REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 193 If there is a path with infinite crossroads and it is up to each one to walk on their own, the only correct route is movement. Maybe the answer is this, it's better to do something, albeit guided by autopilot. Then do nothing out of fear. Stagnation is the only mistake. Hellen Abuquerque: “I've been creating stories since before I could write. I would sing lines that I would come up with in my head about being born, finding beauty in everyday life and my curiosity for the world - I was four years old and yes, a very odd child. I'm the first in my family to get a diploma and to see the inside of an airplane. Most of my ancestors had their hands too busy harvesting coffee and sugarloaf in the interior of Brazil. Becoming a journalist and anthropologist was how I learned to tell our stories. My grandmother may have only known how to sign her name, but somehow every time I write she writes with me. For the past two years, I have been traveling solo through indigenous cities in Brazil, and other parts of Latin America, Europe, and Africa. I've been living in these communities and registering this adventure with my Yashika FX-D. All of that while working online, writing the scripts and content for different clients. The last year I also started to share my personal projects with poetry and had the honor to be published in five collections from Brazilian editorial houses. To be able to reach a new frontier with Barnstorm, transpassing the language barrier, would be a magical new step to fully realizing my connection to art.”
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 194 POINT BRAKE by Tara Layne Alarms ending in seven were just one of the latest products of my sporadic self-diagnosed OCD. My phone began beeping at 5:37 am. The bottle of Trader Joe’s Two-Buck Chuck I’d downed the night before had left me with a pulsing headache—a too-familiar state. With a deep sigh and a great deal of effort, I turned off the alarm and checked my notifications, squinting to shut out the screen’s brightness. I had a text from a surf instructor, Bodhi—a man I was supposed to meet for my first lesson in an hour off the hazy coast of Broad Beach in Malibu County. Today won’t be any good for us. Windy, cold water. “Confused” seas… better tomorrow when it gets warmer and milder… ok? A wave of exhausted relief rolled over my cloudy brain. I didn’t have to be the one to cancel, but why stop there? I texted the family I babysat for and mentally scrolled through the variety of excuses I had yet to use. Strep throat. Contagious yet curable in 24 hours from a quick round of antibiotics. With no water in sight and only the remnants of wine from the night before on my nightstand, I grabbed the glass, swallowed a .5 pill of Klonopin, and went back to sleep. I woke up four hours later and stared at the ceiling. On days like these, my life felt completely out of my own hands. My intrusive thoughts, the ultimate devilish puppeteer, dictated my every move. Sluggish and heavy, I slowly turned my head towards the bright light outlining the white shades of my window, noticing yet another stunning, cloudless
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 195 day in Los Angeles that I was missing. An invisible harness held me hostage in my own bed. Reaching wearily for my phone, I rolled onto my side where I responded to emails and text messages, refusing to reveal my current state, watching the world rotate around me as I revolved helplessly in a black hole. Two minutes turned into twenty minutes and then into two hours. In my sea of blankets and pillows, I opened my computer to surround myself with the only six people I could find comfort in at the time: the cast of Friends. I found solace in knowing how each episode was going to end, and I enjoyed watching these uncomplicated, charming and deeply lovable characters navigate their conflicts through comedy. After watching five or six episodes, at around 3 pm, I willed myself out of bed. I put my favorite Joni Mitchell album (Blue, obviously) on my record player, lit a candle, and opened the blinds. I stripped my sheets and dumped them into the washing machine. I knew what was coming. Scanning my apartment, I noticed every out-of-place trinket, every dust particle, each dirty dish, countermarks, and anything else I could categorize as a mess (another product of my self-diagnosed OCD). Minutes turned into hours once again, and I funneled all my energy into the second phase of my routine on familiar days like this: debilitating perfectionism and excessive cleanliness. I spent the rest of the day, scrubbing, reorganizing, dusting, vacuuming, folding, convincing myself that these chores could anchor me—protect me—from the threatening void. I fell asleep and woke up the next morning at 5:37 am to meet Bodhi for my surfing lesson. With immense effort, I made it to the beach by sunrise. The crisp air and the acrid smell of embers from a week-old fire filled the orangetinted, cloudless sky. Goosebumps stippled my forearms, and my lower lip began to shiver. I looked ahead to scan the endless body of water. I was ready to plunge into the piercing cold just to feel anything. When I was in middle school, I’d walk up the stairs with my light blue Jansport backpack, filled with Milky Way pencils, a pink iPod mini, oily
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 196 stickers, and a lifetime supply of Claire’s scrunchies. My friends and I would race up the stairway. But to gain advantage over me, sometimes a friend would jokingly pull on my backpack to slow me down. The added resistance always made it so difficult to continue moving upward. It was lighthearted and fun in middle school, but now, that’s what life ultimately felt like—physically navigating that same resistance. Finding life’s little joys was increasingly difficult. I constantly scrutinized every detail from my past, looking back on my childhood, trying to reignite my spark. I listened to artists that filled our family home with positive energy and togetherness like Hooked on a Feeling by B.J. Thomas and Make Your Own Kind of Music by Cass Elliot. I re-watched my favorite movies: Legally Blonde, The Sound of Music, and anything starring the Olsen twins. I looked at photographs from family vacations to Aruba and Mexico, birthday parties, school functions, holidays, sleepovers, and summers at the beach, searching for anything that could pull me back together to remedy my fragmented emptiness. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a worn vintage family photo of my pure ten-year-old self beaming on a yellow and baby blue soft-top surfboard in Ocean Bay Park, Fire Island. My blonde hair was pulled into a rough bun on the top of my head, and I was sporting a dark blue quicksilver rash guard. I studied the photo, it dawned on me where I could start. She’s the girl I desperately wanted to meet again. Surfing was my first love, but not because I was some child prodigy or even slightly remarkable at the sport. When I was ten, my sister’s best friend Chloe taught me one day during the summer, and I worked for weeks to stand up on my board for the very first time. I was forced to surrender to patience I didn’t have and learn a certain type of stamina I wasn’t familiar with. The mystifying adrenaline moved me as I soared through the currents. I had never been exposed to such a quiet, calm world. I was mesmerized by the unknown that existed below me, immersing myself in nature and uncertainty. Nothing made me happier than going to the water. Back on the beach, I exchanged hellos with Bodhi, and he reminded me of the basic rules of surfing. I remembered them for the most part, but I wasn’t willing to engage in any type of conversation, so I let him continue uninterrupted.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 197 The back of the board is the brake, and the front is the gas pedal. The more weight you put on your front foot, the faster you will go. And whatever you do, don’t snake (steal another surfer’s wave). You’ll be the least popular surfer girl on this beach. Bodhi was a lighthearted Malibu beach bum, who had dedicated his life to teaching amateurs the proper way to stand up on a surfboard. While occasionally training Hollywood actors for their upcoming surfthemed films, he seemingly lived a simple, content life. I decided this solely on the fact that Bodhi taught lessons in the morning, surfed the rest of the day on his own, and came to the beach with a bag of Lays salt and vinegar chips and a saran-wrapped sandwich made by his wife. Bodhi’s incredibly warm and inviting nature aligned perfectly with his encompassing surfer-dude aura. I zipped up my full-body wetsuit, and put on my booties because, as much as I loved surfing, I despised being cold. I tossed my long blonde hair into a rough bun on the top of my head, trying to smooth the smaller hairs away from my face as they waved in the salt wind. I stared at the crashing waves ahead of me. I quickly rolled my right wrist three times, and then did the same on my left. A new development when alleviating my anxiety, and a lovely reminder that my OCD was coming along for the ride. The rolling ocean seemed overwhelmingly large—a deep void filled with little diamonds from the sun’s reflection. Standing in the breeze on the beach, staring at the never-ending, inviting black hole I was preparing to plunge into, I realized I was willing to let it swallow me whole. It would almost be a relief if it did. Today’s a bit rough, if it’s too much we can always come back in, Bodhi said. I’ll be fine, I assured him. I hopped on my board and paddled out against the current. The water’s piercing chill shocked my body, rousing my groggy mind and causing me to feel more alert than I’d felt in months. I tasted the bitterness of the saltwater on my lips and felt the wet strands of hair that had worked free of my hasty knot stick to my neck. My body acclimated to the entrapment of my tight wetsuit, presenting me with the familiar
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 198 smell of neoprene. The thickness of the sleeves made it that much more difficult to fight the resistance of the strong current. I had forgotten the physical toll that comes with surfing. My arms felt weak and it had been months since I could motivate myself to exercise properly. I didn’t know if I could do it again. Oh, this is a beauty. Ready? Turn around NOW! Bodhi gave my board strong push to assist my lack of upper body strength into the first wave. I fell immediately. My surfboard tumbled away, out of sync with me, pulling and contorting my body in multiple directions as I flipped through and was pushed under the tumbling waterfall. Disoriented, I swallowed an unhealthy amount of saltwater. I felt like I was drowning as water flooded my lungs. When I finally came up, it was hard to catch my breath. It's going to take some getting used to. Don’t look so defeated so quickly. The sigh that escaped me turned into more sputtering and coughing. My nose burned from the water I had inhaled. I paddled impatiently into the next wave. Down again. You’re popping up too quickly. You’re thinking about it too much. It’s not that serious. Just let it happen. Great advise. Bodhi’s namaste and go-with-the-flow attitude was proving to be extremely irritating. How could taking things less seriously or thinking less possibly instill my body with the knowledge needed to magically stand up on a surfboard and hold onto the tossing water? I couldn’t understand why it was so difficult to get the hang of it. My muscle memory had failed me, and I wanted to go home. I craved my silent sea of blankets over these vast salt waves; I wanted the power to shut out the world simply by throwing my phone across the room. My frustrations were on the brink of tears. The sliver of hope that I could reunite with my inner child felt like an idiotic delusion. I couldn’t muster up the energy or courage to say any of that, though.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 199 Without hope, I bitterly looked towards the horizon to see if I could spot another wave. As I tracked its progress toward where I floated in the surf, I hesitantly reconsidered Bodhi’s words: It’s not that serious. It’s coming! Turn around and paddle now! Like your life depends on it! I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly. I paddled with all my might. My toes touched the tail of the board as I placed my thumbs in line with my lower ribs, slid my knees below me, shifted my palms to rest on my finger tips, brought my left foot forward, twisted my hips and looked straight ahead. My board glided with the wave and somehow, at the right time, I rose securely. I held onto the swell in a miraculous moment. If you looked closely, the muscles surrounding my mouth began to form a slight smile as the rushing swell swept me along. Moments later, as the momentum ebbed, I hopped off my board and submerged my head under the frigid water. A cascade of chemicals coursed through my body as I naturally released dopamine and felt a rush of endorphins. My smile became whole as I broke the surface. The large waves turned into smaller waves as the set became sluggish. Bodhi and I sat facing the abyss, feet dangling off our longboards, legs swaying with the current and waiting for the next set of surfable waves. You know, you remind me of my son. I groaned internally at the provocation to chat. I wasn’t there to make friends, nor exchange small talk. It had been a while since I last surfed by myself. I didn’t have my own board or a wetsuit, both of which Bodhi provided, so I figured a few lessons couldn’t hurt. However, if I’d felt confident enough to go on my own, I definitely would have. My high from catching the previous wave was the closest thing to peace I’d felt in months; I didn’t want anything to ruin it. Both of you are quiet, but I can tell your mind never stops working. Your eyes never stay in one place. They’re always on the move. A little mysterious and moody too. I couldn’t tell if my cheeks became hot from the sun or out of sheer embarrassment. I shot him a quick fake smile but couldn’t find the words to respond.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 200 What made you want to start taking lessons? Irritated, once again, I took a deep breath before responding. I used to love it out here as a kid. Thought I’d give it a try again. He turned to me, smiled, and then fixed his gaze back on the open water. You know what I love most about the ocean? I feel so small out here. I don’t matter one bit, and I love it. It’s true what they say about saltwater washing away your worries. We’re just little specks, and I think that’s really cool. My blip of serenity instantly died. What I needed was comfort or some quiet, not a justification for why my existence meant nothing. Sometimes my wife tells me I’m annoying. I like to talk a lot. I can tell you may not like to and that’s ok. You can tell me to shut up. Surfing should be as calm as possible. I won’t be offended. I tried to resist the temptation to cry or tell him that I did want him to shut up so we could surf in peace, but it was out of my control and, deep down, I didn’t want him to stop. I was so frustrated and overwhelmed. I used to like to talk a lot too. I used to have a bright personality, eager to ask the next question and learn everything there was to learn about someone. But that wasn’t me anymore. The joyful part of me was gone, replaced by a pile of ashes and cynicism. My mouth tasted salty, and I couldn’t tell if I had tasted a tear from my cheek or only the salt water still dripping from my hair. I’m not a very chatty person. Not anymore. But I felt the need to justify my coldness. My mom died a few months ago. Since then, everything has felt a little bleak. I’m sorry your mom died, Bodhi said regretfully, no one your age should ever have to experience such pain. Thanks, I said under my breath. I already knew that much. My right wrist rolled three times, quickly followed by my left.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 201 My wife and I also lost our son in a freak car accident a few months ago too. He was twenty. I felt my jaw slightly disengage, hoping words would follow, but I was speechless. A gentle smile formed on Bodhi’s face as he stared out into the ocean. We sat in silence. Sometimes, life just happens to you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Grief is uncontrollable. What is your call though, is how you let it affect you. Now, that’s entirely up to you. I nodded, still searching for the right words. The truth in Bodhi’s words pierced through me like a fishhook. Now that looks like a beautiful wave. Ready? I paddled again. I stood up on my board and soared to the shore. I turned back to look at Bodhi as he raised his arms in celebration. I turned away as tears streamed down my sticky, salty cheeks. My behavior shamed and haunted me. I wasn’t quite sure what made me believe my pain was so significant that I couldn’t see past myself; and that, when presented with someone else’s trauma, I was reminded that the world did not revolve around me. Bad things happen to people all the time, what made me so special? As waves broke gently around me and the distant surf washed rhythmically onto the shore, I became aware of my heartbeat thumping in my ears. I felt so small, floating above unfathomable depths on a simple, brightly colored board. The black hole I seemed always in danger of disappearing into seemed farther away, disconnected from the majesty of thundering waves. There was something comforting in my insignificance. Maybe Bodhi was right. Maybe my pain didn’t have to matter quite so much. Maybe the world could continue spinning, the waves could continue to somersault. Bodhi walked me to my car half an hour later. I’m really sorry about your son. I can’t imagine... He’s still out there. I feel him in the ocean. Be open to the signs.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 202 He smiled and we hugged goodbye. It was great to meet you, I said. And I meant it. As I drove away in my 2018 Toyota Corolla, I felt sticky and unsettled as if all the pieces I had so carefully locked away were starting to come just a little bit loose. My face stung from the dryness of the salt water, my hair was tangled, and the remaining sand refused to part ways with my skin. I turned my head and looked out at the open water. The only place big enough to begin reuniting me with my empathy. I felt lighter, but this feeling was new. I wasn’t necessarily happier, I just felt smaller. Only this time, it didn’t bother me so much. Tara Layne is an actress and writer based in Studio City, California. She is currently writing a collection of essays and developing a feature film about navigating complicated forms of grief and growing up in your early 20s.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 203 CAUTIONARY TALES by Gershom Gerneth Mabaquiao How do you make people listen? You tell stories. For children, these stories usually featured mythical creatures. For Filipino children, these mythical stories always had a touch of darkness. Abduction, drowning, attacks, soul-stealing. For some reason, stories told to us by our elders about the dwendes, aswangs, tikbalangs, and the urban ghosts never ran out. And they usually ended chillingly. A ghost in our attic or the empty room of our house. A kapre up the avocado tree across the street. An invisible nuno on the anthill by the tree’s foot. A deranged Maria Makiling fooling children into jumping off a cliff. An aswang lurking in the old sari-sari store we now use as a bodega. Sometimes, though, the scary characters in the stories told by my elders were human. And in those stories, the humans and the mythical creatures were indistinguishable. “Sige ka, kukunin ka ng _______.” Go on, so you’ll be abducted by a(n) _______. You could fill the underline with any person from this list: a military man, our grumpy neighbor, priests, the garbage collector in our area, parlor gays. A couple of times, it was Bonjing, with his walis tambo on his back and his shorts worn high above his waistline.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 204 “Why is he like that, Nanay?” I asked Nanay Mely once when I saw Bonjing playing with the cat in front of our house. “Namaligno siguro, anak. Kaya ikaw, ‘wag kang labas nang labas. Kita mo siya, ganyan siya kasi lagi siyang nasa labas.” By ‘ganyan,’ she actually means that something is wrong with Bonjing, who always tends to pick random fights with people walking the streets where he’s sweeping it with a flimsy walis tambo. Sometimes, Bonjing would catch me looking at him peeking from our gate, and I would run inside with a primal panic pounding in my chest. Once, my friends from the other callejons called me to play outside. But I said no because Bonjing was sweeping the leaves under the avocado tree across our house. It’s only more than a decade or so later that I would find out Bonjing actually has Down syndrome, and that sweeping the leaves was his way of helping the community. He said it is “good work,” especially when he gets bored just sitting in his house with his grandmother. His grandmother told me he grew a temper because kids, and sometimes adults, would come up to him and scatter the leaves he just swept from the streets. Hearing that from his primary caretaker, I felt bad for having him on the list of people that scare me. And for letting myself be scared of him because of what my grandmother said. But that’s what stories do. They make you listen. And they make you scared. Tales of the Unclean In December 2020, I felt that same fear of everything. I was in my old apartment, just behind the Christian school inside UPLB. Auna and Jonel, my housemates at that time, decided that we
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 205 should spend the night with two of our org mates from UPLB Babaylan to watch some films on Netflix. One of the films we watched was Jun Robles Lana’s Kalel, 15. “I heard this one’s good,” said Abby, one of our org mates. “That’s the movie about HIV, isn’t it?” said Jonel. Auna, the closest housemate I had in that apartment, gave me a quick glance. “What else can we watch?” “It’s fine!” Abby said. “It’s World AIDS Day anyway. We can consider this as, like, an educational discussion thing or something.” “Wouldn’t it be too heavy?” Auna asked. “We’re hanging out to have fun, Abby.” She and Abby laughed. “No, no,” I said. “It actually seems interesting. Let’s watch it!” So we did. I understood Auna’s hesitations about watching the film since she knew about my condition. But there were a couple of reasons why I wanted to watch the film, too. First, I didn’t want to be suspicious. If Auna insisted further, it would’ve been too easy for our org mates to deduce what was making her act weird. Second, I’ve never consumed any media that tackled HIV. For the longest time, I pushed it to the sides, refusing to see its face. Maybe it was time to be aware of it, even if I see my own face in it. But as the film progressed in its black-and-white color grading, its frame slowly getting smaller and smaller, almost claustrophobic, I felt more and more scared of the story unfolding in front of me. As the film reached its climax, I felt small. I saw how Kalel’s mother left him and his sister, how his friends refused to even touch the water jug he drank from, how his girlfriend blamed him for his sickness, and how his classmates threw a rock at his window after he lost his entire
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 206 family and their home, and how his father, who was a priest, refused to take him in. And it all felt so real. By that, I didn’t mean they happened to me. I meant each scene was a visual manifestation of all the things I feared would happen to me, making them true. It was as if by seeing those dark thoughts in my head be enacted onscreen, the film made the thoughts probable, close, like a dark creature stalking you over your shoulder. Kalel’s story felt close, so close. It only had to extend its claws and it would reach me without barely an effort. By the end of the film, Kalel looked a lot better, entering an eatery on his new waveboard to meet some guy he had a certain arrangement with. He told the guy he was going to wait outside, and the guy agreed. Then the frame focused on Kalel’s face as he rode his waveboard out of the eatery, his face defeated as if life was sucked out of him by the very thing inside of him. Cut to black. Only ominous music remained. The words faded in: The Philippines has the fastest-growing HIV epidemic in the AsiaPacific region. Since 2010, the number of new infections among young people in the country has risen to 170 percent. This figure only reflects the number of Filipinos who were diagnosed. There are countless more who refuse to be tested for fear of stigma and discrimination. And then the words faded away, replaced by the title of the film. “What the fuck?” Abby said. I would agree with her. But a cold, dark hand was clamped on my mouth, making it hard to breathe.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 207 When I was thirteen, Mama’s best friend barged into my room and found me jerking off in front of my laptop. As I fumbled with the zipper of my shorts, Tita Lisa took one step inside the room and peeked at the screen, only for a fraction of a second, before leaving my room without a word. My limbs felt leaden. The breath was sucked out of me. I took one last look at the naked man on my screen, who stopped stroking himself as well and closed my browser window, revealing my Spongebob Squarepants desktop wallpaper. My heart was pounding, but I did my best to keep my breathing slow and steady. It was my way of preparing for battle, and an effective way to handle the fear I felt, which five years later, I would find out was a manifestation of a deeply rooted general anxiety disorder. But that time, I just knew I had to brace myself for the worst. And surely enough, a few seconds later, my mother’s voice reverberated throughout our rented house in Tagaytay. She called out my name, not like the other angry parents who spat out the names of their children when they were in trouble. Her voice was honey, thick and sweet, lingering on the last vowel of my full first name. Despite knowing what answering her would entail, it was a siren call I couldn’t refuse. So, with a deep breath, I stood up from my green Monobloc chair and let my feet cross from the blue linoleum of my bedroom to the cold white tile of the kitchen floor. My bedroom was near the dirty kitchen, and I had to pass through that, then our living room, before reaching the master bedroom where Mama, her best friend, and five-year-old Faith slept together. When I got there, Mama’s best friend took a quick look at me before going back inside their room. Mama pulled the door shut after her, leaving us alone in the living room. “Your Tita Lisa told me something,” Mama said in a low voice as if I did a heinous crime that cannot be heard by anyone else but the two of us.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 208 As the tears pooled in my eyes, she said, “No, no. None of that. You know what you did. Don’t you dare use your tears to get out of this one, Shom.” “Sorry po,” I whispered, spit bubbling in my mouth. “Do not apologize. You’re only apologizing because you got caught.” She then let go of my hand. “Did you even wash your hands before coming to me?” I didn’t move. I felt small, my muscles contracting as close as they could against the bone. To move any joint in my body would feel like opening a door with hinges eaten by decades of rust. So I remained still. In response, Mama grabbed the bottle of alcohol in the drawer outside their bedroom, grabbed both my hands with one of hers, and poured alcohol on them. Somehow, it all felt aggressive– the overflow of the alcohol, the streams running between my fingers, the drops splashing the floor, wetting my toes and making them colder than they already were. “Rub them together,” she instructed. With shaking hands, I did my best to rub my hands together. At first, hesitantly, then with more vigor, desperate to erase the musk and shame from my palms. I kept rubbing, the friction making my hands red, but they remained wet. Probably because there was too much on my hands, or maybe because the alcohol was now mixed with tears. I did my best not to let Mama see my face. I bowed my head as low as I could as my palms started to sting. I thought maybe the stinging sensation was an indication that it was working. My hands were now clean. There was no more teenage odor in them, and Tita Lisa never saw me do anything. The friction got slower and slower until they stopped. I lifted my hands to my chest. “Mama. Sorry po,” I told Mama’s painted toes. Mama grabbed my head and pressed it against her chest. “Anak, are you gay?”
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 209 Yes, I thought. “No,” I said. “Good. Because you wouldn’t want the life they have. Do you want to be hated by everyone you meet?” she asked. I shook my head against her ample chest, where I felt momentarily safe. “Those people… they never become truly happy. They never find real love. There’ll be all kinds of curses thrown at you. You’ll get sick, as is the curse of their kind. I would never want that for you.” As she said those words, I felt a few warm drops on my scalp. Her body trembled ever so slightly as she exhaled. Then she pulled my head away from her chest. With tear-stricken eyes, she told me, “Keep yourself pure, anak. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.” Tales of the Unheard How was the film? Kris asked after we watched Ang Timeline ng Buhay ni B. It was a film shown in a virtual event organized in September 2021 by Cavite State University. It was packaged as an advocacy film about Benji, a teenage boy who found out he was HIV-positive and must face the stigma attached to his status. It was a virtual movie date Kris invited me to. Since we both haven’t been vaccinated yet, we decided to just video call each other through Messenger while we watched the film on our laptops. I was pretty sure his question was urged by the constant frown I wore throughout the film. So I decided to be honest: why is it the same as the other hiv film i watched??? Snfksjdf What do you mean?
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 210 I mean they were both very triggering. they both painted this picture that having hiv is a death sentence. Well it’s not. Yeah I agree. It’s too sad. Idc about it being too sad. pero bakit lagi na lang sobrang hopeless ng picture ng stories about hiv. As if when you get the virus, you can’t go very far with your life anymore. lalo lang di mae-encourage yung mga tao to get tested. And the way it painted this idea that someone who loves a PLHIV should be considered “brave” Loving someone with hiv is not charity work kjdnksdf I get your frustrations naman. How is it ba for other people with HIV? Is it not the same as that? Baby? You still there? I’m not so sure tbh I haven’t met other people like me Hmmm maybe when you meet other people with the same condition, you can write a better story than the film we watched. Something more hopeful. Yeah maybe Kris was right. I couldn’t keep on blabbering about these films without knowing the stories of other people like me.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 211 But there was something inside me that was bent on proving my point, that people like me were not charity cases and that loving us wasn’t an act of bravery worthy of a badge of honor. So three months later, I found myself at the function hall of the Cocoon Boutique Hotel in Quezon City for a four-day training on HIV screening. It was in preparation for a project by our batch in UPLB Babaylan which would promote HIV awareness and sex positivity. I immediately jumped on the opportunity to be the first representative. On the first day of the training, we were asked to introduce ourselves. The format was to say your nickname, your pronouns, the organization you’re affiliated with, the reason you joined the training, and what fruit you would like to be and why. It was very tacky. But I rode with it. I mean, the organization which organized the training prided itself on being a “support house,” so of course the tackiness was part of the charm. We introduced ourselves one by one, all nineteen of us in that batch of volunteers. Some were registered nurses, some were members of other non-government organizations, one was a gym instructor with an ex-boyfriend who was a PLHIV, and one was a trans woman. I sat in the back row at the farthest corner. Looking at how the sequence was moving, I would be speaking last. I thought, great, I’d have enough time to think of something to say. Using the complimentary pen and pad we were given for the training, I wrote down bullets of what I wanted to say: -Shom -UPLB Babaylan -Community project -Tomato
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 212 I wasn’t very sure about that last one. It’s fine, I thought. Maybe I could think of something more clever before my turn, more me. In my head, I started rehearsing what I was going to say. ‘Hello po–’ No, that sounds too pa-cute. ‘Hi, everyone’? Or maybe I could play the shy kid persona again. ‘Uhm, hi! I’m Shom.’ Eck, NO. “Okay, next!” said the facilitator. “What’s your name? You, in the beige coat. Yes, your turn, beb.” “Hello, everyone! I’m Terrie. I go by any pronouns,” said the person at the other corner of the row where I was in. Terrie had platinum-dyed hair, a beige ensemble complete with chains, shin-high boots, and nails painted black. “I don’t have an organization. But I’ve been living with HIV for three years now. And I want to be involved here so I could do something with my advocacy. Thank you.” The facilitator followed up about Terrie’s fantasy fruit. But I wasn’t able to pick it up anymore. The only thing I remembered was thinking I wanted them to be my friend. I wanted to ask them a lot of questions. What was it like for them to live three years diagnosed? Did he have boyfriends? Did they have friends? How were they so confident in proclaiming their status? And what if I did it, too? So when it was my turn to speak, I did my best to put on the mental costume I usually wore whenever I had to present something in my speech communication classes. “Hi, everybody! I’m Shom. That is S-H-O-M. My pronouns are he/ they and, like Terrie, I am also a PLHIV.” By that point, everyone’s heads were turned in my direction. I took a mental step back and let this character of confidence take the wheel, the one I usually wore when I stood as a worship director in the church. I told them I was there on behalf of UPLB Babaylan, but more than that, I wanted to know more about the community of PLHIV, since that would be the first time since I got diagnosed that I’d let myself discover the world beyond myself.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 213 That moment, proclaiming my status plain and simple through a grounded microphone, felt like a rite of passage. The first time I took flight. Tale of Wishful Thinking I was successful in meeting more of my tribe. Terrie and I became friends and, after a few months, went from being volunteers to being employees of the organization. They introduced me to the “poz community” on Twitter and Telegram, which I admit was still something I was trying to figure out till now. That world was immensely different, shrouded with vulnerability brought upon by perceived anonymity. It was teeming with people who shared their own experiences with each other, down to the gritty details. Some offered love advice, some became lovers. There you would find people who reminded each other of schedules for our medications with a “Happy Monday, 9PM babies!” In case someone missed a dose or ran out of ARVs, others would go out of their way to lend a few pills to our fellow “blood brothers.” And those who were confident enough to reveal their faces to others would be hyped up by everyone. In one movie night organized by our Telegram group, we watched iWantTV’s Mga Batang Poz. Being a six-episode series, we watched the whole thing in three nights. After the last episode, everyone went back to the group chat to discuss their thoughts about the series. M Hayyy so sad talaga no? D Truk kyah! Hirap talaga humanap ng happy ending sa atin. H Grabe yung ending mga accla! Wishful thinking lang pala kaloka.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 214 E Sa mga may bebe dyan, swerte niyo. Ingatan niyo na yan. Rare para sa atin maging masaya. J Korikavolity! Hirap na humanap ng true love bilang bading. Lalo na bilang poz. The conversation went on, turning into a friendly debate about whether the series was a reflection of our collective experience as PLHIV. Some agreed, and some didn’t. Some said they were fine with the first person who would treat them decently because it wasn’t always that we’d get seen as actual people. I didn’t engage in the conversation. I just read everyone’s replies, their jokes, their rants, and their acceptance of their status as cautionary tales used in advocacy films. Part of me wanted to comfort them, to tell them we shouldn’t settle for what we were receiving now. But another part of me thought, how could I, when I wasn’t that lucky with my relationships as well? Maybe they were right. This was as far as we could go with our status. Maybe the stigma would remain and it would be the only thing defining us. But I chose not to believe that. There must be something to our tribe more than being plot devices for advocacy films. We existed beyond that. We loved beyond that. We have stories beyond that. So I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and started writing. Gershom Mabaquiao earned his degree in Communication Arts from the University of the Philippines Los Baños, majoring in writing. A writer of fiction and nonfiction, he uses elements of Philippine folklore in writing, where he often explores the themes of sexuality, queer spirituality, and living with HIV. His works have been published in Inquirer.net’s Young Blood section, and internationally in The Unconventional Courier and Tint Journal.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 215 EVERYTHING I LEARNED ABOUT BEING AN ARTIST I LEARNED FROM RUNNING by Carlos Cajina Yesterday afternoon the snow had finally begun falling from the sky. Mid-January, with barely any snow on the ground, was a runner's dream in Canada. Despite the cold and rainy conditions that fogged my glasses with wet snow. I felt stronger with every foot strike that bounced off the pavement. I could feel the newly found kinetic energy I had developed beginning to take shape, like a foreign language I was beginning to learn, and still unravelling itself to me with every step. I was running with the experience that accompanies completing your first race of substantial distance, the one I never thought I could do just two short years prior. I ran my first half marathon last October, not because of ambitions to get in shape, but because I had to. Healing my wounded heart depended on it. I set out in search of radically redefining my perception of self. I knew most people in my circle wouldn't understand the reasoning. Why put yourself through such needless pain? Grief has a strange way of subconsciously telling you how to survive its most turbulent moments if you're willing to pay close attention to its harmony in the wind. Grief led me to a community of individuals with a commonality, unlike any kind I had yet to find in my day-to-day life up until then. We all love the feeling of truly being alive in the uncomfortable, weirdly comforting embrace of our sweat and pain. Running was a secret blessing in all our lives. Through the storm and uncertainty of feeling like an aimless drift in the ocean, I washed up on the island I was supposed to land on. Head
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 216 first with my tights in the air. The sun had chosen to kiss its light on my forehead. Amid this rebirth that had turned me into a dove, I was flying higher than I could have hoped. Free as angels that invade our sleep when we dream. As an artist, my sole purpose is to make others feel. Beauty, technique, and talent are irrelevant. The only technique an artist should master is letting go completely and going to where the heart calls. The only talent worth possessing is the ability to remind someone how to feel, to experience an emotion they were not able to reach before participating in a work of art. It takes two to make a life. Where the artist might give birth to the creation, it is the person stopping at the moment, breathing life into the art, embracing the present moment that is making the experience come to life because of the secrets it whispers only to them, because of the shift of energy and flicker of magic. Magic, however, is not some mystical compound that exists in the depths of our imagination. The endorphins that kick in after running a descending sixteen hundred, eight hundred and four hundred metre track workout tells me otherwise. The self-motivating talks we tell ourselves just when the pain is kicking in, usually for me at about the 8th lap around the track, have sometimes turned into character dialogue. Often they're simply talking points to envision success. A lesson in self-actualization that simultaneously has nothing and everything to do with being an artist. Carlos Enrique Cajina is a Filmmaker and Writer based out of Toronto Ontario. His intrinsic love of people and his curiosity on how environments shape the subconscious human psyche, develops into films and stories that are at there very core tales of people and the environments they inhabit. This curiosity takes him around the globe searching for narratives and stories that seek to overcome barriers of identity and culture. Its in this pursuit that often reveals what we as human beings have in common: snapshots of love, loss, hope, insecurity, and dignity. His work captures moments where something subconscious manifest's and present's itself. He recently published a personal essay " Come Together" in the 34th print issue of the UK based publication Like The Wind magazine
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 217 AN INTERRUPTION IN TIME by Olga Katsovskiy An ambulance slowly drives past in silence. I am standing by the fourfoot-tall Christmas tree by the window, looking past the snowflake decals taped on the cold glass. The ambulance comes with no sirens and no flashing red lights. My mom stands next to me and we watch as it goes past the houses across the street, then drives backwards and backs up into the identified driveway. We watch it creep up the slope in front of the closed garage and stop. The scene is obscured by the bare trees and shrubs, we can't see the driver open the door, a figure in white making its way to the front door. My mom's eyes well up with tears and the knot in my chest tightens its hold. "Let's not watch," I say, and withdraw from the window. We both know an ambulance taking its time comes to take away what is already gone. There are red Santa hat covers on the backs of the four dining room tables, even though this is the first year there are only three of us. Silver, gold, red, and green garlands twirl around the staircase railing leading up to my room, where a silver strand is draped around the curtain valance. Another plastic tree is standing on the chair beside the closet, decorated with glittery lights, ornaments, ribbons, on top of a red skirt that makes it look like the tree has rooted itself with the chair and won't get off. On the wall above, there is a framed black and white photo of me from my childhood. A little girl is squinting in the light, seated on the back of a couch, her hand positioned uncomfortably behind her ear, her
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 218 hair pulled into two tight ponytails secured with giant pom poms. She is pinned against the rug on the wall, her mouth twisted in a downward smile that looks like she is about to cry. Of all the photos, that is the one my mom chose to frame. It used to irritate me but has grown on me over the years. I've come to accept it as an accurate portrayal of my true self, so easily stirred. My eyes are puffy from sleep and I keep washing my face, over and over. I lather my hands with the lavender soap from the new dispenser in the bathroom, featuring a cartoonish print of cats clad in blue yamakas and menorahs. My mom has been busy cooking while I write, the smell of fried fish rising like a thick cloud, filling all the rooms. Her phone keeps ringing and beeping while the skillet hisses and her footsteps thump around the kitchen, refrigerator door opening and closing, bags rustling, drawers slamming. She texts me a picture of Santa and the Snow Maiden by his side, calling me her Snegurochka. The night my dad left, I watched the headlights of a hearse pull up our neighbors' driveway in error and prayed it wouldn't wake them. The truth is I haven't felt like myself since he died. When I placed my bag on the floor in my old room on Friday night, I glanced at the holiday tree in disdain. I couldn't bear the sparkling garlands and removed the silver string from the valance, and then unwound it from the top of the railing. My mom saw me and started to hack away at the garlands with scissors at the bottom of the stairs. I apologized and pleaded with her to stop. She put the scissors down and we hugged, leaving the rest of the holiday decor unharmed. Google photos has an annoying feature that shows Recent Highlights or Spotlights, which chooses images you have taken throughout the year and regurgitates them in an Instagram-like story. It feels like salt on an open wound when photos of the last years of my dad's life pop up. This time a year ago, I wore the same grey batwing sleeve turtleneck sweater. On New Year’s Eve this year, we drove to Home Depot to shop for a new industrial vacuum cleaner - just because. A break from the routine.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 219 The sky was a pale sheet of paper. I thought to myself, loss is a quiet hurt shared in the dark. Olga Katsovskiy, MHA, lives in Boston and works in a non-profit healthcare organization. In addition, she is a Writing Instructor at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. Her prose was published in Barzakh Magazine and Nixes Mate Review. She enjoys nonfiction and is devoted to daily journaling, obscure books, and good coffee.
POETRY POESIA
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 223 THE HANDMAID POEMS by Juned Subhan The Handmaid I for Margaret Atwood Behind my veil, it’s the gush of flowers I noticed first in The Wife’s domed greenhouse: deep-red tulips yawning open like the famished, orchid mouths of children. In her night-blue satin gown, honey-blonde curls and false eyelashes, I suspected she must be either singing or praying to herself even though eventually, the tulips suffocated and died in her gloved hands, leaving bloody stains on The Wife’s fingertips. Meticulously, she snipped the wilted leaves – snip, snip, snip – and dreamt of her barren womb filling with a vine of ripe fruit like soft peaches. There were bright fruit trees in her garden. I
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 224 was forbidden from touching the fruit trees: anything ripe was forbidden to us – like Eve herself with tousled, flame-red hair, deceived and consumed with temptation, the hiss and slur of a green garden snake, snaking around an arching apple branch with glistening, emerald eyes and a seductive tongue. Then, the echo of The Husband’s footsteps, down the winding, mahogany staircase in his black suit. Sweetie, I’m about to leave. Sweetie, I’m going now. There were Eyes everywhere like tiny pricks of sharp light, and the tight, pale skin in between my legs prickled with the thought of him. Ofmichael. Of:Michael, and I thought of myself as a rare, silk purse with glistening, gold coins that he kept hidden in his suit pocket,
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 225 his fingers fumbling in the darkness of that purse, trying to find –. I detected his footsteps disappear as he slipped inside a black jeep and fantasised about making love to young, pubescent girls in the back seat of his tinted jeep on hot, burning leather. Yet, my breathing became more anxious, like a stuffed white bird in a tight mason jar, heavily pregnant with a dead fetus inside it, stuffed with red feathers. I dreamt I fell silently down the attic, through the long, narrow walls of this house, while The Wife waved at The Husband, grasping onto a pair of blunt garden shears. I retreated back into my room like the female ghost before me, in this exact spot, hands quivering against my belly. I glanced up: and there, another woman, faceless,
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 226 dangling down, as if from a cherry tree, from the ceiling above me. The Handmaid II for Margaret Atwood “Ofdavid, may The Lord be with you.” “Yes, may He be with you too –” and outside, shuffling forward in pairs, veiled in wings of crimson like scarlet fever itself, huge wings of red masking our faces, I thought we could have been mistaken for a pair of school girls or ballerinas in ruby slippers, speaking only in whispers. Yet – it’s envy we felt like crazy, old women, gazing at each other with ragged holes in our hearts, and grasping onto our empty baskets. The Wives loomed in the distance,
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 227 in their gardens blooming with red damask roses, and they appeared like anxious mothers baking burnt blackberry pies and waiting for fathers to return home after shifting heaps of shredded paper all day, while some of The Wives strolled down the street, pushing empty, black buggies, and when they stared at us, we glanced the other way, as if to save our faces from the August summer fire. Then, further along, I felt I’d stumbled into a familiar area – this was home to me once, shadows of my former self lingered within these streets and vacant stores where a woman’s ivory tulle wedding gown still hung against a window like a pallid ghost – my daughter’s footprints in the park, and my own husband – a shiver of cigarette smoke clouding behind him. We shuffled like ghosts in these decayed spaces, bound to their core. She murmured, “I’m with child, Ofmichael,” and I
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 228 saw we’d reached the heart of The City, without knowing we had, where memories slipped in and out like pieces of fractured skull – on the beach, once, with you my dear husband, splashes of scintillating water, and our daughter dragged away by blinding, blue waters – then she’d disappeared through a forest of snow, running. I said nothing. We faced The Church Wall. A dead body. I imagined myself hanging down from The Wall, off a twine of rope. Raped. Vagina missing. A white sac over my mouth, resembling a distorted clown with spots of blood where eyes and mouth once were. I blinked. We were allowed to view things in quick glimpses as the world narrowed around us, a thinning, oval mirror. It was another woman hanging down from The Wall – an inch of blonde hair teasing out from underneath her bloody veil. I
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 229 glanced up at the sky – a curve of blue glass and I remembered I was once a bony girl here, giggling and laughing, and blowing kisses at the sky. “Ofmichael, there’s someone watching us,” she whispered, and like a pair of school girls, we continued walking, wearing our red veils like hot flesh and I glanced across The Wall, seeing the silver river, and how easy it would have been for us plunge in it.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 230 The Handmaid III for Margaret Atwood Then, with my head nestled in between The Wife’s lap, as if I was a pregnant thrush on a plate, The Husband eased into me. I noticed the stuffed and heavily pregnant birds with brilliant plumes screaming out of the cloudy, glass mason jars – and some of the fetuses appeared alive, still wet from birth, their wings tearing out of their mothers’ wombs – whilst I was being fucked by him. I convinced myself I was lying in a marble tomb: Baby, sweet Baby, it’s you I missed terribly, Dear Husband, it’s you I thought about making love to as I was being fucked and fucked like a stuffed, dumbfaced plastic doll – in our former home, as a ghost, noticing shadows in every room, and our daughter’s toys lying scattered like bald, plastic heads in the gloomy hallway. Still, The Wife muzzled my mouth with her clammy hand like a sticky gauze, and I could smell a crush of red roses and a twist of my daughter’s bloody hair in her palm, whilst our breaths came out together in shorts bursts like feeble heartbeats until my own heart stopped.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 231 Then, I saw our daughter’s footprints drift and fade across a forest of snow, and I followed her, through that forest of snow, hearing the rustle of her footsteps, and finally yours my Dear Husband as I – too – disappeared forever. Juned Subhan is a writer and an English teacher from England, a former graduate from the University of Glasgow. His work [poetry & fiction] has been published in various periodicals including Prairie Schooner, Copper Nickel, North American Review, December, Poems & Plays, Cimarron Review, Louisiana Literature, Quiddity, World Literature Today, Bryant Literary Review and Joyce Carol Oates’s Ontario Review amongst others.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 232 AROUND THE BEND by Peter A. Witt She’s Gone She left me when the sun’s warmth was just peeking through my window, when the first cardinal could hold in his daybreak song no more, when the smell of dark roast wafted up the stairwell, invading my lonely sleep. She was my muse, the one I wrote melodies for, the one who cradled my wounded breast against the soft of her skin, stroked my hair, told me it would be a day when pain would hide, only music would abide. But now she's gone, life seems flat out of tune.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 233 Swale of a Day Mimic of mockingbirds cavorted in the trees In the shallow swale of a fragrant June afternoon, passing tidbits of gossip heard from squirrels raiding the neighborhood bird feeders, commenting on the joyful brood of children splashing in the summer creek, warily scanning the horizon, hoping today might be free of another sudden storm. Grey cat watched and listened, old enough to know he’d never catch a bird, no matter how rich the thought, yet hoping, perhaps, his daydream of birds raining from the trees would come true, knowing the only rain that fell was the kind that dampened his fur, left him self-grooming in the sun after the clouds departed. Bumblebees buzzed the flowers, bathed in pollen, then alighting anew on a sundrenched, colorful host, only to flitter to another, again and again. So it went on a steamy, afternoon, baked in shafts of sun streaking through the slender drift of clouds casting shadows across the meadows of a rolling East Texas bottomland landscape.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 234 Around the Bend Shadowed in hues of olive green and soft gold unread stories await around the bend nestled by a ribbon of blue water flowing through a sun-stroked valley a woman I've yet to meet, her chestnut hair, hazel eyes treasured smile that pulls, tugs, twitches at the corners of moist coral pink lips family farm with chickens endlessly pecking rabbit nibbling newly emerged sprouts in the vegetable garden my mother making gooseberry pie teenager steering a wagon filled with hay pulled by an ancient red tractor father welcoming the lunch bell ready for sparkling iced tea savory roasted chicken corn freshly off the cob ball of puppy fur nipping at my heals puppy breathe seeking to plant warm kisses on my neck family picnic with blankets cast in the fragrant grass beside a glowing river, a screeching blue jay, squirrels, like children, playing tag red tail hawk gliding on the thermals overhead two horses grazing in a wildflower strewn meadow
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 235 Imagining these untold stories drew me down the road around the bend
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 236 Long Goodbye My life is an old cupboard gathering fingerprints in the dust, memories locked inside, distant images no longer recognized. In recent years shadows crept across family faces I once knew, thoughts I once treasured leave me trapped in today with no yesterday or tomorrow. She says she is my daughter, but I only see her faded smile and sad regret. A piano plays a tune, someone sings words that sound familiar, they offer me broth, smooth but tasteless. Frustration, anger, overwhelmed by grief, sadness rules my crumbling thoughts. For just a moment I have visions of yesterday, dreams and memories on full display. But too soon they fade, cupboard’s locked again, lost in silence, out of view beyond my reach.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 237 Palette of my Soul I live in fractured colors, shards of thoughts unfinished dripping down my face I swim in pools of white darkness, colors cast through droplets raining on my cheeks I sit in plaintive hues, painted in coated black frame brushing sadness across my brow I live in ruptured colors, alive, yet dead within hoping for rainbow pallet come spring Peter A. Witt is a Texas Poet and a retired university professor. He also writes family history with a book about his aunt published by the Texas A&M Press. His poetry has been published on various sites including Verse-Virtual, Indian Periodical, Fleas on the Dog, Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, New Verse News, and WryTimes.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 238 REFLECTION by Dennis Herrell Reasoning Reasoning says We all have to die You say It’s a step to forever I say Heaven is high And I am earth.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 239 Reflection Two images remained distilled from some human show. A black man hanging from an oak, body limp, head tilted left, devout crowd looking up, but not to heaven. A man roasted in a tire, circle of flame for a belt, black smoke his halo, sticks thrown into his hell. I wondered then, and wonder now, how dreadful were their deeds. Shadows The shadows Of the bare tree limbs, Fallen upon the snow, Made me think About the shadows of life— Being like the three lines Of a haiku: Short but alluring.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 240 School Days You boys should Have been practicing football Talking with buddies at lunch Looking at pretty girls Day-dreaming in English class Throwing spitballs in study hall. You girls should Have been at lockers whispering secrets Sitting with a certain boy at lunch Giggling while looking at boys Raising your hand in English class Studying while in study hall. You should never Be hearing shots in the hallway Be hiding under a table Be whimpering in fear of death Be seeing friends lying in pools of blood Be having nightmares afterwards.
REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 241 Seeking Peace Slip into your sanctuary be it fond memory or future hope hidden glen or forest tall resting porch or bedroom sleep massage of skin or afterglow. Find your cellular hidden place that final refuge for sacred peace like tiptoeing into twilight. Dennis Herrell was a soldier, an English teacher, a sporting goods wholesaler, and a gift/card wholesaler. His writing life began in college and continued off and on during his working years. He semi-retired in 1988, and started buying and selling antiques, and doing more writing and submitting 7 books and some eBooks.
ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 242 NEIGHBOURS by Erin Jamieson Neighbours while everyone sleeps under milky moonlight stars coat my eyelashes body is more than shadow shadows won’t overtake my mind- trapped in a studio apartment with one filmy window balcony light flickers my neighbour must be awake must have a mind like mine or perhaps something about the stars woke them toomaybe in another life we might have met for coffee discussed our numbing jobs questioned if our presence made any difference instead, I boil water and drink it plain swallowing bland warmth that at lasts lulls me to sleep & makes me forget