Adelaide Literary Magazine No.55, November 2022

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

FAMILY VACATION
by Maia Perez

When we were in the truck mama told daddy that after this trip she
was done. But not long after she said that she turned to me with a big
smile on her face.

“You ready to go find our room baby?” She asked
As soon as we walked through the door the smell of stale cigarettes
and the ocean stung my nose. My teddy clutched in my hand, we walked
in and jumped on the bed closest to the door.
“Smell like shit in ere.” Daddy grunted tossing down the bags and
walking out to the patio.
“We call this bed,” I said waving Teddy's hand to mama.
“No baby, you and I are sharing a bed,” Mama huffed picking up the
bags off the dirty carpet floor.
I flopped back on the bed burying my head into the pillows. “But
mama!” I groaned.
“Hush up fore I tell your daddy you being bad.” She snapped
“Someone’s mad,” I whispered to Teddy.
Daddy's a tall man so as he walked back in, he had to duck his head
so he wouldn't hit it on the door frame. His face was all scrunched up
slightly different than his usual scowl, so I knew he was still angry. He
walked through the room stopping at the door.

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“Going to the store.” He murmured and walked out the door.
Mama scoffed looking down and shaking her head. She didn’t like
when daddy drove when he was mad. She would say, “He might as well
be piss drunk, driving that truck during one of his temper tantrums.”
“Mama?”
“Yes Baby.”
“Let's watch a movie,” I said grinning at her.
As mama looked for a movie, I made me and teddy comfortable.
Fixed the pillows just right and pulled the blankets down so mama could
get in. She grabbed some chips she packed, and we started watching. I
wish it was always like this. Mama was happy I was happy, and we were
watching a funny movie. But not long after we started it daddy walked
in with a 6-pack and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He walked
straight through the room and out the sliding door.
Mama got up fast,” Stay there and finish the movie.” She said before
following him out the door.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, I turned the movie off, it wasn’t
fun anymore.
“I wanted to watch with mama,” I said to Teddy. “I don’t think she’ll
be back in anytime soon.”
Mama and daddy weren’t outside on the patio long before the arguing
started. Like every time I'm around when they fight, mama brought her
mad voice down to a whisper, but daddy's gruff voice could be heard
from the next couple of rooms over. The sliding door was cracked so I
could hear all daddy's cussing.
“Why are you acting crazy right now? I was only gone for a minute.”
He said throwing his hands up.
I didn’t hear what mama said but it must have been something bad
because after that it was quiet. I looked out the glass to see mama holding
her cheek. I didn’t see what happened, but it didn’t take much to know
that daddy had hit her. After that, the silence stayed for a moment, and

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then mama closed the door. Mama never got that loud when they would
fight. But now I could make out her words through the glass.

“You’re going to get your bag, keep your mouth shut and leave.”
“You can’t- “He started but mama cut him off.
Getting in his face she said “I can and I am. We are going to my
mom’s, and I’ll be by the house to get our stuff.”
I had never been scared of my mama but in that moment, I would
have been if I was daddy and it looked like he was. He came inside and
did exactly what mama told him to do. He grabbed his bags kissed my
forehead and left. Never in my life had I seen my daddy look that small.
Mama watched him go then came and wrapped me in her arms. “I'm
sorry baby.” She said.
I didn’t know what she was saying sorry for, but I knew it wasn’t
for what just happened and the other thing I knew was my daddy was
leaving and I was never going to see him again. My mama said she was
done and she meant it.

Maia Perez is a student with the goal of being a writer.

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DRY
by Nigel Pugh

"Water, sand and trees brought us to this valley over two-hundred years
ago. Now it’s dry,” Mom. Our forebears came from Flanders, glass-
makers. “For generations. Telling stories in glass.”

When the small glassblowers could no longer compete, the family
split, one half down to the city to Tiffany’s while the other bought land,
growing corn, cherries, apples and sheep.

“Dry” she repeats. We look down on the valley, once blue, then green,
now brown. “Look,” she points to the same photo every time. She’s not
born yet. It’s the old farmhouse where I was born. Outside, on a wagon, a
collection of Puntys spanning generations. “Your great-grandfather. And
your great-grandmother. On the day they left the old place. Expelled
from their home of generations. Before it was submerged. She ran off
with an Italian.” She pronounces it in the local way, the I its own island
of sound. “Day-worker come to build the dam. Ran away to the city.
He never forgave her. There’s a whole ‘nother family down there. Or…”
Mom leaves the words unspoken.

The farmhouse was dismantled and carried out of the valley,
reconstructed on higher ground.

She grabs my hand. “Go down there. Look for the old place.”
I’m not supposed to enter, but the City gave up policing after the
Brooklyn Water Riots. It’s a lunar landscape. I find a track defined by
low drystone walls in better shape than those above. The reservoir has
preserved them. Behind there’s a rectangle, maybe a foot high, cemented
rocks, foundation to a barn or house. I’ve no idea where the Punty place

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is. Wedged between two rocks on the wall is an object and I pull it free.
Lead pathways with flat patterns between. I scratch one, removing a
century of grime to expose bright red. I pocket the find.

Year pass. Mom is no longer. The firehouse has an End of Summer
Blowout Sale and I go through old shirts and pants. That’s when I
stumble on the fragment from the wall. Warm water, soap and sponge
reveal colorful, almost cinematic, glass panels set within lead channels: a
mustachioed man, stereotypical representation of a southern European,
beside him a shovel. And a naked woman. In the background, an angry
man with horns. Behind him pastures with sheep. And in his hand, a
long-blade knife.
Nigel Pugh has had short theater works performed and been published in
several journals. He has always loved stories: hearing, reading, telling. He’s
working on a larger piece of fiction growing out of the cultural tensions of
his adopted neighborhood - the Catskills.

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THE AFFAIR
by Bel Torres

Sixteen was the number of balled up tissues on the floor. She counted
them each time she dropped a new one to the floor. The pillow was
sopping from the tears and snot. She just lay there in a pool of tears and
snot filled despair replaying the entire thing over and over in her head.

§
It was the second time she called her, and she regrated how kind and
stupidly understanding she had been the first time. She tried desperately
to be the better woman. This time she wouldn’t be so nice. She had
never heard her own voice sound so full of anger and desperation but
seeing the messages between the two of them was more than Olivia could
handle. There, in black and white, she saw the man she devoted her life
to tell another woman that she was “the most beautiful.” He wrote about
all the passionate things he wanted to do to her. It was awful.
“Debbie, it’s me, Olivia. Yeah, we spoke last month. I thought I told
you to leave my husband alone, you slut!”
“Are you serious,” Debbie chuckled, and in a spiteful tone she said,
“He doesn’t want you, you ugly old bitch. You’re a has-been. He told
me so. He said I was delicious.”
Her words were replayed on a loop in Olivia’s head. It was like each
syllable of every word dug into the already open wounds. This was the
third affair he had in five years. The whole ordeal was taking its toll on
her mental health, and according to Debbie, on her looks as well. This
was the worst one yet. He was obviously in love this time. He apologized

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to Debbie for Olivia’s behavior and the sound of his soft voice was
almost horrific.

“Olivia, give me the damn phone,” he said through clenched teeth
as he wrestled her iPhone out of her hand. He scratched his head in
the way he always did when he was tired or overwhelmed as he put the
phone to his ear and spoke to Debbie in a gentle and remorseful tone.
“Look, I’m really sorry about her, Deb. I’ll call you later.”

Olivia couldn’t even speak as the floodgate of tears opened. Did he
really apologize to her? Ten years and two little carbon copies of him
and her later, and he really just apologized to his damn mistress? What
the hell is happening, she thought.

§
Seventeen balled up tissues, she counted.
“Mommy, are you crying?”
“No, sweetie. Mommy just had a hard time sleeping, that’s all.”
It was hard to focus on what Emily was saying. Her tiny voice was
almost like that teacher on the Peanuts Cartoon. It didn’t matter. Olivia
knew she had to peel her face off her wet pillow and carry on being a
mom despite feeling like she was losing her identity as a wife.
“Ok, I’m getting up. Can you be a big girl and wake your brother
and pour a bowl of Fruit Loops for both of you? I’ll be downstairs in
a minute.”
The clock read 8am. She hadn’t slept and the exhaustion from
overthinking and incessant crying reminded her of the hangover’s she’d
get when she and Jake first met in college. Those were better days. Maybe
I should shower or at least change my underwear, she thought. Even
that seemed like too much work. She just dabbed a dollop of toothpaste
onto her tongue and moved it around her teeth. The minty taste was
enough to remind her that she was still alive, and she could keep going,
at least for today. She was in the middle of tying her hair up into a decent
enough ponytail when she heard the front door downstairs open and
shut. It was him. He hadn’t come home last night. Maybe he was with

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Debbie, or maybe he was just too ashamed to face his family. Either
way, she wished he had stayed gone. She quickly took an inventory of
her body odor and rinsed her mouth. The last thing she wanted was
for him to have anything unflattering to report back to his tramp. The
floorboards creaked with every step as Jake slowly made his way into
their bedroom.

“Olivia.” His voice was soft and remorseful, the way it had been
when he spoke to Debbie. “We can make it through this, Olive. We
always have.”

She couldn’t even find the words to respond. She just stood there with
anger and hatred building in her gut.

“Dammit, Olive. Say something.”
“I feel tired, Jake. I’m just so tired.” Her flat words sounded so generic.
She said the same thing after the last affair. “Please don’t touch me,” she
said as she backed away from him. Her plea went unheard. He picked
her up and carried her to their bed with ease, the way he had when she
was thirty pounds lighter. “Jake, I don’t want this,” she said. She truly
didn’t, but it was pointless, and she didn’t try to fight it. He kissed her
chin and neck as her body went numb. This was the game he played. No
matter how many times she tried to learn the game, she would never be
the winner. She turned her head to the left as he continued to kiss her
neck, then her cheek, then her tear-filled eyes. Her face met the sogginess
of the pillow once again as she counted eighteen balled up tissues.
When he was finished, he grabbed a handful of tissue from the floor
to wipe away the remnants of what was once their love. He’s disgusting,
she thought. In all these years, this was the first time she actually felt
appalled by his outright entitlement to her tears, her trust, and her body.
He was no longer the handsome golden-haired small-town boy that she
once knew. His indiscretions had hardened him. His eyes were carried
by constant dark circles. The corners of his mouth had become wrinkled
from the tightness of his lips. Even his love making was stomach turning;
fast and ruthless.
“Jump in the shower and I’ll clean up your mess,” he said as he
playfully kissed her forehead. It was as if he had already forgotten about
yesterday. Swept it under the rug.

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One by one he gathered the remaining tissue and discarded each into
the bin. He was methodical as if he could read the tales of hurt that he
had caused his family in each crumpled piece. He looked at her as tears
began to form in his eyes. Without speaking, they both knew that this
was long overdue. He sat on the edge of the bed, naked and pitiful.
Olivia stood over him. “Olive, please don’t do this,” he pleaded.

She said nothing. Only let out a long heavy sigh as she turned to
gather a small bag of personal belongings.

“Jump in the shower,” she said. “I’m done cleaning up your mess.”
Bel Torres is a fiction writer from the border town of El Paso, Texas. Her
love for travel, culture, and music inspires the stories she writes.

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UNFINISHED
by Laurie Hollman

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Only half an hour for my pastel sticks to flesh out shapes, contours, and
shadows of your profile. Then I stop for weeks. Why this hesitation?

A week later I adjust an angle of your sculpted nose. Your contemplation
is more striking. Beneath your shoulder line, an abstraction brings you
closer.

You’re my shapes and forms, lights and shadows. Ambiguity at its
best; loosely flowing love from our youth.

I move the pastel paper from the glass worktable to an easel. Your
image on the Mi-Tientes paper focuses, eyes closed reading a book. If
I open them what will you see? I don’t want to know. Mystery elevates
love.

I lay the portrait on the floor, stand above it, look down. Too much
distance. Your heart drifts. Forms are formless. Shapes are shapeless. I
want you back.

I want you to love me the most. Not even birds you adore in nature
more than me.

I lift you up, so you face the mirror where I also see myself. The image
echoes. I’ve been in the portrait with you all along. Tears well.

I can’t see me like you do. In the mirror I just see my reflection
from my point of view, whom you’ve been with for fifty-two years. It’s
funny, I always say fifty-two and then you add the years before we were
married, too.

Surely you haven’t forgotten the Barbra Streisand concert in 67. It
was a long walk to the stadium. You did it for me. I still don’t know if
you’d ever heard her sing before then. A voice of passion that I hoped
we’d feel together. And today you say her voice is like no other. I savor
that remark.

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You got me started painting. That surprise Chanukah gift twenty years
ago. Can’t forget the sturdy wooden box of oils. You saw my future. You
are my future. I want to be yours.

I love that you know I fear deep sea diving and after a dive, gesture
upwards to surface and orient myself. And you stay above the water
with me.

And when you go underground like the mysterious underpainting
you can’t detect, I carry a torch for you. Like our marathons, I go the
distance to make you laugh. To give you a broad, long-lasting grin.

§
Marathons don’t end the way we run them, just like paintings that
take their own form. After each finish line, we wrap each other in silver
foil, and run another and another.
Against rhythms of life’s uncertainty my paintings shift and change
as if they are speaking to me. Yet my landscapes reveal the constancy
of our lake glistening in summers and freezing in winters reflecting our
good fortunes season after season. I’m still here mainlining your images
as they take on new forms.

§
Alas. Of its own accord, my painting hand rises in merriment. I know
why I can’t finish the painting. I’ll add to it. I will. But still not finish.
Can’t. Won’t. So obvious now.

I’m not finished. You’re not finished.
Getting older is only growing up until we won’t.

That’s how it works—living long.
So, here’s to going more distance. Never finishing our painting.

Isn’t that a lovely thought?
August 9, 2022

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PASSIONS OF THE EMBASSYBOY
by George Guledani

Employees were crowded at the guard terminal entrance waiting for the
opposite doors to shut. It was already late, but people knew their bosses
usually attended a morning press briefing; therefore it was ok to be late
for some 5-10 minutes.

The embassyboy never used the elevator. He entered a dark office.
Motion detectors turned on the lights. The embassyboy clicked on his
keyboard and the pc returned from standby. Outlook was showing 5
new messages.

The embassyboy recognized the email of his designer friend. Long
time ago, in their early 20s, they used to work together in television.
The email message contained no words, just an image, re-drawn from
the photo that the embassyboy forwarded him the other day.

It depicted him and the designer friend fallen asleep on the couch in
their TV show decoration.

§
“They'll think we're having an affair,” said the embassyboy turning
the wheel on the intersection. The car was approaching the farewell
reception site. Security guards were checking the guest lists.
“I was in this house before. Many times.” said Amanda when they
entered a yard “My cousin was in love with a former deputy and he
was married. But please, don't tell anyone. You know how suspicious
they are."

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“Fine,” said the embassyboy and they entered the glaring hall of
waitresses, shining glasses and full of guests dressed business.

§
Amanda did not attend the staff meeting. The embassyboy called her
to the cell from his gray cubicle, charged with static electricity. On the
other side of the line he heard Amanda's virus-affected voice.
“So, did it get you, finally?” The city was sinking in an outrageous
flu epidemic.
“Yes. It's terrible. Only now do I understand what my daughter went
through. Poor little girl,” said Amanda.
“Listen, I just wanted to check whether you received all the documents
on Monday”.
“Yes I did. Can you do me a favor, please? I forgot my notebook at
Sandra's office and I cannot recall if there's anything scheduled for me
today. Can you check it for me?”
“You mean in your notebook?”
“Yes. It's a red leather one.”
“OK.” - The embassyboy hung up and went to Sandra's office. Sandra
wasn't there and the embassyboy could not notice anything red on the
desk. He checked Amanda's cubicle and picked up the notebook from
the chair.
The embassyboy returned to his cubicle, sat down, picked up the
phone and dialed Amanda's cell again. While listening to the ringing
tone, he carefully opened the notebook and sniffed the paper. Due to
its newness, the notebook had no personal flavor yet.

§
The embassyboy received a cable concerning a 10-week program for
young writers. The objective of the program was “to bring together a
wide range of international and U.S. writers to examine current trends
in literature including fiction, drama, poetry and screen writing.”

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It was lunchtime and the embassyboy felt emptiness in his stomach
together with a craving for cigarettes. He used to smoke on an empty
stomach and not after lunch.

“Maybe I should quit the job and then apply for the program?” asked
the embassyboy to Amanda and Kate, looking from Kate's window,
from her cubicle. Cars were rolling on the highway, behind the embassy
fortification.

“Go ahead,” said Amanda, “and we will approve you,” and she handed
him a cup of hot chocolate.

§
The embassyboy was checking a counter on his wordpress blog when
the phone rang. They were calling from the security, asking about the
lady who tried smuggling a sword to a meeting with one of the Foreign
Service nationals in a “multipurpose room”.
The security staff asked several questions. The embassyboy knew
nothing specific. Then he hung up and finally checked the counter.
It listed two unique visitors during the last 24 hours.
“So far so good,” said the embassyboy and logged off wordpress.

§
While typing an event memo for the ambassador, a reminder popped
up on the display: “FILING TAXES ONLINE. INSTRUCTION IN
THE MULTIPURPOSE ROOM. 13:00.”
The embassyboy glanced at the watch. It was 12:55. He took his
cellphone, a security badge and headed downstairs.
There were 12 people in the conference hall: 4 of them from
the state institutions (ministry of finance, tax department) and 1
humanitarian program assistant. From the embassy personnel there
were 3 programmers, two chicks from the financial department, the
embassyboy and a translator.

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It was chilly. The internet was down but the taxdep folks were prepared
with a pdf version on the flash drive. Amanda arrived late.

When everything was over and they were going upstairs together, the
embassyboy told Amanda he was happy things like an online tax filing
system existed, after all.

Then they entered an empty section, headed to the buffet and finished
another bottle of wine.

§
It was Monday and they headed outside the city into the guerilla-
infested conflict zone. Local government ministers wanted to observe
a war damaged infrastructure together with EU, CoE and the US
ambassadors, along with the media, to get some money.
It was freezing cold. Black SUV chain was guarded by some local
policemen with quite used Kalashnikov rifles. The ebmassyboy could not
feel his hands anymore holding a camera so he retreated to the armored
car, which was shortly described by the embassy security officer: 7 Tons,
8.1 Engine.

§
The embassyboy woke up from a strange ending of his dream. As if
he was preparing for a fight and a gorgeous girl was washing his head
simultaneously giving him a head massage in a deserted sauna. They
were sitting on the steps and his head was among her knees. And the
odd thing was that although they were alone, the embassyboy knew
someone from the upper step was giving a head massage to his girl too.
In the yard, while pulling out the car, the embassyboy rubbed against
someone's car. Although the sound was terrible, luckily there was no
damage at all. He returned to his car, drove it to the street and started
his MD stereo. Some rare old school stuff was playing and it seemed
totally irrelevant for the surrounding reality.
---

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There were times when the office was totally empty, especially when
the boss was out for meetings.

The embassyboy poured boiling water into the noodle-filled cup, as
instructed. Then he took a bottle of white wine from the fridge and
poured it into a glass.

With the glass in his hand, he continued to read an article in “American
Art” which stated: “..then there are “seminaries” where students are
indoctrinated into last year's intellectual fashion. These schools take
students from every walk of life and rob them of their birthright.”

In three minutes instant noodles were ready. The embassyboy tried
the noodles, then the white wine. Everything tasted fine.

§
The embassyboy was driving to the post. As the weather was sunny,
he pushed both buttons on the door and rolled down the windows
slightly. Fresh air came in. The embassyboy was listening to Coltrane
and therefore, ironized, as there was something awkward and uncool in
listening to jazz seriously, he believed.
The road was empty and the car was going 80km/h. The embassyboy
closed his eyes and started to count. He could not last for more than
5-6 counts and opened his eyes.
When he finally arrived, the embassy CAC2 entrance was crammed
with visitor marines.

§
Amanda and the embassyboy were in a dark storage room. “Are you
sure there's any red wine left?” asked the embassyboy while checking
scattered cardboard boxes. “I'm pretty sure there should be several
packages left from the last exhibition,” answered Amanda and carefully
put her hand on the embassyboy's shoulder “let me check this,” she said
and reached to the closet.
The embassyboy pushed his cell phone buttons and the faint light
revealed tens of sealed bottlenecks on the closet shelf.

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“Voila,” smiling Amanda turned to the embassyboy “we can keep our
custom.” “And what happens when they're over?” said the embassyboy.
“I guess, it will be a sign that we need to switch a job,” Amanda said.

Joking, with dusty red wine bottles in their hands, they left the storage
and walked back to the embassy's kitchenette.

§
The Embassyboy glanced at the phone display, then pushed OK and
said: “Sophia?” It was a Ministry of Culture representative. A beauty
blond, intellectual type.
“What's up?” she asked.
“You know?” replied the embassyboy "nothing much. I'm sitting in
the aquarium glancing at passing cars from the window.”
“..and it's such a weather outside” continued Sophia the embassyboy's
monolog.
“..but I plan to sneak out somehow next hour.” said the embassyboy.
“Is it possible? I thought it was like a guarded fortress…”
“It actually is,” answered the embassyboy looking at passing clouds
and the helicopter above “but you can do everything with the desire.”
“I can understand that,” said Sophia after a slight pause and then they
began talking business.

§
They sat in the cubicle. She was a little bit overweight but with a
remarkably pretty face and beautiful breasts. He noticed her a couple
of months ago, while leaving the compound. She was going slowly in
front of him in high heels and a tight sweater. Her round ass going side
to side as she walked. The embassyboy was surprised that someone of
her size could look so attractive.
Anyway, she explained to him that a bilateral agreement between
Austrian and French embassies had expired so there was an issue for

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business travel to Vienna. “Anyway,” he said, “let’s make it via another
post.” She nodded and asked to forward an itinerary.

Once back to his cubicle, he googled her name. It turned out that
she was a member of a local personnel service. The embassyboy clicked
the registration link and started to fill out the application.

§
“You know,” started Amanda, when they pulled out of the embassy
parking onto the highway “Nina told me today (in the cafeteria) that
if you work here for fifteen years, you automatically get a Green card.”
“Are you joking?” the embassyboy was stunned.
“No, for real,” said Amanda, running her hand through hair. The
wind was blowing from the window.
“On the other hand, fifteen is too much,” said the embassyboy,
steering.
“But, say, Nina has only two years left, can you imagine?”
“She's been here for thirteen years? Jesus!”
“Yes, since Fall 1996.”
“Jesus!” said the embassyboy. Traffic slowed down. They were barely
moving and he continued “on the other hand, who knows.. it may turn
out that we're just newbies and do not fully understand the seriousness
of the situation. We may realize that only after ten years (or so), when
we will have only couple of years left for the Green card date.”
“In fifteen years I'll be 46,” said Amanda.
“I'll be 47” said the embassyboy and looked out of the window.”

§
The staff meeting lasted way too long. People impatiently listened to
the reports on the last NATO tour for journalists in Brussels. Then the
attaché praised Amanda's work on writing reports for past educational

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conferences. The embassyboy was having a third Belgian chocolate piece
in the last twenty minutes. This was a certain way to kill boredom. Then
he texted Amanda, who was sitting opposite to him. They exchanged
10 text messages till the end of the meeting.

§
“I won't spend state money bringing directors that are not representing
our country,” said the attaché.
“But” the embassyboy tried to look as competent as possible “he's
one of the best and we can turn it around and give an impression that
our country is represented by great directors like him.”
“No…” the attaché looked very hesitant. The embassyboy always
thought he was weak in persuasion “Don't forget that we are supposed
to make propaganda,” the attaché said.
“Propaganda?” repeated the embassyboy. Then two seconds of silence
followed and he finally replied: “Well, sure that was quite foolish of me
to forget about that.”

§
The section was deserted. The attaché, together with two employees,
went out of the city to explore possible contacts in one of the regional
NGOs.
Feeling sudden freedom, some of the remaining girls went downstairs
to hang out in a cafeteria. Amanda and Katherine visited the director
of a municipal library, which was recently renovated but still remained
remarkably empty.
In a barely noticeable hiss of the ACs, the embassyboy heard them
returning. In a second he heard Amanda touching the keyboard and
then an instant message popped up:
Amanda: “It's so quiet in the section.”

§

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“Let's get outside,” said the embassyboy and pulled a heavy door. They
exited the heavy-conditioned embassy building into a warm concrete
yard.

“That's so much better…” said Amanda. Pleasant warmth streamed
through their bones.

“Let's go around marines' building,” offered the embassyboy “we
don't have much time.”

They proceeded via the concrete path through the buildings. It was
getting too hot. Warm breeze was blowing in their faces. Next to an
abandoned playground there were a couple of benches in a shade.

They stopped.
“OK, maybe five minutes? What do you think?” said the embassyboy.
They both laughed and sat each on a separate bench.
Amanda leaned back and closed her eyes.
“You know,” she said “The temperature in her office is just like in a
morgue.”
“When you're talking with eyes closed, I feel like a practicing
therapist,” the embassyboy smiled and looked at the remote landscape,
beyond the concrete walls of the diplomatic mission.

§
The attaché was routinely visiting refugee camps so the embassyboy,
Amanda and Kate sat in the orange room screening student films from a
recent international festival. Air conditioner was positioned at 77 degrees
and the lights were off. Red wine, glasses, bananas and an orange juice
unevenly distributed on the table surface.
Student films were conventionally boring, although there were very
few exceptions. After the screening was over Kate left the orange room.
“I can barely move,” said Amanda, illuminated by a blank white
projector square.

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“But you had only one glass of wine,” said the embassyboy.
“..And that's enough for me,” she replied.
“It's better to smoke, I guess.”
“Does it feel about the same?”
“No,” the embassyboy stared at the white projection “it's like… you
know that feeling when, because of the blood pressure or whatever,
your hearing perception doubles all of the sudden? and you start to hear
different frequencies, so to say…”

§
Amanda wanted to have her lunch outside at an open space of the
embassy cafeteria. For safety reasons, the personnel, regional security
office equipped the porch perimeter with a 3-meter solid fence, guarded
from inside. Loaded with their treys, Amanda and the embassyboy
proceeded to the exit. Blinds covered the windows with paper sheets
attached on them saying: “Please do not pull up the blinds. Welding
works outside.”
The guard opened the door for them. It was very humid, windy and
cloudy.
“It's gonna rain soon guys,” said their colleague and left the porch.
Just as they proceeded with a mushroom soup, water drops started
making circles in their bowls.
The embassyboy raised his head and stared far away at the oncoming
black clouds.
“Let's go inside,” said Amanda and smiled.
The guard opened the same door again. They thanked him and sat
nearby.
They could hear thunderstorms and see the very lowest part of the
porch - the pavement - getting bombarded by rain.

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“So what does the “welding” mean?” asked the embassyboy.
“I'll check,” said Amanda and pulled out her Blackberry.
“So,” said she after a minute “Welding: 1. fastening two pieces of
metal together by softening with heat and applying pressure 2. uniting
closely or intimately; “Her gratitude welded her to him”.”
“Sounds like a great word,” said the embassyboy and took a bite off
of his piece of mediocre pizza.

§
Their table was approached by a woman on high heels with a bottle of
Coke and a homemade salad in a plastic bowl. The embassyboy didn't
know her name, but as he remembered, she was somehow affiliated with
the embassy marines.
“So, last year there wasn't this fence around the patio, right?” said
the embassyboy to break the silence.
“No, and that's why people were not allowed to eat outside,” said
the woman.
They were sitting on a cafeteria patio surrounded by a steel fence and
two guards.
“Probably it's related to some sort of papers where it is instructed to
do so,” continued the embassyboy referring to the heightened security
measures.
“Yes,” said the woman on high heels, “There are lots of papers like
that. In case someone jumps over the main wall... you know.”
“Can someone actually jump over this wall?” asked Amanda, staring
back at the embassy perimeter.
“Well, I could, if I wasn't in high heels,” said the woman.
The sky was without a single cloud and it was breezing gently.
On the next table women were discussing a certain type of a venereal
disease, which sounded somewhat surreal.

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§
On Tuesday morning the embassyboy sent a link to Amanda through
the Microsoft Office Communicator. The picture was depicting two girls
on the bench in sunglasses, eating ice-cream.
“That’s us outside,” replied Amanda, “near Chernobyl.”
Both laughed.
“Chernobyl” was the place they used to hang out during the lunch
break.
Their admin nicknamed the place like that because of the deserted,
sun-exposed playground, situated next to their benches (in the shade).

§
Amanda was scheduled to be at the airport for the vice president's
visit. So, she was getting ready for several hour-long mind numbing
idleness at the terminal, putting odd things into her bag just to puzzle
a secret service: an antique Russian camera, Vaseline, FM modulator
with an integrated MP3 player, detailed map of the city center and a
fake, toy walkie-talkie.
The embassyboy was assigned to attend the VP's meeting at one of
the downtown hotels.
“Basically,” said the attaché, glancing at him over the glasses, “there
won't be really much to do, you will just stand near the entrance and
guide anyone that will need orientation with toilets or something alike.”
“That sounds like a very interesting job,” commented the embassyboy
and started to observe a new badge he was given to pass through several
security checkpoints set up in the middle of the city, around and inside
the hotel.

§
The embassyboy took left to a steep unpaved road.
The engine was small but since both passengers were thin it didn't
take too much effort to climb to the top.

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The car stopped on the edge of the canyon.
They stepped out and looked around.
Winds from different directions were crossing the place, so, their
clothes and Amanda's hair were waving hysterically and changing
directions each second.
It was an unusually pleasant temperature for Summer.
“So, when “Chernobyl” playground is occupied we can come here to
rest,” said the embassyboy “Do you like it?”
Amanda adjusted her pilot shades and looked around again.
Two trains passed each other down in the valley.
Then one entered a tunnel and the other crossed the bridge.

§
The HR announced a vacancy for an outside surveillance guard, who
was expected to monitor regular and irregular movements outside and
near the perimeter of the embassy compounds.
The embassyboy thought about the position a lot. He imagined a
romantic part of it - namely, standing somewhere as a covert agent
observing surroundings and people. Then writing reports to security guys
in the embassy. It looked like a best fit for his personal characteristics.
There were two obstacles though - the position's low grade (which
meant less than half of his current salary) and the current boss's approval
(especially while so many unfinished projects were pending in the nearest
future).
Actually, the embassyboy did not really plan to quit the position for
surveillance, but he still imagined the dialog between him and his boss
to begin with an awkward and somewhat amusing sentence: “...you
know, I decided to downgrade my position. I would love to become a
standing, unnoticeable bush…”

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It was obvious that almost no one would understand that wild
decision, even optimistically assuming that it could, actually, be made.

§
The embassyboy was texting Amanda:
“What do you think, of the two of us, who will leave this place first?”
Amanda was taking a long weekend in the mountains, but she replied
in a minute:
“I think you will leave first for a better job.”
Embassyboy returned from the shredder room (he considered
shredding as sort of a psychotherapy and meditation) and started to text:
“I think of that quite often. You know, everything ends in the end.”
Amanda was too cool to fall into melancholic self indulgence. She
knew, self pity was the least thing she wanted at that particular period
of life, so she replied:
“No Drama, remember?”
The embassyboy had no choice but to comply:
“No Drama,” he wrote, then smiled and turned on his majestic
humidifier into a heavy duty mode.

§
Although it was cool to work Saturday overtime, when it came to
sleeping the embassyboy preferred the latter. But this time he had to take
into consideration surrounding factors (again!) and meet the embassy
laborers at the parking lot by 11 o'clock.
In five minutes four of them were rolling on the highway to
downtown. Guy behind him was telling Friday night adventures of his
own: attending a birthday of a girl he met online, going to disco with
all of her girlfriends by midnight, taking last cash from the ATM and
finally, crashing at the brothel, just across the embassy.

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“...and you know what,” he said, “they were surprisingly gorgeous.
I really had a hard time choosing. Finally, I sweet-talked one of them,
you know, saying that she is so special and I respect her as an individual
and I really do like her as a person. When I finally penetrated her she
was shivering. She cried and said she loved me.”

“She said she loved you?” the driver stared at him, “Jesus…” and
looked away.

“Right and then left,” said the embassyboy and dialed his cell for the
conservatory hall.

§
In the morning after reception at the attaché’s residence, the
embassyboy woke up too early. It was still dark and he was dehydrated
and thirsty. Beyond that, strange thoughts started to creep into his mind.
Layer by layer, he started to visualize his pending problems:
A car needed some repairs, there were several deadlines pressing in the
embassy, which he thought he could not finish in time, documentaries
he received from Washington were embarrassing (meaning he won't be
able to emotionally invest in the programming), headache, heavy traffic
on the way to his son's school in the morning and the most important,
strong sense of futility. He looked at his sleeping wife and children.
Then he recalled he was quite drunk when he started a car last
evening. Playing piano at his friend's place late at night. She was leaving
to London and the embassyboy went to her to say goodbye. Talked to
his other friend in NYC, who left for good. They left him a hedonistic
vintage piece of clothing, which suited him a lot. Those two were almost
the only people who he hanged out with on a regular basis. He who left
to NYC was the embassyboy's “Special Envoy to the City's Hedonistic
Circles.”
The embassyboy got out of bed. Drank some water and opened a
laptop. No one was online. He thought for a while and then carefully,
trying not to miss a correct key in a dark, typed in a Google bar:
“define: anxiety”

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§
The embassyboy was waiting in the embassy car, parked in a square of
a provincial town, where he had a programmed educational screening.
He just left the screening room at the local museum of ethnography
full of children.
Their driver was powering an electric pump for tires. Right above him
stood a museum security guard, armed with Kalashnikov, monitoring
the process and ready to help.
After the tire business was done, the embassyboy and the driver sat
in the car, waiting.
“You know” said the driver “it's like a swamp (he was referring to the
embassy jobs). I have an impression that years pass and you don't grow,
but degrade step by step.”
“How old are you now,” asked the embassyboy, watching a cargo train
pass over the bridge at the end of the street.
“Thirty nine,” said the driver.
“And for how long have you been here?”
“Eight years,” said the driver and rolled up the window.
The embassyboy pulled out his cell and started to text someone.

§
“You know,” noticed Amanda matter-of-factly after taking the last bite
of her chicken with vegetables “even if you downgrade your position,
you get the same paycheck.”
“Are you sure?” the embassyboy made a surprised face and recalled
recent job announcement of the perimeter security guard, “how do you
know that?”
“I know from the HR.”
“That means I can work as a bush and get paid as a whatever affairs
assistant?”

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“Exactly.”
“That’s so great. Next question: can you imagine me working as a
bush?”
“Don't know,” said Amanda, starting with an oversized cake. “How
do you think, I gained weight or lost it? Kathie told me I looked like
I lost it.. Anyway, did you ever see those security guards outside the
embassy?”
“No I didn't” said the embassyboy, “but that's why they are called
the bushes. You are not supposed to notice them.”
“Whatever,” said Amanda and put on her aviator shades to absorb
most of what was supposedly the last days of Indian Summer.

§
On Sunday, a day prior to Amanda’s birthday, before writing his last
post in the blog, the embassyboy decided to check the mail. Oddly, he
had Amanda's message in his personal inbox, which happened the first
time since they got to this job - spending every workday in the same
room did not require additional email exchange.
The subject said: “Bekeka's Dream.” The embassyboy clicked on the
link and started to read:
“It was September 1st. I was heading to work on my first day after
Summer vacation. It was snowing and the traffic was paralyzed. Our
office was a combination of a bank, the embassy and the attaché’s
residence. When I got there, the people of our section met me very
excited. They said they waited for me to begin a pajama party lunch.
They behaved as if they were our coworkers but I could not recognize
anyone.
I went to the toilet to wash my hands and saw you in the corridor.
Your outfit was resembling a teenage rebellious punkster style and
was funny. You told me some nasty jokes and we laughed a lot. Then
someone came and invited us to join the table. We went there together
and sat at the table next to each other.

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Last thing I remember, we all sat in silence, eating delicious stuff
served on the table.”

“That would make a perfect last post”, thought the embassyboy, “and
a nice ending for a birthday gift.”

Then he skimmed once more through the text and finally clicked the
bluish “publish” button in the upper right corner.
For the last 15 years George Guledani's short stories have been published
in major Georgian literary and art magazines (Anabechdi, Hot Chocolate,
Arili), yet he has a great interest to appear in reputable English magazines
too, as they cover larger readership who might be curious to read a prose from
a country that is not too familiar for general public in the US.

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THE HILLS OF DON DILLI
by Tan Bo Yan

When the door first flung open, I was greeted by the most welcoming
sight. Glittering pearls floated through the hallways, the smell of fresh
poppies filled the air, and just a mile ahead, a dazzling lit entrance could
be spotted. I followed the euphonious tune and entered the room, girls
and boys like me were waltzing by the step-how long has it been since I
saw another human being like me? The lady that silently trailed behind
me and introduced her name as ‘Gre’ gave me a metallic wristband, o
I can’t describe how beautiful it lit. A girl called Eva, a needle shorter
than me came forward and did a little curtsy. By her wrist tied a string
that was connected to a bobbing bubble half filled with glitter potion
She asked shyly for my name and ‘Pers’ was all I could say, the rest was
too painful. She said in a melodious voice, “All us prince, princess, and
knights alike came from various kingdoms. I come from the Land of
Orphz, where my people carry Orbes just like mine. Where do you

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come from? I wonder if it is a place I have been?” I, not surprisingly,
have never heard of the existence of the Land of Orphz. Since we all
came from different stops, I assume it was a faraway island. I proceeded
to respond, “The Paradise of Hospy-” before I could say no more, my
breathing came to a sudden halt for a second or two and I coughed non-
stop. It was only after I took a sip of my magic tea brought by Gre that
then I could talk. Embarrassed, I stammered, “Sorry, I get Muzellis, it’s
kind of common in the Paradise of Hospy, it’s like a gene passed on.”
She gave me an assuring pat on my shoulder and laughed lightly, “No,
it’s alright, I get Oilges too when my potion runs out, and talking about
it, that reminds me, hold on a second” The little girl turned around and
in a startling loud voice she called out, “Knight Tiol, come over here,
there is someone from the same land as you.” Just a few seconds later,
a sturdy tan boy in steel armour dashed over, the quickest I have seen
anyone, in fact, his feet were flying high.” In a polite voice, he raised his
brow, “Yes, Princess Eva, how could it be? My land, my people reside in
an island, thousands, rather millions of ships away from here.” “Well,
what land did you say you were from again?” The rosy girl prompted.
He puffed up his chest but quivered slightly, “The Paradise of Hospy,
the one, and only Hospy.” “She too is from the Paradise of Hospy.” She
gestured at me, and I panicked. My eyes shifted before they met Tiol’s,
the boy who proclaimed to come from the same place as me, I had never
seen him before, what shall I ever do? An awkward silence formed, he
looked at me confused, I stared back at him blankly. A moment went by
and it was only broken by the chuckles of Eva, the girl who had to bring
it up in the first place. “So… both of you haven’t met before, maybe
because you are a princess and he is a knight, two different parts of the
kingdom, the Paradise of Hospy is quite big, Tiol, am I right?” “Yes,
yes, the Paradise of Hospy is terribly large. Knights and Princess don’t
meet, they live quite far apart.” A tint of remorse was seen through his
gaze as he scratched his head and looked away. It was only then colour
returned to my face as my lips sealed tight to prevent any more revealing
of the past I inherit.

Just in time, the gong rang, the second time I heard it since I set
foot in this isle. At first, I did not know what it was for until Eva led
me by the arm into the dining hall. A banquet had been set, with all
kinds of food one may get, from roasted pork and meat to caramelized
pudding and ice cream, and of course not to forget our own brewed

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drinks and toffees. I sat next to Eva, and we ate and chat. Eva drank
her sour Unicorn juice and I gulped down my bitter Sand Weed as fast
as I could. I caught a glance of fellow Tiol surrounded by his knightly
friends probably fifty needles away from me. To say the least strange of it
all, a while ago I saw him laughing loudly but at present, he was looking
down somberly at something shiny. I noticed this among the others too,
from time to time many were looking down at the same identical thing
they were clutching tightly. Yet, no one seems to mention it, no one at
all, like it was no matter, I could not bring it up to ask about it. But
when I finally did try to mention it, the first time barely five words got
out of my chapped lips, and the plump girl on my right swiftly cut me
off. The second time, I got through a whole sentence, Eva interrupted
and that was when I knew I had to stop. Their faces were scrunched up
and seemed like a knife had stabbed them in the chest or chains had
wrestled them by the neck, and I felt quite guilty for having brought it
up, so I kept mum throughout the rest of the dining.

Thereafter, it just so happened that Gre informed me that Eva was
actually my suite buddy, well I was elated, no new faces- I was quite
overwhelmed by the masses at the feast table, now, the less the trouble.
So I followed behind Eva as we strutted towards our room with the ebony
wood ringing below our feet. The suite, well it turned out magnificent
better than I had expected, a chandelier hung over the twin beds, there
were two beanbags, teddy bears and little figurines that I learned from
Eva were called “doll-ss”, my tongue got twisted by saying it but I’m
sure I could get used to it. Best of all, the walls were decorated with
flowers and the ceiling that the sun was hung up on was plastered with
an evening purple blue sky-no more dull gray walls for me, something
I could cheer about. I changed into my silky striped nightgown and
Eva did too, we looked like twins, both thin and lean, hazelnut hair,
chipped lips, emerald eyes, just that I was taller than her by a bit. After
I wiped my face with a towel ever so soft, I dived right into the comfy
bed. For once I felt at ease, no sirens, no poking, none of that anymore.
As I snuggled and turned to my left, I saw Eva crouching against the
bed cushion, looking troubled at a pocket watch that was wrapped in
her little hands, it shone the same light and colour as the thing many
other children were holding earlier on and so it was- a pocket watch. She
was smiling with watery eyes of evergreen trees, so I was puzzled and so
with the urge I asked cautiously, “O, Eva, why so sad, it’s just a pocket

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watch that the others, too have.” She didn’t reply at first, but mumbled,
“It is my first day having it, so it is for many others, before you came I
got it from the Ruler of All Things. No point hiding it, come over and
take a look.” I climbed onto her bed, eyes fixated on that pocket watch,
it was a copper watch with a cat carved on it, rather pretty, no, it was
exquisite. So why are they all so sad at such a magnificent gift? Seeing my
queer expression, Eva continued, “You see there are only three Roman
numerals on it? It is at one now.” I haven’t realized that before, yes, weird
indeed. “It is handmade specially for you, I see,” I tried to assure her.
“No.” she promptly replied with no façade and the veil dropped. “We all
get it, you get yours soon, same as mine, you know it too.” I chocked.
She smiled sweetly, “ You know, we princess, prince, and knight all go
to meet the Queen one day.” Oh, yes, of course, that was it, to meet her
majesty that was what the pocket watch was for, all the children were
sober because they had to consider how to greet her majesty!

I wanted to exclaim in glee for this newly anticipated knowing, just
then Eva rose up and stood on the bed. She pointed out of the glass
cracked window, “You see, the hills over there, yes, those vast hills of
Don Dilli, there beyond lies the castle of her highness. When the hand
reaches three, it is my calling to visit the Palace. It is better than here or
anywhere else, not only do unicorns live there, pegasuses, and mermaids
have their holidays there too. Whereas, before that time comes, the
hills will continue dancing and sing their tune for me. You will soon
hear its lovely symphony...” I gazed out at the dark midnight sky, the
ominous clouds could still be seen looming over those distant trees, and
shimmering shooting stars were flashing by, I quietly made a wish to get
my ticket to Don Dilli. Eva yawned as she rubbed her puffy eyes and I
crept back into my colossal ship as the moonlight cradled me to sleep.

The next day, word of the hills of Don Dilli got around and laughter
rang throughout. The news of Don Dilli had everyone elated. There
was a renewed joy- at least for now, princess, knights, and princes were
discussing on what to talk to the Queen about. Then, came the gong for
lunch, and as I followed the other children into the hall, I started filling
slightly nauseous but I shake it off, it was probably due to my Muzells.
I had no appetite for that meal and was keenly wanting to get back to
my fluffy cotton cloud. Unfortunately, Gre signalled me out, coupled
with a dozen other children. Eva whispered before I left that the Ruler

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of All Things has summoned me. So I went into the tightly enclosed
room bravely and I sat there still as the chanting went on. The Ruler of
All things was an old lady, expressionless and grim, probably because she
has done the same rituals hundreds of times and her own pocket watch
is arriving, the things she said were not particularly pleasing to hear and
I could see why Eva, Toil and the other kids were so grave afterward.
But that did not matter now, with the hills of Don Dilli calling for me
and I could soon sing merrily. Soon after I got my own pocket watch,
and Eva was wrong, not all were the same, mine was engraved with an
owl on it, and even as other children of this batch had owls similar to
mine, I spotted slight differences in them. Knight John had his pocket
watch with an eyepatch on it just like him, Kiley Jones the Great had
her owl with one blue and one green eye and as for me, my owl had a
smile, probably because I was smiling all the time since I had arrived.
Maybe things were not that bad after all if we could get past to see the
better side of things -thanks to Don Dilli. Soon afterward, during dinner
time, Eva’s magical bubble popped by accident and its potion flowed out
like a river, Gre and the others immediately carried her away and that
was the last time I saw her, she was nonetheless smiling, the brightest
I have ever seen.

The following day, before dawn broke, that was much shuffling going
on, and much murmuring, the air was stiff but not depressed, it was a
quiet embracement and I hug farewell to many of the new courageous
associates I have befriended, including Toil, who gave me his last salute I
would see-at least on this isle. “Maybe we can visit the Paradise of Hospy
together one day,” he commented. “No, Don Dilli is where we shall
meet and we need not go back to those caves of ferocious beasts again.”
I corrected. He immediately understood, and with a final nod wheeled
in with plenty of others into the chamber of Havens, Gre entered last
and in a short fifteen minutes walked out silently. Credit must be given
to Gre, she had taken care of all the children faithfully, and to do such
a painful task over and over again, sure has not been easy for her. My
invitation to the palace came a day after, and as I laid on the warm sheets
of wool surrounded by crimson poppy flowers, the gong rang once more.
I nodded goodbye to my mates. Gre looked down and kissed me on the
forehead, with all the might I had left I squeezed out my best smile, last
needle, the hills of Don Dilli I have come.

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Tan Bo Yan, 16 year old student from Singapore. She loves reading books
and outdoor adventures.

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HIBISCUS
by Alan Massey

A woman, hands folded in front of her stomach, walked across my front
yard. I watched from my window. It startled me. But why did it startle
me? It wasn’t what I expected. And what was I expecting? It wasn’t this.
It wasn’t anything. It certainly wasn’t an old woman in a gray robe slung
over her shoulders, languidly pacing to the end of my lawn, plucking
a flower from the limb of a branch, and holding the plucked flower to
her face. Definitely not that. I didn’t expect to do anything about it,
either. Let her be, I thought. Let it happen. When I see someone do
something odd, I think this: someone’s odd is another’s normal (even
if it is intrusive). But something drove me to the door. Maybe I owed
it to myself. Maybe there was a connection between what drove her to
my yard and what drove me to her.

I saw her through the strained mesh of my front door. I felt light in
my bones, like I had nothing inside. I pushed myself out. I waved at
her. I walked to her.

She stood at the hedge that separated my house from my neighbor’s.
If she saw me, she sure didn’t rush to acknowledge it.

This hedge she stood at, it’s dotted with these red, elongated flowers.
The flowers are attached to leaves shaped like spades. I don't know,
it's a little hard to describe. But I know what they look like once I run
the fallen flowers over with my lawn mower. They resemble shredded
rose petals. Of course they’re not roses, though. I may not have a green
thumb, but I do know that much. Or else, they are like pieces of a
popped balloon.

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I inherited these flowers when I bought the house. Not much else to
say about their origin. I don’t mess with them either because the power
lines from the street feed into a green box within the hedge encompassing
the flowers. I’ve seen city workers park their white trucks on the curb,
then plant little orange flags around the area and cut around the hedge to
get a good look at that box. I’m not going to make my own statement by
cutting down that hedge and infringe on some governmental territory.
I’m not going to get electrocuted, either. Keep things as they are, I say,
except this old woman. She’s got something else to say.

Well, I went to this lady to see something. What that something was,
I don’t know. I wasn’t about to ask her to leave or anything like that. I
felt like she might tell me something I needed to know. She possibly
had some sort of answer to all of this.

We introduced ourselves. She lived two houses down, she told me.
She pointed to her house to help me see. All I could see was the side
of a white brick affair. But she lingered in her pointing, revealing her
hands from wherever she had kept them before, possibly in her robe
pocket. I wish she had kept them there because I couldn’t help but feel
diminished by her hands. Her face was the face of any old woman, sure,
not much more to say about it other than the peach fuzz hair on top.
But her hands were another story. Her hands were held together by a
discerning nudeness of worn skin, speckled and thin, translucent enough
to see the blood flowing through the veins. Whatever those hands once
gave her, they endured very little now. Vulnerable, I'd call it. I wondered
if it was worth my waving her down.

We got to talking about the neighborhood and politics, little
nonconsequential things. But she brings up her husband and their life
situation like it’s the thing to do.

“He had a stroke,” she said. She twirled with her bony fingers the
flower from my yard. I imagined those fingers poking hard on my chest.

“That’s awful,” I said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. She was right. I didn’t. “I
have to stay inside and watch him. When he’s in the house, I’m in the
house.”

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Nothing came to my mind. I wish it had. I wish sometimes I could say
things on the spot like most people. Most of the time I feel like I ought
to say something of merit and consequence, but nothing ever comes
to my mind. Do you get me, here? It’s like I lack a certain vocabulary
when I’m put on the spot. I resort to the basics.

To my good fortune, she kept talking.
“He’s sleeping now,” she said. “The only time I ever get to do anything
or go anywhere is when he sleeps.” She pinched the flower between her
thumb and forefinger. “Which isn't very far.” She lifted her arm and
looked at the thing while we spoke. It took a great strain on those hands
to do this, I could tell.
“My uncle had a stroke,” I said. “My aunt took care of him for a
long time.” Why was I so ready to admit this? I'd normally keep that to
myself. I guess I tried to connect a few things. Sympathizing. “He lived
another fifteen years afterwards.”
“Fifteen years? Good Lord don’t tell me that,” she said.
From what I remember of my uncle were his eyes. His eyes looked
as if someone was trying to pinch his lids shut while he equally tried to
force them open. He never blinked and always looked to the side. You
saw more white in those eyes than anything else. I almost asked this
lady how her husband's eyes were, what kind of condition they were
in, and if they seemed distant. But, of course, this isn’t the thing to say.
“I can’t stand to watch him for another year,” she said. “I’m not like
that, fifteen years. I told Harry. I said, ‘You need to get off your ass.’
He can move, but it’s difficult. But he can, you know? He just sits in
his chair all day. I move him from our bed to his chair and that’s all
the movement he does. Insurance even got him one of those mobilized
things. But you think Harry’s going to use it? No. He goes nowhere.
Believe me, I warned him, too. I said, ‘If you don’t wanna get up, you’re
going someplace. Someplace not here.’”
Some place not here! Was she going to kill her husband? Her Harry?
I got the impression she could. Sure, she could. She had her wits. And
she seemed years off from joining him in such tragic suffering. But I

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couldn’t ask her about any of that. It wasn’t my place, for one. And two,
it was the first conversation I had had with her.

Thank goodness, though, she was talking about sending him to a
facility.

What did I know about retirement homes? My father just sent his
father to one. That’s all I knew about it. I told her my grandfather lived
in a retirement community.

“Harry's been retired his whole life,” she said. “I can’t remember him
going anyplace, even before all this. All I know of him now, and I hate
to say it, is him in that chair. Him in that chair just heightened all what
I had thought of him before.”

She brought the flower closer to her face. She peeled a petal back with
excruciating effort and peered inside. All to my dismay.

If I was doing anything I wouldn’t be able to tell you about it. I guess
I was standing there like a dope or something. Who knows? It's not
worth mentioning. But I started feeling for the stroke-victim-husband.
Hell, I felt bad for her, too. She was being dragged into all of this. She
was forced to make a decision. You have to feel for people like that.
They’re my neighbors after all. Telling him, a stroke victim, to move or
leave, though. It’s a bit much. Too much. I mean, it’s not hard at all for
me to move around, but I guess sometimes it is. I guess I have my own
troubles getting from here to there.

She stretched the flower towards me.
She said, “I’ve been meaning to ask. What kind of flower is this?”
If I had looked like a dope before, I must’ve looked like a buffoon
after she asked that. I didn’t have any idea. No sir, not a clue.
“I see it from my yard,” she said. “Which is as far as I can get without
him hollering for me to come back. Let him holler now, though. I don’t
care. If he needs me, he can come get me.”
I thought I could hear a voice pouring out through her open door
and down the steps of her porch, but very faintly, easily to be confused

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with the sounds of a TV going off in the other room or a car radio in
the distance. I couldn’t tell if it was real.

“I don’t know what it is,” I said. What a dope.
“It looks like a hibiscus,” she said.
I leaned in. I looked at this thing, I mean I really looked at this thing
for the first time. Her hand made a tremendous effort to grip the flower’s
base, to lift it up and show me.
“Sure does,” I said. “It has to be hibiscus.” But it was the kind of
hibiscus that didn’t bloom like the beautiful ones, the ones where the
petals open so wide that they curl back a little bit, like they got everything
and more to show you. The one that was in my face, in my neighbor’s
grip, was rolled up with its stigma poking out. That’s how I could tell
it was a hibiscus, that stigma.
She took a small plastic baggie from her robe, unzipped it, and
dropped the flower in. “You don’t mind if I take this, do you?” she said.
To think, I had the option to deny her this. “Please,” I said. “Go right
ahead.” I just shut up after that. I thought of a few things, but what
else could I say?
“I asked the man at the hardware store if he knew what the flower
was,” she said. “I described it to him as best I could. But I’ve been too
far away. I told him everything, the details of what I could see from my
house to yours, which isn’t much. Red is a popular color for flowers,
come to find out. He told me to just bring one in and he’d be able to
tell me what’s what.
“I want to plant these flowers in my yard, right at the front stoop,”
she said. She stuffed the bagged flower into her robe. I could see those
flowers going there. Sure, it’d be nice.
I wished her luck.
“Luck,” she said. And that’s all she said. She left just as remarkably as
she came. God bless her and her lethargic husband. I wish something
good for the both of them knowing it probably won’t come. But I wish
it anyways.

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There were things, too, I’d come to found out much later, that were
unmoving inside my own house.
Alan Massey is a writer from North East Florida.

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THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY
by Jay Moran

Banging on the door, I realized, was not going to free me from this
situation. I was stuck in here with Tyler, the one that my girlfriends
deemed “the perfect man.” I never thought that I would see his face
again, let alone two feet from me in a studio apartment several cities
away. The temperature of the room rose with every tap of Tyler’s foot.

“Look, I know you don’t want me here right now, but we must find
a way out,” Tyler stated as if it was not obvious.

The door had become jammed by some twisted force of God and
stuck me in here with the boy who played me like a fiddle. If looks could
kill, this apartment would be a crime scene with Tyler at the center.
Following a deep sigh, I finally spoke, “I have already tried banging on
the door, if you have a better idea, be my guest." Tyler's brows pushed
together, to the point I swear they were touching, but it was not with
irritation. It was more resembling—No, he is not giving me pity right
now. He would not.

“We must talk eventually Kat,” Tyler said in almost a whisper, “I never
wanted to hurt you, especially after all you lost.”

The crunch of my jaw clenching rang through the unfurnished
apartment. “Never meant to hurt me? What a joke!” I shouted at him;
my eye twitched as I made eye contact, “I spent 5 years hoping you’d
come back, hoping everyone was wrong.” I drew a shaky breath as my
eyes began to water. “I needed you.”

Tyler patted the ground next to him, in my anger I did not notice he
sat down. “I think it is long overdue for us to have this talk.”

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Though I opted to sit adjacent, I strongly agreed the same.
“I need you to just listen at first, then you can yell all you want. Is
that okay?” Tyler asked.
With a nod from me, Tyler began a very lengthy and long overdue
explanation of his disappearance. I could feel the genuine pain of not
being there for me when my sister passed away, but I could not stop the
anger to follow when he told me why he left.
“I was never in love with you, Kat, I was in love with your sister,” Tyler
said as he couldn’t meet my eyes, “Sam was who had my heart and when
she passed, I used you to feel close with her before I ran like a coward.”
Though my anger was immeasurable, it dissipated quickly. I finally
had closure, a reason as to why I was caused pain. The relief I experienced
far outweighed my anger. I finally know that I was not the reason, Tyler
was. “Thank you, for being honest,” I finally managed out, “That was
what I needed after 5 years.”
Tyler sighed deeply and said, “It doesn’t excuse what I did, but I hope
you can forgive and understand why I acted the way I did.”
“No. I don’t forgive you”
“But--,” Concern plastered Tyler’s face instantly.
“But nothing Tyler, you hurt me. I can understand why now but that
does not mean I forgive you.”
The door began to shake, and raised voices sounded in the hall. I
guess the landlord finally came to our rescue.
“Tyler, I wish you the best, but I think I need to find a new city to
call home.” The moment the door was opened, I slipped through the
crowd of concerned neighbors and away from Tyler Goodwell, “the one
who got away.”
Jay Moran is a young aspiring writer who attends Full Sail University
as a Creative Writing student. They aspire to write stories for corporations
like Tell Tale Games and create stories readers can lose themselves in.

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NONFICTION
NÃO-FICÇÃO



REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

SOME THOUGHTS ON THE UVALDE
TEXAS SCHOOL SHOOTING
by Yun Xiang Zhang

All claims I have made are tentative; I warn the reader against my
bias, but I shall do my best to be honest and accurate. Discourse is
welcomed.

“…yet another school shooting in this country…”
“One is too many, but fourteen…just horrible…”
“Authorities are mortified because the sheer number of children
involved….”
“The situation is very fluid; someone severely injured the authorities
believe is dead recovers in the hospital…”
“Another soft target has been attacked…there is something particularly
gut-wrenching about the target being little kids”
A country where schools have to practice shooting drills, is a country
that needs to have something addressed. “What do we tell our children,
our 9-year-old? Our 5-year-old?” I have reason to believe, to prophesize
that a day will come when a school shooting reoccurs; this will not end
unless something is taken away from the American people. I have first
known of this shooting through my WeChat subscription accounts; I
care less about how the event is delivered by the domestic media, but
about voices in the comment section: sympathy and condolences to
the children and adults who were killed for once drowned the banal
criticism of America.

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We are at the mercy of what the domestic media decides to give us,
the perspective they instill in our minds, of the image they construct in
us of America, until what we think of upon hearing “America” ceases
to be America itself, like we ever thought of America untaintedly, but
an image of it as tirelessly and diligently constructed by the domestic
media. It is a distorted image with the vices exaggerated and the good
downplayed; well, this is to be expected, since the media does not want
itself to be brandished self-contradictory, confused of its own stance.
America is our Emmanuel Goldstein, he is threatening us, and we are
threatening him. And perhaps, just perhaps, we are America’s Emmanuel
Goldstein, and he cannot tolerate us but tolerates us. Some would say
we have been tumbling into the Thucydides Trap.

I do not wish to express hostility nor support toward America at this
moment, because such sentiments would not contribute to anything
except hatred; if one wants to hear some bitter comments, the media is
overflowing with it. The same words, when coming from the enemy’s
mouth, were the utmost evil; yet when they come from our own mouth,
they are unquestionable, excusable, and even praiseworthy. Why is
it that in the comment sections of the various WeChat subscription
accounts, there is only the thumbs up and no thumbs down? It would
be easier to find dissenters this way; if one puts a thumbs-down on
a comment that criticizes America, then he would naturally be an
“American spy”, and he would see everyone in the comment section,
the whole Chinese population, turn their backs swiftly and become his
enemy, united by some unknown force. One commentator asked, out
of unbelievable ignorance, “why can’t they just ban guns?” Well, if it
were that simple, then the USA would likely have already done it. If
one has no understanding, not even a basic understanding of what guns
mean to the American people—though such meaning may have changed
since 1791—then one should hold one’s tongue and not mislead more
ignorant beings.

“We have to act.”
This, if only this statement, is one I agree on with Biden, in his
address. Just one week ago, Biden had mourned the victims of the
Buffalo mass shooting. Now he is mourning those of Uvalde, Texas.

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Perhaps this problem is unique to America, because this right is
unique to America. China does not know of this right; it is a foreign
right. The tragedies that occur as a result are foreign to China as well,
perhaps. This may be one reason many in this country do not grasp the
matter, not to say that those in the USA would certainly have a better
understanding. When a child asks if going to school is safe, how shall
his parents answer? That there would be shooting drills and that his
government is doing what it could?

“White House flag lowered to half-staff following Pres. Biden's order
as ‘mark of respect for the victims of the senseless acts of violence’ in
Uvalde, Texas, elementary school shooting”

The White House flag and American flag flutter listlessly under a
grey sky. The number of murdered children became 19 when it had
been 18 mere hours ago. Please, media, do not encourage festering
ignorance but comradeship and solidarity, because in such times, they
cannot be more lacking and more in demand. In the media, ignorance
festers. Any voice uncomfortable to the orthodox ear is silenced without
hesitation. Hate and ignorance are a transmittable disease, more sinister
and insidious than the COVID kind; some possess antibodies while
others willingly become the host of the virus, the Virus of Ignorance, the
Parasite of Prejudice. The pandemic brought about, or rather, brought
to light, a more lethal kind of virus: the Virus of Ignorance. It is this
virus that mankind has to overcome before it overcomes the other, more
recognized virus, before it could ponder the possibility of vanquishing,
at least subduing, such an enemy. We are overtaxing ourselves putting
out the visible flame when the invisible flame is left free to rampage and
impede our efforts. To those who think voicing dissent, or even having
the capacity for dissent, is an evil, I say not that they cannot be possibly
more mistaken, but that I feel sorry for them and their minds.

I do not know if the virus has inhabited my mind, for the ignorant
man scarcely acknowledges that he is ignorant. I do believe that this
virus is in my mind as well; hardly anyone alive is immune to its impacts.
But every day, I fight this virus. This virus plagues my countrymen, this
virus plagues those of other nations, this virus plagues the press and the
media, the governing and the governed, the ones in dosages of bliss and
the ones in bouts of pain, the downtrodden and the privileged, the man

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of virtue and man of vice, the blessed and the damned, the ones thinking
they are free from harm and the ones thinking they are condemned.

Thomas Paine had said, almost three centuries past, that:
“When my country, into which I had just set my foot, was set on
fire about my ears,
It was time to stir.
It was time for every man to stir.”

And yet we are still fast asleep, our minds conjuring up images of
playing with our child at the beach or finding a budding bellflower in
our garden, ignorant of the reality that our child is dead, and the world
outside our windows is ablaze with a hellish flame.

And yet we sleep through it all, while the fire has crept up into our
rooms and onto our bed.

And yet we sleep through it all, as the flames engulf us and shroud us.
And yet we sleep through it all, until we cannot sleep.
Until we cease to be.

A people who has never tasted freedom does not know to ask for it;
a people whose freedom is taken away will fight for it with their last
breath. It is thus far more difficult to endow freedom than to take it
away. This is roughly the case with China and America; it is a crude
simplification but nonetheless has a component of truth.

Near the beginning of Cataline’s Conspiracy, the author Sallust had
said that “I will, therefore, give an account of Cataline’s Conspiracy in a
few words and as accurately as I can.” Many writers, whether of antiquity
or during more modern times, have pledged to give a truthful account
as best they could. Yet, whether they have carried through with it, or
whether they have allowed conscious or unconscious motivations to
cloud their judgement, one cannot know. I have, at the beginning of this

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