Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 58, February 2023

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 93 Cyrus took his coffee and sat down to drink it, all the while moving his eyes between the view on the street and Anthony working with the staff behind the counter. When he got back in the SUV, Cyrus pulled out his phone and called his assistant, telling him to contact the company’s recruiter to approach Anthony for that HR training position they were having trouble filling. “Better yet, have the recruiter call me. I need to explain.” Cyrus didn’t need to have Anthony know the offer came from him. He knew the recruiter would do all the research, criminal background check, college completion, bullshit, bullshit – all the stuff that didn’t matter. He knew Anthony could do the job. Unless something had gone terribly wrong since Cyrus left the city for the suburbs, Anthony could do the job. “Cyrus, why do you look so ragged?” Cyrus remembered his mother’s consistent admonition when he saw his face in the rearview mirror as he pulled out of the parking lot. “First impression is important. People judge us. Dress up. Like your father.” Cyrus thought of the pictures he was sent with his bearded father in peasant’s clothes, the dirt of the olive grove fading the colors. “Momma, you always say I should try to fit in,” he finally argued his case. “Look around. I’m not an old man like Papa. Ride the bus, Momma. Get out a bit. You stay at home and don’t know. We all look ragged.” § “The illusive manager of C&L Enterprises” is how Business Week had described Cyrus after he kept refusing interviews and photos. They dug up as much as they could; a child of refugees, up from poverty, the immigrant story. Half the story. Always half the story. Cyrus, himself, only knew half the story. Enigma was the word he preferred. The less they know, the quicker they reveal their prejudice. Cyrus knew what came with wealth and wanted to be able to meet folks like Anthony without its trappings. Sit down and have a beer without the waiter expecting a twenty-dollar tip and surprising him when that was what Cyrus left. Cash. Always cash.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 94 And only if the service was good and by good, he meant respectful. No putting him at a table between the toilet and kitchen. No ignoring him when the glass was empty. No assuming that we wasn’t going t tip. Cyrus was a generous donor, but neither he nor his wife attended charity balls, preferring to show up at the homeless shelter, adult literacy center, or meal program as someone in need of services and sending a check anonymously through his bank if they welcomed him. One hand should not know what the other is doing when giving to the poor, he had been taught. It is a privilege to be able to give, not something to brag about. § “What is that song from that movie?” his dad said at dinner one night when he was about ten. “Why can’t the English teach their children to speak? It should be why can’t the Americans. What kind of English is that you are speaking, Cyrus? I must talk to that teacher.” “No,” Momma waived frantically and shouted. “No, no, don’t do that. He must fit in. Let him. He must get on with the other children. And you will make a problem for him with the teacher.” “But the girls speak proper English. Maybe not proper. Proper American at least, but not his mismatch,” his dad answered back. ‘The girls will be OK. The girls are different.” Cyrus heard this all his childhood. “He’s our anchor baby,” his father would tell his workmates. Cyrus never knew what it meant, picturing himself throwing a weight off a yacht. Was it because he was the only son with two older sisters? Years later, watching a PBS segment on immigration reform, he learned. He was born in the US, which automatically made him a citizen, and because of that, his parents could become citizens. He was what anchored them here, although it didn’t work. They still drifted home along with the sisters. He became an anchor without a ship. §

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 95 “What are you?” Letitia had asked, looking into his green eyes and drawing her index finger over the high bridge of his long nose after they had made love for the first time. “I am your future husband,” he smiled confidently. Letitia was another of the underestimated. He first spotted her in court – criminal court. She was a public defender, a large woman, the color of milk chocolate with overly large braids that Cyrus knew to be the cheap version you bought in a bag and sewed in yourself. She codeswitched between her client, a young Latino accused of armed robbery, the judge who she addressed in legalese, and the jury she had worked hard to select. It was made up of people who may be sympathetic because they might have a clue as to the life the kid lived. The best she could pull from a pool lacking diversity. Cyrus was on that jury, having shown up in a beat-up winter jacket and torn jeans, giving his occupation as entrepreneur; true in his case and also true of low-level drug dealers. He wanted to see how the system worked, or didn’t. When the trial was over, and Letitia won the case, he made a point of bumping into her at the courthouse a week later. He had just come from a business meeting, and she didn’t recognize him shaved, in his khakis and turtleneck. “You’re under-employed,” was his opening line. “Pardon me?” She stopped short and gave him a quizzical look. “I said, you are under-employed. I was on the Edward Vargas jury.” Cyrus shook her hand as he introduced himself, then ran down her qualifications, which included under-grad at Marquette University with full academic scholarship, corporate law at University of Chicago and competitive internships in the corporate offices of three Fortune 500 companies. All this he had gathered from the minister down at the Baptist church where he attended on occasion leaving a couple hundred-dollar bills in the collection plate when he did. Over lunch, he discovered she also loved to be underestimated; loved walking into the classroom and having other students think she was there to empty

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 96 the trash, then blowing them out of the water answering the toughest questions. But she hadn’t realized that game had to end with graduate school. Corporate demanded you blow your horn, and that you look the part, and that you had connections, connections hard to make for a young black woman from Milwaukee. Offers didn’t come and loans had to be paid. Cyrus needed some legal work done for a company he was buying and asked Letitia to do it. He anticipated she may want to make sure he was on the upside of legal, so gave her access to people who would confirm he had what he said he had. That was in 2000, and Cyrus was 32. He had learned early that he was good at making money. He was also good at identifying talent, digging it out like he had with Anthony, from places other businesses never looked. The busy café waitress became his office manager. The kid at the shoe store, who up-sold him three pairs of twenty-dollar socks and another sixty bucks worth of shoe-care products, was his business-to-business sales rep. The quiet little girl who grew up working in the same store as Cyrus’s dad managed his warehouse. That Letitia had credentials didn’t impress him as much as how she handled that courtroom, and so he hired her full time as soon as he could. In a year, he knew he had found his partner in business and life. His staff was at the wedding representing a sampling of every neighborhood in the city, and the buffet table stocked with everything from collard greens, to Puerto Rican rice, to curried lamb, to egg rolls. Cyrus knew his parents would object to Letitia. They wanted someone from home. “But I don’t know anyone from there. You raised me here. Here in this city. In this mix of people,” he shouted into the phone. “And how will you force me? Trick me into going back like you did my sisters? I will not, and you cannot force me. I am a man.” Cyrus had never before mentioned his sisters, how they had left with his mother when they were 18 and 19. How they were told it was a visit, then when they arrived how they whispered into the phone telling him they were captive in their aunt’s home, and that the papers they travelled with did not even have their names, but belonged to someone else.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 97 With Letitia, he became the son who sent them money every month so Papa could rest in the olive grove on the property in their homeland that Cyrus had regained for him. “You’ll keep your name, if you don’t mind,” he said when he proposed. “Because you are to be a full partner in C&L Enterprises.” Letitia began to get her hair braided for her in the tiniest of braids at a cost of hundreds of dollars, but still bought purses at Target and every now and then took the bus to remind her where she came from and how lucky she was. Business associates didn’t know the two were married and were often taken aback by the bargaining power of that woman attorney. Cyrus was proud to learn she was nick-named the pit bull. Cyrus had just turned 50 when his dad passed away. Although Cyrus took his family to see his parents every other year, they were short visits seeing only his sisters and the few immediate relatives who lived nearby. Now everyone would come, his mother insisted. “I’ve reserved hotel rooms nearby. We can accommodate up to 10 here at the house,” his mother ran off the list of names he didn’t recognize. “Your father was an important man, Cyrus. Very important. Before we went to America. You need to know that. You never knew that.” Cyrus advised Letitia and his two young teenaged sons on what to pack and how the burial process would proceed. They flew the next day. “You’ve heard the term in the shadows,” Cyrus answered Letitia when she began to ask of his family again, as she had a few times over the nearly 20 years of their marriage. She nodded. “I believe we were a family in the shadows.” He glanced at his sons, headphones on, watching movies in the seats next to them. “I don’t know the whole story. Only bits and pieces.” “But did you never ask? Weren’t you curious?” Cyrus thought for a long time before answering. “Letitia, you aren’t curious about your family. I suggested you get one of those DNA tests, and you said no. Why? Are you not curious?”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 98 His wife looked down at her hands folded on her lap. “Because I am afraid of what I would learn. Cyrus, we were slaves. Those tests come back often with some Irish ancestor. Some overseer who raped one of my grandmothers. I don’t think I can handle that. I don’t want to know.” “And I also am afraid. Why did we end up in Milwaukee? No relatives there. No one we knew. That’s not how it happens with immigrants. They migrate together. Go to places some uncle is or a neighbor. Someone who came before.” “Your parents had no friends? No one came to the house?” Cyrus shook his head. “A few people my father worked with, but they weren’t from the homeland. And that’s another thing. My father was an educated man. Yet, he worked in that store. He had no permit. I am sure now, that they had no permit. You know, when they left, they said they would never come back. I don’t think they can. I don’t think even with me as an anchor baby that they would get a visa. I’ve asked them if they wanted to come. I’ve offered to fly them, but they say no. Remember, even when the boys were born, mother didn’t want to come to see them. “I’ve told you about my sisters,” Cyrus continued speaking softly, “Passports with false names. I have asked them. They don’t know either. They are brushed aside when they ask. Mother was always so nervous about going out. Telling me to fit in with the other kids. She didn’t raise me to go back there. I was raised to be the American. They’ve never pushed me to join them. Not even now, when I don’t have to work anymore.” “Do you think that is because of me?” Letitia whispered, watching the expression on her husband’s face for any sign of pain. “Honestly, I don’t know.” he squeezed her hand. After some time, she said with a sad tone, “But we have lived in the shadows as well, Cyrus.” “What do you mean?”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 99 “You being an enigma,” she teased. “Us not being recognized as the power couple we are. People not even knowing we are married with two sons who carry your name.” “Umm, but we have friends. We have family. I love your family. We belong. My parents never belonged. Never trusted. You know that my wanting my life private is not because of you, Letitia.” She smiled and shrugged. “No, no. I have always kept a low profile. As a child it was so I wouldn’t have to pick sides, get dragged into some gang. I hated that question, what are you? Now, I just want people talking to me and not to my money. Then I see who they really are. I don’t need to be recognized. Do you? Because if you want that, I can accommodate it. “ Letitia smiled. “Well, it would be nice once in awhile to be bumped up to the front of the line at the hairdresser.” Cyrus laughed. “Have the hairdresser come to the house.” He thought a minute. Seriously, put a little chair in the lower bath. You do spend a lot of time getting your hair done.” He tossed a curl out of her eyes. “I thought you liked getting all the gossip.” They laughed together. Cyrus thought a few minutes, then turned again to his wife. “I know,” he said softly. “I get it. It’s being underestimated. It’s the prejudice. The subtle slights. The way they look at you when you ask to see the tray of necklaces in the jewelry store. Being watched like they’re waiting for you to stuff something into your pocket. You want to turn around and buy their damn business out from under them.” His voice expressed just what Letitia felt. Then he paused for some time. “What does it matter? Does it matter to you? You are who you are. I am who I am. Our children are who they are. And they have our sense of self-worth.” They both slept, her head on his shoulder. When the lights came on and breakfast was served, Cyrus told her, “Mother said he was a very important man before they went to America. She said there will be lots of people at the funeral.” He chuckled. “Maybe it was her way of warning me to bring a lot of cash.”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 100 § The burial was the following day, after which guests came by the house in small groups to give condolences to the family, the women seeking out Cyrus’s mother and sisters, the men he and his sons. “Where is Mother?” Cyrus asked his sisters at the end of the second day. “She should be here. Why is she not receiving guests?” His sisters told him their mother had insisted guests be told that she was too upset to greet people. She told them to handle the duties, but it was difficult. Few of the people coming were familiar to them. They didn’t know what so say, so sat in silence as tea and cakes were served. Fortunately, the visits didn’t last long. “Cyrus, we don’t know what is going on. Are Papa’s affairs in order? Who are all these people? Who was Papa to them? They keep saying how Papa helped them, but Papa was not here for so long.” Cyrus had no answers. He too was puzzled by the men he met, and it seemed few of them had seen his father since he had come back from America. Many didn’t even know he had moved home twenty years before. At the end of the week, Cyrus took his family to the airport, staying back himself to ensure everything was in order for his mother who was now his legal ward. Cyrus met with his father’s accountant and was assured all accounts were in order. He set up an allowance for the household and gave his sister a stamp with his signature on it for when something needed to be authorized. Then, just around sunset, he decided to make a visit to the small houses at the back of the property where the household staff lived. There were two reasons for this; the first was that he wanted to ensure everyone had adequate accommodation, that children were being sent to school, and that they would not take advantage of the situation now that his father was gone. This would involve having tea with the man who supervised them and was his father’s confidant. “And now, for the tough question,” Cyrus said after the housekeeping conversation had ended. “Who was my father?”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 101 The man was taken aback. “But he was your father. What do you mean? “You know what I mean.” The man was not much older than Cyrus. His father had been a close friend of the family from childhood, like a brother, Cyrus had been told. He rebuffed Cyrus now telling him, “That is for your mother to answer.” “Yes, it is,” Cyrus leaned forward and looked the man in the eyes, “but she has not answered, so I am asking you. Our fathers were close. I believe you know the full story. All those people. Who were they? What are they to this family, and why would my mother not receive them?” The man sighed deeply. “And your mother would not have known the half of it anyway.” “I met with Father’s accountant. There are payments. Monthly payments from many businesses. Some small, some substantial. They start when mother moved back here.” Cyrus was watching the man’s face closely, assessing which answers he may have. “They ran to America. What were they running from? The police? The military? Who was he? What did he do? He lived here, in this big house. He had money. What happened? I have a right to know and I, as your employer and patron now, insist you tell me what you know.” It was not like Cyrus to pull rank, but this man was the only source he could trust. He needed to know his family history andn at the same time, steeled himself against what he might learn. The man shook his head slowly. “I insist,” Cyrus said sternly. It was then that Cyrus learned that his knack for making money came from his father who had owned many small businesses. Unlike Cyrus, his father flaunted his wealth, building the large house on a hill overlooking the sea. It was troubled times with conflicts on the other side of every border. And conflicts are opportunities to make money for those willing to take risk. His father was adept at smuggling anything across borders, either way. This included people. Refugees were camping along the border and being pushed back by the military or confined to UN

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 102 camps. Like Cyrus, his father also had a skill at identifying talent and used that talent, and the desperation of refugees, to build his businesses. “Then it all came crashing down,” the man told him. “Although his businesses were legal, the smuggling was not, and the officials began to demand more and more in payment to turn a blind eye.” Cyrus could see the man struggle with betraying confidence. “Yes, your father ran. He was going to be jailed, and he took his family and ran with what he could get out of the bank at the time. Once he was in America, officials took everything left behind and probably divided it among themselves, including this house as you well know. There were business deals incomplete. I heard some of these men were looking for him, even in America. He disappeared. My father was hauled in for questioning. Beaten. Badly beaten. But even he, his best friend, had no idea where your family went. After so many years, things cooled down. Your father took the chance of sending your mother and the girls back to the protection of his brother. It was your mother who went to those businesses and asked for help. Slowly, the debts were satisfied.” “So, the refugees were the people at the burial?” Cyrus began to piece it together. There was much more money in his father’s estate than he had provided. This explained it. The man laughed. “Didn’t you look at them? Their green eyes? Skin tone? Hair styles? Didn’t you hear their names? Not from here. They are people your father chose, and they worked hard, many of them keeping the businesses going without him. Machine shops. Small forges. Garment makers They honored your father for what he gave them. They were paying him back.” Cyrus laughed. He had observed the appearance of the guests, but it meant nothing to him. “And mother? Why did she not want to greet them?” “She is one of them,” the man said quietly. “Your green eyes, my brother. Her bloodline.” He motioned at Cyrus’s face and smiled. “She crossed the border alone. Imagine the chance she took. She was lucky your father found her and not someone else. A young woman on her

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 103 own.” He drank from his tea. “Your mother was his business partner. All in secret, of course, as she was a woman. But it was her who secured everything so the girls could come out from hiding and marry openly and your father could come back. She is grieving, let her grieve.” “And me?” Cyrus was not sure he wanted the truth. “You?” the man chuckled. “Your father knew things can change overnight here. He needed you to continue to anchor the family to America in case they do.” Cyrus nodded. And as he thought about it, the many times his father had said just that echoed in his mind. He just hadn’t heard it. He had heard it as rejection instead of an assigned responsibility. It made sense now. “By the way,” the man continued, “your mother would have preferred a woman from here so she could have more to say about the grandchildren, but your father recognized the woman you married was cut from the same cloth as your mother. He may not have said that to you, but he did tell me that you married well, even though she was a bit too American to his liking.” § Heading to the airport, Cyrus called his wife. “Letitia,” he said. “I think you are right. We need to come out of the shadows. How about we create a legacy for the two of us? After all, you are a role model, even more so than I. How about this, a non-profit executive search agency called The Underestimated?” Suzanne Zipperer grew up on a farm in north-eastern Wisconsin with a dream of seeing a baobab tree as pictured in her third-grade geography book. Her curiosity about other places and cultures took her from riding a bike past the migrant workers’ camp to ten years overseas living in Europe and Zimbabwe. On her return to Wisconsin, Suzanne did community work in Milwaukee where she continued to learn about the “others.” Her

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 104 writing is as varied as her life, and she continues to be curious. Suzanne has published short stories in “Moto Magazine,” and “Made of Rust and Glass,” "Ariel Chart," and poetry in “The Crone’s Nest,” and “American Journal of Nursing.” She was a semi-finalist in Wisconsin People and Ideas Short Fiction Contest. She was a regular contributor to “The Riverwest Currents," edited “New Faces, Immigration to Wisconsin 1970s to 1990s,” and wrote and published “The Key New Readers Newspaper” for ten years.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 105 LET DOGS DELIGHT by Devin Jacobsen On looking back, you perceive patterns, a particular trajectory to a life, and doubt it could have been any way other than what it was. But even in the midst of living can it really be any way else? Are we really so free to step outside ourselves and do something totally radical—as in something beyond the pale of all events and choices that lead us to such a choice? Her car had run off the road into a pine, killing her instantly. Apart from the towtruck that had disposed of the totaled Mercury and the ambulance that had ferried her remains to the morgue, there had been no bills to pay, no expenses that, had there been a protracted death in a hospital, where machines and medicines and people’s livelihoods are involved, would certainly have bled the trust and revived old animosities. Though weeks would pass before anyone uttered the words, her quick death was a blessing, her last act of service in this world. There was some discussion about scattering the remains in the garden and mixing them with Joy’s (she had always said she wanted their dust intermingled), but no one was dressed appropriately and the notice of death had yet to run in the paper, which might draw out a commiserating acquaintance. Instead, it was decided that Helen would live with Billy and Martha until business could be sorted. There was also some question as to my medication, which Billy reckoned best not taken into account—pleas to the contrary he put down at once. Then, after Helen emerged with her bags, we filed into the van, smells of new places, of new manners and new meals, of new possibilities, and the old

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 106 bungalow vacant behind me at last. They had forgotten my chattels, but what did I care, for where I was going was an improvement. I had never been to the Stadlers—that is, to the Stadlers in Baton Rouge; Joy had, on multiple occasions (those were the years before relations had become more frayed by Bill’s demise), and had relayed information and judged the place ideal—though I had abandoned all hope of seeing it, as Joy had of going back by the time we were introduced. She had come in, happy and good natured despite the cast on her leg, but the years had taken their toll—not that she was resentful or had succumbed to pessimism or self-pity, only, I suppose, she had come to welcome her situation as anyone would, eventually taking the chains and shackles for ornaments and adornments, the deprivation of which would constitute a sort of nudity, not so much shameful as uncomfortable. She had leaned into her captivity without any thought of escape. At first we got along well, like siblings; she was helpful at filling with details the adumbrations of sighs, of mutterings in the hall, of insinuations and allusions to people and incidents unknown to me while I struggled to make sense of my situation. But within the year I no longer had any feelings for her, and began to think of her, if at all, more as a fixture, like a moveable piece of furniture, than as a friend or potential mate, and her blithe dedication and her suffering herself to be so handled served to put me off, so that I determined, if not to become inured to the difficulty of my circumstances or complacent to the extent of being grateful simply for having a roof over my head, to derive benefit from a practice of lethargy instead of ingratiating myself to someone who struck me as fundamentally impossible. Even during those trips across the lake to the barn, where we would go for the pleasure of “watching Crickets” (since Crickets had been deemed unrideable), I would lie away in the shade of a tractor or trailer, ignoring the wisecracks of the bumpkins whose jests were mainly overtures to induce me to tell them about city life (as though Metairie were so urbane) and perhaps on some level hoping the tractor would suddenly reverse with the same effect as the Grand Marquis had had that day on Joy, only, in my case, to break my neck.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 107 It was at the barn that Elise met Joy. Elise, by that point, was forty. She had always been a nervous driver, especially if the errand was not to her liking; then you could be sure we would be riding to a fanfare of honking. There had been some discussion about her social security (or lack of it), which had led to her fleeing the scene, bags packed and everything, no matter that she could not count a cent to her name, and she had cut out for the barn, I take it, to make whatever plans she could for Gypsy. In her haste she had reversed too quickly and a bright squeal, that tocsin that was to eradicate her plans of breaking away, went up. Or perhaps nothing would have changed. Elise leapt from the car and found her with a broken leg. “Oh no!” she said in that inveterate singsong, that cartoon of child’s pain. “Ooo, I’m so sorry! I should have been paying attention!” She was panting from the agony, yet her eyes were big and hopeful. “I’m sure you had a lot on your mind. That you weren’t looking is understandable. But, crikey, could you bring me, please, to a doctor?” Which was how she became a fixture, as I say, around the house. Bill could hardly protest—he did protest (that is, when he was not raving about Falaise pockets and the dark forest at Buchenwald), but in light of the fact he was bedbound, a silhouette spraddled in front of the television, his voice a declarative whisper as a result of the congestive heart failure that would carry him off by the end of the year—and he must have soon realized that expelling Joy from his house was as likely as his recovery. Things worked there by way of acquiescence, a bowing to the sheers of fate. Thus was hers spun and measured. She would nurse Bill to the end, and now she had Joy to look after. The more she could help, the happier she was. Along with her nature to be put to incessant use, there was a predilection for surrounding herself with objects needing repair. As a girl she had taken in sparrows who had run into the window and incurred broken wings, a baby squirrel who had fallen and hurt its back, turtles with split shells who had been hit along the canal—there had been a predecessor, many years before, whose scent still lingered on unworn clothing, not a shepherd like Joy but some parvenu spaniel whom she had taken to sketching in various attitudes and habiliments, whose curious semblances peered, sometimes quizzically, sometimes with a sentiment akin to tenderness, an evident

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 108 vulnerability, as if Elise had not only detected but managed to capture that indelible cry for help, as if mistaking pathos for pitifulness, down at us from the walls—and during her year away at school she had adopted a parakeet who was confiscated in due course, but she was always freest while on a horse. She would ride for hours, trotting the perimeter of the pasture, oblivious to everything save bounding there in the saddle. The day was fine; the horse was sweating and smelling of dust and the vitality of its leather. In the distance came the sound of hammers fastening a new steel roof on the barn, and she would turn to the horse or Billy and savor them with something of the fondness of a bride waking up on her first morning as a married woman, with the pure insouciance that all the years ahead will be as such. Years later—after her failure to make something of herself at college—it was precisely this that Bill realized he could turn to his advantage, could throw into the bargain to ensure he could continue taking those trips to Florida, away from Elise, away from Helen, away from the decisions and acquiescences that had led him to himself: her remaining at the house was contingent on her caring for Helen, but, in the exchange, she would get her horse. That was the price of her freedom. The fixation on riding had started not long after Helen returned from Meadowood. On weekend mornings, while his wife lay on the couch, Bill would ferry the three of them to the country, where they took lessons in dressage and learned how to groom a stable of purebred horses. In fact, Billy had been the one to suggest it: whatever he did, wherever he went, his little sister was always dogging him, doing as he did, until he eventually tired of her and ran her off, or lost interest in the activity himself. For instance, one weekend they were playing around the uncovered cesspool. If Elise didn’t leave, Billy said, he would push her into the pool. She told him they had to play together. Billy repeated his threat. She said he’d better not, and forced him to swear, to which Billy stuck out his hand, but when she went to clasp it he jerked back his hand, which caused her to fall in the pit. The other boys laughed, and the pack of them ran off. I can imagine her there, covered in mire. I can picture her beseeching some ordering justice to the world to smite Billy

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 109 down and torture him for his meanness. I say that I can imagine Elise indulging in this wishful thinking because I myself, at least for the first few years, was as prone to it as she—however, unlike Elise, I ultimately concluded that such thinking is futile, that any clinging to the hope of some miraculous intervention is not only folly, is fundamentally useless, and very likely a socially acceptable display of madness, but that hope is no virtue at all but the mind vainly deluding itself. For you imagine not some minor personal grievance such as this but a catastrophe beyond comprehension—for example, those frightened people being crammed into the showers time after time and praying for a miracle, anything, for the walls to cave in, for an earthquake to cleave the floor, for a divine army to come down and save the day—and that no governing order intervened must lead one to conclude that God is not intercessory. And if God is not going to shape events to one’s dire wanting, then it necessarily accords that events must be hoped to be brought about by oneself. Yet Elise, I am certain, never took this lesson to heart. Of all the Stadlers, only Bill seems to have fathomed it to the core of his principles, and not, of course, as a young man, and likely not still as a young husband and father, but only after years of waiting for that inert woman on the couch to get better, to improve, to delight him as she once had in the happy spring of their courtship, could he have understood the fruitlessness of hope. He would come back after a long day at the office and try not to be annoyed that they were eating hotdogs and applesauce for a fourth night in a row. If the kids were causing trouble, he was usually quick to yell. Punishing them came not from a place of despising them; he just wanted life to be a little easier than it was. Then she broke the bottle. I imagine there was some petty annoyance—perhaps he could not bring himself to ingest another hotdog, or perhaps there was evidence she had been letting the kids run amok—and he let go some quip or carp, but whatever it was, she took up the ketchup bottle and broke it against his head. For that she stayed two months in Mandeville. Hence the riding, hence the perennial fighting of brother and sister, hence Bill’s trips to Florida alone. When Helen came back she was a shadow of herself, the couch her permanent residence … sprawled there, silent, inert.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 110 When Billy left for college, in spite of the fact he had become almost an enemy, to Elise it felt like a betrayal, as though he had gone off with his friends and found a hiding place where she was forbidden to enter. Two years later she followed him to the capital. She left, thinking she had outwitted him at last, discovered the password to his fort, but by then he was in love and wanted nothing even more to do with her. The city was a bigger place to hide than the neighborhood. As a result she sat in her room and began to yearn to be back in Metairie—the old resentments, the old reminders, none of it seemed so hurtful from the perspective of eighty miles. So she left school and fell back into the routine of caring for Helen as Bill approached his retirement. Not long afterward Billy married; then they were expecting a baby, and Elise convinced Bill to let her get Gypsy. As I said, Elise was entirely mortified to operate a car—she felt like a swimmer going after some object, mindful it is only blind will keeping afloat life and will—but was willing to endure that terror for the sake of something she wanted, and I believe that had either Bill or Billy been there in the passenger’s seat by her side, she would have felt she was in good hands, but that something about the freedom of the road, her utter lack of faith in her abilities to control a multi-ton machine, and her distrust of the responsibility of others served to curarize her to the bone. Nevertheless, she would visit Gypsy two to three times a week, making that journey across the lake, those twenty or so miles without any shoulder to pull over on should she incur a blowout or require a break to stop and catch her breath, in order to dote on her horse. Even after Bill died and Gypsy, whom Elise had decided to breed, died while giving birth, and she was driving to the barn almost daily to spend the night nursing the foal, the driving never got any easier. Joy would be there, sitting beside her, Elise watching the road and daring to look over now and then, and Joy trained on Elise, quelling her fear. “You’re doing great. Just keep your eyes on the road and a light tap of the break, and that’s all there is. Ripper girl, you’re a natural!” In those terrible drives to the barn, Joy was almost a parent to her; she helped tidy the brutal disquiet of her mind, and it was on just such a drive that I was spotted. I do not say “I was found,” although I had no idea where

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 111 I was going, only that, being the runt of the litter, I knew I would have to make my way in the world and, whether that was to become dinner for a hawk, the flattened result of a driver distracted on the phone, or an inhabitant of the swamps who preyed on garbage, I was prepared to let fate take the wheel—and that thick mane of hair came down and scooped me up. The house smelled of sugar cookies and vaguely of potpourri. From the outset I knew that I had done better than had I been left to scavenge among the cast-off tires and cypress knees; additionally, I realized in due course that in forgoing the instant gratification of a subpar meal I could come to expect the same comestibles of which the others partook, which, though mediocre in their own right (indeed, there seemed to be an outright aversion to herbs and spices), proved the lesser evil, a practice that Joy never cared to espouse or condoned and that, I suspect, has led to my present issue with ulcers. But then, after I gained a sense of my new environment and on what and whom I could rely, there were practices in which Joy engaged that forced me to make my disapproval evident as well: there were, for example, those long accompaniments to the washroom, those constant consolations and affirmations that even a four-year-old would have interpreted as pure condescension, and the pretense of protection for this family who, I could never make Joy agree, needed more protection from themselves if there were ever a knock at the door—and then there was the two of them on the bed. Even during the last night, she was still going up, not so much out of service, of performing a duty, but simply because she wished, was glad to be used in such a manner, as if in Elise’s will should be her peace. Did they make love, you’re wondering? That depends on how you define such a thing. We are told that one may make love in the mind’s eye; conversely, that means that one may make love without ever really making love at all. So perhaps your question should be: Did Elise believe she was making love? And the answer to that, I think, would probably be yes and no— which is to confirm that all her romantic feelings merely adapted to the means at hand. For instance, I recall there was a remark she let drop when the seven of us were on vacation regarding something about giving William a banana sling, a comment she soon followed by entrusting to

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 112 him her Aunt Elise’s wedding ring, which I am certain he immediately hocked. With her there was always this ill-suited need to be of service, to be helping, to be of use, just as I observed in Billy a similar trait, that he was possessed by an indelible urge to syllogize, traits, I assume, they inherited from the silences of their childhood, alone with that woman who, if she was not sleeping all day on the couch, would read her prayerbook cover to cover. She was talking right to the end, when she and Joy were forced to say goodbye, when anyone would beg for a moment’s silence to compose their thoughts; she was slobbering all over Joy, who, once more, was paying for it in the role of caregiver (I gave Joy the gift of my peace, though it had been years since we were on speaking terms). “I’m so sorry!” “Don’t ever say you’re sorry. You made me a better dog.” It was bone cancer; the cancer was in the leg opposite the one Elise had run over; hence, there was no way of saving her, of removing the leg and her remaining mobile, contrary to Elise’s wishful thinking. “You can’t take care of a dog without hind legs!” the doctor had tried to explain to her. The two of us watched Joy led away and heeling faultlessly alongside the nurse. As for me, I did not wish to console Elise. To lick those tears, at that point in my thinking, would have been anathema to my principles, and perhaps just as misguidedly I believed that, like the collar the nurse returned at the end of our wait, a shackle had been cast off. Perhaps now she will run away, I thought; the two of us will go across the lake and check into a Ramada and in a few weeks she will be leading trail rides along the swamp, and eventually she will collect the social security that she will need to survive. Instead, she piled on the manacles. She began to amass antiques, stuff she convinced herself had been overlooked by the rest of the world as to its value, and she was hoarding her trove for the great day of reckoning when she would cash in on her perspicacity, one of these items being an enormous tapestry, a reproduction nearly the size of a billboard of the Cluny unicorn, which she thrust on Bill on his wedding day, that furled and cumbersome symbol of chastity in tote throughout the drive halfway across the country with Billy and Martha, who must have surely been bridling their annoyance, as if she insisted on bearing with her the stigma of her fantasy or the impossible

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 113 sign of her life’s clutter, a magical horse that can never be found, let alone ridden, save in a dream. “Leave!” I’d tell her. “What are you waiting for? You don’t have to stay. Let Billy and Martha take care of her. At worst they’ll throw her in some upscale facility.” But somewhere in who she was she had long ago made up her mind never to change or believe there was an option or opportunity for things to be different (perhaps, on considering the possibility, feeling a dread akin to the terror she had felt that night Helen had broken the bottle over Bill’s head, the sight of her father’s blood barely distinguishable from the travesty of the condiment splattered over him and the tablecloth), and she was unable even to begin to offer an account of herself, her situation, only tremble in an inane palsy. Those regular calls from Billy, whom she plainly resented on account of his having a family of his own, for his having severed himself insofar as to live eighty miles away to the north, who worried how she would survive, on her own, without a job, after Helen died—even those caustic shouting matches did not so much succeed in spurring her to look for a new kind of work with their wild prognostication of a reality soon to be as enflame her wrath, her resentment. “I do not have a problem! And we are doing just fine, thank you! And Dad, by the way, was a jerk!” The question was always: How would she live once the trust was depleted? She was not entitled to social security—she had never worked for any real company or business a day in her life, only ferried Helen to appointments and made sure her whims were attended to—and the trust would be gone in ten years: Elise by then would be seventy and would need caring for herself. Everyone said prayers. Me, I did not pray; it was obvious she was not going to change and enjoyed her captivity far more than she would have ever savored her freedom—or rather, she had found a particular freedom under which any radical uprooting would have suddenly exposed new, more unseverable bonds, and she dreaded their revelation. Then an idea was proposed: Billy had called the lawyer and there was a paperwork possibility they could declare Elise to be an employee of the trust, which might bring her a pittance of social security—it would be expensive, and some figures would have to be altered, but apart

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 114 from her coming to live with Billy and Martha (an option that only I entertained), it looked like the sole way ahead. A meeting with the lawyer was scheduled. I knew she would take issue with the arrangement, despite that all she had to do was sign and date her name, and then she would become the government’s headache and not the burden of her kin. All that morning I watched her pace back and forth, talking to herself, her well-preserved face, whose agerasia made her appear less like a person her age and more like an old lady wearing a child’s mask, frowning, trembling, whimpering, and I knew she would never abide a simple solution. “Ooo, Georgie. I just can’t do it.” “Sure you can,” I said, not really paying much attention but watching some schnauzer roam between the mailboxes, sniffing each by each. “Just put your paw on the papers and scrawl your name. You can do that, can’t you?” She was saying the same thing the whole way to the lawyers. “I’m sorry … I just can’t do it.” “Do it!” I barked. And that’s when we ran off the road. It is possible we hit an oil slick—I am positive that no one ran us off, and the tire blew out, I am sure, after we went off the shoulder—and, I suppose, there is also the explanation, however remote, that a coincidental malfunction forced the steering a hard right, but whatever the case that’s when we hit the tree. The window was cracked, but had not shattered; thus I was trapped and waiting to be let out, though had there been some means by which to break free and reside in the swamps, avoiding the roads, where someone might identify me on account of my collar, I don’t think I would have done it. Firstly, I knew I would not be returning to that house, at least not for long, since Helen was fundamentally incompetent of providing for me by herself, which meant the likelihood I would move in with Billy and Martha. Secondly, being the far side of middle-aged, the thought of scavenging for trash and hoping I might be so lucky as to alight from time to time on a nest of baby nutria rats did not seem as appealing as the prospect once had. And thirdly, the wreck had accentuated the pain in my stomach, thereby forcing me to sit and wait. And wait I did. Nevertheless, during those hours I spent in the car I began once again to reflect on those poor people who were trapped in the showers with no chance of escape and who were likely praying with all their hearts for

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 115 some divine intervention, and never got any, and how I had not only approached the whole issue wrong but inferred a mistaken conclusion: rather than concluding that God was not intercessory, which thereby gave license to my gluttony, lethargy, and years of idle self-licking, I should have concluded that there was no ultimate conclusion that one could hope to afford in the face of these events, that, when presented with them, all thinking, all words, all logic, and therefore all judgment, seemed, as it were, to roll over, and that the only way of proceeding would have to be one not so much unreliant on God as unreliant on any wanting to shape events, which thereby rendered me a sort of delightful disinterest in what moments now were left to me, so that what I suddenly felt while waiting through those hours was joy—pure, intenerate joy: joy to be where I was, joy to be who I was, joy at what would be. I could have gone on waiting like that forever. Eventually arrived the police, and then the ambulance. Then Billy and Martha. Then the next day came Bill and Meredith. And the next day Elise returned, only this time in a condition the size of a jewelry box and smelling remotely of herself, as if she had rolled around in last year’s leaves. When we got out of the car, I recognized the place at once. On our way to Baton Rouge we had made a pit stop at the doctor’s, the same place where, years earlier, I had watched Joy say goodbye to Elise. Billy led me in while the rest of them stayed in the car, and behind me I could feel that autonomous metronome suddenly spring to life and begin to thrash, keeping sporadic time. So long had it been since the last time I felt it whip I gave a sudden start, but my fright was quickly dispelled, for I recalled it signified I was happy. I was on my way to new experiences, to live with the family I had never let myself dream of having. I was happy at last, for I was on my way to my home. Devin Jacobsen’s fiction has appeared in "The Beloit Fiction Journal," "Consequence," "Hobart," "The Saturday Evening Post," and other places, and his debut novel "Breath Like the Wind at Dawn" was published in 2020 and praised by James Wood and Zadie Smith. A follow-up short story collection, which includes "Let Dogs Delight," is currently represented by the Bent Agency.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 116 THE STRANGER by Luis Morales-Giorgi The door doesn’t open often at this hour. I slouched, my eyes following my favorite pair of socks tumbling through a monsoon of shirts. The machine rattled and groaned as it worked. I just needed one more cycle. I dug my hand into my pocket, the lint inside dancing around my fingers. The door’s dull bell rang. I turned my head, a man stepped inside. He wore a thick coat. In his hands were a pair of canvas duffle bags. It wasn’t uncommon to have people come in with big bags of clothes. His footsteps were heavy, his boots covered in dried mud. He silently walked to a machine away from me and set the bags down. “That one’s out of order, can’t you see the sign?” I said, my hand waving across the formation of machines. “That whole row is, if you want to wash something, the machine next to me is open.” He looked at me, then at the two bags at his feet. He hesitated. “I’m not going to rob you,” I said, my head turned away. He moved after a while, his bags placed on the bench next to me, and both ends sagged heavily from what was inside. It was winter, so I thought nothing of it. “Not many people are here at this hour,” he said. “No, just me, everybody’s paranoid to go out at night.” “Why?”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 117 “Have you been reading the news?” “No.” “There’s a lot of people going missing,” I said, my head turned to the man. His eyes stared through mine. “I hadn’t heard,” he said, “I’m from out of town.” His empty eyes trailed back to the machine. “Well, now you know,” I said, a lump forming in my throat. “Do you have a quarter?” he asked. “There’s—There’s a change machine outside,” I said, my eyes focused on the glass of the washing machine. “Thanks,” he said. I watched him turn; he was still looking at me as he left. The door rang again. I turned my head slowly. He wasn’t here. I looked at his duffle bags. They looked like they were soaked in something. There was dried mud that coated the bottom of each bag. I slid down my bench, my hand reached out to the bag, and touched the soaked canvas. It wasn’t water. I pulled the zipper on the bag, my eyes on the door. A putrid stench assaulted my eyes. My face scrunched, and I pulled my hand back. Inside was what looked like a bowling ball, wrapped in a bedsheet stained a deep maroon. My heart ricocheted inside my chest. The sound around me warped and mixed. I swallowed the brick in my throat. My hand lifted the bedsheet. A pair of hollow eyes stared at me shocked. Ding. I rushed to undo what I had done. The bag had to look exactly as it did when he left. I pulled my hand away and grabbed hold of the zipper, forcing it to shut. I turned my head to the door of the washing machine and watched him walk back through the glass. I sat perfectly still, listening to each step. He stopped and shuffled through the coins

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 118 in his hand, inserting one into the machine next to me. He looked at me, but I didn’t look back. My machine would slow as the wash cycle ended. I stood up, my stomach sinking lower. I took a rattled breath and emptied the machine. I didn’t have any money for a dryer but went there regardless. I placed the clothes inside, closing the door. My eyes struggled to read numbers that I already knew. “Need a quarter?” My heart stopped. I forced my head to turn. He stood behind me, and even though there was a friendly smile, his gaze was cold. I choked on the words in my throat, and only managed to nod my head. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kidnap you,” he said, an extended hand offering the quarter to me. I took it, inserted it, and the machine started. “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it.” He walked back to his bags. I finally took a breath, and my jaw quivered. I watched the dial tick down every second. It’s painfully slow. I turned my head back toward the man. He was sitting on the bench, a newspaper in his hands. “Looks like the police have no idea what happened to these people.” “No, they—think that some of the missing persons are just runaways.” “That isn’t good policing.” My chest felt heavier, I strained to breathe normally. The air was stale, but the stench made its way to me. My eyes swelled again. I focused on the timer, only a bit more to go. “Say, you didn’t go through my things, did you? The words dried in my mind. A cold gaze was beaming down on me. I turned, and he stood behind me. There was no smile on his face, only

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 119 his eyes grabbing my soul. I forced letters together in my mind before I said, “No, as I said, I’m not going to rob you.” I could tell he was replaying my answer in his head. I retraced my steps, and everything was in place, but was there something that I missed? He stared, then laughed, an uncanny smile on his face. “Of course—of course. I’d forgotten.” He bought it. I managed a smile and trailing laughter. I watched him turn and make his way back to the washing machine. I looked at the dial, it was finished. My machine began to slow. The wait was agonizing. The cycle finally stops. I open the door and grab my clothes, stuffing them into a basket. I gave the man a single look as I left, his back was turned, good. The outside air was sharp, I exhaled, and the stench finally cleared my nose. I took another breath, then turned around. The lights inside flickered, and the man was gone. Luis Morales-Giorgi is an avid gamer and horror writer. He's currently working on a video game project as a writer.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 120 A DEAD MAN’S LAST REUNION by Shawn Dulin Wow, I expected more people to be here. Don’t get me wrong, it was still a packed building, but I was hoping for more of a sea of people to say their final goodbyes to me. I know this might sound odd, but I wish I got to plan my funeral before I kicked the bucket. I would’ve had everyone wearing whatever they wanted, and it would have been more of a party than, well, a funeral. Instead, everyone’s wearing black and down in the dumps. I also wish I could have died a better way instead of literally kicking a bucket, tripping down a grassy hill into oncoming traffic but at least it was funny, I guess. I just hope I contributed to something of real worth. Let’s see who came to the celebration of my demise. Obviously, mom, dad, and the siblings are here. “Mommy, when is Jake coming home?” asked Suzy. “Suzy, Daryl’s not coming back. I know you don’t understand now but you will later,” said John. Suzy was my little sister. She couldn’t grasp the concept of me being gone forever. I can’t really blame her because I can’t really grasp it either. Then there was my older brother John. He was in the military, so I barely got to see him. I thought that he would be stone faced as he’s probably used to seeing a dead body, but I could see that even he was shedding a tear. “I’m sorry guys, I just wanted to see how far I could kick that bucket,” I said.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 121 “Do you feel that, Honey? I can feel him watching over us from above,” said Mom “Yeah, it’s because I’m literally above you,” I said. I don’t think they can hear me. I reach for the top of Suzy’s head, but my hand goes right through it. Suzy shuttles and looks around confused. This is kind of awesome. I’m like a superhero or something. I wonder how high I can float in the air. I try to ascend but it’s a tiring process. “How am I out of breath when I don’t have a breath to give?” I thought. I get up to about seven feet in the air. I try to fly like a superhero, but I am unable to do so. The best I can do is pretend that I am swimming in a pool. While I’m not going fast, I’m going non the less. I spot my grandparents. Judging from their constant wobbling and the fact that they were pale as ghosts, I’ll probably be seeing them soon. I continue to swim throughout the building and that’s when I see them. My best friends, Todd, Copper, Kenny and Brett. This is hard for me to watch because they were with me right before I died and I’m sure that they hold themselves responsible. I slowly floated a bit closer, and I expected to see sad faces, but I saw the opposite. Now they weren’t laughing it up like a pack of hyenas, but they were just exchanging stories that they had with each other. Now this is what I’m talking about. I’d rather see people remember the fun-loving goofball that I was and have a good time. I know that’s a lot to ask someone that just lost a person they care about, but it is my funeral, and you can’t spell funeral without fun. It was good to see my friends one last time. Let’s see who else is here. I float around like a jellyfish for a while and that’s when I spot her. Stacy Reynolds. I’ve known her longer than anyone that wasn’t related to me. We talked almost every day. My friends always joked saying that Stacy and I will tie the knot and have a million kids. I always thought that there was something between us. I float to her. “Hey Stacy, I know you can’t hear me, but I always wanted to tell you that I------can’t do this” I said.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 122 I know that she can’t hear me but that’s just it. What’s the point in confessing my feelings to Stacy if she can’t even here me. This is probably the second regret I’ve ever had next to kicking that damn bucket. I just can’t be around her. It’ll just remind of one of my failures. I’m not really having fun at this funeral. I continue to float around a bit and see aunts, uncles, cousins and even a dog. I guess I feel a little better. People are sharing stories of me, some of them happy and some of them sad. Then my parents walk up to the front of the building. “I just want to say how glad I am that all of you are here to celebrate the life of our sweet Jake. We loved him more than anything and he was a great son. We are so proud of the man you were Jake,” said Dad. “We love you and miss you so much Jake. We will never stop loving you and we will always be proud of you,” said Mom. If I was able to cry or say something. I wasn’t sad. I was happy. I was happy that I made an impact on so many people’s lives, with most of them being positive. That’s when I see her again. Stacy was sitting alone by herself. I float over to her. “Stacy, you’re my best friend and I’ve loved you ever since we were little. I’m sorry that I didn’t have the courage to tell you that when I was alive. I just hope that you spend the rest of your life being happy and maybe we’ll see each other again,” I said. I float to the ceiling and look at everyone being brought together because of me. I feel good. Although my life was cut short. It was still a great life non the less. Shawn Dulin is a writer from Springfield Illinois

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 123 ABYSSAL by Josh Hiatt A thunderous cacophony of alerts and sirens blared throughout the confines of the vessel. The metal twisted and contorted, puncturing the ears of the crew. A cry could be heard from the ship's bridge, an automatic alert system spoke out, “Depth level has been compromised. Hull integrity dropping substantially.” Coming to his senses, the navigator awoke, stumbling out of his cot. A golden locket lay around his neck, jingling as he proceeded to the bridge. He grasped at his eye to be met with blood when he looked back. With determination, he climbed his way onto the console and began checking the diagnostics. “Just my luck,” he stated. Reaching under the desk he had been met with a challenge, the receiver was malfunctioning. With respite, he remained at the mainframe, cluttered with memories of long-forgotten people. The alert system rang out, “Fifty-four minutes until hull integrity is lost.” The navigator peered over at the depth gage, to which it read: “Thirteen thousand three hundred five meters.” He sprinted over to the exterior camera sensors of the ship and observed. There was a submarine outfitted with the name “Saraqael”, submerged and shearing apart just a few hundred meters below the navigator. In a melancholic rage, he pounded his fists against the glass and then suffered a panic attack.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 124 A sudden, but the distant explosion was heard from throughout the ships’ halls. Water caved in through a breach adjacent to the navigator, petrifying him even more. The vessel automatically closed the bulkhead from which the flood was entering. Comprehending the outcomes at hand, he stood up and then fell into the wall. He ascended back to the computer and began to send out the distress signal. Flares were fired through the top of the ship, although didn’t make it very far. The debrief below the vessel interjected the navigator’s thoughts of what he had to do. He paused, trembling. Desperately, he decided to set the vessel to ascend. Tens of hundreds of warnings bombarded the interface, “Fuel level critical in left reserve. Oxygen level dropping. Debrief damage to the right wing.” The navigator discovered that the depth gauge wasn’t being affected enough to allow for an escape from the depths. He tapped on the monitor, added all of the excess fuel to the right fuel reserve, and prepared for manual separation. As he tapped the interface for the action to occur, an eruption occurred in the left fuel reserve, propelling the ship upwards rapidly. The navigator was launched up into the ceiling of the vessel as the way of water was affected by the explosion. Gradually, the vessel climbed its way up the depth gauge and was now at five thousand nine hundred seventy-five meters. Communications hailings buzzed through the interface, “Azrael?! Azrael are you there?! We’ve been trying to reach you, but you’ve been out of range from our detectors! We’ve pinpointed your coordinates and are on our way to you, hang in there okay?” The system of the ship stated, “Error… Oxygen levels compromised.” As Azrael remained collapsed, a silky texture was felt in his mouth. The taste of blood and metal overcame him as he lay there. With difficulty, he made his way up against the wall once more and crawled with it to the medical cabinets. Reaching inside, he collected some bandages as

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 125 well as an oxygen mask. Urgently he replaced his bandages and equipped the mask. Returning to the console he spoke out to his friends. “How far are you?” “We’re a few thousand meters, out. How fast are you ascending?” “About a hundred meters per second.” “Okay… what is your hull looking like?” “Thirteen percent and dwindling.” “How long has your ship been affected?” “I’m not quite sure… when I woke up because of the ship’s alert system it said it would be almost an hour until the ship caves in.” “How much time is left…?” “I’ve got about twenty-six minutes now.” “We’ll be there.” The communication goes to static. Breathing heavily, Azrael got up and made his way to his cabin to collect some of his equipment. Amidst it all, he had come across a drawer full of letters, some of them letters he had written but never could send out. Across all of them, the initials ‘I.L.” had been italicized at the top. Azrael lay next to his bedside holding onto the letters in one hand, the other holding the golden locket. There was little time left. He stuffed the letters as well as a few other belongings into his pack and attached them to his side. The vessel rocked back and forth violently as the hull shrieked out. Azrael could smell smoke seeping in from under the bulkhead, knowing that soon the door wouldn’t hold. Explosions made the movements of the ship difficult to withstand.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 126 The metal around the bottom of the bulkhead bent forward, making water gush through the gap. Azrael returned to the mainframe and hailed for his friends, to only be met with static. With no options, Azrael proceeded to the outfitting chamber and equipped his dive suit, his flippers, and his oxygen tank. With his equipment, he climbed up to the access hatch and began to twist the valve. As much as he struggled, the valve wasn’t turning. A sudden rocking made Azrael trip off the ladder and fall back. Getting back on his feet, he grabbed a fire-axe and entered the observatory. Upon entering, Azrael was met with a glimpse of the Saraqael in the distance, slowly fading as he continued upwards. Azrael then used the axe on one of the maintenance hatch’s frames, attempting to peel off the frame. Every swing drained his energy furthermore, what felt like five minutes now felt like an hour of work attempting to open the hatch. The water swept Azrael into the glass as he was attempting to open the hatch. Looking behind him, a wave had destroyed the computer room behind him. Azrael felt as if the waves glared down at him as they approached the observatory. In a final hope, with all of his might he had left, Azrael threw the axe into the center of the hatch, creating a hole in the frame. The glass then shattered and Azrael was pulled through the current of the ocean, shooting upwards as his vessel slowly fell behind him. Azrael’s vessel became flooded and its ability to ascend was gone. Cast astray in the vast emptiness and abyss before him, Azrael kept swimming upwards as the current pulled him as well. He began checking his equipment as the current tossed him around. His oxygen tank was missing. Azrael began to panic when he turned to his depth gauge. Quickly the oxygen dissipated from his veil, making him reach into his bag, to which he found another oxygen mask. With relief, he attempted to grab the mask, and then all of the letters he had flew out of his pack, falling deeper into the ocean. Summoning everything he had left in himself, he swam out of the current and down to grab the letters. He had made his way to them and then began to choke. There was no air left in his veil. Clenching onto the letters, he stuffed them into his pouch and then rapidly began to switch his mask for the other. As he replaced

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 127 his veil, his heart slowed and he gasped for air. There was nothing left. Azrael wasn’t breathing. His body spiraled in place as the blackness of the ocean was victorious. Josh Hiatt is a writer from all over the United States, due to being a part of a military family. He spends time watching anime, and playing games and aspires to write many works of fiction.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 128 A NEW JOURNEY by Maria Fernanda Sifre Life and death. This man had the burden of experiencing them both. Humans always wonder what comes after death. Some say that the righteous would go to heaven and the evil would perish in hell. He wouldn’t have the pleasure of knowing the answer either, so he only wondered alongside them. He chooses how and when he dies, he knows when it’s nearby. Being immortal is supposedly fantastic, but he doesn't agree. At some point, he must leave his life by faking his death. Why? Immortals never grow old. Meaning that he is constantly on the move, not wanting to be recognized by those around him for his ability to not age. This causes an issue that gets tangled in his love life. Has he fallen in love? Once. Has he tried to make it work? Yes, but he came to the conclusion that love isn’t an option for a being like him. He would never be able to love another without letting his darkest secret be known. If that were to happen, he would be in a laboratory right now rather than watching his own funeral from afar. There he was, standing beside one of the three trees that lived in the cemetery, holding an umbrella, not only to hide his identity from those attending the service but also due to the light rain that fell from the sky. “I’ve never had a funeral in the rain before,” he said out loud, being far enough to not have anyone acknowledge his presence. The service came to an end, it was as beautiful as the ones before, but to him, it had lost meaning by the tenth time he watched an empty casket get buried four feet underground. He watched as his friends left, their faces red from crying.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 129 This was his favorite life out of all the ones he had lived thus far. He had let his shield fall, making more friendships than ever before. His attachment caused him to extend his death by two years just to hold onto it a little longer. When everyone had left the cemetery, he closed his umbrella, causing icy drops of water to fall against his clothing. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, he prepared to attempt something new. Instead of leaving the vicinity, he walked to his grave. He wanted to say goodbye to his favorite life. He slowly approached his stone, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. When he reached his grave, he knelt on one knee, the other absorbing the moisture from the grass. He laid a palm on his gravestone, tears beginning to stream down his face. Those tears poured down his cheeks, along his chin, and onto the pasture. He looked at the flowers that his loved ones had left behind. His lips curved into a smile. He felt loved, more than he has ever felt throughout his existence. “What a life you had, Sorin,” he said out loud, reading his now previous name that was carved on the tombstone. A voice came from behind the man. “Were you two close?” He froze on the spot, regretting the decision he had made. He quickly had to think of something to say, something believable. “He was my brother. My twin.” He kept his vision on the tombstone. He saw the person from the corner of his eyes as they knelt next to him. It was a woman, the woman that he fell deeply in love with for the first time in his entire life. He was shocked to see her there. “You weren’t in the service,” he managed to say. “Neither were you,” she retorted. “I was watching from a distance, and it seemed like you were too.” He was speechless, no words left his mouth. The woman placed a hand on his shoulder, causing him to look at her. She examined his features. “How come he never mentioned you?” “We were never that close.”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 130 “I see. What’s your name?” “Ricker,” he said, having decided his name before his death had even occurred. “Will you be staying here for a while?” “I’m afraid not. I have a plane to catch,” he said standing up, her rising alongside him. “Were the two of you close?” he asked, curiosity taking over him. “I’d like to think we were,” she said, looking at his tombstone, fighting back her tears. “Sorin and I may not have been close, but I’m sure he loved you a lot, Scarlet,” he said, blurting out her name without realizing it. The man needed to flee from that situation at once, looking at his watch and back at the woman, whose face showed a flicker of confusion before expressing certainty rather than sorrow as if her eternal doubts had just been answered. “And I love you just as much.” “How did you–” “I’m not dumb, Sorin. I knew that you were keeping something from me, but I never asked because I knew that if you hadn't told me that it was for a good reason.” “It is, I promise you that. It’s just that–” “You still have to leave.” The man nodded, seeing the woman's expression saddened. He now knew that Scarlett figured something out, but it wasn’t the secret he was keeping. Although, she could probably be close to finding out. “Don’t tell anyone, please.” “I won’t, but you need to tell me why you did it.”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 131 “Safety reasons,” was all he said. “I’m so sorry. I have to leave or I’m going to be late for my flight.” He handed her his umbrella since it was still raining, and she appeared to not have one of her own. “Don't get sick. Take care of yourself,” he said, making his way out of the cemetery. “Don’t come looking for me.” There was no answer from Scarlet as she simply just watched him walk away. Ricker didn’t look back or think of the past, as much as it pained him. Onto a new life, a new journey. María Fernanda Sifre was born and raised Puerto Rico, spending her days reading and writing fiction.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 132 THE BIG WAVE by Demian Brighina Sitting on my patio chair, I look up. The sky had turned a mystifying purple blue. The air had suddenly turned cold, and alarms started to blare all throughout the city. The screams from below shook the foundations of my apartment building yet I wasn’t fazed. A thick black smoke crept from what seemed to be a helicopter that crashed into a nearby building. I look to where the ocean used to be. The water had been receding all day but now the horizon is rising, and its rising fast. On the other balcony an older couple has decided to have dinner and watch the wave come in. An hour before a magnitude 8 earthquake tore through the east coast of Australia. I had come to New Zealand for work, but work had escaped my mind once the alert came in. The alert on my phone read, “Severe weather alert, Massive tsunami on its way to northwest New Zealand.” I had come to take some scenic pictures of the landscape. I decided to call my mom, she was the only person who knew I was in New Zealand. “Hey, mom,” I said. “I’m—” “I know, baby.” She sniffled. “Don’t worry.” “Mom, its coming straight at me. I… I can see it,” I start tearing up. She didn’t say a word. I could hear her refraining from breaking down into tears on the phone. “Mom, I’ll send some nice pictures,” I said.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 133 “I know. I know. I love you.” “Mom, I love you. I gotta go. I love you.” “I love you so mu—.” I hung the phone up and threw it off the balcony. I pick up my camera and start inspecting the scenery. First, I take a picture of where the helicopter crashed, because I didn’t want the fire to go out. Then I take a few pictures of the mountains and skyline. Finally I look back over to the other balcony where I see the older couple have finished their dinner and were laughing about things they were throwing off the balcony. Their smiles were contagious. In a moment where I was struggling to maintain composure, their happiness gave me hope. I finished taking the pictures and I sent them to my mom. I sat on my chair for a moment, absolutely no thoughts were going through my head. I went back out onto the balcony and watched as the wave came in. Demian Brighina hails from Miami Beach and enjoys to write comedy.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 134 THE BITE by Michael Nutt I forced my knife into the head of the undead, killing it and the rotten corpse fell to the ground. Blood poured out from the fresh bite wound it left, and my time was now limited. The ragged flesh of my arm dangled from the bone as the air stung the exposed muscle. I couldn’t stop the bleeding, so I ripped the left sleeve off my long sleeve shirt and wrapped it around the wound the best I could. I tried to keep walking to catch up with the others, but I felt dizzy every few steps and had to lean on the wall for support. “Tucker, are you okay, are you hurt?” I heard the voice of the last person I would ever want to see me like this, my sister Kathy. She appeared in front of me, gazing at my odd posture. I looked up, unable to hide my sorrow, and shifted my body with my back to the wall. The bloody sleeve clinging to my arm was now revealed to her. “What’s wrong?” she asked in denial. “Surely that’s not…you simply cut yourself on some of the debris, hospitals have a bunch of dangerous objects, you’re okay.” Her eyes began to dart, searching for debris with blood on it. “Kathy…” I muttered. “We both know what it is.” She stood in silence, her eyes going from shocked, to sad, then hesitant understanding.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 135 “What do we do?” she took a step closer, her eyes beginning to water. “The only thing we can do,” I said, tears running down her face as I confirmed her greatest fear once more. She did her best not to cry too loud and accidentally alert someone nearby of the accident. “I’m not going to, I can’t.” She silently cried. “I don’t have a gun and stabbing you…I can’t, I’m going to get the others, they can—” “You can’t get them.” I declared as best as I could. “You can’t let them see me like this. They can’t help me.” I leaned my head back and let out a pained sigh. I looked down at my arm, hoping that the bite would be gone, but the larger blood stain and dizziness told me otherwise. I could feel the infection spreading throughout my body, I knew I didn’t have long. Kathy leaned against the wall with me. “What are you still doing? We don’t know how fast it spreads; I could turn any second.” I said. Kathy remained on the wall with me as if she didn’t hear me at all. “So, what do we do then? I won’t let myself kill you, and you won’t let me get the group.” I let out a sigh of defeat, “I could…leave,” I said. “I could leave you and everyone else. Go as far away from here as I can so none of you have to see me like that.” “You wouldn’t even say goodbye to the others?” Kathy turned her head towards me, more tears going down her face. “I’m already putting you at risk with every second I don’t act; I can’t risk the others too.” My vision became blurry with my own tears. I got too tired and sat on the disgusting ground, Kathy following my actions. We sat in silence for a while, reminiscing about life before the outbreak. The wind whistled through the shattered windows in the

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 136 hallways, singing a somber song of days past. The clouds were gray and depressing, covering the sun that once fed the life on the surface. “Do you remember when I got scared of that lizard on the sidewalk?” Kathy asked me, breaking the silence. “You thought it was a dinosaur from Jurassic Park and that it was going to attack you.” I chuckled in response. “Don’t laugh at me, we were six, I thought I was in danger.” She began to laugh as well; a sliver of joy occupied these halls for only a moment, only for the burning sensation of the infection spreading to return. “Do you remember what you said to me after you put it in the grass?” she turned her head once more to face me, her face red with rivers under her eyes. “I told you…that no matter what, I would always be there to protect you…” I mustered. Despite my own tears and the infection throughout my body, my vision returned for a moment, and I took in my sister’s face for the last time. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I lied to you that day. I never thought there’d be a day where protecting you meant not being there.” Kathy threw her arms around me, locking me in the tightest hug I’d ever received. I don’t know if it was because I was dying or if she was just that strong. She stayed like that for what I hoped would last an eternity and I could feel the warmth from her face on my shoulder and her tears wetting my shirt. “Go,” I murmured. “I can turn any second now…I don’t want to harm you…” She slowly peeled herself away, gasping for air as she tried to get her breathing under control. She turned away from me, wiping her face

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 137 as she stood. Though I didn’t have any more tears, my vision became blurry once more. “I promise that we’ll see each other again, wherever it may be.” She spoke through a pained voice and heavy throat. “Don’t be like me and break it.” I stood up carefully, trying not to fall over as my body began to feel heavier. “Someone has to uphold a reputation of keeping promises.” Kathy opened her mouth but closed it with nothing to say. Almost as if she was joining the songs of the wind, she dragged herself away from me as I stumbled in the opposite direction. I made my way through and out of the hospital as best as I could without alerting the group I came here with. With every moment I could feel the burning get stronger, and eventually, my arms went numb. I stumbled out of a broken window on the first floor, trying to make my way to a nearby forest. At this point, my entire body went numb from the overwhelming fire that was destroying me from the inside. As I made my way into the forest, I looked back at the hospital, hoping to see Kathy, another irrational hope of mine. Despite having no feeling in my body, I forced my legs to move, keeping my balance by relying on the trees close to me. After forcing myself to walk for what I assumed would be long enough for my legs to come off, the infection brought me down to the ground. I hit the ground with a weak thud, and I was looking down at the dirt and dead leaves. I managed to roll myself over, the gray sky piercing through the splintered shield of leaves. As I pondered the sky once more, another one of them walked over and loomed over me. I waited for it to attack me, but it never moved. It looked at my body with orange eyes and continued walking.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 138 Michael Nutt has received awards for science-fiction fantasy short stories from the Scholastic Writing and Fine Arts Competition. He enjoys writing anything from horror to fantasy.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 139 A NOT SO NORMAL THURSDAY by Kyle Carpenter Yesterday could have possibly been the end of me. Usually, my trip home takes no more than 15 minutes using the local bus route, so I was sure I was going to make it home in time for my daughter’s fifth birthday party. The present I got her was sure to make her happy. When I left the office building the faint scent of petrichor wafted through the air, mingling with the usual smells of the big city. As I stood there I thought, it isn’t going to rain. The weather forecast doesn’t call for rain until this weekend, so I paid it no mind. As soon as I stepped onto the bus my problems started. I went to scan my bus pass and instead of the usual, ding of acceptance, I was met with the harsh, repeating bleat of denial. I tried once again, and then a third time. Each to no avail. “If your pass don’t work, you can’t ride. Sorry son, better get that looked into,” said the old bus driver. Exasperated, I walked off the bus, present in hand, and started my trek home. Walking home took no more than forty-five minutes so I knew I’d arrive on time. before I got too far, I decided to give my wife a call to let her know I was going to be late. The phone range once before I heard it pick up. § “Hi daddy!” said my daughter. “Hi sweety, how’s the birthday girl doing! I hope you’re ready for your present,” I replied.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 140 “Good! And yeah! Are you coming home soon?” “Yes sweety, daddy’s just going to be a little later than usual, okay? Would you mind handing the phone over to mommy?” “Aww, okay.” I hear my daughter handing the phone off to my wife in the background. “Hey Paul, what’s up? Did you get held up at work again? You remember it’s your daughters fifth birthday today, right?” My wife said. “Yes Claire, I remembered. I got her present right here with me. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be running a bit later than usual, my bus pass got denied for some reason so I’m walking home. I should be there in about thirty minutes.” “Okay, good, I’m glad you remembered. Do you have an umbrella? It looks like it’s going to rain.” “No, I left it at home, I’ll be fine, it’s not supposed to rain until the weekend—" A voice suddenly whispers in my ear accompanied by a sharp prodding in my back. “Hang up the phone and turn around slowly.” The voice said “Hey Hun, I have to go, my phones about to die. Love you, bye.” “Hold on wai—” says my wife before being cut off. I turned around slowly with my hands over my head, present in one hand and phone in the other. Standing before me was a middle aged, scraggly man in a hood, holding a kitchen knife to my gut. “Hand over your phone, wallet, and whatever’s in the box. Make it quick unless you don’t want to make it home buddy,” he said. There was no way I was going to just give into the demands of some two-bit crook. My phone and wallet I could care less about but the

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 141 present I got my daughter was different. I spent months trying to find somewhere that sold this super rare doll that she wanted, and I wasn’t going to give that up without a fight. With my phone in hand, I swung. Instantaneously I felt something cold enter my chest followed by a warm trickling sensation underneath my shirt. I looked down in a daze. Had I just been stabbed? Oh my god, I just got stabbed! I tried to take a step but instantly fell to my knees. My head was pounding, the world started slurring and warping all around me. Then I blacked out. § The next thing I know I’m waking up to a soft, repetitive beep. I struggle to open my eyes at first but as soon as I do, I’m greeted by the sight of doctors, nurses, my wife and my daughter. My daughter is the first to realize I’ve regained consciousness. “Daddy!” she yells as she runs across the room, jumping on top of me and giving me the biggest hug ever. “I thought you were gonna die!” she says as she starts crying and blubbering into my hospital gown. “Now Ashley, Behave yourself! Your father is hurt don’t go jumping on him like that! Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you can’t act sensible child!” My wife says to her. Then she turned to me and said, “What were you thinking Paul? You could’ve gotten killed! What got into you!?” “I was finally able to find that doll Ashley has been wanting for the longest time, and I knew she would be sad if she didn’t get it. I couldn’t just let that crook have it.” I replied through labored slightly labored gasps as Ashley dug her head deeper into the part of my chest that hadn’t been stabbed. “I thought I could—” but before I could finish speaking, Ashley lifts her head and interjects through tear-soaked eyes, “Daddy, I don’t care about some stupid doll, I just want you to come home for my birthday. This year, and the next year, and the next year…” “Okay sweety I think I got it,” I chuckled. “To think that I got myself hurt over a present is pretty silly of me, isn’t it?”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 142 *END* Right then the doctor cuts in. “Excuse me, sir? You’re cleared you to go home. The stab wound wasn’t life threatening and he didn’t hit any vital organs, so you’re all set to go,” said the doctor. “Isn’t that just perfect! I’m pretty sure the ice cream cake hasn’t melted yet, let’s say we head home and celebrate!” Claire said. “That sounds nice,” I replied. Kyle Carpenter has been writing fiction for 3 years.