Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 58, February 2023

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 43 “Follow me,” she said, with a nod. She took my hand and guided me to a back door in an empty hallway by the stairwell, taking the stairs in a gallop nine floors down to the ground floor. It felt like a jailbreak. We emerged into a cramped alleyway between buildings, blinking in a sudden deluge of sunlight. A homeless, Hispanic man sat nodding off beside a dumpster, a duffel bag of belong-ings in his lap. He lifted his head briefly to stare at us. I offered him a smile of affirmation, feeling a brief flutter of anxiety. At this moment, perhaps, I envied him his independence, his stolid-ity, his singularity of purpose. “Where are we going?” I asked Rhonda. “I know a place,” she said. She took my hand again and we turned onto Commerce Street, passing a bank and a grocery and a porn movie house, then crossed a side street onto Houston Street, the main East-West downtown thoroughfare. It was bustling with Saturday shoppers and tourists with kids. The bridal shop was tucked into the middle of a crowded block, a small, glasswalled storefront. Mendel’s Bridal Salon was stenciled on the front door, with a drawing of a bride and groom in silhouette alongside. The door stood open to the street. We stepped inside, lingering near the threshold. A long, low-ceilinged space, it was populated by headless gray female mannequins in various styles of webbing garb. A rotating floor fan whirred somewhere in the background, rustling the sleeves of the dresses on the mannequins as it turned in their direction. What did I know, but the place struck me as somehow New York-like, a tiny piece of Manhattan plunked down here in south central Texas. A short, stout, middle-aged woman, almost as wide as she was tall, emerged from behind a counter to greet us near the entrance. Her graying black hair was cropped close in utilitarian fashion, a head of hair that seemed to contain design elements of WW I British infantry helmets. A yellow cloth measuring tape was draped nonchalantly around her neck. It struck me that this could very well be Mrs. Mendel herself. For some arcane reason, I wanted her to be.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 44 “How can I assist you?” she said. Her hint of an Eastern European accent seemed to solidify the New York illusion in my mind. “I want to look at wedding dresses,” Rhonda said. “Of course,” Mrs. Mendel—as I now characterized her—said. “There are catalogues over on the table. Help yourself.” She paused, looking me over. “Is this the gentleman?” While I stood embarrassed and shrugging, Rhonda put her arms around my shoulder and pulled me close. “He sure is,” she said. I smiled, as I imagined a groom-to-be would smile. Mrs. Mendel smiled, too, a kind of shark-like reflex. “You’re a lucky young man,” she said. “I know,” I said. “I know I am.” Mrs. Mendel smiled again, this time more a bare-fanged sneer. She was onto us, I felt sure—a couple of kids on a lark, not serious, just playing around. Wasting her time. Rhonda and I settled in at the table with the catalogues, and Mrs. Mendel returned be-hind her counter. Rhonda would go back to try on dresses while I remained stationed at the table, trying on my new character as groom-to-be. With Rhonda away, Mrs. Mendel seemed to lighten up a little bit. She glanced over occasionally, and we established a kind of uneasy smiles and raised eyebrows relationship, based on our uncanny powers of analysis and a mutual deep understanding of human nature. It wasn’t a bad feeling, pretending to be the groom-to-be. It was perhaps the most intimate connection I had ever experienced with a girl, the most secure, the most meaningful. I slapped my hands against my knees. I was in such a good mood suddenly I had to refrain from singing.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 45 Rhonda appeared periodically to model the dresses for me. She curtsied and twirled as I offered my observations. “Beautiful!” I said. “Gorgeous!” Mrs. Mendel stood behind the counter, kibbitzing. “What do you think, sir?” she asked me once, when Rhonda had disappeared back into the dressing room. “They all seem nice,” I said. “I guess I like the less formal ones best.” “Those are very popular now,” Mrs. Mendel said. “Especially if your wedding is outdoor and more casual.” “That’s what we’re planning,” I said. What was I saying? My heart was pumping from my prevarications. “Outdoors. Casual. Only a few close friends and family.” Mrs. Mendel nodded, in a way that said sarcastically, “Yeah. Gotcha.” “She’ll make a beautiful bride,” she said. “She sure will,” I said, flushed and sweating. I was overjoyed for the conversation to end. Mrs. Mendel wet her finger on a moisture pad to turn some pages on a loose-leaf binder behind the counter. Something about her I found fascinating, though I had the young person’s fallacy that someone of her age and physical appearance could not possibly find any sort of fulfillment in life. I surmised that part of her role was to feed the egos of her customers who came through here, evaluating their situations, probing for a selling point. Perhaps she could diagnose those who had problems, those who were rushing it, those who were getting married under duress. Perhaps she could identify those who were lying their asses off, like me. Perhaps she had gotten into this business because she liked making young people happy. It did seem a cheerful sort of enterprise, dressing people for their big day.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 46 Mrs. Mendel glanced over with a quizzical expression, as if preparing another line of questions. I turned my head away this time. I didn’t want to answer any more inquiries one-on-one. Fortunately, Rhonda reappeared just then, wearing her clothes from work. She seemed ready to go. I rose quickly. Rhonda couldn’t decide, or wasn’t ready to decide, on a dress, so she asked Mrs. Mendel for a business card and told her we would let her know. Mrs. Mendel nodded, as if acknowledging that she knew this all along. Rather huffily, she trooped back behind the counter and returned with two business cards, handing one to each of us. Her name was Gertrude Schmidt. We left the store quickly, then, hightailing it halfway down the block before we looked at each other and cracked up laughing. Gertrude Schmidt seemed to signify everything that we as young people found absurd and farcical. “What a hoot,” Rhonda said. “She was a hoot,” I said. We stood on the sidewalk talking aimlessly for a little while, then. It was a bright, clear, early autumn day here in San Antonio, with the dry air and mild temperatures promising opti-mum conditions for outdoor activities. The cauldron of our Texas summer was over. There would be college football games on TV and fall festivals in school parking lots. I wasn’t sure what was happening next, but I made not the slightest motion to depart. It seemed that so long as we stood there, so long as I remained in her orbit, I would be content. I felt attached to her in some new way, some way that had advanced our relationship beyond mundane office gossip and chit-chat. I could almost believe I was the one marrying her. It was amazing how easily I could set aside our political, philosophical, and sociological differences. “Hey!” Rhonda said then. “What are you doing after this? You want to go grab some lunch?” “Sure!” I said. “Where? Down here someplace?”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 47 “Yeah, why not? Why don’t we just walk over to the Riverwalk? There’s tons of places down there. Ian’s out with his kids this afternoon anyway.” “Sounds great!” I said. The next several hours passed in a kind of lazy, languorous blur—an alcoholic blur, as it turned out. Rhonda wanted a Margarita and they served me one, too, though I was underage. The waitress—a slender, blue-haired young woman—seemed happy to oblige. We ate lunch at a jam-packed little Italian restaurant, our table perched high above the Riverwalk on a wrought iron balcony. It was a chiaroscuro of sunshine and shadow advancing and retreating across the dark green ribbon of river below and the bustling sidewalks and the facades of buildings on the far side. Some faint notes of tenors singing Irish drinking songs filtered up from somewhere down below. The food itself, I don’t much remember. I don’t believe that I tasted a thing. That first Margarita led to another, and then another. I remember touching legs under the table and touching hands on top. I opened up regarding what I considered my own rather tragic life story, restrictive parents and a poor self-image. I told Rhonda for the first time that I wanted to be a writer, a writer of fiction, like my idols J. D. Salinger or Walker Percy or John Cheever. I wanted to make people laugh with my writing, but also to feel strong emotions. Rhonda nodded sagely, as if this were a very important ambition indeed. Though I felt certain that she had never heard of any of these authors. Around us, tables were cleared and reset, new customers were seated, finished their meals, and left. The sun had dropped behind the buildings on the far side of the river, draping us in a deep shade. It almost seemed like another day. “What time is it?” Rhonda said. “Jeez.” She looked around, as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. “It’s ten after four,” I said. “Ten after four,” she said. “Crap. I’ve got to go. Ian’s going to kill me.”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 48 “OK, let’s go,” I said. I pushed up from the table. Though I could have remained sitting there pretty much forever. Standing, I drained the last sticky drops of my Margarita. “Can you give me a ride back home, though?” Rhonda said. “I’m pretty soused.” “Sure, I’ll give you a ride,” I said. I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “What about your car, though?” “Ian can give me a ride back tomorrow or Monday morning,” she said. “He won’t mind. I’ll make him.” We went silent on the walk back to my car and the drive out to Rhonda’s apartment in the northern suburbs. Rhonda sat back with her head tilted sideways against the head rest. I felt pretty soused myself, so I focused on my driving, driving judiciously on surface roads rather than the freeway. Rhonda’s place was in a typical suburban complex, with brick walls and landscaping and a splashing fountain outside a glassed-in office area. A guy in a sleeveless tee shirt was walking his dog in the grassy area outside. I drove around behind the building as Rhonda directed and pulled into a spot alongside the curb. I turned off the car engine—I’m not sure why. Silence engulfed us then, silence that immense, oceanic, cosmic. Rhonda reached for the door handle, held on. “I had fun,” she said. Fun seemed code for “I could really dig you.” “I had fun, too,” I said. I could dig her, too, I thought. “See you Monday at work,” she said. “See you Monday,” I said. A feeling of sanguine potential wafted through the car, like a potent perfume. I smiled, wistfully, I thought, touching her on the left wrist. I tried to make my smile wistful. Rhonda smiled back. She took her hand off the door handle. She turned toward me. She was all over me then, leaning into me, kissing me, kissing me aggressively, wrapping

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 49 her arms around my back. Her bosom pressed against my chest. I was receptive. Boy, was I receptive! I was a 19-year-old virgin with security issues and an unfulfilled libido. I wasn’t going to turn down advances from an attractive female, regardless of any potential consequences or he political bent. “I think I love you,” she said. She said this as her lips were inches from my mouth. “I think I love you,” I said. I knew I didn’t love her, I understood there was no real future with her, but in the throes of passion it seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to say. We could sort things out later. And then, I was almost murdered. I heard knocking on my window and the door handle being pulled. I turned to see Rhonda’s boyfriend Ian—I recognized him from a photograph on Rhonda’s desk---and he was carrying what appeared to be a large kitchen knife. Rhonda screamed. “Go!” she said. “Drive! Get out of here! He’s going to kill us both!” I didn’t need much encouragement in this regard. Fortunately, the door handle was still locked. I turned on the car engine with shaking hands and floored the accelerator and fired out of there, squealing the tires and fishtailing. My heart was beating like a kettle drum at a football game. Ian ran after us, hurling the knife at the car. It hit the back window and clattered away. I watched him in the rearview mirror until I turned around a building and he was out of sight. I kept driving away, as far and as fast as I could. So here I was, stuck with a young woman who said she loved me but who I didn’t love, escaping from her enraged boyfriend with no safe place to go. At least I wasn’t murdered that day. Steven McBrearty have published more than 40 short stories and humor pieces over the years, including several in Adelaide Lit Magazine. A third collection of short stories—Children of the Shopping Mall—was published

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 50 recently by Adelaide Books. A second collection "The Latin Sub - Impure Thoughts, and One Man's definition of Mortal Sin," was published in December 2017. The collection was nominated for a Benjamin Franklin award. A first collection, "Christmas Day on a City Bus," was published by Kinney Press in 2011. Most recently, his short story, "Brother X,” was published in 34th Parallel magazine. His essay, “Sir Colon,” was published by Adelaide Publishers in an anthology of Best Essays 2020.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 51 CAN’T LET GO by Karen Court Paula Ashton could hear everybody having a good time. It was nearly 5pm on Friday afternoon and her co-workers were enjoying after-work drinks in the conference room, to celebrate Graham’s engagement to that insipid floozie, Lilian, from Human Resources. Paula refused to join them. It should have been her, she thought bitterly. She and Graham had been involved last year but he had ended it. The break-up was messy, especially since they worked for the same firm. Something about her being too ‘needy’. He had claimed she was too possessive, stifling him. As if! He just had commitment issues; she had retorted. And yet, here he was, engaged. Paula tried to shrug off feelings of shame and self-loathing but she hadn’t been able to help herself this past summer. After the break-up, she had been guilty of spending hours tracking his movements so their paths would ‘accidentally’ cross, until finally he accused her of stalking him. Stalking him? What a drama queen! Anyway, she had a plan. Graham and Lilian were heading for Vegas after work today for a long weekend getaway to celebrate their engagement, and she knew what she had to do.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 52 She was heading over to Graham’s place in the morning. To make some changes. She still had the key he gave her, even though he had demanded that she return it. But she had made a copy. § Paula parked discreetly at one end of the street where Graham lived. It was a nice rural area, with homesteads and farms dotted about and just a short stroll down the country road to his house. With no close neighbors, there was no one about and the privacy suited Paula perfectly. She paused on his driveway. She knew it was wrong, she knew she was being weak, but she couldn’t fight the compulsion. Her dastardly plan included petty revenge like turning off the power so the food in their freezer would spoil, jamming a garden hose under the kitchen door and turning the tap on full before leaving, and maybe… worse. She giggled. Once she gained entry, she planned to destroy all the photographs of the happy couple. Paula knew where Graham kept his kitchen knives and scissors. And hopefully she would find his laptop and remove all their photos from there, too. She had a flash drive and planned to replace photos of Graham and Lilian with photos of Paula and Graham when they were together. And just for good measure, she thought she might make some changes to Lilian’s wardrobe, shredding all her clothes and belongings. Oh, and one more thing! Graham just loved his gold fish. Let’s see how well they do with a kilo of salt poured into their tank! She headed for the front door only to find that her copied key didn’t work! “Crap! He’s changed the locks!” Paula got to work circling the house, testing doors and windows looking for another way in. At the garden shed she spied a long, sturdy ladder leaning up against it. Looking up at the roof of the house, she

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 53 focused on the brick chimney and recalled the large, stone fireplace in the living room. Perfect! After carefully propping the ladder in a stable location, she shimmied up onto the tiled roof. Wary of loose tiles, she took great care traversing across to the chimney stack. Made it. After tugging and pulling at the metal chimney cap, she wrenched it clean off the top of the stack. Gripping the sides of the brick stack firmly, she peered down inside. It had a wide mouth but its depths soon became dark and mysterious. Still, way down at the bottom Paula could vaguely make out some daylight, so the shaft was open all the way down. That made sense, they had spent romantic winter evenings in front of the dancing flames back when they were dating, and the fireplace functioned perfectly well. “Well, here goes.” Paula hesitated a moment before strengthening her resolve and swinging her feet over the edge of the shaft. Holding onto the chimney crown tightly with both hands, she lowered herself feet first into the chimney flue. Swallowing an instinctive fear of being caught in tight places, she released her grip. Straight as an arrow, she started descending rapidly. At first there was plenty of room; and then there wasn’t. The flue quickly narrowed and the flue lining was too smooth to get a grip to slow her descent. Feeling a sudden panic, she tried to steady herself with her shoes against the flue lining and before she knew it, one foot caught for a brief moment while the rest of her body was still dropping. Her leg bent at the knee and she was caught with her knee wedged against one side of the flue and her foot jammed up against the opposite side.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 54 With a wrenching jolt to her trapped leg, Paula’s fall came to a jarring stop. She struggled to unwedge her knee, then her foot, but to no avail. Stuck fast. Looking down, she realized she was close to the bottom of the shaft, hovering not far above the fireplace. Above, was the six meters she had already dropped, passing down through the ceiling space and the upper floor level. Crap! She needed to get out of this tight predicament. She tried clawing her way back up the flue with her hands but it was too smooth and she couldn’t get a grip. If she could only haul herself upward even a little way, maybe she could straighten her trapped leg and keep going down. Nothing worked. She couldn’t budge from her position. Her weight was hanging off her bent leg, putting tremendous pressure on her knee joint. A terrible sense of fright claimed her. Trapped in a tight, dark space and nobody knew she was there. Graham wouldn’t be back until… when? Sunday? Monday? Paula bit back despairing sobs. No point in getting hysterical, it wouldn’t help. Although there were no close neighbors, she tried screaming for help at the top of her lungs, yelling until she was hoarse. When she gave up, an eerie silence overtook the narrow space. It was warm and dank in the chimney but as night approached it would get cold at this time of year. Her Bermuda shorts and T-shirt wouldn’t help, but that was the least of her worries, she realized. Her knee was swelling, the pain was unrelenting and now she was feeling thirsty. The afternoon slowly dragged by, night rolled in, and her prison became inky black. Her stomach was growling with hunger, her throat was becoming parched and her mouth was unbearably dry. She craved a nice hot cup of tea and a hot, roast dinner. Or even some rice. Anything, really.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 55 Worrying thoughts crowded in, about what everyone would say about her. She couldn’t imagine the embarrassment when she was rescued by Graham and his bimbo. What would they tell people at work? She would become the laughing stock of the office. The mocking derision of her co-workers was too awful to contemplate so she banished the ghastly thoughts back into the furthest reaches of her mind. What was that? Eerie night sounds echoed down the chimney shaft. Her spine tingled and the hairs on her arms stood up. Could anything get her down here? There it was again, a furtive scratching. What if rats found her and started eating her? Or bats? Pull yourself together, Paula! She struggled to fall asleep to escape her torment, even if just for a little while. But sleep eluded her and the endless, empty hours dragged by. § It was birdsong that woke her. Morning light filtered down from the chimney opening. She realized she must have eventually fallen asleep during that long, cold, scary night. But now she wished she had never woken at all. Her leg was in agony, her mouth was drier than a desert and her empty stomach had become a gripping pain. What was today? That’s right. Sunday. Paula’s mind was operating in a fog. As the morning dragged by, with dehydration setting in she found it difficult to form lucid thought. If she moved her head too quickly, she felt light-headed and dizzy. A dull headache had become a steady throb and all her joints were aching, especially her swollen knee. Sunday marched on into evening and Paula’s thoughts were becoming more confused. Why wasn’t Graham home yet? Were they staying over until Monday? Paula tried to yell for help again, but her throat was so terribly parched that only strangled coughs came out. Visions of her workmates derisively laughing at her, pointing fingers and sneering, crowded into her feverish

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 56 mind. Was she back at work? No, she was still trapped in her own private hell-hole. How her throbbing head hurt! Those wretched birds woke her again. Why wouldn’t they let her sleep? What was today - was it Monday already? Hope stirred. Graham would be home today and her torment would end. He would rescue her and realize that he had nearly lost her forever. Realizing who his true love was, he would send Lilian packing, and they could be together again. At least today she wasn’t needing to relieve herself anymore. Nothing in - nothing out! Relieving herself down Graham’s chimney shaft over the weekend had been mortifyingly embarrassing. How would she explain that to Graham? But he would understand. He would soothe her. “It’s okay my darling, don’t fret, it doesn’t matter. Just so long as we can be together.” Paula shrieked, the fractured sound tearing its way out her parched throat and swollen, dry lips. Something just ran over her hand! Forcing her eyes to focus, Paula saw a huge spider crawling up the flue wall, parallel to her face. In blind panic she started smashing the creature against the wall with both hands, the flailing movement tearing at her trapped knee joint with every jerk. Its battered body dropped to the fireplace below and Paula tried to sob but no tears fell. The bricks were warming the space inside the chimney as the day advanced but another cold, painful, delirious night lay ahead. All day, Paula strained to hear sounds of people arriving but her hopes were cruelly dashed by the ominous, endless silence. Nothing but the taunting calls of the birds, gaily celebrating their freedom. The afternoon light had turned grey and Paula heard a pitter patter on the tiles of the roof way above her. It was raining!!

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 57 Inside the shaft the temperature dropped, bringing welcome relief and better still, with the chimney cap removed, some rain could splatter down inside. Paula felt a few raindrops land on her head. She tilted her face upward and opened her mouth but she could only capture a few stray droplets. Paula was beginning to hallucinate, imagining a deluge of rain pouring down into the chimney shaft, running down the inside of the flue wall. Frantically, she tried licking the flue lining and miraculously it was vaguely damp. She plied her swollen tongue to the flue wall wherever she could reach. But it was almost worse than no moisture at all. It couldn’t possibly quench her raging thirst. The rain soon passed and night claimed Paula’s prison. She shivered endlessly in the cold. The inky darkness amplified furtive night sounds into terrifying apparitions that were set on feasting on her where she hung, trapped and helpless in her tomb. When she awoke sometime the next morning, she discovered she had become a banquet for mosquitos and midges brought on by the recent rain. She swatted the ones she could reach but they swarmed over her anyway, and any movement sent daggers up from her trapped knee, so, soon she just let them feed. Was it Tuesday today? How long can people go without food and fluids? She recalled news reports of people buried alive or trapped deep down wells and mine shafts. It never ended well for them. She cried herself back to sleep with wracking dry sobs. Another afternoon was packing up for the day. It would soon be dark again. Paula thought about how her jealousy had gotten her into this mess. She promised to redeem herself when she is rescued, to stop harassing Graham if he didn’t want her. She had been out for spiteful revenge and she knew she needed to become a better person. She vowed to make a fresh start with a clean slate. Then the prospect of her humiliation when she returned to the office came crashing down again, scattering her finer intentions. It would

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 58 be better to die right here, rather than face the taunting laughter and condemnation of the people at work. § Graham paid the airport parking fee and loaded their luggage into the trunk. Lilian belted herself into the passenger’s seat and Graham took the wheel. He tenderly leaned over and kissed Lilian, before starting the car. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Grimsey?” he asked with a broad grin. Lilian returned his smile. “I had a wonderful time. What luck we won that meals and accommodation prize, courtesy of the hotel.” “Yeh, that was a surprise. All we did was enter their casino and next thing we knew; bells were ringing and lights were flashing!” Lilian laughed with him. “Their one millionth visitors! And what a brilliant prize; a free wedding at the Elvis chapel and three nights in the honeymoon suite?!!” “Well, we were intending to get married, anyway. And luckily, I could wangle us some more vacation leave from the boss so we could stay in Vegas the extra three days.” “Everyone at work will be sooooo jealous! Like, it was really romantic, getting married in Vegas on the spur of the moment like that.” Lilian’s eyes were sparkling and Graham couldn’t resist planting another kiss on those lovely, laughing lips. “Right! Let’s get home,” he declared, as they headed out of the parking lot. The newly-weds pulled into their driveway and parked. Graham collected their luggage while Lilian unlocked the door and forged inside. She headed for the kitchen to get the kettle boiling.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 59 Graham carried their belongings inside and dropped everything in a heap in the dining room. “I’ll sort out what’s got to go into the laundry before I put this lot away,” he said. “What’s that smell, Graham? Can you smell anything?” asked Lilian from the kitchen, a frown wrinkling her brow. Graham stopped unpacking and paused; one eyebrow cocked. He took a couple of sniffs. “Now that you mention it…” He looked about. “Where is it coming from?” “Can’t tell. Smells pretty stinky. Maybe a roof leak? There’s been rain while we were away.” Graham headed into the lounge. “Nope. Can’t see anything damp or moldy. But the odor is stronger in here.” Lilian began preparing their lunch, going through the cupboards looking for inspiration. “Honey, could you get a fire started, the rain has brought on a chill in the air. We can snuggle up after lunch and go through our photos to choose the ones we want to download.” Graham abandoned sorting the luggage, shrugged on his jacket and headed outside to the shed to collect firewood and kindling, which he stacked beside the hearth. “Got a lighter, love? Lordy, it’s quite smelly in here.” Lilian tossed him a lighter and he set to, building the fire. The kindling caught fire easily. Within moments the lounge was filled with dark, choking smoke. “What the…?” Lilian joined him. “What are you doing?” she cried.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 60 “The chimney must be blocked!” said Graham with a curse. He threw water on the fire to put it out but that stirred up a lot more smoke. Gradually it subsided and they could see each other again. “Something fell down there, maybe a squirrel or a pigeon.” “Have to be a bloody big one,” said Lilian. “Anyway, forget about it. Let’s have some lunch. We can sort it out later.” “But, Lil, the stink is abominable. It’s coming from the fireplace or up in the chimney. It smells like a toilet in there.” Graham struggled to reach a hand up into the chimney stack and recoiled in horror. “What, Graham? What is it?” White-faced, he turned to look at Lilian. “I felt a shoe. With a human foot in it!” Lilian gasped, eyes round. He peered back up into the chimney. “Who’s there? What are you doing in our chimney?” Only a mocking silence. He reached back up into the stack, dislodging more soot, and the shoe came away in his hand. “That foot was moving, Lil. It was cold, but it definitely moved,” he said in a dull, flat voice. “Good Lord! I’m calling 911!” § It wasn’t until late afternoon that the authorities could remove the person trapped in her brick mausoleum. They carefully lower her down off the roof.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 61 Graham and Lilian kept out of the way, watching the recovery from their driveway. The paramedics got to work as soon as they had the woman on a stretcher. The local Sheriff approached them. “We’ve removed the intruder from your chimney, sir. There’s a bit of damage to it, sorry.” Graham shrugged. He was insured. “Will – ah - will she live?” “Probably. The medic said any longer and she would have been a goner. Lucky you came home when you did.” He urged Graham to look at the patient before they loaded her into the ambulance. “Anyone you know?” She was limp and unresponsive, her skin a deathly shade of grey, but the features were unmistakable. Graham felt the color drain from his face. “Yeh. Fraid so. It’s my stalker.” The Sheriff frowned. “Why would you have a stalker? It’s not like you’re a celebrity.” Graham shook his head in disbelief. “That’s my crazy ex-girlfriend.” Karen Court was a place-winner in Inkitt's big Feb 2022 "Turn Off The Lights" competition, with her amateur sleuth novel and won a publishing contract for that 3 book series on Galatea. In March 2022, her short story "Serengeti Karma" was selected to feature on Havok Magazine's platform on 28th April. She enjoys writing vivid stories that stir emotions and deliver impact. She strives to explore the heights and depths of the human condition in her writing.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 62 HASTILUDE by Derek Kelly “You’re dead.” “I’m not.” “Yes, you are. You’re dead. I shot you in the head.” “No, you didn’t. I got hit in the shoulder.” “The head Gerry.” “The shoulder.” “The bleedin’ head.” “You missed Jason. I got shot in the shoulder. And when I fell, I shot you in the head. You’re dead.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are. Tell him Stephen.” Stephen shakes his head, then shrugs. “You’re dead, Fatty.” “Don’t call me that,” Gerry says. “I’m not.” “Yes, you are, Fatty.” Jason prods Gerry in the stomach. “Leave me alone, Belsen.”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 63 “What?” “Belsen,” Gerry barks. “I’m fed up. Let’s play something different.” Turning round, they see Stephen clambering over the wall. “No, Stevie.” Jason turns around to Gerry, “look what you did. You ruined the game.” “No, I didn’t. You ruined it. You’re dead. I’m not playing this game ever again.” Gerry walks away in a huff. Jason watches him struggle to lift himself onto the wall of the ruined house they have been playing soldiers in. The house sits on the edge of Ganley’s waste ground. Jason smirks derisively when he sees Gerry’s Who Shot JR tee-shirt bunch up about his midriff showing his distended stomach. With Stephen having disappeared, and Gerry struggling to ease himself off the wall, Jason looks around the ruins and, deciding the game is finally over, climbs the wall and lets himself down on the other side by way of several planks which they had left there so as their feet did not end up in a puddle of muck. It was Jason who had proposed this game of soldiers having watched Kelly’s Heroes on television earlier that day. Much to the annoyance of his granny and aunts with whom he lived. Gerry and Stephen had also watched the movie and were playing with Star Wars figures in the stairwell of J Block enacting scenes from the film when Jason had come up to them. Gerry did not like Jason whom he called, behind his back, ‘Belsen’ on account of how skinny he was. Stephen was a little wary of Jason too. Stephen’s parents forbade him from hanging around with Jason or any of Jason’s friends. Gerry’s parents were of the same opinion. It was only when they were needed to make up the numbers for football it seemed Stephen and Gerry interacted with Jason and his friends. “Want to play football instead?” Stephen asks openly, as the trio with their arms raised like surrendered soldiers make their way tentatively through a forest of dandelions, white goosefoot, and shepherd’s purse.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 64 They take care to avoid the many stinging nettles that line the route to the gap in the security fence through which they had earlier gained entry to Ganley’s. When, in a clearing, Jason leans down and picks up a stone and, with no warning, as a bus passes by on Ushers Quay, takes careful aim and flings the stone with an upwards underarm trajectory. Above the din of traffic, the crack of stone on metal is distinctly heard like the peal of a bell from Adam and Eve’s or John’s Lane. “I know. Let’s go down to the brewery and play hide and seek,” enthuses Jason, without answering Stephen’s question about football and behaving as if he did not just throw a missile at a passing bus much to Stephen and Gerry’s mortification. “Come on, let’s?” Jason says excitedly as he lifts the wire fence to let Stephen and Gerry clamber onto the pavement outside. Gerry scrambles through first and, as he waits for Stephen, he nervously watches the bus which has stopped at the traffic lights ahead. Jason loves to play soldiers. Of all the children who live in I, J and K Blocks, Jason has the most Action Man figures. Jason even has the Action Man Tiger Tank along with other military vehicles in the Action Man range. Sometimes the boys in the flats race these vehicles down slopes using their feet as brakes should they encounter danger such as a stationary or worse, moving car. Jason loves everything military. Every week he gets pocket money from his granny and aunts with whom he lives. With the money he buys Battle or Commando comics. In school, Jason was asked by a teacher what he wanted to be when he left school and Jason replied, a German soldier. Brother O’Hare did not respond to Jason’s answer. In Ganley’s, Jason got Gerry to play the Germans. He and Stephen would be the yanks. Jason had wanted to play with gats, but Gerry was wary of this. He knew Jason’s fondness for games that have risk. And, with Jason’s gat being made from the curved leg of a chair on which were attached two wooden pegs, the curvature of the leg giving Jason an impromptu handle, he would be a crack shot with launching the steel springs the gat fired. Both Stephen and Gerry had no gats, their parents having forbidden such dangerous weapons. So, Jason’s initial game was ruled out. Now, walking back towards the flats they are

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 65 unsure about playing hide and seek in the old Anchor Brewery. Walking past Egan’s Newsagents Gerry attempts to dissuade Jason arguing that there is only the three of them, and like football, they need more players. “Let’s get Liam and Robbie then.” Jason says, “They’ll play.” Without waiting for a response, Jason rushes across Usher Street shouting he’ll get Liam and Robbie and will see the other two in the brewery. Stephen and Gerry watch Jason disappear under the gaping mouth of the Romanesque style arch. “I’ve never liked him,” Gerry says, “If my parent’s see me walking around with him, they’ll kill me.” “Mine too.” “Then let’s do something else?” “Like what?” “I don’t know, anything. But I don’t want to play with Belsen.” “Do you have to keep calling him that?” “My dad does.” “Doesn’t mean you have to.” Stephen knew Gerry’s discomfort with Jason extended in equal measure to Liam and Robbie. Gerry, being fat, was an easy target for other boys in the flats. He was the last picked for just about everything. Stephen was his only real friend. Stephen had been surprised when Jason wanted to play with them. Jason’s usual crew involved Liam and Robbie. Both these boys were older by a year than Stephen, Gerry, and Jason. Being older, they were seen as cooler than others. For Jason to want to hang out with Gerry and Stephen meant the world to Stephen. Who, considering Gerry his best friend, still wanted to hang out with Liam and Robbie just as much as anyone else did apart from Gerry. While Gerry tried tempting Stephen with going up to his parent’s flat and resuming

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 66 their game with Star Wars figures and Lego on the balcony Stephen had already made up his mind he wanted to go to the brewery. Between the derelict brewery and Stephen and Gerry there lay a large tract of waste ground. The building sits menacingly in the shadows of the surrounding flats. There are disused oil drums, along with a few burnt-out stolen cars abandoned by joyriders among the usual Dandelions, Quackgrass, White goosefoot, Ribwort Plantain, and stinging nettles. The waste ground is a trash can. Stephen and Gerry climb through the gap in the fence onto the waste ground. Long abandoned to time, the brewery’s roof is missing. Its lead slates long auctioned off by its owners. The building is open to the elements. Gerry thinks the place creepy. His parent’s flat looks across at it. Anytime he leaves his flat he sees it. Old, and grey concrete, all colour washed away from it, like an old man on his death bed. At night, it is a known haunt for drug users and tramps seeking somewhere to sleep. The structure skulks from behind the walls that cordon it off from the flats, an everpresent danger watching, waiting, like some beast hidden among tall grass waiting for its prey. Stephen is indifferent to it. From J Block, where Stephen lives, the ruins cannot be seen. He has played here often enough. But only in daylight. Agile children easily scale the walls whenever a soccer ball is kicked too high and lands like a volunteer among the weeds that surround the building. Stephen has often climbed over this wall, sometimes using the drainpipe at the front of the yellow bricked caretakers building to gain access to the flat roof to see where the ball has landed and then, hanging six feet above the wasteland dropping down off the wall, finding it and kicking it back over the wall for the game to resume. Then running back through the wasteland and around to the flats. If a ball is not quickly reclaimed it will be lost forever. “Best put your trousers in your socks.” Stephen tells Gerry, hunkering. “Why?” “I heard a rat ran up someone’s leg the other day. Bit him.” Stephen points to his crotch.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 67 Gerry looks uncomfortably around at the overgrown vegetation surrounding them. “Don’t be such a pansy. Come on? I’m sure a rat won’t find yours.” Gerry watches Stephen trundle over masonry, iron girders, pass the stolen cars long rusted, blackened by fire, and sees him make his way up the ramp which, like a tongue, leads into the brewery where Stephen, turning round to see where Gerry is, waves him to follow on and jumps down into the darkness of the ground floor and disappears. Gerry considers leaving but knows he will be called all manner of names for doing so. He looks around and sees the remains of a fire nearby. Large parts of the waste ground lie in the growing evening shadow. When he hears a rustle among some yellow archangels near him, he quickly crouches and, putting his trousers into his socks, runs towards the ramp. Stephen, by now having navigated through the dark and dank ground floor and climbed the stairs at the back of the building to the first floor is watching Gerry run towards him. Picking up some stones he starts to throw them overarm in Gerry’s general direction. The stones land a few feet away from Gerry. Gerry quickens his pace. “Stop it, Stephen.” Gerry shouts. When he reaches the ramp, Gerry peers into the darkness of the ground floor. “Stephen.” Gerry says softly, as if afraid to wake something or someone his imagination believes might be prowling within. Gerry calls Stephen again. But Stephen doesn’t answer. Gerry eases himself down onto the ground floor. The floor is wet and the water black. The air is fetid. “Stephen, stop messing. Where are you?” No answer. Using the large rectangle gaps through which goods were once hoisted between the floors, Stephen follows Gerry from above making ghostly noises and lobbing stones down the openings which splash or clang on the detritus below, the sound echoing about Gerry causing him to lose his footing. “Stephen?” Gerry shouts. His foot wet from stepping in a puddle.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 68 Another stone is dropped down by Stephen some distance from where Gerry is standing. It makes a loud splashing sound. “Stephen!” The shout is more forceful. In the cavernous dark of the ground floor, the voice booms, and echoes about the place. “LOOK.” “What is it?” “It’s the others.” Stephen walks over to the front of the building and, looking out across the waste ground sees Jason, Liam and Robbie running towards them. Stephen, smiling with excitement, descends the concrete steps to the rear of the building and entering the ground floor makes a ghoulish noise. In the gloom of the ground floor, it takes a while for Stephen’s eyes to focus, but he can’t see Gerry. When his eyes settle to the gloom, he sees Gerry standing by the open window nearest the ramp. “Look,” Gerry says, turning to Stephen, his voice panicky, he is pointing in the direction of the waste ground. Making his way over to him, avoiding puddles and other debris, Stephen looks out and sees, not only Jason, Liam, and Robbie, but others running behind them. Stephen realises they are being chased. Suddenly, a stone cracks against the wall sending up a small dust cloud. Jason jumps through the window near the ramp. Liam and Robbie enter the building through the side door and take cover behind some pillars. “They’re from Cook Street.” Robbie shouts. Liam is frantically picking up stones. More projectiles enter the ground floor space smashing against the concrete pillars. Gerry is cowering beneath the open window. Stephen picks up stones, rocks, and starts to throw these at some of the Cook Street boys who are nearing the ramp. Jason has positioned himself near another window and is busy flinging missiles at the same group Stephen is taking on. Having seen other Cook Street boys make their way around the side of the building, Liam and Robbie have positioned themselves near the side entrance and are holding them back with an arsenal of pebbles and stones.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 69 “Gerry.” Jason shouts, “get me some stones.” Gerry starts to fondle about the wet, dirty ground for stones but there are few available. And in the dark, and pell-mell that surrounds him, he only manages to collect a few stones which, keeping low to the ground, he passes up to Jason who, taking careful aim, spins these under arm, so as the missiles climb at an angle rather than rain down. Gradually, the Cook Street boys begin to fall back from the ramp and take cover behind a burnt-out car. Meanwhile, Liam and Robbie are not faring as well. Parts of the iron clad door are still intact. Liam has managed to squeeze through, but Robbie has not. Liam is busy passing stones out to Robbie who, from a position on the stone steps, is flinging stones at a group of three boys hiding in the shadows among overgrown weeds. Robbie calls out that he is running out of stones. Gerry says the same. Stephen tells them there are stones up on the first floor. At the back of the building, at the opposite end to where the side entrance is, there is the other doorway. Stephen tells Jason that they should make a move upstairs by that route. Jason agrees, telling them he will give covering fire, as Gerry hands him a meagre crop of rocks and stones. Stephen shouts across to Liam who is busying himself trying to collect missiles thrown by the Cook Street boys which have landed inside the doorway. Liam relays the message to Robbie who immediately sprints up the stairwell amid a hail of rocks. Jason, seeing Liam run for the rear doorway, starts to back away from the ramp while still flinging missiles towards the car, Stephen and Gerry having made their way towards the rear already. “Come on Jason.” Liam screams from the rear door. Jason is now midway between the ramp and safety; the Cook Street boys are on the ramp throwing stones in. Jason, giddy with excitement, throws the last handful of rocks he is holding towards the ramp, which shatter around the frame of the entrance like shotgun pellets and runs for the rear doorway. Rocks smash into the ceiling overhead and, just as he is about to turn up the stairwell he grimaces in pain when a stone catches his hand.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 70 Having given up the ground floor Gerry asks what happened. Why, he wonders, are the boys below attacking them. “I don’t know. We were walking around here with Jason when these lads seen us from the Post Office down at Church Street bridge. As soon as they seen us, they ran towards us shouting. We just legged it in here. Brilliant, isn’t it?” Liam says breathlessly, picking stones off the ground floor. “I don’t think it’s brilliant.” Gerry says, looking about. “I don’t think it is.” But no one is listening. “I got hit in the hand,” Jason says proudly. He holds up his left hand for all to see. It is bloodied. Jason tells Stephen to stand by the rear doorway. “Anyone comes up that stairwell you know what to do.” Then he turns to Liam and together they look over the holes, stones in their hands, extra stones in their pockets, watching the shadows below for any movement. Robbie does not need to be told what to do. He is standing by the side entrance. He is watchful. Like his comrades, he is holding an assortment of stones, more in his pockets, and a small pile by his feet. Gerry keeps away from the holes. He remembers well, during a game of hide and seek here not so long ago, Danny Crosbie falling through one of these holes and smashing his front teeth out on impact below. Gerry hovers by Stephen’s side. “Get me some stones, will you?” Stephen says, seeing Gerry is holding none. Gerry does as he is told. “Here they come.” Robbie shouts, as a tennis ball sized rock lands among them and bouncing a few times it smashes into the wall near Gerry who throws himself against the wall with fright, dropping the stones he had been collecting. Stones and rocks shoot up from the darkness of the ground floor and Jason, in answer, responds in kind. Liam is assisting him. Robbie is manning the side entrance to the first floor. Stephen is at the rear

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 71 doorway. An assortment of detritus shatter about the floor space. Screams and shouts are loudly punctuated by rocks shattering against the walls or ceiling. Gerry, unable to cope with the melee of sound and stone, cowers close to Stephen. When a rock smashes above his head he runs along the wall facing the flats and, passing one of the numerous window openings, throws himself to the ground. “GERRY.” Stones and rocks continue to smash against the concrete about them. “How many are there?” Robbie shouts. “Millions.” Stephen calls back. “There’s about seven.” Jason says, keeping low and away from the openings while making his way over to Robbie. “GERRY. IT’S TEATIME.” Gerry looks around unsure what to do. When he hears his name again, he peers over the exposed windowsill and sees his dad on the balcony outside their flat. “GERRY.” Gerry ducks when his dad looks in his direction. He looks at Stephen and silently mouths, ‘my dad,’ while pointing overhead in the general direction of his dad. “Who cares.” Stephen says, giving a shrug to emphasise his indifference. “Keep throwing stones.” “No. I must go. If he sees me here, he’ll kill me.” “If any of our dad’s see us here, they’ll kill us.” Stephen says, lobbing a few well-rounded stones towards Gerry. “Start firing.” “Well, he doesn’t have one,” Gerry says, throwing a glance in Jason’s direction, “he’s safe.”

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 72 And it was true, of all the boys who lived around the blocks near the old brewery, Jason was the only one who didn’t have a dad. At least, not a dad who was ever around. Jason lived with his granny Beatty and his two aunts in a two bedroomed flat. Stephen had noticed before how, when anyone mentioned their dad in passing, such as ‘my dad did this,’ or ‘me and my dad went here,’ Jason would go quiet and slip into the background of the conversation. If the talk got too much for him, he would try and change the subject to something else. Jason has vague memories of his dad. The last time Jason was anywhere near his dad was when, a few years earlier, when he had turned seven years old, his dad had called down to see him in Oliver Bond and, while Jason wanted to see him, he was sent to the bedroom by his granny and told to be quiet. His granny, along with his two aunts, then proceeded to harangue his dad and threaten him with the police if he did not leave them alone. Afterwards, when all was quiet and order had been restored, and Jason had cried so much he had no more tears to shed, his aunts took him to town where they bought him toys and took him to McDonald’s for his birthday. No one asked about Jason’s mother. It was taken for granted she was dead. But everyone still noticed how, whenever dads where mentioned, Jason would go quiet and retreat into the background of those conversations. “GERRY. COME UP HERE NOW FOR TEA.” “Can you ask them if I can go?” Gerry says to Stephen. “Ask who.” Gerry points down the opening nearest him. “You ask them. You put your head over that and ask if you can go home.” “What’s wrong with him?” Liam asks. “His dad is calling him. It’s teatime.” “Is it that time? I’ll have to go myself.”

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 73 Gerry sticks his tongue out at Stephen, who gives him two fingers in reply. “BARRY.” “Who’s Barry?” Robbie asks. There is a collective shrug. “Must be one of the lads below.” Jason says. The volume of stones which had been colliding with the wall and ceiling become a trickle before ceasing all together. “BARRY. YOU GET HOME NOW OR MUM SAID SHE’LL KILL YOU.” A lull descends across the brewery. The boys continue to remain in position, unsure what is happening. They hear Barry’s name being called again. It is a girl’s voice that is calling. Robbie sees the boys he has been aiming at retreat. Jason hears footsteps beneath him fall away. Liam walks over to one of the windows out front and sees a girl with a pram. A baby is inside the pram. “Look.” He says, pointing. All four boys walk over to him. Seven boys are moving towards the girl. Jason, still holding a rock in his hand, steps back to fire it but is cautioned by Robbie who tells him he might hit the girl or the baby in the pram. Jason lets the rock drop at his side. “CHICKENS.” Jason laughs. He shouts the word again and starts prancing about mimicking a chicken’s call. The Cook Street boys turn round and, in response, shout abuse. But there is no more fighting. They follow the girl with the pram and soon disappear.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 74 “It’s teatime.” Liam says, “I’m famished.” “That was great fun.” Robbie says. “Let’s stay,” Jason says, attempting to hold Liam and Robbie back, “let’s play hide and seek.” “I have to go home for tea.” Gerry pipes up. “No one asked you fatty,” Jason says angrily. “Leave him alone,” Stephen says. “Let’s go home.” He says, moving to follow Liam and Robbie. “We can always do it again next week.” Gerry follows Stephen, leaving Jason alone on the first floor. Then he too follows the others out. But something like this never did happen again. The Cook Street boys never again ventured into the Anchor Brewery. This set of boys: Gerry, Stephen, Liam, Robbie, and Jason, never again played together as a group of five. Afterwards, there would be others with them, sometimes even girls who now began to become more interesting to them. But, in that space and time, in that moment, those five boys took on a larger group of boys from St Audeon’s House and won. Walking around to the entrance on Usher Street, walking behind everyone else, Jason replays the battle in his head. He is proud of his accomplishments. He had organised their defence. He gave the orders and the others, his troops, obeyed. “See ya,” Liam says, walking over to the nearest stairwell for K Block. Robbie walks on to the other stairwell for the same block. Stephen gives a nod to Jason and, with Gerry, walks around to I Block. Alone, Jason stands in the square of I, J and K Blocks. There are no other children about. It is teatime. All around the flats the squares and playgrounds are deserted and silent. Children will be eating their evening meal and watching Knight Rider in the company of their parents. Walking over to his own flat Jason is smiling contentedly. Half remembering some of the shots he made he is satisfied with himself. And, walking into his granny’s flat, Jason only wishes his dad was there so he could tell him the story.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 75 Derek Kelly was a student at the Creative Writing course run by Carlow College where he was mentored by Dr Eoghan Smith. Derek previously studied music at university only writing fiction in his spare time. Work and family commitments meant he was unable to devote as much time to writing as he would have wanted. Prior to the recent pandemic, and having made some lifestyle changes, Derek undertook a Creative Fiction course with Kevin Curran at the Irish Writers Centre. Derek is originally from Dublin.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 76 A MOST DISCONCERTING TITLE by Eric Green By a vote of 5-4 in favor, the editorial team at Jackhammer Publishers agreed to move ahead on the manuscript that for months, years, eternity, languished sight unseen, unread, and unappreciated in what they call in the publishing industry the “slush file.” Advocates for the book argued that while it was disconcerting on one level, on another level it was actually smart(ass), hysterical, and poignant. It might even have mass appeal for making tons of money for Jackhammer by converting the manuscript into a blockbuster movie if they could con some Hollywood director into putting it on screen. The next step involved calling the author and offering congratulations that Jackhammer wanted to collaborate with him on putting his words into print. They had no contact email address or telephone number for this author, the page with that information must have fallen out somewhere or maybe it had never been included to begin with. Even the unscrupulous literary agent who the author had overpaid to represent him on this book couldn’t be located. Turns out the agent apparently had declared bankruptcy before going out of business and moved into another line of work selling used cars. But actually, not knowing who the author was could work to their advantage. The more the author kept himself hidden, the more it made him sound worth pursuing. Like cat and mouse. Maybe he was some kind of recluse like J.D. Salinger of The Catcher in the Rye fame and

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 77 wanted to be secretive about his work, assuming it was a him we’re talking about. Harmony “Lolo” Chen was the Jackhammer lead commissioning editor in her late 20s who had first accidentally come across the full manuscript after it fell on the floor out of the slush file and she bent to pick it up. The title of the book both appalled and intrigued Lolo--I’ll Be Rich After I’m Dead. It led her to peruse the first chapter, examine more closely the second chapter and then started laughing as she read through the entire 365-page opus. Lolo told her colleagues they had to, in fact must, publish this book--she personally would investigate on how to find the author. § The funeral that day for who was identified in the death notice as a Mr. Jester Johnson was scantily attended; only his college buddy, along with cemetery workers who were curious and proud of having dug the ditch where the body would be buried, and a homeless bum having nothing better to do sat in the metal folding chairs set back from the plot from where he would be laid to rest. The arrangements for Jester’s funeral had been arranged by the old college buddy, who like Jester, had taken it upon himself to call himself a writer even if most of their stuff had never seen the light of day. The friend wouldn’t be around much longer in these parts, having used a mid-life crisis as an opportunity to take his unappreciated literary talents to a new life in Paris, France. The Johnson death notice said he was a 66-year-old freelance writer from Carmel, Indiana, who had previously worked as an underwriter for a car insurance company. The notice added that Jester was most proud of a story called “Call Me When You Got Two Seconds,” which his friends thought was his most accomplished writing and that they considered too funny for words. What the notice didn’t say was that Jester’s survivors consisted only of an estranged sister who was still alive somewhere but she and Jester hadn’t spoken to each other for the last 10 years or so, after the funeral for their father who had passed away after working himself to death for 65 years.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 78 Jester carelessly, or maybe he didn’t care since he had no dependents and was incommunicado with his sister, his only surviving close family member, had left no last will and testament, had never wanted any funeral and fuss made over him like this, let him go in peace by throwing his body in the river, but that wish was disregarded. During and at the end of his life, where he dropped over from being overstressed watching his favorite team, the Chicago Bulls, in an NBA playoff basketball game, all he wanted was maybe to get recognized as a good writer who hadn’t sold out for a few lousy bucks. Was that asking too much? § They gave it their best shot, but the Jackhammer people couldn’t locate the author. They’d keep searching, but meanwhile, Lolo Chen said they had to get his book out by Christmas, six months from now to take advantage of the increased holiday readership that would mean more sales for them. Her editing counterpart at Jackhammer, Maximillian Jeffrey who on the ide wrote comic articles under the jokey pseudonym of Max-AMillion, said whoa, hold on a gosh darn second, weren’t they barreling into this project too fast? Shouldn’t they check to see if the book idea had been stolen from some other writer? How could this writer not have been seen or heard from before, and then suddenly his book emerges out of nowhere with something astonishing and funny that was sure to be a moneymaker? You couldn’t be too careful, said Max. § Lolo turned past the manuscript’s introduction to Chapter One, and giggled when she read the opening lines. Joking or not, the author had titled it, “How to Succeed at Failure.” The first sentences had grabbed her attention: “I’m a Complete and Utter Failure, I’ve failed at everything I’ve ever tried to do. I was born a failure and that’s how I’ll die.” She read on, with her red editing pencil at the ready: “I was born to parents who were both total miserable failures, my brother Zack was a failure, my sister Hannah was a flop at everything

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 79 she ever tried, and even my dog Eros couldn’t poop right. I took him to the vet to see what was wrong with him and the vet said he thought Eros was constipated, but at least he was good at being constipated, some dogs don’t even have that talent.” Moving on to Chapter 2, the author went into great detail how he had failed at becoming a novelist, that his work had been rejected possibly a Guinness Book of Records 2,575 times and that he had considered giving up writing and doing something else where he could fail at that equally as well. But perversely since somehow writing was in his blood, and perhaps because he apparently was a masochist, he continued sending out manuscripts to agents and publishers who if they answered him at all, sent form letter rejections back often with the statement sounding something like this: “this is only one opinion, it’s no reflection on your work, and we wish you the best of luck getting it placed elsewhere.” The day came, however, when a small literary press outfit accepted one of his short stories called, “Christ As You’ve Never Seen Him Before,” about a young guy named Fred who by some miracle had transported back in history to witness the birth of Jesus Christ. At the Nativity scene, Fred was still outfitted in his workout clothes at the gym, after he had gone back to ancient time. The story went on that Fred and Christ had become best buddies, were inseparable until they had a misunderstanding where Fred had expressed doubt in a joking way about Christ being the Second Coming with Christ saying bitterly that Fred might as well go back to where he came from, wherever that was, and Christ would go back to wherever he came from. Other than being sacrilegious, the moral of the story, the writer revealed, was that apparently even the holiest of the holy, a Lord of the Universe, can sometimes be a humorless, oversensitive jerk who takes himself way too seriously. But they can be forgiven for their transgressions, that forgiveness is what separates man from the apes. At least that’s the hook the literary house took from the piece. They paid him $35, mailing him the check and a free copy of the magazine where

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 80 his article had appeared, somewhat betraying his notion that he was a complete and utter failure. § Lolo Chen was determined to make this book a success, even if it killed her since she believed it would sell like hotcakes if they marketed it properly. What they really needed was to get the book advertised on the television talk shows, places like Good Morning America, The View, and Jimmy Kimmel Live late at night, along with it being featured on Oprah’s Book Club, and Book TV on PBS. But even beyond that, they desperately needed the author in person, and if they couldn’t find the real author, perhaps they would have to invent one. Lolo remembered that book, A Confederacy of Dunces, which became a cult classic 11 years after its author, John Kennedy Toole, had died by asphyxiation. The word on the street was that the book got published through the efforts of Toole’s mother who coerced the writer Walker Percy to take an interest in the work. If that book could make money without the author being alive, could the same thing happen with I’ll Be Rich After I’m Dead? Jackhammer editors and agents sat around a long Formica table to discuss what the name of the fake author should be. The names ranged from a jokey suggestion of Ernest Hemingway or William Faulkner to the alliterative Jack Johnson, until somebody remembered that was the name of the heavyweight boxing champion from the early 1900s and they might get sued if they tried going with that. With no consensus, they voted to table the idea for later. § It came to pass that Lolo Chen got a nibble on where to find this unknown author, after accidentally coming across a death notice in the Indianapolis. Indiana newspaper about a writer named Jester

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 81 Johnson, known among the literati for writing humorous and sarcastic pieces, including something called “Call Me If You Got Two Seconds,” which sounded like a funny read and something similar to what their anonymous writer might have crafted. With this hint, Lolo would contact the funeral home included in the death notice, find out who had paid for it and go from there. She got excited thinking she was finally on the path to identifying the mystery author. But when she called the funeral home, all she got was a machine that said the phone number had been changed. When she called that number, the machine said “please leave a message, sir or madam, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Please stay safe and have a nice day. She waited a day or two with nobody calling back and then went on-line looking for an email address for the funeral home but when she punched in the website all she got was a dark screen with white block letters saying, “Under Reconstruction.” Struck out again. Maybe the author himself, Jester Johnson, had faked his own death to somehow attract publicity for himself, but something didn’t add up. In fact, after a detailed on-line search, maybe Jester Johnson and this funeral home were both now dead. She could call the newspaper, find out who exactly had placed the death notice but that sounded too creepy, they would think she was some kind of psycho, maybe even call the authorities on her. No, forget about going in that direction, anyway it could be somebody else had written the book, so she was wasting her time pursuing this Jester Johnson, since he apparently no longer existed, if that was even his real name. Lolo thought she was at a dead end, maybe they would have to go back to that idea of creating a live fake author. But then out of the blue, she saw an email pop up on her computer screen. It was from somebody named “Wire Paladin” who claimed to be the author of “I’ll Be Rich After I’m Dead.” Come on, Lolo said, was this real? That name rang a bell, where had she heard it? This Wire Paladin said he had gotten word that Jackhammer

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 82 liked his book, wanted to publish it, and that he was ready to negotiate how to split the profits. The first question, of course, was how this Wire Paladin had found out they were interested in his book, if in fact it was his book. There was no phone number listed with the email, did she dare writing back to him? She showed it around to her colleagues who said what the heck, what did they have to lose in connecting with Wire Paladin other than getting involved with someone who might be nuts? If he truly was who he claimed to be, they could go from there. Lolo emailed back requesting that he first tell them how he knew they liked his book. What else had he written? And how could they believe he wasn’t stealing from somebody else and that he wasn’t a lunatic? She waited a few days but didn’t hear back from him. Obviously, it was a crank, she decided. Still, she had to wonder how the emailer had known about the book. § The next day there was a correction to the death notice in the newspaper appearing the day before about the demise of a Jester Johnson. The notice was in the corrections section of the paper that few people, certainly not Lolo Chen, bothered reading. The correction said there had been a typo, a huge misspelling of the deceased’s first name, somehow the p had been transposed into a t. The correct name was Jesper Johnson. Like everything else regarding the man’s life, they couldn’t even spell his name right. The big mystery was how did the newspaper know to correct the error? If anyone cared to know, it came to pass that Jesper’s college friend over in Paris had scanned the Internet to find the newspaper’s website, and seeing the mistake, sent over an email with the correction. §

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 83 All this, of course, was unknown to Lolo. All this time they had been trying to find out about the wrong person who might have written this book. Yes, the death notice had originally said the deceased author’s name was Jester Johnson but maybe that was fake too. Lolo was convinced somebody was playing a big joke on them. Meanwhile, Lolo took the chance and emailed Wire Paladin again saying they hadn’t heard from him and if he still wanted to talk with them, they were ready to talk to him. She waited, but nothing. Silence. Obviously, a crank. § Wire Paladin, the name stolen from the old TV show, Have Gun Will Travel, was actually one Bart Barcliff, a former copy editor at Jackhammer who had been terminated several months before for inappropriate behavior regarding his female associate, Lolo Chen. Bart had vehemently declared his innocence but the die was cast, Lolo had said she had tried continuously to tell Bart she wasn’t interested in him, but he wouldn’t let go. Finally, Lolo had to turn him in to H.R., which after investigating the matter, served Bart his walking papers. Apparently, Bart didn’t take kindly to the action and vowed to get his revenge with her. Through his former Jackhammer colleague, Max Jeffrey, who apparently had a big mouth, Bart Barcliff learned that the publishing company intended to publish this wild new book written by an unknown author who might be dead. Max told him one night while they were having a few brews at the editors’ local hangout, Bar Nun, all about how they hoped to have the book releasedby Christmas, and it was a big crazy accident how they came across the manuscript. It was all Lolo’s thing, Max said, with after his fifth beer loosening his tongue, added his unsolicited opinion that personally he thought the book had “its moments” but doubted it would sell much without a bigname author attached to it and they were wasting their time worrying about who wrote it. Sure, Confederacy of Dunces had been successful

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 84 even with its author dead, but that was one and done, Max said. The least they could do was have their author be alive. So that’s where Wire Paladin came in, the subversive Bart Barcliff emailing from a computer in the public library claiming to have written the book, just to screw with Lolo’s head after she screwed him, although in his case, not literally. He had no intention of getting back in touch with her, because to keep using the library’s computer to send these phony emails might get him in hock with the FBI or the library police, whoever they were, ranging from getting a maximum sentence of being tossed in jail to having his library card revoked. § One night after watching TV, the real and still living Jester Johnson scanned through the Internet looking to where he might send his new screenplay, a takeoff from the Beatles movie, A Hard Day’s Night, although he flipped the title around to call it A Hard Night’s Day. The plot had something to do with a rock-and-roll group called The Grasshoppers who had failed miserably at becoming successful, but one day were discovered by a businessman who owned a record shop and promised to gain them riches. And the rest was history. So what if Jester had basically stolen the idea from the Beatles’ movie? Maybe this time somebody would go for his work. What did he have to lose? And that’s where on the Internet he hit upon Jackhammer Publishers, the place where he remembered that eons ago, he had sent in a manuscript but after that getting no feedback so the heck with them. But that was long before, maybe he should try again and so what if he got rejected once more, what difference did it make to his dignity and whatever shred of self-confidence he had left. That afternoon, he emailed in the screenplay, expecting not to hear back from Jackhammer for months, if ever. He wrote in his intro to the screenplay that he was a successful author, with a well-regarded literary magazine having published one of his recent works called Christ As You’ve Never Seen Him Before.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 85 “This new screenplay I’m sending you,” Jester wrote, “combines pithy insights about the music industry with rip-roaring humor that’s sure to have readers unable to stop laughing out of their minds.” Should he add that long ago he had sent Jackhammer a book called I’ll Be Rich After I’m Dead but had never heard back from them? If he included that, and if they even bothered to read his new unsolicited submission, they would regard him as just another unnoticed failed writer trying any angle he could think of to get recognized. Better leave that part out about his book since they, by their silence, had already rejected it once before and might get annoyed that he wanted them to reject it again. But maybe they had never even seen it? In that case, maybe he should dare to send in the manuscript? No, forget that idea, then he would really look pathetic. § Several days after deleting into the trash file all the new unsolicited manuscripts of books and screenplays that had arrived in her in box, Lolo Chen wiped her bloodshot eyes and sipped on a caramel macchiato. So much junk, so little time. With her job title as Commissioning Editor to advise Jackhammer on which books they should publish, couldn’t they find anybody who could write a halfway intriguing story that might make Jackhammer a couple of bucks? She came upon another submission, this one a screenplay from a Jester Johnson, something to do with a rock band called The Grasshoppers. Jester Johnson? The idea for his screenplay didn’t excite her. But wait a minute, the author’s name rang a bell except wasn’t he already dead? What, he was now undead? Lola set it aside for now because she was going blind overdoing looking at the computer. On her return from lunch, she had to attend to another manuscript that her colleague Max-a-Million Jeffrey had suggested she read for possible publication about God being a transvestite but not allowed to use the girls’ bathroom. By the time she finished reading over that one, which she ultimately rejected as not only too stupid but sacrilegious, disagreeing with Max that the thing had merit, she was too tired to

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 86 bother giving the Jester Johnson screenplay a further look. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day if she remembered. § Jester didn’t wait to hear back from the five different production companies where he had submitted his new screenplay. As a writer, he was supposed to write but it was hard to write when nobody apparently was interested in what he wrote. He sat at this writing desk on the foam seat cushion designed specifically for butt pain and better sitting comfort and pondered the first chapter of a book about how living on Mars might bring him success as a writer. Of course, it was a satire on how living on Earth he was a failure. But after the first chapter, where could he go from there? Jupiter? Pluto? People wouldn’t understand his point, if there was a point. Maybe he should go back to his other idea for a non-fiction book, although at times it sounded too much of a cliché to be marketable, the true story of how his marriage had fallen apart after his wife took exception to his announcement that he was ditching the 9-5 life to become a writer. The divorce itself wasn’t as painful as her repeatedly mocking him for being delusional that he could ever make any money in his chosen profession, not to mention she claimed he was lousy in bed. Maybe the first part about him was true, but he would have to strongly disagree with the latter accusation. “You have a darn good well-paying job, and now you want to throw that all away on some crazy dream,” she said, upon leaving him for her mother’s house. She didn’t understand him, he was an artist, a creative spirit, there had to be more to life than working as a crummy stockbroker on Wall Street. Once the divorce became final, he sold the house, threw out his furniture, and moved to a buddy’s apartment in Indianapolis, before finding a cheaper efficiency to live alone in the Indy suburb of Zionsville.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 87 There he would stay until he hoped to get his big break as a writer. And if he didn’t, he didn’t. That idea on writing about his divorce he soon discarded after finishing the first chapter and deciding who wanted to read this claptrap? Maybe instead, he should write from his ex-wife’s viewpoint, it would be about her divorce, not his. Now that had possibilities, he thought. Women wanted to read how other women got through their personal pain, right? He hit the delete button--actually, who cared about that? Jester had been living on his investments from his former stockbroker job, and occasionally got some freelance consulting financial planning work, but that was few and far between. Most of his time was spent staying alone in his room and trying to write and not getting much out of the exercise other than occasionally taking satisfaction that at least he was doing what he was meant to do. That day he picked out of the mail from all the junk ads a notice from his landlord--due to the rising cost of maintaining his apartment complex they were raising his monthly rent by $75. Already, the rent in the Indianapolis suburbs was too high, and now this? He would have to speak to the super not only about the higher rent but could they please fix his radiator that they had promised to fix last month and still hadn’t gotten around to it? With winter approaching, freezing to death might interfere with his writing where the first responders would find his stiff dead body slumped over the keyboard to his computer. He had scolded himself it was time to move out of this place, find something cheaper in another state where the cost of living wasn’t so high. But inertia and the hassle of moving had kept him here for too long. Maybe this rent increase would get him off the snide. It sure would help if he sold one of his literary masterpieces. § That next morning Lolo Chen clicked the mouse through more manuscripts in her in box, reading a few titles before deleting the whole pile to the trash file. Nothing had come in that excited her, held any

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 88 promise that it would hit the best-seller list. Only once every so often would she come across something that held any promise. An hour later, Max Jeffrey posited at the staff meeting that the manuscript for I’ll Be Rich After I’m Dead needed a new title, this one sounded too dark and depressing and might turn off the reading public that was confronted with a world already depressing enough what with the war in Ukraine and rising food prices not exactly turning that collective public frown upside down. But Lolo Chen was insistent and convincing, the title was funny, sarcastic, sophisticated readers would get the joke. By 9-0, they voted in favor of keeping the title, with even the former skeptic Max Jeffrey making it unanimous. It was good that Max had brought up the subject since Lolo had meant to start editing I’ll Be Rich…but had gotten sidetracked with staff meetings and phone calls about other things having to do with administrative details amounting to nothing. It bothered her greatly that they had no live author’s name to go with the manuscript. Lolo had to fix that and soon, if they wanted to get this book out by Christmas, now only a few months away. Maybe it was intuition, maybe it was happenstance, maybe it was because at this moment with Jupiter in the 5th House representing expansive interest and fortuitous prospects in the arts--if you believe in astrology--that Lolo came back upon the screenplay from this Jester Johnson and today, as opposed to previous days, the guy’s writing amused her. Not that the screenplay seemed marketable, but she could see the author had a charming dark sense of humor, she’d grant him that. Jester Johnson, yes, maybe they could use that name to go with I’ll Be Rich, if everyone agreed with the idea, a funny book, even if the author was using the name of a dead man. Another staff meeting, another vote, but this time 4-5 against Lolo’s idea. Max Jeffrey, speaking for the negative majority, pointed out hey

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 89 could get sued by the true author of I’ll Be Rich, what the heck was she thinking? She was thinking she’d like to terminate Max Jeffrey because of all his negativity about attaching a real live author’s name to the book. But that wasn’t in her power at Jackhammer. If she wanted to pursue it, she’d have to take it up with the boss and owner of the publishing company, a Ms. Jerry Jane Jackhammer. That, of course, wasn’t her real name, but Jackhammer sounded like a bold, brash, and brawny name for a publishing company. Her real name, Annabelle A. Anthony, was enthusiastic about the project, and she trusted Lolo for her smarts about whether a book could be financially successful. She also considered Max Jeffrey to be a fine copy editor, if at times too arrogant and overly sensitive when it came to somebody editing and revising his work in a third or fourth read of a manuscript. The next day, believing in her abilities to judge a book by its cover, Lolo asked for a second vote on whether to contact this Jester Johnson. They must use an author’s name for the book, and Jester Johnson sounded as good as anything else. Maybe with a lot of editing and revising, they could also fix his screenplay as well. This time, she won, 6-3, and with that she got on the horn to call the contact number listed on the email. Of course, she believed that the guy claiming to be Jester Johnson was using that as a fake name, maybe he had seen the death notice for the poor soul who had recently died and thought who would know the difference, particularly since the real Jester Johnson apparently was now six feet under. § His phone rang and he looked at the name that accompanied the number of who was calling--Jackhammer Publishers. Really? Could it be they liked his screenplay? No, it couldn’t be true. He had always believed to his core, as someone once said, it’s bad when things are too good. “Hello, Jester Johnson?” the lady on the other end of the line asked.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 90 “Speaking.” Lolo Chen giggled. “Even if you are really dead, I think we can make you rich.” Jester laughed too, thinking he better show he got the joke. Sure, play along, maybe he was dead, and didn’t know it. Whatever. After all his rejections had made him proud of achieving the distinction of being one of the most unsuccessful persons in all creation, he might as well take this as far as it might flow. Even if, God forbid, it meant being successful. Eric Green is a freelance writer with his articles appearing in the Washington Post, Baltimore Sun, Highbrow Magazine, The Insider, and a number of satirical websites including Points in Case and Humor Times.

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE 91 ENIGMA by Suzanne Zipperer Cyrus hated prejudice in the true sense of the word: pre-judging. That quick assessment everyone does, filing people in mental categories by their dress, hair style, address, occupation, skin tone. He figured that this was a natural way for the brain to process people. It may even go back to survival instinct; identifying friendly and hostile tribes by their hats or hair or scars. Cyrus thought of it as lazy, not making the effort to observe long enough to see who a person really is, and in that way, it was unkind. Cyrus tried to always be kind. In his effort to eliminate prejudice, Cyrus liked to throw people off, to “code-switch.” He made a point of surprising people with who he was, or who he wasn’t. He often rode the city bus to his office in downtown Milwaukee instead of taking the Bentley. He wore a black turtle neck and khakis to meetings and a white hoodie to national business conferences long before Silicon Valley made it appropriate. His hair was always a bit too long and sometimes natty. In a day when social media determined your make-believe status, Cyrus was not present. Not even in Linked-In, which meant anyone wanting to do business with him had to work to make an appointment. All his life growing up in Milwaukee, one question came up frequently, “What are you?” “White, Black, Latino?” the 911 operator asked of callers to identify the guy breaking into their garage. Cyrus wondered how he’d be identified, or maybe people like him never committed crimes.

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE 92 “Human,” he’d answer when he was going to high school in the southern suburb of Franklin where many kids shared his skin tone. Indian, Pakistani, Palestinian – immigrants who had become the petite bourgeoise by renting storefronts in the inner city and now had kids in law school, or who had themselves become doctors in the US and stayed on. Cyrus wasn’t one of them. In the inner-city elementary school he attended when they were poor, he was bi-racial black/white until parentteachers conferences. So, what was he? Underestimated. And he let it be, getting by with Cs then off the charts on standardized tests. “Effort,” his dad said. “You can’t be like the lazy American kids. Effort.” Cyrus was now a man of means who came by his means with a lot of luck being born in the right family, although at the wrong time. Yes, he had seen the American Dream work growing up, but he’d also seen it not work for most. He was smart, sure, but not as smart as Anthony in 5th grade whose backpack was full of library books he returned weekly for another batch and who did make the effort. Cyrus saw Anthony managing McDonald’s on Capitol Drive when they were about 40. When Cyrus went in to get coffee, he had already noticed the line of cars outside was moving faster than the 20 minutes it usually took to get served and that the windows had been washed and garbage picked up from around the outside. That must be due to Anthony, was Cyrus’s first thought when he saw his dark-skinned schoolmate behind the counter instructing a young staff member on how to take orders. “Cyrus, that you?” Anthony spotted him in line, wiped his hands on his apron and offered it to Cyrus in greeting, thinking how he’d have to change food safety gloves when Cyrus reached back a paw spotted with red-oak wood stain from a woodworking project he had played with. “How you doin’? How’re your people?” Cyrus gave him a quick run-down on his family – wife and two kids, folks back in the homeland - then listened to Anthony’s update. He knew Anthony was assessing him on the stained work clothes and shabby sneakers; his dark curls, grey woven through, sticking out from the side of an old stocking cap, but that was OK.