Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 46, March 2021

Revista Literária Adelaide

collection in a secret room behind a bookshelf they had only talked it out, then she would
in the study. The same room that was once his still be here. Out in garden, laughing and
art studio. The same room that had a single smiling the way she always did.
empty frame hanging on the wall. The same
room that he and Marianne had fought over— But she was gone. There was nothing left
where he had found her, cold and lifeless, in of that time any more. Only the memories
a pool of blood that mingled with the semi remained. No matter how many times Ben
dried oil paints staining the wooden floor. finished the painting he could never bring
himself to hang it on the wall.
In all of that time, Ben blamed himself. If
he hadn’t been so caught up in his work, if So, the frame remained empty.

About the Author

Delancy Gunther has been writing fictional stories since childhood. She aspires to be an
author someday, developing her writing skills every step of the way.

149

CRUSH

by Charlotte Gorrell

Sweat beaded down her forehead, fire The thin woman wanted to roll her eyes
seemed to dance down her shoulders and at the lady, whom she had just mentally
back. Her thighs stuck like Velcro to the nicknamed ‘Susan’ but thought best to not
seat and her ribs began to bruise right then. aggravate her more.

How long had she been stuck on this “And we all better get a refund, or I am suing
ride? the hell out of this park. Mark my words.” The
large woman’s voice muffled slightly, like she
She didn’t know, her tongue seemed had swallowed a large glob molasses.
to grow wool and the person beside her
had a fowl stench, like the locker room in a Her stomach did back flips, like her lunch
public high school. The distain for the situa- from moments ago rushed to win a racing
tion may have been from the way the large to in her body.
thumb shaped woman had stepped on the
back of her shoes in the long line or perhaps The devil continued to rattle off her frus-
the frustration came from being forced to tration next to her, bickering to no one.
share a car with that same woman.
Maybe she was in hell. Perhaps the roller
Were they even trying to fix the damn coaster didn’t just stop, perhaps it flew off
roller coaster? the tracks at rocket speed and this is her
punishment for her life of sin. Crushed by
A twenty-pound weight dropped into her Mrs. Susan the Whale and fried by the heat
stomach upon looking to the other side of of a thousand suns.
her however compared to the weight that
may as well had been an elephant pinning Couldn’t they have at least gotten stuck
her down it didn’t even bother her. She on a straight edge of track? No, they were
could have been on the outside edge, but turned to the left in the first curve of the
no. The lady, whose gargantuan body was triple corkscrew.
firmly pressed against her own, had argued
the opposite when it came to not crushing “Bastards! All of them!” The large woman
her much smaller frame. The argument only stomped her foot, imitating that of a rhinoc-
made her situation that much worse eros ready to defend its young. A warning
to anyone who will stand in the way of her
“They better hurry the hell up,” the lady large and awesome size.
said bitterly. “I got to take a piss… This is
damn ridiculous,” The rail thin young woman couldn’t take
it. A deep breath brought her the strength

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to speak, though her lung struggled to get Maybe if she prayed now, God will for-
their fill of air. give her of her sins and save her from this
nightmare.
“Shut up! We are all stuck on the ride.
Get over it! It’s bad enough without your “Oh, now you won’t speak! Hm?” the
whining!” she snapped. Oh, how it felt good blubbering woman spoke, trying to invoke
to finally express her feelings, but this is not a reaction from the one below her. “Hm?”
Icarus flying to close to the sun. No, this was Her pitch may have alerted dogs three
more like Icarus stopping to play chicken counties over.
with the sun before it swallowed him whole
in its neon flames. Then the sound of pressure releasing
came.
The large woman’s voice screeched like a
tea kettle at a full boil. “How dare you?” Her It may as well have been the voice of god
full weight pressed against her hotly. “Don’t itself! The trains lurched forward, causing
you speak to me like that! I am old enough to the bottom dweller of the ride to bite her
be your mother and if my child where to speak lip by mistake but that didn’t matter! Bitter
to someone like that I would be very upset.” metal filled her mouth, the taste of freedom.
Of victory! The prospect of getting a lemon
The woman huffed and puffed, as if she shake up at her favorite stall in the park to
had been running a marathon moments wash away the spines on her tongue. De-
ago for the first time in years. The smell of spite the overgrown toddler next to her, she
stale coffee and decaying calcium burned joined the others on the coaster in cheers
the hairs of the young girl’s nose, causing as the ride began to pick up speed.
her face to crinkle up ever so slightly.
Finally, free from the crushing weight.
This had to be hell.

About the Author

Charlotte Gorrell is a creative writing student at Full Sail
University. She lives in downtown Indianapolis, where she
cares for her many pets and works as a travel agency from
home.

151

CAKE RUSH

by Courtnei Hill

If being in a baking competition didn’t bring cake. She immediately went into baking.
a pit in Sarah’s stomach, it was her fallen After plopping the batter into the pans then
cake. Her heartbeat ringing in her ears, tossing the cakes into the oven, she rushes
deafened the sound of ovens and mixing to recreate the frosting she had achieved
machines roaring as her rival sped through earlier. As she aggressively stirred, she looks
his preparations. She prayed that this is over at her competitor.
only a nightmare. Her previous hour that
she had perfectly planned to every fine Her breath cut short as she gawked at
detail ended up in a crumbled mess on the the cake across the kitchen. The theme was
marble floors. The bead of sweat ran down the baker’s favorite holiday and her rival
her cheek as if it were a tear drop. had done well. It was a pumpkin, carved
with an evil face that mocked her as a dull
“One hour left on the clock, bakers!” The light flickered inside. No wonder she had
host’s shout knocked Sarah out of her state smelt pumpkin and cinnamon earlier.
of shock. She must redeem herself fast.
Sarah wiped her sweaty, shaky palms on His design isn’t much but, the judges
her pink apron and hastily picked up her would prefer that over a cake that probably
shattered pride. wouldn’t be iced. The more she stared, her
confidence flushed, spiraling down to the
How am I going to finish a three-tier cake pit in her stomach.
in less than one hour? She thought. There
is only so much she could do. She would “Sarah, is everything good over there?”
barely have time to even decorate her cake asked her rival. He knew damn well that
by the time it pops out the oven. Every she wouldn’t bring a better cake than his.
second that ticked down on that clock, her Not with the time she’d have left. “You took
hope for winning this competition dimin- quite the fall back there.”
ished. She needed this reward money. Her
husband serves in the military and Sarah She went to speak but, a lump in her
only wanted to bring him home for the hol- throat caused her to stumble over her
idays. words. “Y-Yeah... I’m okay.”

Dumping the last of the cake in the trash, “Hope you finish in time,” he smiled. Yet,
Sarah races back to her station. Luckily, Sarah could see right through the mask.
there is batter left over from her previous Under that mask mirrored the evil smile
that his pumpkin held.

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Jerk. Sarah thought, finishing up her the peppermint green frosting to create
forest green frosting. She dipped a spoon pine tree.
in the bowl before putting it to her lips.
The peppermint flavor filled her mouth “5!” shouted the host, making the final
and she felt like she was brought back to countdown.
her childhood from taking a candy cane
from off the tree. This is what she needs She frantically placed her colorful orna-
to go with the chocolate velvet cake that ments.
sat in the oven.
“4!”
She set aside the frosting and focusing
on her sugar candy ornaments and presents She placed small presents at the bottom
that will be her decoration. A small lick of tier.
hope comes back to her. Maybe she will
just have enough time to have something “3!”
to offer to the judges.
She blew glittery white snow across the
She finished up her decorations and tree.
looked up at the clock. It read “0:21:10” and
her hopeful heart dropped once again. “2!”

She then considered about forfeiting the She finished the tree with a yellow star.
competition. Her rival is pretty much done
so what could she do now? She couldn’t go “1! Times up!”
up against a pumpkin with an undone cake.
She only had one chance and she messed it Sarah gleamed as bright as the yellow
up by being clumsy. What was hope going star on her tree. She did it. She successfully
to do against time? I mean, there was al- redeemed herself. She looked across the
ways next year for husband to return home kitchen at her rival. His smug grin was re-
for Christmas for once... placed with disbelief and shock.

Chocolate wafted in the air and Sarah The same shock mirrored onto the judges
took her cakes out of the oven and throwing faces later as they sat on the edge of their
them into the blast freezer. She bounced on seats. They sliced through the chocolate
the balls her feet, eyeballing her carefree cake with their forks before taking a bite.
rival as his cake is already finished. She
picks at her fingernails, anxiety taking over Unfortunately for Sarah, the judges said
her as she watched the time. She’d take 10 her cake is too dense and she ended up
minutes waiting for the cakes to cool down losing the competition. Tears fell down Sar-
then the final ten minutes to decorate. That ah’s face along with the confetti that was
would be enough time, right? meant for her opponent. The tears that had
been fighting escape from the dam since
Sarah decided not to question herself the beginning of the competition. Not be-
so much and dedicate herself to getting as cause she lost but, because of her husband.
much done as she could. She towered the
chocolate cakes and carved the tiers into a A hand landed on her shoulder and she
cone shape. She layered the outside with looked up to see one of the judges. Then,
that judge said the few words she wouldn’t
forget. “Sometimes you just must have fun
instead of overthinking, Sarah.” said the
judge. “That’s what’s important when it
comes to do something you love.”

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About the Author

Brenda Hill lives in Florida and currently an undergraduate student at Full Sail University.
She loves spending time with her family and relaxing with her 2 dogs while eating ice cream.

154

THE PIZZA PLACE

by Anthony Tanner

I enjoy walking home from work. The night faster than the last time I walked through.
air is filled with sounds of late-night lovers Yet, just as the last time I walked past the
and alleyway cats fighting over the days trash. pizza place I yawn. The world goes mute
A sense of ease as life continues as usual. again, and there I am at the beginning of
the block. I sprint, running as fast as my suit
The rain from earlier leaves the city with would allow me.
a shine that it normally wouldn’t have. Out
of the corner of my eye I spot something My shoes did not aid me in speed nor
that didn’t look right. How long has that piz- stealth, but the running gave me some
zeria been there? I stop walking and stare at hope. Repeatedly, I try sprinting past the
it. It can’t be new, can it? It might just be a pizzeria. Eventually my legs give out under
no name since it doesn’t look like one of the me and I’m sent sprawling. I stand up and
big brands. look around. “What do you want from me, I
have money,” I shout. A trash can lid skitters
I shrug and continue walking, no down the road mimicking a laugh.
chance they’ll be open at this hour of night.
Speaking of which. I pull my phone out and I yell at the top of my lungs, praying
check the time. I can only catch a glimpse anyone could hear me. I grab the nearest
of it before it dies at eighty percent. What? object, a rock, and throw it across the street
I try to turn it back on, but I’m met with a and watch it fly. I stand up and I can spot the
flashing battery claiming it’s empty. Maybe I rock on the other side of the street. “Hmm,
saw it wrong or something. I shake my head. maybe.”

As I begin to pass the pizza place, a clock I take a few steps back and run forward,
that looks like it was counting down is visible launching myself in a Superman dive across
from across the street. I yawn just enough the street. Instinctively, I close my eyes and
for my eyes to be forced shut. The world brace for impact. I stand up and look around
around me goes on mute while I yawn, but me expecting to see if the pizza place is be-
once I’m done, I’m back at the beginning of hind me. However, there it is still mocking
the block. “I, wait what?” Heavy footsteps me at the end of the block. A guttural cry
echo from far off. escapes my lips as tears burn the back of
my eyes.
I pause and wait to see if someone
shows up. When no one does, I continue My voice echoes into the night. I stand
forward yet again. My feet carry me a little up and try to dust myself off. Instead, I leave

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blood trails on my pant legs. I look at my Looking at the feet of this thing I can
palms and see them cut up and rubbed raw tell it’s unnatural. My eyes travel up its
from my last two encounters with the ground. spindly legs and knobby knees, the torso
I shake my hands out trying to dry the blood forms a giant triangle with the point being
without pressing them into my clothes. its waist. The shoulders are lopsided giving
him the appearance of being slouched.
As if to make matters worse rain begins Its arms hang limply at its sides, swaying
to pour down, forcing me to run to the aw- gently in the wind. The head is malformed,
ning outside the pizza place. “I would say it a giant tongue hangs out of a toothy grin of
could be worse, but I’d rather not test my which multiple rows of teeth can be seen
luck.” I pace underneath the small awning shining in the dark. The nose is nothing but
of the pizza place. “Come on Azrael, think coin slots on its face and where the eyes
for once in your life!” The clock from in- should’ve been instead are indents in the
side catches my attention. I glance up and skull, like an unfinished clay sculpture. I in-
a giant clock showing fifteen minutes and stinctively back away, but trip over myself
counting down. while doing so.

A voice sounding like nails on a chalk “W-w-what are…”
board replies from behind, “Thinking, has
never been your strong suit.” “What am I?” It chuckles at me. “I am re-
pentance.”
My heartbeat drowns out the sound of
the thundering rain around me. I try to calm I stare at it blankly. Its imitation of a
my heart. Suddenly, a rancid scent invades smile grows wide as a clawed hand grabs
my senses. The smell is so overwhelming I my face. Before my eyes I watch every court
drop to one knee. case I lost, how I looked like nothing was
wrong and that I couldn’t care less of the
“Such a feeble creature when removed outcome. The families break down as cries
from your office,” it says. The voice reverber- of agony echo the halls of the courthouse.
ates in my head almost causing a headache.
Suddenly I’m jerked to the present laying
“Who are you? What do you want?” I outside of the pizzeria covered in sweat.
manage to choke out, but it sounds distant Claw marks down my chest as a memento
and removed. of this encounter. A note in my pocket reads,
you left families stuck in time with your fail-
“For you to learn that ruining people’s ures with little to no progress. This was but
lives, holds consequences,” it hisses in re- a small taste of the pain you brought them.
sponse. A sickening thud sounds to my left.

About the Author

Anthony Tanner is from San Antonio, Texas. He is currently
apart of the Military. Anthony is studying Creative Writing at
Full Sail University.

156

WELCOME TO THE
FUNHOUSE

by Wendy Miller Norris

The blindfold is yanked from my eyes and With a steel determination to finish hell
I’m looking at Big Mike and Wild Bill, my week, I climb the fence and fall over the
soon to be fraternity brothers. Surrounded other side. Air whooshes out of my lungs as
by darkness, not even the sparkle of stars my body smacks into the cold hard ground,
glimmering in the sky. My hands begin to a sharp rock piercing my side. The sweet
sweat. smell of cotton candy and funnel cake
makes my mouth water and my stomach
“Okay, pissant. You have somehow made growl. I get up and begin limping through
it to the last night of hell week. We hid the the grounds looking for the funhouse.
Delta Gamma Mu lion, you have to find it
and take it back to the ladies,” Wild Bill said. My stomach starts tightening. My hands
are moist from the sweat swamping my
“We did a little research on you, Kyle. We palms, and I start shaking. No. Not now. My
hid the lion where you don’t have the guts mind is racing everywhere, the maddening
to go. In the funhouse,” Big Mike said. drumbeat pulsating behind my eyes.

The guys jump back in the van and take Finally, I find the funhouse. The enor-
off down the country lane, throwing empty mous white clown face with painted cheeks
beer cans out the window. That’s when it and mouth. Its red tongue leading the way
hit me; I’m stranded at the carnival grounds. to the door as it towers over me, challenging
me to face my demons. The evil clown face
Why me, Why this. No. I can’t go in there. is staring at me, but I force myself to go
I can’t. My thoughts were racing. The mem- inside. The door slams behind me, metal
ories of my father beating me for embar- off metal clamoring through the darkened
rassing him by crying when I couldn’t find building. I can hear the voices now. I must
my way out of the funhouse come rushing make them stop.
back. Yelling and screaming on the way
home. I shamed my father by being a ma- “I can’t do this.” I turn and push at the door.
ma’s boy. I’ve never set foot on carnival It won’t open; I’m trapped inside. Heart ham-
grounds since. mering in my chest, I look for another way out.

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Pushing open the door on the left, I step more mirrors and another maze. I continue
inside. With only an overhead spotlight running, searching for a way out. I turn the
lighting my way, I find myself surrounded corner and slam into another mirror and
with an endless maze of mirrors. Each one hit a dead-end. I turn around and am faced
reflecting the images from the mirror across with another mirror, the image in it looking
from it. As I look at all the glass of empti- angry, and violent.
ness, the voices grow louder in my head. I
can’t make them stop. “You can’t run from me, crybaby. You
can’t get out without me,” the image leans
“Leave him alone, jerk!” the high-pitched closer, and whispers sinisterly, “and I won’t
whiny voice comes from the left. help you.”

I don’t look. I know no one is there. I pull back from the image in the mirror
and start running again. I can hear laughing.
“Shuddup, he needs to man up; this is I can hear Mrs. G yelling at Tyler, and little
nothing,” said another voice. This time from Susie whining for him to leave me alone. J.R.
the right. is threatening him. I’m running as fast as I
can, the voices chasing me. I can’t breathe.
“Not now,” I said to no one, yet everyone. I’m gasping to get air into my lungs. My
heart is racing so fast it’s pulsating through
I can’t push the voices away. I start to my thin Comicon t-shirt. Sweat is pouring
whimper and slide down the door to the down my face, mixing with my tears.
floor. I start rocking back and forth.
“Please leave me alone. Or help me.
“Go away, just go away.” I put my hands Please?” I beg.
over my face, pull them down, and look at
the reflection in the mirror across from me. I turn another corner, battling waves of
dizziness and fighting for air. More mirrors.
“Who the hell are you? I don’t know you,
go away,” I ordered. “Told you. You can’t get out without me,”
The reflection said.
“I’m the son your pa always wanted.
Names Tyler,” his image replied. I succumb to the dizziness. As my vision
blurs, I fall to the ground, smashing my face
“Please leave me alone.” off a mirror on the way down. The salty, me-
tallic taste of blood fills my mouth. Darkness
“Leave you alone? Hell, I’ve been with washes over me. I escaped.
you for years. But the others wouldn’t let
me near you. Listen up. You are nothing. *
You’re a baby, a mama’s boy. You probably
still wet your bed when you hear footsteps I slowly open my eyes. The constraints of the
coming down the hallway at night. You straitjacket preventing me from movement.
make me sick,” the image ridiculed. The sterile whiteness of the room is blinding
me. I see eyes watching me through the
I start rocking harder, the tears streaming window on the steel door. I begin to sing.
down my face as I cover my hands with my
ears to drown out the voices. “Come into the funhouse. Come one,
come all. Fun, fun for everyone. Haaaaaaaaa-
“Get up, now,” Tyler demanded. His voice haaaaaaaaaaa.”
projects from the image in the mirror.

I pull myself up. I need out. I begin to run
through the maze. I turn left, only to run into

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About the Author

Wendy Miller-Norris is a blogger and book reviewer from Pennsylvania. She is currently
obtaining her education goals in Creative Writing and Script Writing.

159

ONE OF THOSE
LIFE-ALTERING

DECISIONS

by George Gad Economou

Alan climbed on the bus at 7.32am, just like Her ash-blonde hair was tied in a high
he’d done every morning for the past ten ponytail; her business suit hugged her body
years. tight and warm. She, too, wore headphones.
She stared at her phone, perhaps selecting
Staring dead ahead into the grand void a song.
of his thoughts, he went and stood in the
middle section of the bus, right on the spot Did she listen to country, too? Did she
that always was empty, as if reserved for like Hank? Or was she into rock and roll?
him. Stones, Zeppelin…why, perhaps she was the
type to listen to Grateful Dead, dreaming of
He held on to the steel overhead bar being part of the Merry Pranksters while
when the bus coughed and lunged forth. He slaving away behind a desk. Maybe, she was
swayed back and forth under the constant the modern type, listening to Beyonce, Ed
braking and starting and cranked the music Sheeran, whoever else is in nowadays…
up to eviscerate the chitchat of the two old
ladies sitting to his left. He’d never heard her voice. He knew
it’d be so beautiful it would make singing
He tapped his foot under Toby Keith’s angels sound like X-Factor wannabes. And
Strangers Again. her name was…he had no idea, but there
was no doubt in his mind it’d be the kind of
The bus screeched to a halt and he name that melts in one’s mouth like choco-
clenched his legs to avoid ending on the lap late, that warms one’s heart just by uttering
of the two chatting old ladies. it, or even just hearing it.

He lifted his glance and there she was, He glanced at the window the moment
standing right across from him as she had she lifted her eyes off her phone. She’d
for the last eight years.

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chosen a song; she tapped her high heel on He cursed under his breath as he stum-
the metal plate of the floor and her foot’s bled forth, almost crashing into her. He re-
movement did not give away her taste in gained his balance and grabbed the over-
music. head steel bar with both hands.

What if…he shook his head and sank his She arched her eyebrow and scanned
teeth in his lower lip. They had thirty-three him from head to toe.
minutes to reach their common destination,
the bus terminal. From there, they’d follow He had no idea what he was gonna say.
each other down to the crossroad, cross the He had never thought he’d find the courage
avenue, then he would go to the left and actually to attempt it, to…for eight years he
she to the right. saw her daily, for eight long years he had
wondered who she was, what she did, how
Where did she work? Was her office her voice sounded like, what her name was…
merely a block away from his? Two blocks?
Did she take another bus? He had no clue. “Hello.” Her lips curled into a smile that
Nothing upon her offered even a hint of could melt steel, let alone his aching heart.
what she did, who she was. Her voice was, indeed, majestic; better
music than the best compositions written
Just like nothing on him betrayed him by the true masters of the game. Had
being a graphic designer for an advertisement Tchaikovsky heard her voice, he’d have be-
company. Of course, if he was a Mad Man come a blacksmith.
he’d have something to tell her, something
to impress her with…but now? What’s exhil- “Hi,” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I
arating about designing trite ads for plumping just…”
services and furniture manufacturers?
“We’ve been riding the same bus for too
Keith stopped singing and Zac Brown long, haven’t we?” She giggled. “I’ve always
Band, with Alan Jackson, succeeded him noticed you standing right over there.”
with As She’s Walking Away.
“Yeah, it’s…crazy, isn’t it? How many
With a deep breath, he let his gaze re- people on this bus we recognize, yet know
turn to her. His heart fluttered at the sight nothing about them. I…”
of her soft, calm face and crystal-blue eyes
staring into the void, her mind undoubtedly “I’ve often had the same thought,” she
wandering into some dream inspired by nodded. “I mean, I stand here, sometimes
whatever music blared in her ears. thinking about what you do, what kind of
life you’re leading, all that…God, it sounds
He took the headphones off, finally insane, doesn’t it?”
heeding the wise old man’s advice.
“Not at all,” he chuckled. “I do the same;
For a brief, glorious, moment, their with you, with…yeah. Creating all these sce-
glances met and his nervous system was set narios in my head, you know? And…”
on fire.
“I’m a PA, by the way. In a cargo company.
She bit the corner of her lips. His chest Not as exciting as whatever you might have
heaved from the abundant air he drew in thought.”
and he abandoned his spot. The moment
he took a step forth, the bus braked hard. “Well, I’m just a graphic designer. Bet
you’d hoped for something else, huh?”

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“Could have said the same thing.” His “Precisely,” he snapped his fingers. A
spine shuddered from her wink. wave of courage flowed through his veins—
the kind of courage that usually requires a
“So…” He stopped, suddenly over- few shots of well tequila. “Say, how about
whelmed by the cruel realization that he we do something crazy?
had nothing to say. It was much easier in
daydreams, when no matter what he said, “How about we skip work? Call in sick, or
no matter what happened, things were something. Let’s go have ourselves a hur-
gonna go the way he’d wanted them to. ricane. I don’t know about you, but I don’t
remember the last time I had a day off.”
Hell, in daydreams you can always just
skip forward to the good parts. “I don’t think I…” She stopped, bit the
corner of her lips, and nodded. “Okay, yes.
He cleared his throat and they ex- I’m in. It’s been forever since I last had a
changed a glance, followed by a hesitant day off; I’ll just call to tell them I woke up
twitch of the lips. burning up with fever.”

“I have to ask,” he broke the awkward “Splendid!” He bellowed and for a mo-
silence that befell them like a dense mist, ment all eyes fell on him. The moment was
“what kind of music do you listen to? I mean… over and everybody returned to whatever
all these years you tap your foot along some they were doing before he disturbed their
songs, and I never…” peace—some looking at their phones,
others daydreaming of a different life, and
“Oh, um,” she cleared her throat and others half-sleeping—and they both called
chuckled. “Well, I love old country music. their bosses.
Yes, I know, it’s weird, it’s…but I love Hank
Williams and…what?” She arched her eye- A lot of fake coughing was involved, as
brow and tilted her head sideways, staring well as simple, impenetrable excuses.
at his earlobe to earlobe grin.
“I’m good,” he grinned.
“That’s amazing. I listen to the same
music, that…that’s why I’m laughing. I al- “Me too,” she reciprocated with a smile
ways tried to…to guess what you listened that rivaled the sun’s glow. “So, where shall
to, but I never…” we go?”

“You listen to country, too?” “No idea,” he admitted with a heavy sigh.
“I’m sure we’ll find something.”
“Yes.” He nodded and, to prove it, he
handed her one of his headphones. “Well, we do work close to the sea. Why
don’t we just take a stroll along the beach,
“Alan Jackson may be one of the last true find a cozy place with a great view?”
country singers,” she nodded and bobbed
her head to It’s five o’clock somewhere. “Do love the way you think.”

“True. These songs always made me He rubbed his chest as an unprecedented
dream, you know? Picture a completely dif- warmth engulfed his palpitating heart and
ferent life, something…” her beaming gaze almost embraced his soul.

“I know. Just sitting on a porch, right? Sip- Never before had he felt this way. The
ping a drink in the middle of the day, having rest of the bus ride was filled with small talk
different cares and worries, and…” about nonsensical subjects. All it took was a

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smile and a meeting of glances to brighten “Ever thought about just getting away?”
the world up and make it seem as if there
was, after all, meaning in being alive. “Only all the time,” she giggled, yet mel-
ancholy glowed in her eyes.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” She giggled
when they climbed off the bus and con- “I know the feeling. Where would you go?”
tinued straight down to the avenue running
parallel to the shoreline, instead of walking “Far away,” she shrugged her shoulders.
up toward the office complexes. “The where doesn’t really matter, as long as
it’s not here.”
“Yeah.” He drew a deep breath of fresh,
salty air and nothing felt weird. It felt like the “I always dreamt of owning a small house
most normal thing in the whole damn world. on some distant island nation. A place like
Palau, Vanuatu, whatever. Just away from
They strolled in silence. The trees rus- everything.”
tled from the strong gusts and on occasion
a speeding biker forced them to leap aside. “You, the sandy beach, and the ocean, huh?”
Nothing could defeat the joy in their hearts
or wipe the smiles off their beaming faces. “Yeah.” A dreamy film covered his eyes,
as he, too, peered at the sea. “Think of the
“Looks like a neat little place, don’t you way people traveled back in ancient times.
think?” They just boarded a damn ship and sailed
away, most not even knowing where they
“Definitely,” she nodded. were heading.

They settled on the two wooden chairs, “Nowadays, we’ve got airplanes that can
just a few feet away from the calm sea. take us anywhere in the world in less than a
day, and…and we don’t go anywhere.”
The waitress gaped at them when they
placed their order: a whiskey sour for him, “Back then, it was about the adventure
gin and grapefruit juice for her. No one drank and the discovery of new places and new
this early in the day in this country; the wait- riches. Now…it’s about tourism, and that’s
ress wrote the order down with a smirk that expensive.”
only half-betrayed her certainty about them
being highly dangerous criminals. “Yes,” he hung his head. The smooth
whiskey and the sour lemon crawled in his
“We’re both fans of vitamin C, huh?” He head, making getting away appear easy.
chuckled after they clinked glasses and had
the glorious, rejuvenating, soul-enervating “Doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
first sip.
“I know. But, it’s definitely harder nowa-
“It protects you from scurvy,” she shrugged. days. You need visas, paperwork, money…”

“Bet that’s how the first cocktails were “Still,” she shrugged. The coarseness
invented. Sailors adding fruit juice to what- of her voice was enough to make him un-
ever booze they had laying around to stay derstand she had thought about the same
healthy.” things herself and had come to the same
conclusion:
“Yeah.” She gazed at the open sea, seem-
ingly trying to look beyond the horizon, and Dreams are destined to die. Life sucks,
kept the brim of the glass close to her lips. and then you die.

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“Wouldn’t that be amazing, though?” He they both were ready to withdraw all their
suddenly said. savings—nothing impressive even when
put together, but enough for airfare to the
“That what?” She arched her eyebrows. grand unknown.

“To go away; like, right now.” “Holy shit,” she exclaimed, as they stood
at the airport gate. “We’re really doing it,
“Are you drunk?” huh?”

“No, no…” He looked at his half-empty “Kinda late to back down, isn’t it?” He
glass and smirked. “Not at all. Just…is there chuckled.
a reason to postpone our dreams and just
wait to die?” “Gate D7 is now open,” announced the
stewardess.
“I don’t know…how can we do it? I mean…”
“That’s us.”
“Okay, fine. Maybe not right now, as in
this very minute, but…soon. The more we “Wait for the others to board. No reason
talk about it, the less likely it is we’ll ever to stand in line.”
do it. I’ve been thinking about it for at least
seven years. Their home town grew smaller and
smaller as the plane ascended higher in
“And I’m still stuck here!” the sky. The place they both had lived in
for all their lives became the toy of a young
“So…where to?” boy smashing his plastic cars on cardboard
streets.
“Does it matter? But, since we both like
Hank, let’s…let’s go to Alabama. Mont- They were above the clouds now; no
gomery. See how it is.” turning back, unless they were willing to
parachute their way back to the place they
“I don’t know, I…” She drew a deep sigh. used to call home.

His heart sank. Another chance for hap- His heart skipped a beat when she slith-
piness had been wasted. Eviscerated. Crazi- ered her hand in his. Not a single word
ness does belong in (day)dreams. escaped their lips. Their gazes did all the
necessary talking; and the first touch of
Then, all of a sudden, an ear-to-ear grin their lips was all the communication they
rekindled the glow on her face. And out of required.
its ashes, like a phoenix, hope was reborn.
The old woman on the aisle seat next to
“Let’s discuss it over a second drink,” she them scoffed when the initial brushing of
said and choked hers down with an em- the lips turned into a passionate tango of
phatic smack of the lips. tongues. What did she know? She had no
idea who they were, why they were sitting
Of course, the second drink is always next to her. She couldn’t fathom the signifi-
followed by a third. And it’s in the fourth cance of that kiss taking place thousands of
all grand dreams reside and come true. feet above the ground.
Midway into your fifth drink, you’re ready
to conquer the world. “Please,” announced the stewardess
through the speaker, “fasten your seatbelts
With their inhibitions lowered, and with
the initial physical attraction already having
lit up the first sparks of something greater,

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and put your seats back up in an upright of a foreign country was, perhaps, not the
position. We’ll be landing at LaGuardia air- brightest of ideas. However, and as one of
port in fifteen minutes. Thank you for flying the greatest writers of all time taught us,
with — Airlines and we hope to see you life should be an adventure that sees you
again soon.” emerge out of a cloud of black smoke all
banged up, and not an attempt to arrive at
“I sure hope not,” he whispered and they the mortician’s table in pristine condition.
both chuckled.
Come morning, they glanced at each
They waited for their next flight at the other while still in bed and exchanged a
airport bar, sharing a few beers and laughs. warm smile that proved a better hangover
remedy than a screwdriver.
Due to a newly signed agreement be-
tween the two countries, they were allowed Montgomery had something, but not
to stay in the U.S. for a few months without what they were looking for.
needing a visa. Afterwards…who knew what
the future held? Of course, they didn’t know what they
were looking for; at the same time, they
They had no idea and they fucking loved knew they’d recognize it the moment they
it. found it.

From the moment they arrived at their des- Instead of slowly spending their savings
tination it became crystal clear it was nothing in motel rooms, they exchanged a big part
like what they’d left behind. They explored of it for an old car.
the city sporting wide grins radiating childish
enthusiasm. They found a cheap motel where On the Road, neon light style. He got
they could stay for a while without worrying behind the wheel, cranked some Hank up
about running out of money. on the radio, and hit the gas. They soared
through highways and small roads; the
In addition, the motel was located just a destination never truly mattered, as long
block away from a honkytonk; the kind of as there was a parking lot to sleep in after
place where, if you had a couple of drinks spending a few hours in a bar that could
and the jukebox cooperated, you could see have been the inspiration behind Keith’s I
Hank Sr. sitting in the corner hunkering over Love this Bar.
a glass of bourbon neat in his cowboy hat
and boots. Perhaps, that was what they were
looking for: the sense of belonging, of en-
It could have been a result of jet lag. tering a place, smiling without even wanting
Maybe, it was the three glasses of Jim to, and realizing it’s the place they were
Beam in his bloodstream. Nevertheless, he meant to enter.
decided to heed the advice he once read;
drink on the grave of your hero. While some places came close, nothing
was it. It was alright. They had a lifetime to
They bought a fifth of Old Crow from a li- search for the dream.
quor store and in the dead of the night, when
the air was chilly and damp, they sneaked After all, did the great adventurers of the
their way to Hank Williams Sr.’s grave. past think of death when they sailed into
the great unknown? No, they dreamt of the
Getting drunk in the dead of the night in great riches waiting just beyond the horizon.
the middle of a cemetery in a strange city

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Some adventures have happy endings, It’s never hard work when it’s toward re-
others end in an early grave. No adventure alizing the great dream. He collapsed on the
ends with a mortician shaking his head in pity. bed every night at nine, yet one kiss sufficed
to wash the exhaustion away and it made
“I’m pregnant,” she announced one night every drop of sweat shed well worth it.
in a small motel room outside Denver.
The house turned into a home fast. Two
The whole world collapsed for a horri- small children played and ran aloof in the
fying second; he remained frozen, petrified, yard. She did all the housework and he
and his brain refused to process the new worked the land. They never sold their old
information. car, not even when they bought a station
wagon.
Her beaming smile, the glow in her eyes,
and the warmth of her soft caress on his They kept the relic as a memento; after
cheek pulled him into the new reality. And all, the old car was what had allowed their
it wasn’t a crash landing. dream to come true and had driven them to
their happily ever after.
“What do we do?” He asked, already
knowing the answer. In between planting and harvesting, he
made sure to keep the old car in a running
They had roamed the country, had seen condition. When they reached a ripe old
many bars, honkytonks, and dives, and age—and their children got married and
hadn’t found one to call home. They had had families of their own—they climbed
done too many smalltime jobs to get by; back into the relic of simpler times.
washed dishes in Oklahoma and swept
floors in Albuquerque. Time had come to rediscover the neon
lights, to embark on one final adventure.
The time to settle down had come. A new They left the house behind—keeping it as
adventure began and they sought the per- home and shelter for their children in case
fect spot to call home for decades to come. their dreams didn’t come true—and roamed
the vast highways and tiny dirtroads, feeling
In the same old car they had since al- just as young and full of dreams as they had
most the beginning, they drove around, by- the day they landed on Montgomery.
passing the neon signs that had once called
upon them like Ulysses’ sirens. Jackson’s Here In the Real World came up
when the bus stopped at the terminal. He
It was love at first sight: a small valley by shook his head and rubbed his eyebrows. She
a river in the middle of nowhere. Nothing was already heading out of the bus, squeezed
but small towns around; no metropolises, between the rest of the passengers.
no heavy traffic, nothing even remotely sim-
ilar to what they’d left behind a lifetime ago. A heavy sigh quivered his lips and shud-
dered his chest. With long strides, he caught
A tiny two-room house with a big yard up to her and stood right next to her as they
next to the river; the epitome of perfec- waited for the green light.
tion. And well within their limited budget.
It wasn’t on a tropical island, as he’d once For a moment, he opened his mouth.
dreamt of; it was even better. No words escaped his lips. The light turned
green, they crossed the avenue side by side,
It was hard work balancing the arrival and went their separate ways.
of their child with fixing and expanding the
house while living off the land.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

all those times no one’s ever around

“how can you breathe in here?” she once asked, curiously

all the moments lasting an eternity at some other plane of existence

countless empty bottles decorate an apartment soon to be abandoned

—forever—

can we find each other once more let me explain apologize for the first time

old flames reignited in the distance black smoke in the air the forest is finally

devoured

new fires an earthquake swallowing up the town surrounded by an infernal wall

and nothing else

from afar visible the airplanes of the enemy approaching fast

are we ever to discover sanity? it was lost inside a bottle our love

cockroaches in beer glasses drinking nonetheless for there’s no money for more

ants swimming in bourbon bottles drowning insects and they’re gulped down

we escaped the tears through the phone sorrow voices and sobbing eyes

never there to catch your tears in

bottles of wine swimming ashore coming

moans from empty beds

bodies underneath blankets of snow

persistent fights for survival turtles pissing on nameless graves

dirty needles underneath the couch bags of blow on the coffee table

nothing but the page doors and windows locked nothing but a candle

there was never a way out only the entrance

“how can you live like this?” she asked multiple times she found out the harsh way

a runaway train I’m coming oncoming lights BAM

the end

it was all over

we fucked it up

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
and there was nothing we would have done differently

even if it meant
going higher

reaching a heaven
that does not even exist

outside an empty
bottle of

bourbon

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The Mauve Moon

lonely wolves howl at a mauve moon
and marauders raze ancient landmarks.

stare up at the starless sky, the great green mushroom—all gone,
nothing left but the final wails of unborn souls trapped in limbo.
sour grapes turned into sweet wine, bottles emptied horrid taste,

gruesome realities and morbid details, nets made of fire catching
the rational men. eradicate, destroy, rebuild; what a fine writing

on a half-ruined brick wall in the middle of the ocean.

look down, all the towers emerge from under the sea—old homes,
now belonging to fish and mermaids. Ulysses’ sirens reappear,
under the liquor store they swim, amidst the shelves they sing.

if you are, die; if you think, you don’t exist. Voltaire’s ghost
promenades in the ruins, somewhere in the distance
Aristotle’s swilling Thunderbird.

and we’re still around—in the liquor store the clerk polishes a shotgun,
two kids shotgun beer in the back alley.

and the mauve moon howls, its echo shattering what little
remains of the
world.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Hollow Dream from a broken bed

years chasing around the same fantasy,
an impossible dream doomed to remain in its stillborn grave;

every tiny step towards it equals five big steps away from the end of the tunnel,
it’s alright, all these years
chasing the same old dragon, through various means,
some legal, most illegal,
indecency, debauchery, immodesty, everything done by the book
of hell, and yet
all the rulebooks in the world will not provide an answer,
all the libraries on the planet do not contain the one simple answer
so desperately needed.

it’s okay, she used to tell me back when we lived together
and watched wrestling all day and night long emptying cases of beer
and bourbon bottles; we binged ROH, PWG, CZW, WWE, NJPW, ICW, etc. etc…
goes on and on, we lay on the fold-out blue couch, holding hands, her head
on my shoulder, we kissed, watched, smoked, drank… now,
she’s in a nameless grave somewhere in Aarhus, I couldn’t even
go to leave a flower when I moved away.
only the yellow pages I threw on the coffin that fateful Sunday afternoon, I was so
drunk I didn’t even know where I was; I only knew why I was there. all
I needed, after all. nothing else could matter; nothing else
ever mattered since then.

the dream still plagues me while
I look everywhere (in street corners, cheap motels, expensive strip-clubs)
for a pair of eyes to remind me of hers. nothing.

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only cheap replacements, cold embraces, fallen angels that only last
from dusk till dawn.

one day I may make it (as long as John Martin’s soul is still alive in some
starving editor somewhere in another skid row) and then I’ll go on with the clichés,
“I never gave up, I followed the impossible dream, struggled yet made it”
and I’ll know I’m lying my ass off; I gave up the day I drew my first breath.
I gave up when she exhaled for the last time. I give up whenever I get a rejection slip.
I gave up when I moved to Aarhus. I gave up when I moved away from Aarhus.
I give up every single second I’m breathing; even now, as I type this poem
that will either remain unread or will be in future anthologies I’ll never see,
let alone curate. and it’s alright, either way. I gave up a long time ago,
and tomorrow I’ll give up again, and again.
and the day after.

the impossible dream; no fuel to keep me going,
nothing to make me push forth. more obstacles,
more hurdles,
no strength left to jump over them and reach the finish line.
carry me away, I’ve given up;
wheel me out of the track, of the world, of the universe…
I’ve never started, so I even failed at giving up.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Best Poetry

it lives on cocktail napkins of dim lit joints in the worst alleys
where the worst of humanity hides, where they’re tossed to save
the rest from seeing them—lounges are good for dancing, for
meeting that sweet young woman to take your heart and keep it for a while.

a dive, a real goddamn rundown dive that reeks of dried urine and
cheap booze and even cheaper junk cooked down to being genocidal,
is the birthplace of literature, of poetry—sterile classrooms are good
for bestselling lists; in the dive
lines are written with real blood, the sweat and tears are not because
of a malfunctioning air-conditioning unit but from breaking your back
for two green beers

through cheap booze, rough women, and southpaw fighters you discover that
the strongest lines reside in weak loves and cold embraces and prepaid kisses

it’s the dreams that die with the first ray of sunlight that form
the poetry to inspire the real people of the world—poems of
cheap thrills, cheaper drugs, and plenty of booze, for people
living in alleys and under bridges, for those breaking their backs so that
students can rally for their safe spaces and their comfort puppies
and their pronouns it’s a simple world, cry loud enough you’ll be heard,
but build the foundations so the skyscraper don’t come down on
our heads and you can go wither in the dark corner don’t worry you
won’t be remembered no one gives a shit because you’re you
but not special like us

Kentucky rotgut in the lowball pencil on the napkin and someone’s
calling his wife a whore three booths down, somebody else is punching
the walls and two junkies play darts with their spikes.

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Heroes

aspiring heroes give out their first cry under
flickering fluorescent lights, they burn down words
and meanings—come look at the new heroes, they’ll
dig up the old and burn whatever’s left—they’re here
to save us, burning down the towns, shooting down
phallus shaped airplanes, while ships go down, submarines
grow wings—he stepped into the empty dive, ordered
double rotgut, seeking strength to do what had to be done—graphite
shelters get crowded, gunshots over bunk beds—canned beans
used for trade, a fifth of vodka costs a kidney—nothing left, it
all went to few hands, the many lie in dead volcanoes—boats
anchor amidst schools of sharks, away from mushrooms—something
in the air, a mist, a ball of fire—here’s the end! another crazy man with
sandwich plates screams, for once he’s right—villains live, heroes die—it goes
vice versa, too

About the Author
George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy
of Science and resides in Athens, Greece, doing freelance
work whenever he can while searching for a new place to go.
His novella, Letters to S., was published in Storylandia Issue
30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary
magazines, such as Adelaide Literary Magazine and Modern
Drunkard Magazine, and his first poetry collection is slated
for publication in 2021 by Adelaide Books.

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THE DOORKEEPER

by Allissa Barker

The red-nosed boy stole half of my soul. Talking to that bruised boy dressed in tat-
His dark, empty eyes stared up at me, un- ters, enveloped in a stench that puts cow
blinking. e had dark circles underneath his manure and wet socks to shame, he was
unmoving eyes and a scar trailing down his glad I didn’t throw him out of my way.
pale, bony face. I thought he was a damn
mannequin at first until there was a faint Patiently, I waited again.
rise and fall of his petite chest. As interest-
ing as he was, I had a mission. A mission to Maybe he would get up to use the bath-
get past the boy who sat Criss-cross apple- room, maybe he would scooch his butt to
sauce in front of my objective, the chipped the side, maybe he would keeve over and
door. die. Anything could have happened to that
boy and I would have cared less! I wanted
For ten minutes – ten bloody minutes – to be past that door and inside the comfort
the boy and I stared into each other’s souls. of my new abode. The abode that holds a
I saw his soul void of any hope; he saw my promise I must fulfill. But, patiently, I waited.
soul bombarded with joy and optimism.
He did not like me. I didn’t fancy him ei- I waited until it had almost reached an
ther. The silence was killing me. Well, the hour. Almost sixty minutes of a draining
silence of humans conversing. I would be staring contest.
lying if I said it were completely silent; the
cicadas were hidden inside the overgrown The red-nosed boy still had not blinked
grass surrounding us, buzzing loud enough once. A cold gust of wind whipped his
for God to hear. To end my torture, I spoke unruly golden locks all about, yet he was
to the boy. unmoving. Nighttime was draping its cold
blanket over my body. Snot steadily creeped
“How are you,” I asked. “May I get by you?” past my, most likely red, nose.

No response. Not even a blink or a nod. I took in a deep breath. Inhaled the stale,
Nothing but silence in return. stagnant air and huffed out an exasperated
sigh.
“Not much of a speaker, eh?”
Simply, I lost it.
Again, silence.
“You blasted child! Move!” I stomped my
This went on for another grueling twenty foot. “I’m tired of waiting for you. Get up or
minutes. I was being nice and patient. I will throw you over this porch, pesky runt!”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

It is then that the red-nosed boy’s “What?”
chapped lips curved into a smile. His bones
cracked as he stood, the porch steps creaked The boy smiled, baring his yellow teeth.
under his bare feet as he descended.
“You are human,” he said.
“Why,” I asked.
“Of course, I am human,” I said, crossing
The boy paused and slowly turned to my arms.
face me.
“Good,” said the boy as he continued to
“I trust you,” he croaked. “The home is walk his path. “Because your kindness terri-
yours.” fied me.”

About the Author
Allissa Barker spends her days babysitting young children
and volunteers to help her community during her free time.

175



NONFICTION



REMINISCING

by Yvonne Blackwood

Hazel breezes into town this balmy sum- married, and Aunt Marie comes to visit. My
mer’s day, a day I never imagined would be husband and I scurry to take her to as many
her last visit and our last time together. She touristy spots as we can afford to give her
arrives in Toronto to spend time with her a good time.
daughter, Pam, after a long hiatus from vis-
iting. I dash over to Pam’s home to welcome I called her on the telephone. “Hazel,” I
her. I’m nine years old and relatives from say (if she wasn’t so jazzy, I would have to
another parish arrive for a visit. They bring call her Aunt Hazel) “How would you like to
juicy tomatoes and syrupy sweet mangoes. spend a day with me?”
My cousins and I go hog-wild as we eat a
large bowl of mangoes after dinner. “You want to spend an entire day with
little old me?” she asks. Surprise is audible
Hazel’s mother is my paternal grandfa- in her voice, but I detect excitement too.
ther’s sister. In the grand scheme of things,
I believe that makes her my cousin two gen- “Sure, why not? Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll
erations removed or is it three generations? pick you up early, and we’ll have breakfast
Pam and I are very close and content that at a pancake house. After that, I’ll take you
we are cousins; whether it is second, third, sightseeing around town for a while, then
or fourth is inconsequential. I’m thirteen, we’ll go see an early movie. After that, I’ll
attending high school, and Natalie is my take you to my place for a nap, then we’ll
bosom buddy. We share all our secrets. Her go out for dinner. How does that sound?”
folks are well-off, so I spend some weekends
at their home. Hazel is ecstatic. “Oh, my young cousin, I
can’t believe you want to do all this for me.
Hazel flew in from her home in Florida, It sounds wonderful. Wait until I tell your
the place where my father also lives. She father about this!”
brings word that Dad is okay.
Two days later, before the crazy Toronto
After Hazel is in town for a week, it dawns rush-hour traffic accelerates to high gear, I
on me that she is one of the few close rel- drive from the suburbs to the edge of the
atives that I have and that her two-week city and pick up an exuberant Hazel. I’m ten,
vacation is evaporating fast. I decide to put my uncle collects my cousins and me to take
the corporate world’s business aside and us to spend three weeks of our summer va-
devote a day to her. I’m twenty-six, newly cation with my paternal grandparents. We
are thrilled to spend time with them in the

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rugged countryside, where we’ll climb trees, answered the doorbell and had wasted his
admire gigantic boulders, and bathe in the time and his dime. He was probably madder
river that runs through the property. about the dime!” Hazel chortles and slaps
the table.
Hazel is wearing a colourful shorts-set
with matching earrings dangling from her “Was he really mad about the dime?” I
ear lobes and a fashionable pair of white ask.
sandals. Except for a few wrinkles at her
throat and forehead and a few strands of Hazel looks at me but ignores the ques-
grey hairs that have escaped the wine-co- tion.
loured rinse she uses in her hair, one could
easily mistake her for seventy. “You must understand that your father
lived in The Bronx at that time. Harlem was
While we wait for our breakfast at the a long way from home.” I’m twenty-four and
pancake house, we gaze at the traffic whiz- visiting Aunt Mary in Harlem for the first
zing by through the wide, floor-to-ceiling time. The apartment is dingy, the carpet as
windows, chatting amicably. Full of life, old as Methuselah, and every corner and
Hazel shares some old stories with me. crevice is stuffed with furniture or memo-
rabilia. But her cooking awakens my taste
“Eh, did your father ever tell you the story buds.
about his Aunt Mary?” Without waiting for
my reply, she continues. “Mary lived in “The feisty Mary told him that he had
Harlem for decades and was well-known the nerve to show up at her door without
there for her delicious rum-cakes. Carib- calling first, that she did not open her door
bean people came from all over New York to anyone unless she was expecting a visitor.”
to buy them at Christmas time.” I’m sixteen
and visiting Aunt Marie (my mother’s only Hazel and I crack up laughing.
sister) for the Christmas holidays. She is an
expert baker and demands that I help to After we recover, I say, “Did Aunt Mary
make the plum puddings and fruit cakes. not have a peephole in her door?”
While she plops the cake tins into the oven,
I relish the taste of the raw batter as I lick “Yes, but she never uses it!”
the empty mixing bowl.
A pretty Indian waitress arrives with our
I return from my revere as Hazel con- food. Scrutinizing her plate, Hazel picks up
tinues. “One evening in December, your her fork and looks across the table at me.
father was on his way home from work,
tired, but he loved to check up on the older “I won’t eat too many of them pancakes
folks. He stopped by Mary’s apartment to send up my sugar,” she says in her Amer-
and rang the doorbell over and over. No ican drawl, acquired after living in New
one answered. He saw a light inside and York City for more than fifty years. She has
believed that someone was home. He left always been a full-figured woman, and al-
in the bitter cold. At the top of the street, though she has lost several pounds, she
he saw a phone booth. He used the phone remains in that size range. I tell her it is all
to call Mary. She answered on the second right, that she can have as much fruit salad
ring. Your father was livid that she hadn’t as she likes because they make it with fresh
fruits, not the canned stuff.

After breakfast, we tour the city then I
speed up the ramp to the highway. I want

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Hazel’s visit to the movies to be a memo- I acquiesce. If only she knew that my
rable treat, and I knew just the cinema to knees also hurt, but I do not let on. We se-
take her―the Colossus. It’s located a good lect two seats that are not too far up but
distance from my home, necessitating not too close to the huge screen. Since our
driving on the highway. I’m thirteen and movie-day occurs during the week, and in
our English teacher takes the entire class the middle of the day, the cinema is par-
to the cinema in town to see The Sound of tially empty.
Music. We march two abreast, orderly, like
little Lords and Ladies, adhering to all in- During the show, Hazel and I eat popcorn
structions from our chaperones. We cross and slurp diet cokes like two teenagers. I’m
the street, then enter the cinema. Colossus sixteen, Natalie and I are at the Odeon The-
is one of the newer cinemas in the suburbs, atre at a Saturday matinee. We share a paper
and as the name suggests, it is gigantic. It bag chock full of sodas, grapes, American
is indeed the one to visit for a movie expe- apples, chocolate bars, chips and peanuts in
rience. the shell during the show. When we leave the
cinema, we leave behind a pigsty—grape pits,
As we come near, I point to the space- apple cores, candy wrappers and soda cans
age-looking building set apart from every- and peanut shells strewn on the floor. When-
thing else. At a glance, you would swear it is ever Hazel or I think we know what comes
a flying saucer. Designed like a space ship, it next in the story, we whisper our thoughts
is silver-coloured with antennas jutting out to each other. The movie, the newest version
from the top, while tiny, red lights flicker of The Great Gatsby, is interesting. On the
around its circumference. way to my house, Hazel banters on and on
about how much fun she has had. We dissect
I park close to the main entrance, so the movie and talk about what was powerful
Hazel doesn’t have to walk far, and soon we and what was weak about the story.
enter the building. She stares in awe at the
structure. In the lobby, the ceiling stretches Later that evening, after Hazel has her
forever. The ambiance is that of the interior nap and feels refreshed, we dine at a de-
of a space ship. Large green men in purple lightful Italian restaurant, then I take her
robes line the foyer. A closer look reveals back to her daughter’s house. It was a great
that they are machines one can use to pur- “girl’s” day out. During our time together,
chase movie tickets. Several effigies of char- the thought never crossed my mind that my
acters from Star Trek, including Mr. Spock date was an 86-year-old woman. It gives me
stands in glass cages in the center of the some hope that growing old doesn’t have
room. to be humdrum. If you have a zest for life,
like Hazel, it can be fun. Cecelia Ahern and
We arrive just minutes before the one others may be onto something when they
o’clock movie starts. I purchase our tickets, said, “Age is only a number.”
popcorn, and diet sodas, and hurry as fast
as Hazel can walk to cinema six, one of I received a telephone call from my fa-
twenty theatres in the building. ther within minutes after Hazel arrived back
in Florida; he had heard all about my date
“Don’t go up too high. I can’t take too with Hazel, and he was pleased. Six months
many stairs because of arthritis in my legs,” after our time together Hazel departed this
Hazel cautions. world.

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About the Author
Yvonne Blackwood is an African-Canadian author of three adult non-fiction books and three
children’s picture books in The Nosey Charlie Adventure Series. She is an award-winning
short story writer, columnist. Yvonne has contributed to several anthologies including
Human Kindness, Canadian Voices, and WordScape. She has published articles in More of
Our Canada, Adelaide, Litbreak, and InTouch magazines and has written numerous articles
for several newspapers including the Toronto Star. She is an alumnus of the Humber College
School of Writers.

182

REMAINS

by Melissa Ballard

2013 “You look at it every time we come,” my
husband says. “We’re taking it home.”
Mom died seven weeks ago. My husband
and I are working at her condo, as we do I’m too tired to argue.
every Saturday. We are cleaning and sorting
and donating. Friends have come to claim We stop for a quick dinner and, for me,
what they want, but there is still so much two glasses of red wine. While I eat and sip,
left. This is our final trip before the liquida- I rant about all the things Mom kept when
tor comes to remove all that remains. she supposedly downsized from her house
to the condo. Her linen closet contains so
Mom’s large china cabinet is still nearly many stacks of place mats it looks like a re-
full. On the top shelf, behind glass, there is tail display. I vow I will not be like her.
a tall, slender tea pot with four matching
cups and saucers. Each piece is painted with 2014
flowers in soft shades of beige, orange, and
green, and lightly trimmed in gold. I think I go to my living room to read, and I stop to
of my sturdy clay mugs with their thick han- study the tea set. For now, I’ve given it the
dles, and know I would never use this set. top shelf of Grandma’s oak china cupboard.
Still, it is beautiful. Maybe I will sell the set on e-Bay or at the
antique store just south of town.
“I’m going to the storage area to sort
the holiday decorations,” I tell my husband. I have learned, through a bit of internet re-
“Don’t bother with anything in the china search, that the tea service was, in fact, used
cabinet. The liquidator can pack it up.” He for hot chocolate. In the lid, there is a tiny
nods. hole for inserting a molinet, a long stick for
stirring the chocolate, which tends to settle.
I come back from storage with both arms
braceleted in holiday wreaths still in good If I’m going to sell it, I need to know
shape, and a large trash bag containing the more about it.
many torn or broken decorations Mom had
stashed away. There is a stamp on the bottom of each
piece. Some are too faded to read, but I
As I add the intact items to the con- look at one with a magnifying glass, and I
tainers we’ve lined up in the dining area, I see a green wreath encircling an “RS” and
notice the tea set is gone. the word “Germany.”

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1852 I’m determined to go through each room
of my home, cull the items I no longer need,
Six-year-old Elisabeth Weber watches her and donate them. It is a sobering experience,
mother kneel in front of the trunk their and I sometimes feel a bit like a character
family of four will take with them when in an Anne Tyler novel, spending my days
they cross the ocean to America. It will be moving possessions from one place to an-
stored in the cargo hold of the ship, and other. At some point, perhaps when I find a
they will carry a single, small bag to their bottle of witch hazel that expired nine years
bunks in steerage. ago, I realize this task will never end.

The bottom of the trunk is lined with 2019
quilts, and now Mrs. Weber picks up a slim
porcelain cup covered in hand-painted A woman on a television show about hoard-
flowers and trimmed in gold. She wraps it in ing stands in front of a worn-out looking
one of her shawls, and places it in the trunk. house, its front porch stacked with furniture,
rain-wrinkled boxes, and scores of loose
On the floor, there are three matching items.
cups, four saucers, and a tall, narrow pot.
Elisabeth hands one piece at a time to her As she wipes her eyes she says, “Those
mother. The set is Mrs. Weber’s most prized of us who are left just want to remember, so
possession, and she is determined it will sur- we save things.”
vive the journey from Laufenselden, Prusssia.
2017
This is wishful thinking. I don’t know the
details of my great-great grandmother, Elis- I am reminded, as I struggle to let go of my
abeth, and her family’s journey from what is own belongings, of the things Mom gave
now Germany to a small town in Ohio. up during her last two years of life. At the
top of the list: her home of forty-plus years
I do some more research and learn that and her remarkably good health. After back
this set was probably made between 1914 surgery, she used a cane, mostly when I in-
and 1945. Had it been from my great-great sisted. Every morning, she donned a rigid
grandmother’s time, the stamp would have metal leg brace, which could be hidden
read “Hesse” or “Prussia” instead of “Ger- under her slacks. Still, I often found myself
many.” walking behind her, both arms out in case
she overestimated her own balance.
I also read about fakes, and the stamps
seem easy to identify. So, while the set isn’t One day, without complaint, she gath-
as old as I’d hoped, it is probably authentic, ered all her beloved high heels into a thir-
whatever that means. ty-gallon trash bag, and asked me to drop
them in a donation box.
2016
2020
I grew up amidst knick-knacks. Lots of them.
Neatly arranged, and clean, but covering In late March, the annual reminder from
every surface, often with doilies separating the cemetery arrives in the mail. As usual, I
the item from the surface on which it was donate a plant in memory of Mom. It will be
placed. I knew nothing of their history, and I
didn’t care. Mostly, I wanted my own home
to be different: less cluttered.

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one of approximately 2,000 planted each
year on “Daffodil Hill.” The sprawling space
already boasts more than 100,000 blooms.

There is no grave to visit, simply a small
plaque in the cemetery’s community mau-
soleum, in memory of those who partici-
pate in the “Body Donation Program,” for
medical research.

I am reminded that, despite all the
things Mom couldn’t bear to part with, she
gave away her body.

I’m holding on to her chocolate set.

About the Author
Melissa Ballard has written essays for Brevity’s Nonfiction
Blog, Entropy, Under the Sun, and other publications.

185

ZOMBIE RUN

by Teresa Douglas

I step out of the house and wince as the too-small home. My children and husband
cool spring air hits the skin beneath my are probably still asleep. I pass empty of-
running pants. It’s early but not too ear- fices and locked apartment buildings, one
ly—my only company the murder of crows woman alone on a deserted street.
digging through the grass between my door
and the sidewalk. At eight o’clock on a Sun- I’m free.
day morning, the sun has been up for an
hour. I put in my headphones and turn on I turn down a small side street. On the
my Zombies, Run! app. left, a small group of townhomes back into
a pocket of Pacific Spirit Park. Across the
Down the grassy slope I go, jogging past street to my right, the forest curls like a
the crows. They eye me briefly but don’t finger around three sides of an elementary
move. They know I’ll swing around them. I school. In between the two is this street;
pause at the fence and peak around warily. just ahead I can use a short footpath to
Is anybody on the sidewalk? My shoulders enter the forest trails, or cross through the
relax. No. This is Vancouver; I don’t expect parking lot and run along University Avenue.
to see many people on the road until nine. I
pick up the pace, listening to the storyline in Someone is crouched behind a small
my ear. In it, I’m Runner Five, running from bush on the school lawn. I slow, trying to
zombies in a post-apocalyptic UK. People judge intent, trajectory, and gender before
joke that they expected a zombie apoca- I get too close. He—the figure looks like
lypse instead of a viral one; thanks to my a he—is on all fours trimming the grass. I
app, I run from both. think he’s trimming the grass. I hear the
sharp snip of scissors alternating with a soft
The air is utterly clear. I feel as though I plop as he drops something into the plastic
can see for miles, perhaps even as far south grocery bag beside him. He’s completely
as California, where my mother shelters in absorbed in the task. Maybe this is his way
place in San Jose. Don’t think about that. of dealing with the stress of COVID19. A
Instead, I pretend I’m Runner Five, out on few yards past the grass trimmer, I see a
a supply run on the deserted outskirts of second man walking away. The sight makes
London. me brave. I speed up again, passing man
number one.
Something inside my chest unclenches
as I put distance between me and my Just as I do so, man number two wheels
around and shouts at the trees a few feet

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in front of me. Crap. Both men are on the cherry blossoms. Pale pink petals drift onto
other side of the street, but I might as well the grey concrete like snow.
be surrounded. The townhomes are behind
me. The forest is to my left, the space be- A thought glides like a petal through the
tween the trees overrun with the thorny, clear air of my mind. I’m treating people like
snake-like vines of salmon berry bushes. they’re zombies.
In front of me, the street dead ends into
the footpath, and I have to approach man I run quietly for the next mile, mulling
number two to get to it. that over. I run while female. For a certain
percentage of the population, that makes
A honey-colored Corgi shoots out from me a target. I’ve been cat called, laughed at,
between the salmon berry vines, stumpy and had drunks comment on my body as I
legs carrying him towards the shouting run. I’m hardly unique. According to Stop-
man. The two turn away, and walk into the StreetHarassment.org, 81% of surveyed
school’s grassy field. women report experiencing some form of
sexual harassment in their lifetime. Many of
I let out a relieved breath and sprint us have strategies for staying safe when we
down the footpath. It’s too narrow for so- run outside.
cial distancing, so I dodge between the trees
and run on the wide gravel embankment COVID19 obliterated all of mine.
instead. Two women walk the other way
down the footpath, their faces obscured by I’m left navigating between two mutually
blue face masks. We give each other side exclusive sets of recommendations designed
eye. to keep me safe. If you put the two together,
I’m not supposed to run alone because I’ll be
The empty parking lot at the trail head an easy target for assault, nor with groups,
feels like a refuge. You could line up half a who might give me COVID19. I don’t know
dozen people side by side on the cracked how to stay safe. And yet I want to run.
asphalt without them touching. I skip the
trails and head for the sidewalk on the other I crest the top of the first hill. Opposite,
side of the parking lot. From here I can run another runner is coming up fast. We’re
an easy 5k loop in either direction. East- running at different edges of the path, and
ward, the pedestrian path undulates gradu- she’s ten feet away, but unless we do some-
ally uphill. To the West it’s flat, and I can see thing, we’ll get too close to each other. I
another runner moving away from me. I go dash onto the grassy embankment on my
East. Mature maples and cherry trees flank right, widening the gap, and she throws her
the street on my left, to my right the forest elbow up in front of her face like a mask as
gives way to a golf course. A layer of frost she passes. Crisis averted.
gilds the green grass.
I don’t want to treat people like zom-
Running was an important part of my bies. It’s bad enough that I have to act as if
stress management before coronavirus. they’ve offended me–crossing to the other
Now, it’s how I flush the stress of the pan- side of the road when I can, putting as much
demic from my system. I am mesmerized distance between us when I can’t–I don’t
by the rhythm of my feet running up the want to think of them as mindless coro-
hill. My mind clears. I pass a tree heavy with na-zoms looking for an opportunity to infect
my social distance bubble.

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Several empty busses drive past me as two-finger salute from the general vicinity
I charge downhill, legs pumping hard. The of my forehead. At least I hope it looks
concrete flows like water under my feet. I jaunty. I feel jaunty. Ahead, two seniors
don’t slow until I approach the end of the walk together, six feet apart on the path.
block a quarter mile later. The corner is a The embankment slopes up and into the
popular cross road for runners, walkers, and trees; it’s too steep to run on so I climb
bikers alike, because from here, you can ac- up and wait for them to pass. I say “Good
cess both the forest trails of Pacific Spirit morning!” They were already smiling at me
Park, and the beach, less than a mile away. as they approached.
Sure enough, a runner peers cautiously
around the corner. I stop and wave for her The women stop at a safe distance.
to go first. She waves back. I wait until she’s “Good morning,” one of them calls back. “It’s
gone to make my turn. a fine day to be out.”

From that point on, I wave at nearly ev- “Indeed it is.”
erybody as I maintain my physical distance.
It’s an awkward, stiff little wave, the sort And then we all shuffle further apart,
of thing you get if you cross Keanu Reeves holding space for two teenaged cyclists to
with Ms. America and pop the result into the pass between us. “Thank you!” They shout
middle of a parade. I alternate pairing my in unison.
Keanu-wave with a half-smile or a breath-
less “Good morning.” I probably look like I’m With a parting wave, the seniors re-
holding in gas. Still, for the first time in weeks, sume their walk. I run in the opposite di-
strangers make eye contact with me and ei- rection. I’m still living during a pandemic,
ther smile or say good morning back. I soak but at least I’m doing so on a bright spring
up the contact like water on parched ground. day, surrounded by humans instead of co-
rona-zoms. I am physically distant but not
By the time I turn the next corner my socially isolated.
Keanu-wave has morphed into a jaunty
For now, it’s enough.

About the Author

Teresa Douglas is a Mexican-American living in Vancouver
B.C. She has an MFA in Fiction from Sarah Lawrence
College, and an MBA from the University of North Carolina,
Chapel Hill.

188

MY LAST TRIP

by Scott Ocamb

I didn’t think this would be my last motor- bad experience setting up camp without first
cycle trip when I planned it. It almost killed getting permission. Which is why I beeped
me. If it had, I wouldn’t be telling you this my horn and, when Ian turned around, I
story—Ian would. said. “We should ask permission first. Re-
member what happened in Franklin?”
Starting my junior year of high school,
each summer Ian and I took a motorcycle He nodded his head. “You’re right.” He
trip someplace for a week. Our rule was we returned to the road, and we rode down a
couldn’t pay for a place to sleep. We would long driveway to a farmhouse on the right
find somewhere out in the woods, in some side of the field.
field, anywhere we could set up camp for
the night for free. It was a carefree time, and A man was standing in a trailer he’d
I looked forward to the trip each summer. hooked up to a tractor. We turned off our
bikes and dismounted. The man jumped
For some reason, our summer adventure down from the trailer and walked over to
in Kennebunkport, Maine, comes to mind. It us. “Can I help you?” he asked.
was August 1975, when I was 18 years old.
I was riding my Kawasaki S3 400, Ian was “Yes, sir. My name is Dan, and this is my
on his Norton 850 Commando. We were on friend Ian. We’re on a trip from the Phila-
our first trip to New England. I beeped my delphia area. We’re wondering if we could
horn and motioned for Ian to pull over. We camp for the night over there in your field.”
stopped on the side of the road, and Ian
walked over to me. “What’s up?” he asked. The man sized us up, looking back
and forth at us and our bikes loaded with
“It’s getting late. We have to find a place camping gear. “Philadelphia is a long way off.
to stay for the night.” Do you do this often?”

“You’re right. I saw a large field a few “Yes. We go someplace every summer,”
miles back. Let’s check it out.” Ian said. Ian said.

We got on our bikes and returned to the The man smiled, “Okay, you look like
field; it had waist-high grass and a grove of clean-cut young men. You can camp over
trees about 50 yards away. Ian started to there in the corner of the field.”
ride toward the trees. This trip wasn’t our
first rodeo, and we’d learned a few things We thanked him, got on our bikes, rode
from our past adventures. Once, we had a down a gravel driveway that cut across the

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top of the field, and found a spot to camp. my knees, so it was easier to ride through
“Let’s go find a bar,” Ian said. the high grass. The fact that I was drunk off
my ass didn’t help.
*
Then Ian disappeared! His red taillight
We ended up at a place called Jack’s. The was in front of me one second; then, he was
gravel parking lot was packed. If we’d been gone. I slammed on my brakes and stopped.
driving cars, we wouldn’t have found a place I dismounted and slowly walked through
to park. We left our bikes on either side of the waist-high grass. There he was, in a
the front door and walked in. Johnny Cash ditch. A diagonal drainage ditch cut across
was blasting, and the room was full of smoke. the field, a ditch we hadn’t noticed earlier
because of the high grass.
Ian pointed to the bar where two stools
were open. “Over there.” “Are you okay!?”

We sat down, and I put a ten on the bar. “Yeah.”
“I’ll get us started,” I said. In those days, we
could drink most of the night for ten bucks. He twisted the throttle. The rear wheel
spun, and mud flew everywhere. “Get be-
The bartender walked up. He was wearing hind me, and help push me out.”
a T-shirt that exposed his muscular arms and
tattoos. “What can I get you?” he asked. “No fuckin’ way, I’m going to push. I’ll
ride, you push.”
“A shot of Jack Daniels and a Miller, we’d
like a menu too,” I said. We switched positions. I twisted the
throttle and, as before, mud flew every-
The bartender returned with the drinks where. Ian grunted as he pushed the bike.
and a menu. Eventually, we wrestled it out of the ditch.

We both ordered cheeseburgers and My headlight shined on Ian, covered
fries. I held up my shot of Jack. Ian raised in mud head to toe. “I can’t climb into my
his and clinked my glass, and we downed sleeping bag like this. We have to go back to
the shots. It burned my throat as it went the beach so I can rinse off in the ocean,” Ian
down. We smiled at each other. said.

Soon the bartender returned with the We had visited the beach earlier in the day.
burgers. “I think the beach closes at sunset,” I said.

“Another round,” I said. “Well, no goddamn way I can go to bed
like this.”
We stumbled out of Jack’s after last call,
at about two in the morning. We were shit- We rode back to the Kennebunkport beach.
faced, two sheets to the wind. We rode Sure enough, an eight-foot gate blocked the
carefully back to the field and stopped along entrance. On it hung a sign “Closed at Sunset—
the road. The lights were off in the farm- No Trespassing.”
house. I suggested we ride directly through
the field to our campsite, so we didn’t wake “See? Closed,” I said.
anyone up, and Ian agreed. He took the lead
through the field, and I followed closely be- I turned to walk back to my bike and
hind. I stood on my bike’s footpegs, bending heard a rattling sound. I whirled around and
saw Ian on the other side of the gate.

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“I’ll be back in a minute,” He ran toward his first long-distance trip. I told Bill to be
the ocean about 20 yards away. I could see at my house at 7:00 a.m., packed up, and
the white waves breaking in the moonlight. ready to go.

A car pulled up to where I stood next to Bill showed up right on time. He turned
our motorcycles—a police car. The officer off his bike, got off, and said, “I’m ready.”
turned on his red lights, got out of his car,
and walked over to me. “We need to do something about the
sleeping bag and backpack,” I said. “Part of
“What’s going on here, young man?” the it’s hanging down near the chain.” I took an
cop asked. extra bungee cord and rearranged things
properly.
I told him the story of our campsite, how
we got permission to stay there, and how It was a perfect August day. It felt good
Ian got covered in mud. I left out the part to be on the road again. Because it weighs
about spending all night at Jack’s. much less, a motorcycle’s performance is
better than even the most advanced sports
Ian was soaked to the skin when he re- car. It has better acceleration and stopping
turned from the ocean with his hair slicked ability. Because you can lean into curves,
down. He had his best sheepish grin on his you can go much faster.
face.
Of course, you are exposed to all the el-
“That’s quite a story. Well, you’re staying ements when riding a motorcycle. There is
at Sam Jamson’s farm. It’s good you asked no enclosure around you like in a car; you
permission. He’s a good guy. Go back to are aware of everything. We were riding
your campsite.” Looking at Ian, he said, “Let through a valley between two mountain
me open that gate first. I don’t want you ranges and fields of corn. I could smell
climbing over the fence again.” flowers and, sometimes, the pungent
aroma of manure from a local farmer’s
The cop opened the gate, and Ian walked fields. I looked at my rearview mirror from
over to our bikes. The cop turned off his time to time to be sure Bill was still behind
flashing lights and drove away. me. We came to a halt at a stop sign, and I
heard birds chirping above my engine’s idle.
I looked at Ian and said, “Let’s get back Looking over at Bill, I said, “You okay?” He
to our campsite. We have a long ride to- gave me a thumbs up with a broad smile.
morrow.”
Besides having nothing between you and
* the landscape and weather, you are entirely
alone on a motorcycle. There is no radio to
It had been two years since my last trip listen to or anyone available for a conver-
with Ian. He moved to Greensboro, NC, and sation. All you have is the drone of the en-
I was living in West Chester, PA. We planned gine and your mind. I find the sound of the
a trip to Seneca Rocks, WV, since it was engine like a path to a meditative state. I
halfway between our homes. We agreed to thought about the trip ahead and what it
meet at a campground near Franklin, WV, will be like to see Ian again. This trip would
that I visited while on a Geography field trip be different than all the others. I was mar-
from my college days. ried now and had a good job and a career

I invited Bill, a friend of mine I met at my
job as a computer programmer. It would be

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ahead of me. The days of stumbling out of and said, “It’s starting to get chilly. Let’s un-
a bar drunk and riding back to our campsite pack and set up camp.”
were over. I sure as hell didn’t intend to end
up just another DUI death statistic. I pitched the tent next to Ian’s and un-
packed my tank bag.
We left the valley and climbed up a
mountain to a scenic overlook. I pulled in As Bill unpacked his stuff, I walked over
turned off my bike and waited for Bill. After to Ian, sitting at the picnic table, and sat
about 10 minutes, he pulled in. He got off down next to him. The roar of the stream
his bike and walked over to me. “These made a pleasing sound. Ian handed me a
roads are amazing.” cigar and said, “How’s Bill doing? He looks
a bit uncomfortable?”
“Yep, quite a view too.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said as I lit my cigar. “He’ll
“My ass really hurts,” Bill said. be fine.”

I chuckled. “Three more hours, and we’ll Bill walked over to us and sat down. Ian
be there.” handed him a cigar. “No, thanks,” Bill said
with a weak smile.
*
After a bit, I turned to Bill and said,
We turned down the road to the camp- “What do you think?”
ground and into the parking area. The
campground was inside a small canyon. Six Looking up at the canyon walls, Bill said,
small, ramshackle cabins with faded gray “This place is fantastic. You found out about
siding and a site for tents sat in front of a this at college, right?”
roaring stream.
“Yep. We have a lot of cool places to visit.”
I spotted a motorcycle and Ian sitting at a I said.
picnic table facing the stream and smoking
a cigar. He had unpacked his bike and set up “I’m hungry and ready for a drink. We
his tent. When he heard us, he stood up and can go across the road, then we don’t have
walked over, grinning. “You made it!” to worry about riding after we’ve been
drinking,” Ian said.
We both turned off our bikes and dis-
mounted. “Ian! It’s great to see you!” I said The place wasn’t much larger than a
as I shook my friend’s hand and hugged him. typical ranch house and had the word BAR
“This is Bill.” painted on the roof. We arrived around 6
p.m., opened the door, and walked in. The
Ian and Bill shook hands. “It’s good to bar could seat about 30 people and was half
meet you. Ready for an adventure?” Ian occupied and was very smokey. We each or-
asked. dered a Budweiser.

“Sure am, and good to meet you too. I’ve With an athletic build, handsome face,
heard so much about your past trips. This and a captivating smile, Ian could always
should be fun.” attract the ladies. These good looks and his
ability to carry on small talk resulted in him
The canyon walls rose 200 feet around seldom leaving a bar alone. I was awkward
us. It was late afternoon, and long shadows and uncomfortable interacting with women,
covered the canyon floor. I turned to Bill self-conscious about my weight, and truly
terrible at small talk.

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Around midnight, a beautiful young “There’s four beers in the stream.”
woman caught Ian’s eye. “Look at her,” he
whispered. “You’re a lifesaver.” Ian disappeared
down the bank of the river.
I turned to Bill and said, “It was only a
matter of time. Ian will be busy for a while. Bill climbed out of the tent. “Ohhhh, my
I’m gonna head back to the campsite.” I mo- head.”
tioned for the bartender. He walked over,
and I said, “A six-pack to go, please.” Ian emerged from the stream. He
popped open the beer and smiled at Bill.
I zipped up my leather jacket as Bill and “Good morning!” he said in a voice that was
I walked outside. much too cheery.

Bill said, “It’s good to breathe in clean air “Finish that beer, and let’s go get break-
again.” fast. There’s a diner in Franklin. I’ll show you
guys the day’s route while we eat,” I said.
We could see our shadows because of
the clear sky and full moon that hung just I noticed a few bikes parked in front of
above one of the canyon walls. We walked the Franklin Diner as we pulled in. One of
over to the picnic table, and I yanked a beer them was a bright red Laverda. We got off of
from the six-pack. “Want one?” our bikes and walked up to the red beauty.

Bill nodded, and I put two beers on the Most street bikes’ design focuses on the
table, then took the remaining four and comfort of the rider, who sits in an upright po-
climbed down the bank to the icy stream. I sition. The handlebars are in easy reach, and
nestled the beers into a group of rocks, careful the footpegs are directly under the gas tank.
to keep them out of the strong current. I re- Racing bikes consider wind drag and center of
turned to the table and sat down next to Bill. gravity in their design. The rider is in a prone
position out of the wind and lying on the gas
“Does that happen often?” Bill asked. tank. The handlebars are much lower, and the
footpegs are near the rear wheel.
“You mean with the girls? Yep, that’s Ian.
He has a way with the ladies; I always en- We walked into the diner. There were
vied how he did it.” I looked up at the moon two guys eating breakfast, both dressed in
that was just setting behind the canyon wall. full leathers. “Hey, there. Whose Laverda is
I emptied my beer with a long slug and said, that?” Ian asked.
“Let’s call it a night.” Bill nodded, and we
climbed into our tent. One guy said, “It’s Jim’s. Here he comes
now from the bathroom.”
*
Jim walked toward us with a noticeable
When I woke up, my head was pounding. I limp.
climbed out of my sleeping bag, unzipped
the tent, and emerged into the morning air. “I hear that’s your Laverda. It’s a beauty,”
Ian was sitting at the table. “Hey, how did I said.
you make out last night?” I asked him.
“Thanks.”
His broad smile told the entire story. “I
feel like shit. I could use a beer, hair of the “Do you ride here much?” I asked.
dog,” he said.
“This is the first time since my accident
about a year ago. A car pulled out in front

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of me, and I hit it broadside. I went flying 20 the smoky bar. None of us wanted to wake
feet, ass over tin cup.” up with another hangover in the morning
before a long, taxing day of riding.
“Wow. It’s good you’re okay,” Bill said.
*
“‘Well, I messed up my leg so bad they
had to fuse it to my ankle, so I can’t bend The next day we went to Dolly Sods, a
my foot, makes it hard to shift.” high-altitude plateau, 4000 feet above sea
level. It has a climate like Canada’s. I told
“So, how do you ride?” I asked. everyone to bring an extra layer of clothing.

Smiling, he said, “I lock my foot under It was a hot day, so I was wearing a T-shirt,
the shifter and move my entire leg.” but I knew it would be chilly once we got to
the top of the plateau so I brought sweat-
As I pondered that statement and turned shirt and attached it to the back of my seat
to walk toward our booth, I said, “Well, best with a bungee cord. The multiple switch-
of luck to you.” backs on the road to the top of the plateau
made it a blast to ride. We all stopped when
The waitress seated us and gave us menus. we reached the top and admired the view.
“I can’t believe he still rides. I don’t think I
would after an accident like that.” I said. It was thirty degrees cooler at the top
of the plateau, so I unpacked my sweatshirt
“I know I wouldn’t,” Bill said. and put it on. The roads were all dirt, and
Ian’s bike threw up lots of dust. I slowed
We placed our order with the waitress as down and gave him much more of a lead,
I spread the map out on the table. We de- so I wasn’t eating his dirt.
cided our first excursion would be to Seneca
Rocks. The waitress came with our food, We’d been riding for a few hours and
and we wolfed it down in no time. When we arrived at another scenic spot. I had been
walked out into the parking lot, we noticed choking on Ian’s dust the whole time and
our friends with the racing bikes were gone. riding on bumpy dirt roads long enough. I
was ready to return to smooth pavement.
We started our ride to Seneca Rocks.
Ian led, and I followed with Bill taking up “I think this road takes us off the plateau.
the rear. Ian was a much better rider than I’m ready to go if you guys are,” I said.
I. The measure of this is pretty simple: who
gets there first. No matter how hard I tried, “Sounds good to me. I’m ready for some
I could never keep up with him. He leaned smooth, dust-free roads,” Bill said.
into the bends better than me and always
had a faster motorcycle. I settled into the I took the lead back down to the canyon
ride, enjoying the smooth, winding canyon roads. At the bottom, I noticed a stream. I
roads. parked and took off my helmet as the other
two guys pulled up. I pulled off my sweat-
We arrived at the Seneca Rocks Visitor shirt and laid it across the seat of my bike,
Center and parked our bikes in a row. We then climbed down the bank to dunk my
spent the rest of the day hiking to the top of head into the rushing water. It felt glorious.
the cliff. It was a long, challenging hike, but
the views were spectacular. By the time I’d climbed back up the bank,
I had the urge to get back on a smooth,
We cooked steaks for dinner at our
campsite instead of spending the evening in

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winding road again. I put on my helmet Bill walked up. “What happened?”
and roared off, leaving Ian and Bill behind.
Cruising at about 60 miles per hour, I came “His rear wheel locked up just as he en-
upon a tight curve. The smooth road felt tered that turn,” Ian said.
wonderful after hours on the rough and
dusty dirt roads. I downshifted into the turn. “Wow, is that skid mark yours?”

I felt a harsh jolt, and the bike slid side- “Yep,” I said
ways. The rear wheel had locked up, and I
skidded across the road. I attempted to steer We walked over to my bike. “Your sweat-
into the skid, so I turned the handlebars to shirt did it,” Ian said.
the left as far as they would go, then right,
left again, and came to a screeching stop. I had forgotten all about my sweatshirt
I was still upright. My heart was pounding and left it loose on my seat. The sleeve had
as a rush of adrenaline washed through my gotten caught in the chain and pulled it into
system. I turned to look behind me and saw the aluminum engine case with such force
a long, winding black skid mark on the road. the case bulged out. Ian took his hunting
knife out of the sheath on his leg. “Let me
I was in the middle of the road, just be- see if I can chop this out.”
yond the curve, where I almost crashed. I
was shaking but got off my bike so that I After a few minutes, he sat on the
could push it off the road. Because the rear ground and said, “No good. It’s like a rock.
wheel had locked, the bike did not budge. I I can’t believe a whole sweatshirt sleeve
felt panic set in. I’d survived this—only to be compacted into an area so small.”
run over by some truck as it came around
the bend. I pushed the bike to the side of My only choice was to remove the en-
the road with all my might, dragging the gine case that was attached with 10mm.
locked rear wheel. bolts. We all searched our tool kits, and
none of us had the proper wrench.
This entire event took under 30 seconds.
I was shaking so much; I couldn’t stand. I sat “You guys will have to look for help. See if
down on the roadside in front of my bike you can find a mechanic. The only way I’m
with my head in my hands. going to get this bike moving again is to re-
move this engine case.”
Ian zoomed past me, then Bill. I saw
both of their red brake lights as they quickly “No one will have metric tools way out
stopped. They turned around to meet me. here,” Bill said.

Ian approached and knelt down. “What Ian smiled at me. “Don’t worry; we’ll find
the hell happened?” help. Come on, Bill. Let’s go.”

I looked up at him. I sat down on the side of the road,
hoping someone would drive past me, but
“Just as I leaned into that bend, my rear after an hour, not a soul had appeared.
wheel locked up. I turned the handlebars Then I noticed two motorcycle headlights
lock to lock three times.” approaching, followed by a pickup truck—
an ancient pickup truck.
“Holy shit. Are you okay?”
Ian walked up to me, smiling. “This is the
“Well, I’m alive.” best we could do.”

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I approached the truck, which had a sign wife and I adopted a beautiful daughter
on the side that said Duke’s Garage; an old from China, and we moved into a big new
hound dog looked at me from the rusty bed. house. Everything was going great. Ian and
I no longer talked regularly. He still had a
A portly man wearing overalls on top of motorcycle, and I did not.
a dirty white T-shirt walked over. He held
out his hand and said, “I’m Duke. Your I missed the open road and our annual
friends said you needed some help.” The trips. Some years later, in 2010, I bought a
dog jumped out of the truck and barked his Mazda Miata, a sleek, two-seater convert-
hello. “This is Sam. Don’t mind him.” ible sports car known for its nimble handling.
It is about as close as you can get to a mo-
I shook Duke’s hand and explained what torcycle in a car. I resumed my summer trips
happened. “I need a 10 mm. wrench.” with the Miata instead of my bike, and my
companion was now my daughter, Corinne.
“You’re lucky to be alive, young man. As We did not plan out the details; we looked
for the wrench? I don’t work on cars that for a place to stay each day as it got dark.
need metric tools, but you can have a look We stayed in motels instead of camping as
in my toolbox.” my back could no longer tolerate sleeping
on the hard ground.
Duke brought over his toolbox, and I
opened it. There was dirt in the bottom and These excursions captured much of the
one metric wrench—a 10 mm. excitement of my motorcycle trips of old.
We visited many amazing places and con-
“Yes! I found it!” I said. tinued to meet unique people. I also had
those destinations to return to from my
Ian and I knelt by my bike, and I removed past. On one trip, my daughter and I were
the engine case. With the case removed, I driving in my new Miata with the top down.
was able to use the knife to chip out the It was a hot August day, and, once again, I
fabric. found myself in West Virginia.

“That looks good. I think all you’ll have “Dad, it will be dark soon. We need to
to do is put the chain back on the sprockets find a place to sleep,” Corinne said.
and adjust it,” Ian said.
“You’re right. I was planning on staying
He was right. I adjusted the chain and re- in Franklin.”
placed the engine case. The bike was as good
as new and ready to go. I wasn’t sure I was. “Mom would never do this without plan-
ning where to stay before the trip.”
I walked over to Duke. “Thanks so much.
You’re a lifesaver. What do I owe you?” I smiled. “This is more fun, don’t you
think? It makes it more of an adventure.”
“I didn’t do much. Five bucks?”
Corinne had an arm out the window,
I gave him ten. moving it up and down with the wind. “Defi-
nitely.”
“Thanks a lot,” Duke said. He and Sam
walked back to the truck and drove away. “I want to stop at the campground I told
you about first.”
*
“Okay, Dad.”
My career took off, and I became a success-
ful information technology consultant. My

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We pulled into the campground that “That’s long before my time. I bought this
was such a part of my past. The six cabins place about five years ago and refurbished
had new white siding. A large white tent it. I still rent out the cabins for camping, but
with windows was in the middle of the I also do weddings like this one.”
parking area. People in tuxedos and formal
gowns were standing together in a group. “Well, it looks much better now,” I said.
We pulled over away from the people and “Hey, I have another question. Whatever
parked, then got out of the car. happened to the little bar across the street?
I used to visit it every time I camped here.”
“Dad, we can’t stop here.”
A solemn look appeared on his face.
“I want to talk to the guy over there. I “The entire family who ran that place died
think he owns the place,” I walked over and of lung cancer. None of them smoked, but
said, “Excuse me.” everyone who went there did.”

He turned to me. “Yes?” That news shook me. I said my goodbyes
and returned to my car. “Well, let’s go find
“Do you own this place?” our room,” I said to Corinne.

“Sure do.” On the drive to Franklin, Corinne said,
“Dad, I love doing this each year. Where are
“Well, I was here over 30 years ago. I we going next year?”
came here when I was in college and on
multiple motorcycle trips.” “I don’t know. How about Kennebunk-
port? It’s in Maine.”

About the Author

Scott Ocamb is a freelance author specializing in agile
and lean software delivery. He also tells unusual stories
about growing up in a small town, the great outdoors,
hiking, camping, and motorcycles. He is working on a
memoir about how motorcycle trips helped him learn that
forgiveness does more for the forgiver than the one being
forgiven. Please see https://www.scottocamb.com/ for
details.

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RIVEN

by Tommy Sheffield

The sun tumbles across the sky like the face six. This is where the blisters come in. But
of a log ready to be split. There is shade the gloves work. My mother chose well.
here, beneath the trees. Black shadows
stretch like prison bars between the light There’s a lonely stump in the middle of
shining on the mulch in our backyard. Sharp the clearing of trees where the fort used to
November air creeps under the sleeves be. It’s my chopping stump. I use it to sup-
of my navy-blue t-shirt. Goose bumps rise port the logs I split. I tighten the Velcro on
along my exposed forearms. Moisture gath- my gloves and go grab a fresh cylinder of
ers within my nose. I’m wearing these spe- oak, sliding it off the rack and rolling it back
cial gray-and-yellow wood-chopping gloves to the clearing. Strategically placed—by my
that my mom bought for me because I had mother—is a Jesus statue, with two plastic
been complaining about blisters. Where I’m butterflies on sticks stuck into the ground
standing is where the wooden playground on either side of it. To the left of that, where
used to stand, the one my father built with the climbing rope used to be, is a little but-
his own hands. He made it with wooden terfly tree whose leaves look like a hundred
beams fastened together with metal screws green hairstreak butterflies lifting into flight.
and plates. There were swings and a climb- It was planted for my grandfather—my fa-
ing rope and trapeze rings and a ladder. ther’s father—bought by the neighbors,
for when he died. Several aged tree trunks
I’ve got my Sony noise-cancelling head- stand with heavy feet over the ground be-
phones around my neck, my iPod in my side me, roots stretching beneath me. The
pocket. What I usually like to do is make a sun in little fragments through the trees.
playlist with one or two albums and listen to
it as I chop wood. This soothes me. It helps I heave the wood cylinder atop the sup-
me relax. It helps to create the illusion that port log. I put my headphones over my ears;
time is not passing—that time is still—that the outside world ceases to exist. I grab the
things are moving neither faster nor slower axe, put my right hand beneath the head, lift
than they should be. I like this illusion. I en- it in the air, and slam it face-down into the
counter it when I write, when I read, when wood. It gouges a deep incision in the center
I listen to music, when I play guitar. It’s of the oak grain with a clunk. I swing again
nice, that illusion. Sometimes I get so lost and the log breaks in two, each half tum-
in it that I end up chopping wood for hours; bling off the support log to the ground. It is
sometimes three hours, sometimes five or at this moment that I notice my father walk
out from the other side of the screened-in

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