traveler and Oh set up a game of Jenga between us. She told me she’s from Israel, and we went through the routine getting-to-know-you questions. She was a bit more quiet and reserved than Emma, and I was tired, so we had a relatively subdued conversation. A few minutes into Jenga, Oh reappeared from the bar with a lit joint that he’d just rolled and handed it to us to share, then left us to our game. I took a few hits and finished my final drink, then said goodbye to the girl from Israel and walked over to the bartop to say goodnight to Oh, his brother, and Beka. They each individually wished me well on the rest of my travels, and Oh raised his hand for a soft goodbye high-five, which was a new concept to me. Then, rather than saying goodbye, he confidently said “see you next time” with a warm smile. A powerful surge of loneliness crashed over me.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 14 On the walk back to my bungalow I passed a much larger bar with a boxing ring in the center of its patio seating area. I’d never stopped to drink there because it seemed too hectic for me. Keeping with their flashy style, there was a fire juggler in front on the main path that evening. Small and alone in the night, I passed between the fire juggler and the drop off at the edge of the path into the sea. The air was clear and warm, and waves of low tide lapped over wet sand to my right. I drew the sea air into my lungs, watching warm light dance in the darkness. I quietly observed drunk friends and lovers celebrating life to its fullest in the bustling bar, then heard their voices fade as I carried on to my room at the end of the beach. I would rather be part of soft waves and moonlight weaving through the cathedral-like arches of mangrove roots. There was holy calm held within their wild structure, and I longed to be soothed. As I climbed the many steps through the cliffside gardens up to my bungalow I kept thinking about what Oh said - “see you next time.” I found comfort in its lack of finality. Letting go of things wasn’t a skill I’d ever learned. I stepped into my bamboo-walled room, turned on the light, and shut the door behind me. A realization hit me: I was promised a shirt. Damp with sweat, I debated turning around and returning to JamRock. I felt the pang of two imminent separations - leaving Railay and my girlfriend at home. I still had some control over my parting with Oh, so I made up my mind to remind him of the shirt I was owed. My own harshest critic, I saw myself as a desperate beggar grasping for a tangible memory as I headed back down the stairs and toward the bar. I found Oh right where I’d left him. I grinned stupidly, “You told me that if I stayed for another drink, you’d give me your shirt.” He smiled and took a moment to think it over.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 15 “Yes, tomorrow morning I can give my shirt. Not tonight. What time do you leave?” “I have to head out really early to catch my flight, my boat leaves at six-thirty.” “Ok, you get my shirt in the morning.” “No no, you don’t have to get up early for that, it’s really ok, you can keep it,” I told him, feeling heartbroken as I let the opportunity go, but knowing it would be unfair to expect him to go out of his way. I felt bashful having returned to demand his clothing. He firmly assured me that I would get his shirt in the morning before I left, and that I didn't need to worry about it. We parted ways again, but that time I returned to my room feeling slightly less helpless against the passage of time. I would check the bar as I walked past it to the dock the next day, and maybe I’d find a shirt with a note attached waiting for me on the bartop. The story didn’t need to end just yet. I woke up early, brushed my teeth, and finished packing up my suitcase. Having been sick the whole time in Railay and battling the heat and ants in my room, I was ready to move on to a guest house in a big city with air conditioning. That being said, I knew that the past few days would linger in the forefront of my memory long after I left. I’d miss the limestone cliffs with lush foliage creeping on every livable surface, the torrential downpours in the late hours of each night, and the longtail boats bobbing along the shore. At the aching heart of that memory would be Oh in his tiny bar by the mangroves. I rolled my suitcase noisily along the paved path by the water towards the dock, and paused at JamRock. I quickly scanned the bartop for anything left for me, and leaned over to peek behind the bar - nothing. I noticed a man sleeping under a blanket on the bench at the back of the bar, facing away from me. I couldn’t tell with certainty whether it was Oh, so I hesitated while I considered whether or not I should approach him. If it wasn’t Oh, I didn’t want to wake up a stranger who passed out at the bar last night. If it was Oh he’d probably be exhausted from

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 16 working all night and it still felt rude to wake him. Maybe he’d intended to be up to meet me but just needed rest. I had to make a choice quickly or risk missing my boat - and subsequently my flight to Chiang Mai. Frustrated at my own indecision, I told myself the kindest thing to do would be not to disturb the sleeping man, whether it was Oh or not. I resumed a brisk walk to catch my boat. There was a small crowd of people waiting near the floating dock, and I tried to enjoy my last few minutes by the sea in the soft warmth of the rising sun. The boat hadn’t arrived yet, it’d probably be another ten minutes or so before it docked and we’d be able to board. As I waited I felt regret spreading from my chest into my limbs like a chill. If I left my suitcase behind I might have had time to go back to the bar, but there’d be no telling whether my belongings would still be there when I got back. If I tried to lug it along with me that would slow me down and I’d risk missing the boat. So I just stood there, glancing occasionally back in the direction of the bar and fighting a surge of self loathing for my poor choice. The boat arrived and I boarded with the group, taking a seat on one of the wood plank benches along the side near the front, facing the stern. We pushed away from the dock and the engine kicked on to a higher RPM as we distanced ourselves from the shore, clipping over short waves as we went. The tiny buildings of Railay and its surrounding cliffs faded off to my right. I fought back tears as swells of regret and appreciation pummeled me. I pulled my eyes off the receding sight of Railay and looked towards the sky. To the South over the stern, a rainbow glistened in wispy morning clouds. Everybody else was looking ahead, so only I saw it. I considered turning to the stranger next to me and pointing it out, but couldn’t bring myself to share the moment. I kept my eyes fixed on the sky behind us, and kept it for myself. I felt certain that it was Oh sleeping on the bench at JamRock - who else would it have been? I didn’t need the shirt to remember him, I only wanted the comfort of something to hold, something more than just a memory to keep me company.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 17 No matter how long I labor over a memory, it won’t be resurrected - that’s why every goodbye is shrouded in fear. Despite my best efforts I’ll cling to something because I’m incapable of willing myself to let it go, and unwilling to relegate it to memory. All moments must dwell in purgatory while I exhaust myself trying to breathe life back into them. I did my best to set aside that entangled mass of emotion. I’d keep it safely tucked away and check in on it from time to time just to make sure it was still there - it would be my souvenir from Railay. I hoped Oh slept well. I’d see him next time. Lois Rustenholtz is a queer woman in her mid-twenties working to balance a full-time job as a mechanic with her passions for travel and writing.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 18 I WAS A WICKED ONE TO SAVE by Brenna Carroll Dragging my feet in the face of salvation, I sought out the holiest of damnations. I thought my home was in the grave– I was a wicked one to save. Sylvia sat up. Her breath heaved, sweat dried on her forehead, a low humming in the background dug into her ears and her head beat with her heart. As disorientation faded, Sylvia became filled with surprise. Why am I still alive? As consciousness returned, Sylvia retraced the steps of her life up to this point. Rough childhood, unstable relationships, depression, insanity, but a star student, an athlete, a prodigy– then death. Death was the most recent memory, except that it was not a memory. Sylvia had simply been awake, then awake again. Dying had been easier than falling asleep. In a moment of clarity: How did I get here? For a second, the sun knocked on the window and let itself in, and Sylvia felt a divine presence, but it left as quickly as it came on. A cloud passed overhead and blotted out the light. Sylvia remembered her downfall vaguely and intensely, all at once, a wild churning of the mind that rendered the edges of her psyche nothing more than yellowed wallpaper. It is funny how you do not notice you

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 19 are losing your mind until it is long gone. But where does a lost mind go? To what galaxy does it traverse? In what cycle of inhumanity does this happen: why are some cursed with such creativity that it divorces them from self-preservation? Where does a lost mind find its home? Sylvia looked down at the bandages on her wrists and finally understood where she was, as well as why. Is there valor in suffering? § Sylvia ran wild through the streets, a feral human bent on immortality. She was a hedonistic saint, indulgent in her asceticism, an untamed girl, undomesticated and untethered. Light shot from her heart and colors morphed around her with blinding intensity. Feet thumping the street like ancestral drums, those goatskin drums beating into the past in Ireland, Sylvia neared the park that was her impromptu destination. She ran up the steps in a daze of electricity and euphoria. Joan of Arc sat upon her horse, looking over the park and Sylvia, protecting her from the evil apparitions she had heard in her ears on the way there. It briefly occurred to Sylvia that she and Joan of Arc were probably soul sisters. She took comfort in this new reality. Joan of Arc nodded her head to Sylvia as she skipped past. Sylvia nodded back. Staring up at the heavens and stretching her arms out to embrace the world, Sylvia spun, spun, spun, whirling and unfurling into the air. She felt like her very being had been dispersed into the universe and she was everything and nothing, all at once. Slowly and all at once, an idea grew up in the soil of Sylvia’s mind: I am the Archetype of Humanity. Some pride came along with that idea. Sylvia felt she had experienced every emotional extreme of the human race; her life was an archetype for the human condition. She was not Jesus, but she was close. §

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 20 Sylvia composed poetry in her sleep but rarely remembered the rarified words that were the keys to her heart. She could still faintly taste them upon awakening, but the rhythms fled as soon as she opened her eyes. An incessant beeping issued forth from a machine near Sylvia’s head. The lines and verse disappeared under the tyranny of the beep-machine, and this vexed Sylvia endlessly. Fluorescent lights stared down at Sylvia, and a nurse stirred in the corner upon her awakening. Holding a gnarled book in her gnarled hands, the nurse looked grandmotherly and soft with a certain sternness. Her face held a wisdom that offended and impressed Sylvia. It was not often she met someone more world-worn than herself. The nurse gazed upon Sylvia with kindness, which Sylvia promptly rejected. Sylvia was her own ultimate torturer. “You’re awake,” the nurse noted. Sylvia looked around her, appraising the room. It was barren and sanitary, with glaring lights and plastic surfaces. The mattress was thin and Sylvia could feel the bony structure beneath it. The air was cold; the beep-machine continued; her heart kept beating. “How are you feeling?” the nurse prompted. Sylvia looked at her for a moment before answering, then down to her bandaged wrists, then back at the nurse. How do you feel when you have woken up from death? “I feel fine.” This was a lie. The nurse saw Sylvia’s eyes dart towards her wrists again. Her eyes softened and enveloped Sylvia in their warm gaze. “Why did you do that to yourself?” Sylvia began to pick at the bandages instead of answering, but the nurse stood up and pulled her hand away from the injuries. Sylvia looked up at the nurse with a feral light in her eyes, indignant at the interference, and yanked her hand away. She continued to unwind the bandages with shaky hands until she could view the scars fully. They were

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 21 deep and red, dried blood dotting the surface of her skin. Sylvia liked it better this way– the scars on her body mirroring the scars on her soul. “It’s a miracle you’re alive.” Why do they try so hard to save me? Sylvia cleared her throat. “Miracle is a strong word.” The nurse frowned, but at that moment a doctor came in. He was tall and gave an air of self-assurance. “Hi Sylvia, I’m Dr. Townsend.” He glanced down at his charts. “How are you feeling?” “Why are you people so concerned with how I’m feeling?” “Well, seeing as you tried to kill yourself, how you’re feeling could be a matter of life and death.” “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Sylvia said with conviction. “Oh?” Dr. Townsend’s face became puzzled. “I was just trying to feel alive.” “I see.” Dr. Townsend looked down at his charts again. “How long have you been self-harming?” Sylvia scowled. “That is not your concern.” Dr. Townsend raised an eyebrow. “Actually, as your doctor, and the one who bandaged you while you were unconscious and bleeding out, it is very much my concern.” Sylvia pouted but relented in her petulance. “Since… I don’t know… I was eleven?”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 22 Dr. Townsend made some notes. “Why do you do this? Was there a specific trigger?” “I already told you. I was trying to feel alive.” “So you only feel alive… when you’re dying inside?” Sylvia pondered. “I mean, yeah.” “Ok.” Dr. Townsend made more notes and addressed Sylvia again. “I’m going to transfer you to a behavioral health hospital.” “No! I will not go there.” “Sylvia,” Dr. Townsend said, and tried to retain the remaining patience in his voice, “you tried to kill yourself, and, as a doctor, I have a responsibility to you and to society to do all I can to prevent this happening again. If I discharge you now, you will probably attempt suicide again, and this time you might not get so lucky.” “But I don’t want to go! You can’t force me! I know my rights!” Panic flew around the room and settled in Sylvia’s gut. “You ceded that right when you put the blade to your wrists.” § The Archetype of Humanity flew through the thoughts in her mind recklessly and bravely. A thousand thoughts would come forth out of the shadows of her psyche, and then a thousand more would crash into the preceding ones when they were halfways through and mangle, tangle each other like cars in a wreck. Poetry streamed from Sylvia’s hands and alit on the pavement, trickling out of her being to light the world around her. It was still dark outside, but Sylvia could see by the glow of her poetry. The birds sang along to Sylvia’s steps. For a moment, she faced the terror of eternity, but ecstasy again won over. Sylvia saw the world with

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 23 wild eyes, a feral trance that transcended her physical body. She was a wolf of a woman. The woman-wolf thought back to the she-wolf of Rome, who raised Romulus and Remus, who gave rise to the empire and the glory and the cruelty and the war and the riches. Sylvia snarled against all around her that was placid and gave life to the world in her hands. I’ll never sleep again. I’ll never die again. § Sylvia could not sleep. The whites of her eyes had begun to turn red. Her hands trembled and she hoped to God the wallpaper would just come alive to absolve her of her feelings, because she felt she was mired in sin, she was a medieval nun, scourging her body to purify her heart, scourging her heart to heal her soul, if she had one at all, if it had not fled into the place where lost minds go. The air in the room grew cold, although the heater was running. Tendrils of thought dripped from Sylvia’s mind. She thought she might go insane if she had not already been insane. Icy fingers traced her spine. Sylvia closed her eyes and fought her wakefulness, but could not fade into unconsciousness. She shut her eyes tightly, but soon enough they sprang back open. A scratch at the window, a knocking on the pane of glass. Sylvia sprang up and looked outside. A white figure, as if made of mist, stared at her through the window. Sylvia shrunk back in panic, stifling a shriek so as not to alert the nurses. Sylvia knew this apparition was real, she felt it in her bones, but if the nurses came, they might not believe her. It does not serve you to be crazy in the asylum. The ghostly figure motioned for Sylvia to open the window, mouthing words Sylvia could not hear. Curiosity overcoming fear, Sylvia reached out and pushed the pane. The windows did not have bars in front of them, but they also did not open wide enough for a person to fit through, to fling themselves in a fit of joy and fury to the ground below; however, it was big enough for a spirit to glide through. The ghost alit on the floor and stared at Sylvia. Sylvia stared back.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 24 The ghost was dressed in a Victorian nightgown and white as that pallid bust of Pallas. Her eyes were shrouded with dark circles, and her hair fell gray over her thin, translucent shoulders. She smiled in a troubled sort of way. Sylvia did not know what to say. She had never been confronted by the paranormal before. Sylvia continued to stare, heart beating fervently. “What do you want from me?” “I want… to be… your friend.” The ghost spoke in a sort of lilting, ethereal tone, pausing between words as if her gossamer lungs could not quite get all the words out. She smiled a broken smile. Dying is a solitary act, and the afterlife is lonely. The ghost moved closer and touched Sylvia’s hand, a gentle, cold caress. She looked into Sylvia’s eyes, a lonely, hungry entreaty. Sylvia found herself unable to speak– she was afraid, but the same curiosity as before overwhelmed her. “But… why me?” “We are… of the same cloth. We are… soulmates.” “How? I’m alive and you’re… not.” The ghost raised up her bandaged wrists to Sylvia. “We are… the same.” § Sylvia pounded through the street. Her ecstasy had risen to a fervent boil until she was overflowing with the joy of the world, the joy of humanity, that exhilarating rush of realness that only the manic can grasp. Her mind opened and sunshine poured directly in. Sylvia was not worried about getting burned– she was invincible. The sun could not burn her! She was above the moon and the stars, above the sky, maybe even above God– she was above it all.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 25 Awake through the night and into the day, Sylvia’s eyes burned red and her soul burned free. Skipping down the steps from the park where Joan of Arc kept watch, the air swirled around Sylvia’s body and gently greeted her as it warmed in preparation for the day. The sun was rising and Sylvia’s mind greedily ate up its rays. In a spiritual sort of photosynthesis, the light transformed into energy inside Sylvia’s head and egged her on further in her path to insanity. Sylvia walked for hours until she reached the open field with all its glorious monuments and memorials. She walked from one edge to the other, drinking in the air and the smells and the noise and the energy. The land upon which Sylvia walked was holy to her, and she consecrated it with prayers and exclamations as she went. The land received her sacrament and deposited it underground to save for future pilgrimages. Electricity split the air. Sylvia stared straight into the sun. This must be enlightenment. § Sylvia wanted to burn stigmata in the palms of her hands with a lit cigarette. As she smoked her cigarette, floating into oblivion, life burned into the tobacco, but the flame soon left it dead and tarnished. Sylvia thought she might like to be like Catherine of Siena some day. The other patients chatted inanely, Sylvia floating in and out of the conversation. Smoke enveloped the circle of chairs, and the sun filtered through it onto the ground. Very little of it entered Sylvia’s mind, and she mourned the time when her head was open to the heavens and bliss poured in. She grieved a state of mind. I was the Archetype of Humanity. Now I’m in an asylum. Oh, how fickle life can be. Sylvia stared at her palms. Am I really alive? Or am I in Purgatory? Is this the immortal plane to which I’ve been banished as a consequence of my sins? Sylvia recited a litany of her shortcomings in her mind, but none of them seemed serious enough to cast her into spiritual limbo.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 26 Is that why I could see the ghost? That night, Sylvia pulled out her pack of cigarettes and the lighter she had snuck into her room under her shirt. She lit a cigarette, caring not whether she got caught, and extinguished it in the palm of her left hand. An involuntary yelp escaped Sylvia’s lungs, but she quickly covered her own mouth as she processed the exhilarating agony. A presence entered the room, but the door did not open. The ghost appeared. Sylvia sat in silence for a moment, recovering from the pain, panting. Her palms continued to burn. The ghost came over and held Sylvia’s hand in her own, and the sensation was soothed. Sylvia looked up at her face. “What’s your name?” “My name?” “Yes.” “Virginia… you?” “I’m Sylvia.” “Two sisters.. in madness… it seems.” “You mean, like, Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf?” Virginia nodded. “Fitting.” Virginia continued to cup Sylvia’s injured hand in her own. “Why… did you do this.. to yourself?” Sylvia blinked. “It makes me feel better.” “Does… it make you feel better… because you hurt inside?”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 27 Sylvia nodded, and Virginia looked at her in knowingness, then down at her own wrists. “I.. understand.” § Mania shapes a martyr’s scorn. Exhilaration started to give way to exhaustion. Sylvia’s tired eyes could not close, and she was driven forward as if by a motor. Compelled to adventure, Sylvia dragged her aching muscles further through the streets. She did not know how long she had been awake, but it was longer than at least three sunrises. Sylvia’s mind had started to close to the sunshine all around her, but a tepid joy still crept through her head. It was slowing down and cooling down. Terror sprung up, but Sylvia pushed it down. What is insanity but joy inverted? § The hospital’s first mistake was giving Sylvia a plastic spoon. The second was leaving her alone with it. The mad are particularly resourceful. Breaking off the round part of the spoon and storing it under the mattress for later, Sylvia set the sharp edge of the handle against her arm, and cut. The pain seeped into her skin and pooled at her wrists. Sylvia had not cut deep enough to injure herself– she had another end in mind. Virginia appeared in her room and held Sylvia’s arm in sad respect. “Why… did you do this… again?” “So I could see you again.” If a ghost could have blushed, Virginia would have, but she had no blood to color her cheeks. “I don’t… want you… to hurt yourself.”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 28 “But,” Sylvia said, puzzled and embarrassed, “I really wanted to see you.” “Do not… bait me… with your pain.” Sylvia began to cry. “You’re the only one who’s ever cared,” Sylvia choked out. “You’re the only one who hasn’t been like, Oh, why are you trying to kill yourself? rather than, What’s hurting you inside?” Virginia did not speak, but looked at Sylvia knowingly. “You’re the only one who gets it.” Virginia flew over to Sylvia and enveloped her in a hug. As they pulled apart, they looked into each other’s eyes, found the galaxy in each, stared in wonder and amazement. Sylvia reached her face forward and gently kissed Virginia. Virginia kissed her back, then looked at Sylvia in love and regret. “I’m dead… how could we… ever be together?” Sylvia, again, cried. § When depression strikes, it does not do so halfheartedly. The lightning struck Sylvia down suddenly and acridly. The clouds passed over the sun and the light was blocked from Sylvia’s mind, and it withered like a flower abandoned by the day. Sylvia retired from the outside world and lived entirely in the excruciatingly small room inside her mind. The doors and windows were barred and she could not get out. It was a cage, and she was ready to kill the bird. The razor blades sat on Sylvia’s desk, calling to her in whispers, then shouts, then a wild cacophony of self-immolation and a reification of death.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 29 No longer able to resist, Sylvia picked one up and dragged it across her wrist. She had done this many times successfully, but this time she was a little too earnest. With regret, Sylvia realized her mistake, and laid down on her bed to say goodbye to the world. She texted her mother a heartfelt farewell, and went to sleep for what she thought would be the last time. § This is the day my life will surely change. This is the day I join Virginia in the grave. Sylvia had snuck some scissors out of the art room and sat with them on her bed in contemplation. There was a little fear, but it was tempered by conviction. How can I be with you in this life? Sylvia drew the scissors across her wrists with abandon but had to go over a few times to produce the intended result. If she could not be with Virginia in this life, she would join her in eternity. Sylvia felt a sense of joy, of relief, seep in through the cuts and into her being. Virginia appeared in a panic. Sylvia expected joy, but her vision began to fade and she laid down on the bed to enter the afterlife. Virginia screamed and a nurse came running. Sylvia felt cold tears fall on her face, and then– oblivion. § Sylvia awoke in intensive care, yet again. Wow. I’ve come full-circle. This time, Virginia was there in the corner. Sylvia teared up. “Why would you not let me die? I love you. I wanted to be with you in eternity.” Virginia was crying.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 30 “Eternity… lasts forever… I love you, too… but you need… to live… for yourself… first.” “Why do you haunt this hospital?” “I died here.” Sylvia remained silent. “I am trapped here… in my misery… for eternity… I cannot transcend… this place… even in the afterlife… our suffering… doesn’t save us.” “So, why did you come to me?” “I knew… you could be saved… in a way… that I wasn’t… if I showed you… that your pain was welcome here.” Sylvia sobbed into the void in her heart that had started to close up before she tore it open again. “I’m sorry you died here, that you’re stuck here. I wish someone could have saved you.” “I thought… my home… was in… the grave.” Virginia paused. “I was a wicked one to save.” Brenna Carroll is a writer located in Houston, TX. Her other work appears in Adelaide Magazine.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 31 THE BULL SESSION by Fran Schumer Brooklyn, 1966 When the girls decided to have a "bull" session, they really didn't know what it was. They assumed it was where you sat in a circle, and everyone frankly shared her view of the other girls. That's how they interpreted it, anyway, and so that's what they did. The first girl who spoke was Tanya. Since she went first, she tended to be very polite. She said she basically liked everyone, felt good about them all. Sometimes it bothered her the way Diney always asked everyone where they bought their clothes, but that was okay. Diney didn't mean any harm by it, Tanya was sure. Then it was Suzi's turn. Suzi agreed with Tanya. Basically, she liked everyone, too. She especially liked Skippy (whom she turned toward and hugged), and who had been her best friend since third grade. Skippy, with her short curls and beautiful clothes, was everyone's favorite. All the girls just thought her so "cute." Suzi agreed with Tanya about Diney as well. Every time she wore something new, Diney always asked her where she got it and how much it cost. The "how much it cost" was what really killed her. "I mean, what does it matter how much it costs? If it's nice, it's nice." But Diney didn't seem to agree, Suzi went on. "Only if it comes from Saks or Bergdorf is she impressed," Suzi said. "But not everyone can afford those stores," she went on. "Just because our mothers don't take us to Bergdorf or Saks doesn't mean our clothes aren't nice. Look at Skippy," at which Suzi turned affectionately toward

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 32 her friend. All the girls did, which made Skippy cover her eyes. "Oh girls," she said. "Stop staring at me. You're embarrassing me." She said this in a way that suggested she liked the way it felt. She turned and hid her face and, as if she were on stage and very far away from them all, gave a very exaggerated look of being embarrassment. That's why all the girls loved Skippy. She was so cute. "I mean, Skippy's clothes are sensational the last word. And she doesn't shop at Bergdorf or Saks,” Suzi said. “In fact, if you ask Skippy where she gets her clothes, she'll tell you, "Clothes Horse," or "Phil's" ("Fabulous Phil's," where even Diney’s mother sometimes took her). "But the point is," Suzi said, warming up to her real subject, "she never asks you where you get your clothes. That's obnoxious," she said and turned toward Diney, who was starting to get the idea about where this bull session was heading. It didn't bother Diney that Tanya had criticized her, or Suzi. After all, neither was her good friend. Tanya was jealous, she thought, and Suzi, well, everyone knew that Suzi had been nursing a crush on Jason ever since the beginning of eighth grade and that Jason only had eyes for her. Still, she didn't like the silence with which the other girls greeted Suzi's attack. Wouldn't one of them rise to defend her? Next came Carla. Diney and Carla were almost best friends, but Carla was so nice that everyone liked her, and lots of the girls at the bull session considered Carla their best friend. Diney thought that at least she was tied for first place with Skippy. Carla was equally close to both, although at times, the roster of "best friends" changing as often as the constellations, people considered Diney and Skippy the best-est of friends, closer than either Skippy or Diney was with Carla. After all, both Skippy and Diney had boyfriends (and their boyfriends, too, were best friends) and both had more than the other girls, especially in terms of clothes. Still, Diney didn't know how much Skippy and Carla talked; maybe it was even more than she and Carla spoke, or more than she spoke to Skippy, with whom she was on the phone with every night.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 33 Carla began softly. "This is hard," she said, her face blushing even more than it usually did (Carla had very soft, white skin). "I love you, Diney, you know that," Carla said, turning toward her friend and favorite math homework partner. She and Diney spent hours on the phone every night, laughing as they reviewed their stupid math problems. And, unlike Skippy, they were both pretty good in math, and very nervous, a condition from which Skippy was also spared. Skippy had an older sister, Patricia, and although Patricia was smart, she didn't care about grades as much as she cared about records and clothes and the new moiré wall paper her mother had hung in her room (it was cream with pink roses; "French," Skippy proclaimed). "But it does really get obnoxious the way you're always asking everyone about their clothes. 'Where did you get this?' or 'How much did that cost?' Honestly, Diney, you're really such a snob." Carla turned toward Diney and gave her a look that was meant to suggest, "I'm only telling you this because I love you" but Diney didn't respond. She was too stunned, and too upset. In a minute, she knew, she was going to cry, but for now, her throat was too dry. She didn't think there was a drop of water left in her, only acid, coursing through her veins. She hardly heard Anita, who went next. Anita was a bitch, everyone knew it. No one liked Anita and Anita was constantly complaining about not being let into the group, though occasionally she barged her way in. Anita, like Skippy, was short and so the two were always being compared, but never in Anita's favor. Diney's mother couldn't understand why. "Of all you girls, Anita is the prettiest," Diney’s mother often said, matter of factly. "She's adorable. And she always looks good." Diney didn't see it. And neither did the boys or the girls in their class, so who cared? The real reason no one liked Anita was because she was mean. She also was, truthfully, smart, as Diney's mother also pointed out. When Diney made the skipping in second grade, Anita was the only other friend in their group who did. But in school, Anita didn't seem very smart. She never paid much attention and was careless with her work. Anita had never liked Diney, but she also didn't like Skippy,

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 34 which further kept her an outsider in their group. She was especially angry that Skippy got all the attention. And so she aimed her thrust not only at Diney, but at Skippy, too. "Actually, I don't agree that Skippy's clothes are so nice. I don't see what everyone makes such a fuss over. But Diney God, you just never tire of laying it on." And here, Anita departed from the clothing theme because Anita’s mother was the only mother other than Diney’s mother, who took her daughter to Saks. Anita's mother was a former model "stunning," Diney's mother had often said and bought expensive clothes for herself and her daughter. "You're always bossing everyone around. And you think you're such hot stuff. It makes me sick the way you go around telling everyone that John's the best Beatle, because he's so smart. I mean, who cares? I happen to like Ringo. And he's not simply ‘a talent less elf’ as you say.” That comment always hurt Anita because like Ringo, she, too, was short. "Who made you the authority on the best Beatle? Like you know so much about music because of those piano lessons you take with Dr. Bonhardt?" At this, Suzi cracked up. She, too, was sick about hearing about Diney's music lessons. Lots of the girls took music lessons. In fact, Suzi and Tanya were quite good on the guitar. But neither of them had a piano, which Diney did. And certainly, neither took private lessons. They'd learned how to play their instrument by themselves, not like Diney. Diney’s mother paid $6 an hour for Dr. Bonhardt, Diney had told the group, but only when asked. Diney swallowed her gum. She hadn't meant to, but it sort of slid down. She wondered if she would start choking, or if the gum could get stuck in her larynx and cause her to cough. She cleared her throat, attempting to figure out what happened to the gum, but all she could feel was a lump in her stomach. Perhaps the gum was sitting right there, right on that little spot that felt so strange.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 35 Now it was Skippy's turn. Skippy was sitting on the other side of Diney because, of course, they were best friends. At first, Skippy tried to excuse herself. "You know what?” she asked, yawning. “I'm getting tired. Let's go eat." No one took up on her suggestion. "But I'm starving," she whined, looking imploringly at Carla. When even Carla didn’t respond, Skippy decided to go on. "I guess I've basically got to agree with everyone here," she said. "You know, it does get pretty obnoxious, Diney, asking people where they buy their clothes. Not everyone can afford such good clothes." Skippy was thinking of her friend Carla, who lived in a one bedroom apartment and whose parents, the girls were horrified to learn one day, slept on a couch in the living room so that Carla could have her own room. "You've got to be more sensitive to people," Skippy said. "My sister, for example, has friends who can't afford to shop where she does. She'd never think of asking them where they buy their clothes." Diney knew at last, that Skippy, her best friend, or the person she had thought of as her really best friend, who all the girls agreed had the nicest clothes, was not going to defend her, not at all. And so she stopped listening. She looked but could hardly see. She made her eyes very wide to absorb the tears so that none would spillover. She could not let the girls see her cry. When it was over, she couldn't get up. She could see everyone else moving up off the hard wood floor, heading toward the boxes of pizza that had just arrived, but she couldn't move. She turned to Carla who was starting to rise. "I didn't think you'd go against me," she said, but then she saw Skippy coming toward her. "Oh Diney, don't take it so hard. Everyone was just telling you what you needed to know. You can't expect people not to feel bad when you do that." "But I thought we were best friends," Diney said. "I mean, I knew Suzi would have a field day, and Anita, well, everyone knows she's a bitch. But you're my best, best-est friend. Why you?"

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 36 Skippy didn't seem to want to get into it, and everyone was eager for Skippy to come to the table because she ate pizza in a way that made them all laugh. With great ceremony, she pulled off the long strands of cheese and ate only the crust, which all the girls thought was hysterical. Suzi ate slowly, and intently, as she did everything, and Tanya ate too much, which she always did. Carla, who saw that Diney was now crying, went to talk to her. “Come on, Diney," she said, putting her arm around her almost best friend. "You know we all love you. No one is as funny as you, you know, when you imitate Mrs. Jacobs (the French teacher) and when you tell everyone's fortune with your orange. You're hysterical, and we love you for that. Now come on, don't take it too seriously." But Diney couldn't get over what had occurred. She always thought she was the leader, the girl everyone looked up to, the best of the girls. It didn't occur to her that it mattered whether they liked her. They liked Skippy, but who cared? Hadn't Diney’s mother always said that Skippy was "shallow, not very bright." And according to Mrs. Parker, Skippy's clothes weren't as nice as everyone in their group thought. "They look cheap,” Mrs. Parker said. “Only you and Anita wear really good clothes.” So Diney didn't pay much attention to Skippy's popularity. And she knew all the girls thought she was funny and even Suzi, who hated her because of Jason, always squealed when Diney began her fortune teller routine. "Oh Diney, you're a stitch," Suzi often said, along with Tanya, along with everyone. So, it never occurred to Diney that she was so disliked. And did she really always ask everyone about their clothes, where they got them and how much they had cost? She made fun of Anita's clothes everyone did – because despite Diney’s mother’s opinion, they did look silly. Anita’s mother always dressed her in the latest styles, which were slow to arrive from Manhattan to Brooklyn. The only one whose clothing she ever asked about was Skippy, and that was because she was a bit envious of Skippy's clothes, and popularity. Her mother didn’t understand why the girls were so crazy about Skippy. "I think she's ugly," Diney's mother had said, "and her clothes look cheap." Actually, Diney

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 37 thought Skippy was very cute and her clothes exceptionally groovy in a way her own never were. Diney's mother picked out all her clothes. The few times Diney had tried to pick out an outfit, her mother had talked her out of it. "Oh, that's horrible," Diney's mother said when Diney showed her the blue and green jumper outfit in the window of “Clothes Horse” with which Diney had fallen in love. “It looks cheap.” Diney especially loved the way Skippy's legs looked in those heavy, wool sweat socks that all the older girls, especially the cheerleaders, wore in high school. Skippy's sister, Patricia, had turned her onto that. Once, Diney’s mother consented to let Diney buy one pair of the heavy socks with her own money, but the look was terrible. For one thing, Diney's legs weren't as shapely as Skippy's. Skippy had real curves, a thin waist, calves, even breasts, which Diney didn't have. For another, Diney’s legs were pale and hairy. “That you get from your father’s side of the family,” her mother had said. Skippy shaved her legs, but Mrs. Parker insisted that Diney wait. And with Diney’s pale, stalky hairy legs, the new sweat socks looked ridiculous. So Diney wore the clothes her mother told her to wear, which she didn't like very much, and which none of the girls seemed to like either. But she knew, somehow, her clothes were superior. They cost more, and her mother bought them at Saks. This made her "better" than the other girls. She didn't look "cheap" like the green and blue outfit she had wanted to buy at Clothes Horse. When Carla's Uncle Arthur arrived to pick up Diney and Carla, Diney couldn’t run fast enough to the car. "Goodnight," Carla called out cheerfully to everyone. Diney did not want to see even a single face. The only person she did see, through the window, was Anita. The girl stood awkwardly behind Tanya and Suzi, hoping to have a chance to talk to Skippy, who never seemed to have time for her. Anita looked so lonely, standing there like that that Diney almost felt sorry for her. Anita wanted so much for everyone to like her, but she was mean, and she never said the right thing. Diney did say the right thing, and she got the right grades and

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 38 was loved by the right boy, Jason, whom Suzi loved, and whom everyone else had a crush on. Why Jason loved Diney was a mystery to her, but it was one Diney didn't try to figure out. He seemed to like her better and better all the time, and she felt the same way about him. Diney’s mother couldn't get over it. "He's stunning," she said describing Jason to her friends. "One day he just came over and asked, “Is Diney home?” Mrs. Parker thought this was so cute. The car moved silently through the dark streets. Diney stared into her lap. She didn't even want to look at Carla, who was telling her how much everyone really loved her, and that she shouldn't feel so bad. "It's just that one issue, Diney, really. Everyone will forget about this by tomorrow. You will, too. And Suzi and Tanya, you know, they're just jealous about Jason." Diney stared out her window at the stars. Arthur was listening to that strange music again on his radio. It was always tuned to the same station whenever he picked them up. "WRVR Jazz," the announcer said, and then hissed, as if the music were that hot. Normally, Diney didn't pay any attention to the music but tonight she did. It seemed refreshing, like the cold breeze coming from the crack of space she had left between the window and the top of the door. It was freezing outside but Diney didn't mind. She needed the air, and the night and the stars. And now she realized, she needed the music too. It allowed her to hear things she'd never heard. Fran Schumer’s poetry, fiction, personal essays and articles have appeared in various sections of The New York Times; also, Vogue, The Nation, The North American Review, and other publications. She was the winner of a Goodman Loan Grant Award for Fiction from the City University of New York and, in 2021, a poetry fellowship from the Creative Writing Institute of Martha’s Vineyard. She has a poem forthcoming in Bryant Literary Review; fiction in Avalon Literary Review, and non fiction in Paterson Literary Review. She studied political theory in college but wishes she spent more time studying Keats.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 39 WEDDING DRESSES by Steven McBrearty I was hanging out at the law offices downtown in San Antonio that Saturday morning in September, working ostensibly, but actually just drinking free coffee and flirting with the receptionist, Rhonda. I wasn’t expecting to almost get murdered later that day. I wasn’t an attorney, I was just a 19-year-old community college student working part-time as an office clerk at a personal injury firm where the chief partner was a friend of my father’s. The Law Offices of Donovan and Klegg occupied the entire 9th floor of one of the old brick office buildings downtown, with gargoyles perched on the window ledges and a high, ornate lobby that made you feel like it was 1924. Working there I felt distinguished and important, a part of some glamorous enterprise. Most of the staff worked a half-day on Saturdays, in the morning. The vibe was different than during the work week, more free and easy. Sometimes somebody brought donuts or kolaches, enhancing the coffee for a nice, jittery sugar and caffeine high. Mr. Donovan, the firm’s founding partner, was in a chipper mood on Saturday mornings, wearing a loud shirt and Irish green pants, ready to take off precisely at noon for his lake house or to play golf at the country club. Sometimes he walked around with a Bloody Mary, clapping staff members on the back as he made the rounds through the office suite. You could tell he was luxuriating in his ownership, his success, his accomplishments. He let all of us in the office feel like we were partaking in a small piece of that. The receptionist Rhonda wasn’t really my type, or what I thought my type was at age 19. What I thought was my type was a cerebral,

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 40 high-brow girl, fragile, almost waiflike, a fan of late-Romantic era British poetry, a questioner, a quester, a war protester, somebody willing to take tear gas in the schnoz for her beliefs. With big boobs as a nice, elective feature. Rhonda wasn’t anything like that, but she was there. She was an old-fashioned working girl, tough, hard-driven, maybe a tad brittle around the eyes, two or three years older than me. She was a lean, freckled-faced, strawberry blond who wore glasses and her hair in a bouncy ponytail most of the time. We joked about that—I was a college kid and she was just a dumb working girl. That kind of banter invariably turned me on, though I kept that information to myself. She wasn’t dumb, though. She was sharp and quick-witted, fast to learn and apply new skills. She had dropped out of high school before senior year—earning a GED later—and moved away from home to escape an oppressive situation there. She was a wiz at operating our office machines. She made me understand the whole concept of education in a new light, that there were different paradigms of learning, not just the traditional book learning that I had received. She existed in a different world than me, really. She lived with a 32-year-old Air Force officer stationed at Lackland AFB in San Antonio, a native New Yorker, divorced, with two young children who stayed with them some weekends. That was the story of her life, in a nutshell. Everything she did seemed slightly off-schedule, unconventional, offbeat. Nothing was straight and narrow. Nobody else at the office knew anything about her personal life. It made me feel good that she had told only me. I wasn’t a full-fledged college student, anyway. I sure didn’t feel like one. I was a sophomore at the local community college, San Antonio College, living still at home, sharing a bedroom with one of my brothers in a comfortable—if stultifying—four-bedroom in a San Anto-nio suburb called Inspiration Hills. As the oldest child, I was subject to certain demands and expectations that my three younger siblings were largely able to circumvent. I needed a change. I was desperate to get out. I was set to transfer to the University of Texas in Austin next fall, but that was still almost a year away. A year that seemed forever at this point.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 41 I took a break from filing around 10:30 to stop by the front desk to shoot the breeze with Rhonda for a little bit. She amused me. There was often some interesting development in her life to tell me about. Her life seemed filled with interesting developments. She was kinetic ener-gy, I was just potential. She was on the phone when I came by, but she held up a finger signifying for me to wait. She stared out at me with the blinking, searching, wide-aperture eyes of somebody who had just taken her glasses off. She held her glasses in one hand, by the stem. I waited gladly. Waiting for her was actually one of the great joys of my current existence. I knew that on the other side of waiting there would be something interesting to chat about, perhaps something groundbreaking, something that might pull us closer together in a cabal of conspiracy. She hung up the phone. She looked over at me. She spoke in a low, confidential tone. “Guess what, I’m going to look at wedding dresses after work,” she said. “Wedding dresses?” I said. “Getting married.” She nodded, yes. “Yeah, Ian thought we should go ahead and tie the knot. He wants to make it legal, he said.” “Oh boy,” I said. “When is this happening?” “I don’t know,” she said. “Pretty soon. No date set yet. We’re still in the planning stages.” She paused, looked around. “But I thought it would be fun to look at dresses.” “I bet!” I said. But my enthusiasm was all fake. My big fear was her moving away with Ian and I would never see her again. Besides, he had told me stories about Ian’s bad temper and controlling personality and the terrible arguments they had. Marriage seemed like a recipe for disaster. “Congratulations!”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 42 “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.” She held up her right hand to survey her fingernails. She wiggled her fingers. The nails were chewed short. They were painted a pale red. “Hey!” she said. “Want to come with me? Help me look?” “At wedding dresses?” I said. “Sure!” My spirits soared. I had plans to go jogging and then maybe camp down in my room to watch a college football game—but this seemed like it might be more beneficial to my mental health. I needed practice being with girls. “OK,” she said. “Let me just finish up with a few things here. Maybe we can cut out a little early. Nobody has to know, do they? I think Mr. D may already be drunk.” “Sounds good,” I said. “Just let me know when you’re ready.” “Will do,” she said. She put on her glasses. She stretched out her arms as if to assume a typing position. I returned to the filing room, thoughts racing. It almost seemed that I was entering a new realm, a different world, leaving behind the world of my home and family. I placed a rushed, impatient, irritable call home from the phone on the counter in there—I didn’t want my mother calling out the FBI to track me down when I didn’t return home right after work. I talked to my roommate brother, who seemed extraordinarily obtuse that day. “Just say I’m going to hang out with some friends,” I said. And hung up. It was around 11:30 when Rhonda surprised me in the filing room, touching me on the write then tracing her fingers up my arm to the elbow. It was the first time I could remember her ever touching me. She looked freshly coiffed, with fresh red lipstick and a touch of rouge on her cheeks. She always wore the old-fashioned red lipstick, like a 50s. girl. She wore blue jeans, torn at the knees, and a printed tee shirt, her usual Saturday attire. “Ready to go?” she said. No more wonderful words had ever been spoken. “Ready!” I said. “Let’s get out of here!”