Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 44, January 2021

Caution to lips. Revista Literária Adelaide
In a void of ever light.

Has my heart More so tangled in loves I only hope that you are waiting, I could
sweet vines to climb the heights of sky? not bare that you would leave
In so many ways I still linger here
For I have fallen within his eyes I a silence that I grieve

To catch a glimpse of loves sweet Spaceless is a love outstanding,
lullabies and songs finesse in a void of ever light
And find myself in contemplation, A touch apart But never covered
to well express, Known to be delight

That rivers rush and birds do sing Ahh what ways my heart confides
And here in the peacefulness of spring In a worship towards the sky above
Found love lays beneath the clouds And every time I come to fall
and watches time go by Feel your constant love

And I’m still sending sweetest kisses As if the light of heavens
on high, Knows that love and take me there
Only to float freely on a breeze that’s I feel as if I’ve bound forever in your loving care
welcomed home within the heart
What sort of dreams may catch my heart
By the reeds and lilies, the wildest And waking would then break my stride
flowers sow and reign Before the angels come to sing
And I know some day love will take I had thee at my side
the pain
To death I say forgiven, how my
And fill the absence in one’s soul heart consists of pain
And in my hopeful peace of longing
Enlightened by the seas cold vigil rush, Seek you face again.
For such a love leaves caution to lips
And cheeks to blush.

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The lake. Adelaide Literary Magazine
Stars still spell your name.

The light touched down upon the lake I held on so tight to the memories
In an old familiar way, autumn once had set And like a song knew every word
the scene, though spring was here today But in instant the I opened my heart
Freely you flew just like bird
The ducks were on the landing
Cloudy was the sky above I miss the tunes of morning, the
Drizzling rain has sort to comfort evenings in pastel colors formed
This new adoring love The way the skies would be ablaze
Inside my soul was warmed
Leaves of green had crept in places
I thought had long forgotten thine Sometimes it just painful, others like a revere
The canopy of overgrowth in the sweetness of a love that cannot
The way the ivys vine come to be

Once the trees were amber glowing For death was like a soldier
Before the winter set it’s new details You fought a battle that’s never lost
And all but love had come to season But losing you was something painful
In the search for possum tails I’ve felt the sorrow and the cost

The lake was filled with wildest lillies But never have I forgotten what love you held
The reflection of the skies of blue inside that flame, on nights sweet melody
And I had found in deep compassion And it’s peace the stars still spell your name.
My longing thoughts of you.

About the Author

Nardine Sanderson is a geelong born writer poetess who’s
love of words stretches across the sea to immortalize
those she loves.

150

BAR-TAILED
GODWIT

by Ranjith Sivaraman

‘What happened? They float, fly and migrate
You are lost in deep thoughts Back in time, up in the constellation
Looks like you made a long solo trip Deep in bliss, lost in future
Like a bar-tailed godwit’ 
I asked my beloved. They keep on talking
When I am awake and asleep
She continued her meditating trance When I cry, laugh, sigh
Smiled, showing her soul, When I bleed, break, breathe 
And finally landed on earth.
One part of my soul
‘When we are silent And one part of your soul’
One part of my soul
And one part of your soul
Start a beautiful conversation
Holding our hands

About the Author

Ranjith Sivaraman is from Kerala, a beautiful state in India.
He is a literature lover and fan of Poetry. Even though
he read poetry most of his life, he started writing very
recently. He is an ardent fan of Sara Teasdale, Sylvia Plath,
and Dorothy Parker.

151

I CAN TELL
NO-ONE, EXCEPT

THIS POEM

by Susan C. Waters

Age is Creeping Toward Me There are so many other cards:
the master magician, the ballerina,
Like the Old Maid the balloon man, the lady clown,
in a children’s deck of cards, the laughing lion, and the perfectly
it was hidden, going round and round trained seal balancing a red ball
the table until the last card: on its nose.
a dowdy, with a misshapen hat.
The little girl etching
Like a spider web her name on the frost-filled
not seen on a morning walk, window still doesn’t understand.
it was brushed away
quickly.

It is like a fisherman’s net
hauling from the sea
all that life
which gasps at
the surprise of it.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

I can tell no-one, except this poem Driving through the Hunter’s Moon Night

I would forgive all 1.
forget all If I held my hands out to the hunter’s moon,
to have you next to me they would seem empty
again. You have disappeared but even after prodigious soap,
into the longest night, are lost long bath, and two hours of driving
in uncharted waters. through the night’s cindered landscape,
Fathom a love like this: our lovemaking is still in my skin,
deprived of your body, giving back silhouettes of what we held.
my most intense wish
is to see you in a dream. Of the rules of this earth
this is one: heat rises, ascends,
About the Author so our lovemaking joins the scents
which from the first
Susan Waters started out as a journalist were heaven-bound: tasseling corn,
covering hard news in upstate New York August’s rasping field, unnamed
and for 13 years was a magazine editor burning grasses,
and writer. Her publishing credits are the grain in the neighboring barn.
extensive. She has won 10 prizes in poetry
and has been nominated twice for the Push 2.
Cart Prize in Poetry. Her chapbook Heat All our hurtling toward each other—
Lightning was published in 2017 by Orchard over state lines, against all measurements,
Street Press. Currently, she is Professor all which is contained:
Emeritus at New Mexico Junior College. miles, speed limits, hours—
to be alone in one room
could have only become a
collision of two bodies,
our attempt to defy physics’ canon:
no two bodies can occupy the same space
no

matter the velocity at which they approach.
Only the night’s starry dome
stayed in one place
as we tried for hours to displace the space
between us in one small bed.

153

SOMETHING IS
HIDING

by Sharon Lopez Mooney

The hint

She stops mid step caught by a taught line of memory
it runs along the skin of her collar bone where his
fingers barely touched, so delicate, so sacred were
his feelings for her, she remembers

His hungry hands almost caressing her cheek but holding back
as though a real touch would shatter the wonder and pleasure
they shared for months folding into years wildly
loving and hiding, chasing and fighting

They were a gift of something new, love turned right side out,
under threat now by forces claiming his loyalty, his duty,
he longs to stay, but the misspoken promises, misshapened
roles he escaped from call for his return.

Her eyes have not wavered from his face, his eyes reach
to slam shut the stinging demands of voices and echoes, but they
cannot be silenced. He pulls away, releasing his longed for dream
a man turned thirty years older in the choice his feet make.

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Revista Literária Adelaide
Stepping into 5 am

Bahia San Carlos, Mexico

Silence
belongs here
not just quiet, lack of sound but stillness
deep within everything turning, tuning together.
Across on buoys bobbing at shoreline, even seagulls have stopped squabbling
as night seasons the air with its massive hold, the full moon of January relieves
the stars of their guard posts for a while longer.
The silver globe dazzles its bold shimmer onto the sea adding to moon light, but
even a double moon does not move the pitch of night
reaching deep into the sky invoking stars, spreading flat against the water
allowing mysterious dark sea life to have its way for a few hours more.
I slip into shadow of night with brimming mountains, a few lit homes on far shore
lavish moon radiance, hushed waters, and three panga boats fishing close in, two
with dim lanterns held in shadowy bows, one simply working in deep trust
of the full moon’s promise.
I draw in my breath matching this dense moment, Have I seen a painting of this?
Is the embodied, slow motion of time and solitude what draws me into
this composition with three fishermen whose lives are built of salt and waiting?

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

My folks had private morning rituals

Squatting onto the toilet, she relaxed
reached into the seersucker robe’s pocket for her pack
her hard thin lips closed around a Pall Mall cigarette,
paper match from, where? Oh yeah, Luigi’s last week for dinner.
The cup sloshes hot creamy coffee on her bare leg
as she moves to her first deep inhale of the day,
smoke curls from her lips in no hurry, this is her time.
The Sun-Times, right size to fit across her knees, unfolds
headlines, comics, politics, her day’s take on the Chicago world.
Inhaling, enjoying the rush to her lungs like a first love
she exhales through her nose and grunts disapproval
of what they’re doing to her city, her lake front memoir,
not like when she lived there. Having come for the ‘dream’
from a small farm town with grass between its toes.
It had become her city, and when he showed up she recognized
her ticket to stay, and he was just her type to boot. A knock,

Dorothy, I’m going to tie some flies
before we head to the store.
Uh hmm. I’ll be down.
And that was the last time they spoke
before he shot a hole through his brain and into their lives.

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The elevator’s secret Revista Literária Adelaide
So many ways to lose your heart

Jostling together with literacy conference He drank strong, black coffee
women dedicated to midwifing before it was in every corner shop
equality in language education smoked camel cigarettes
riding down to breakfast from 12 to 44 when he died of them.
we stopped at floor five
We grew up in celluloid
I felt their unconscious, silent holding of breath decades when strong, silent types
as the opening of doors revealed smoked, did not quite follow the rules
a young black man waiting to board, and wore the sexy aroma of rogue honor.
facing frozen white women with
instinctively tightened down bodies, bent He and I were young, fresh sponges
minutely forward, prepared. ready to believe easy dreams,
The young professional, paused mid step ride audacity with the heroes
cautiously looked up, facing us with across the silver screen of our future.
a smile Good Day, assuring us
we were not in danger. They sold us two models, one the
straight arrow guy, and another
My heart still echoes with shame the sexy, rule bending lover
mortified remembering who was our technicolor in
he knew he must enact this scandalous the black & white 50’s.
ritual with white women again
and again. He knew We rode the dream to the end of Easy Rider
what to do, too many times he’d crossed when we too fell off, we grew
this secret unspoken border of fear, up with our children
he knew the fact would be denied if pointed to, but we all paid a terrible price
they know not what they do... for our early trust
As he stepped into the chasm in the sexy illusions packaged
between him and us, and sold for profit.
I wanted to break the tension, point to it
make us concede, be ashamed at ourselves,
bridge the painful dishonor between our ideals
and learned patterning in our muscles.
(continued – no stanza break)

My brain screamed, think of something!
as the doors whispered open and he was out,
my opportunity to change the world slipped
out behind him in his gentle downdraft.
It was hushed as we stepped out, they knew
something had happened with that man
but not what.

157

THE SEVENTH
DREAM

by Byron Hoot

A Moveable Meditation had stopped. Walked to the porch,
opened the door, stepped in.
It is the kind of day best taken n “Home,” I thought as if I was saying, “OM.”
inside a truck – heat on, wipers Caught
against the windshield, There are moments I would
and the rain and leaves falling visit again.
in unison but not of equal parts – The changing nature of time says,
maybe a hundred raindrops for “I give what is not what
every leaf all day long so a lot fell, has been.”
long enough to make contemplation I lament this fact,
a conclusion of the day cast the net for a memory
there inside the truck: I assume full
a kind of moveable meditation of gaps so between then
hall, the slightest warmth and now I create details
just enough to soften hard to fill in.
thoughts giving them the opportunity I know how a story longs
to leave. for completeness.
The rain was cold and the air I admit I’m chasing an echo,
getting colder. the ghost of a touch,
The heart was warming the way it will a moment whose jagged
when given a chance. edges were smooth.
The afternoon disappeared; I know what time says
I pulled into the driveway, is true; I know what my heart
glad I had turned the furnace wants to do – as always
on a couple days before. I am caught between the two.
Stopped. The wind and rain
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After the Whirlwind Revista Literária Adelaide
The Seventh Dream

The echo of the whirlwind confused The seventh dream eluded me
the timing of when God’s voice and in so doing the other six
was heard. Get real. Those 33 questions were lost as I pursued what left
Job never heard out of that whirlwind no sign but echo.
nor their response hearing in fear My hearing isn’t what it once
the stillness now more terrifying was and so what I thought
since it carried the whispered, I had gained from the first six
measured voice of God, the was lost in pursuit of what
metaphors of eternal my grasp could not touch.
life accessible as only desperate It felt so real that fantasy
hearing can receive in the afterglow was the only word I had for what
of such a storm. had been before it called me by name.
Now, I am in the wilderness,
The majesty and multiplicity my compass spinning, two moons,
of life leaves no stone unturned, two suns one in each quadrant
no depth nor height not explored, of the sky,
refusing no story – no beginning, middle, my feet above the ground, I leave
end ignored. no track for my return; all water is a bridge
Some writer who could not bear what was to the other side – I am not returning.
being written confused the sequence to And I do not know if I am remembering
distract the divine metaphor of facts. the echo or hearing it again
We all know after a storm truth comes only that I’m lost with the promise
to be found.
in a whispered form of longing.

About the Author

Byron Hoot was born and raised in Morgantown, West
Virginia, lived there until he went to college – a twelve-
year excursion. Now he lives in northwestern Pennsylvania
. . . still in Appalachia. He has recently had poems in The
Watershed Journal, Tobeco Literary Arts Journal, on www.
northsouthappal.com./appalachian-literature.html. and in
Pennessence. He is a co-founder of The Tamarack Writers
(1974) and The Fernwood Writers Retreat (2019). Proprietor
of Hootnhowlpoetry.com.

159

NET WORTH

by Sam Barbee

Deadly Sin #8

I confront the White Bull of the page
–Earnest Hemingway

My cherry blood thuds against good judgment.
Recollection of that begrudged learned lesson
bouncing toward intuition. No reason or verse
to choose either traveled road – wind low, the season right.

Garland of tolerable routines, inside a dream of what might
have been when an alternative was clear, and clean.
I have confronted it, rhetoric from id’s counsel – whispering
clever truth, nimble within my knocks and knacks.

Midnight fits and fidgets gnaw down words,
and settle nothing; though I thwart the slang
and outlive vernacular, the heroic stains matter.
There are gilded options that skirt my habits.

There are second natures that I outlast
for the instant when no reaction rings wrong.
Cathartic and comfy, I push color onto a bleached canvass.
Release myself into a cauldron of voices.

The white bull’s pale stare now flush with choices.

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Net Worth Revista Literária Adelaide
Dissolve

Tracks and tannins begin the argument: Monarch’s threshold.
something did happen here. Cocoon to pupa, now imago.
Wails to stay relevant. Wings flurry to migration’s call.
Birds climb from urban gloom, Wither curls seeds.
pump against mortality and pinions.
Stark day gives way to sunshower.
Sycophants emerge from castles Thunder crushes rainbow –
trimmed with eerie parapets. Pigeons skitter. unholy swipe strips its halo.
Sidewalks of faces chase sweetbread and wine Dilutes glory. Shadows aureole.
with good sons and daughters mingling
unlike a photo: colorized, Meadow parch erased.
Thin glimmer mists the trees.
sepia, or flushed with light. Uncertain sanctuary refreshed.
Accounts should stay pure, Forest laments, more sky than bark.
nothing taken to heart. Nothing infused.
Only newspapers and wrappers. Sundown deepens caves,
Busses heave and chant stilted epistles diffuses crevice and stream.
Dusk transitions breeze and blend.
along the ridge, toward No horizon. No verticals.
brimming neighborhoods
where another wallowed day will be notched. Dark unisons coalesce. Liminal flight,
by souls who stumble on vows. Accounts orange and black, flutter south.
never preoccupied with clarity, abstaining Moonbeams. Sublime stars
from conclusions. Chandeliers are its depravity. above peaks. Migrations. Dissolve.

The waning weep, illuminated by lampposts,
naked at bay windows. Tonight’s bright moon
smaller than remembered, like a divine sea.
Strife as punctuation. Pleas and prayers.
New money steaming just ahead.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Sweet Tooth

A good southern boy, I stood straight.
Learned silence. Completed elementary
school lessons in marbled notebooks.
Respected elders,

was polite to neighbors.
My Mom romanced me to dreamland
by the song of Uncle Remus.
I giggled myself to sleep
at mischief of Brer Rabbit
and Gray Fox.

By daylight,
I was treated with chocolate candy,
stiff pink gum, 6 oz. cola drinks.
My favorite delight came
in a white cardboard box:

Tar Babies,
bought from the white clapboard
corner store on 1st and Church Streets.
The dark brown figures had
arms and legs

folded against the body.
A wicked problem:

first I would bite
off the head. Never notice molded ears
or shucking smile.

Sweetness gnashing
between my teeth,

juice curdling
under my tongue.

This dark caramel
cultivated cavities,

each a to-be-ignored pain
activated by the candy’s molasses.

Now,
every morning, I stare into molar amalgams:
silver overlays enameling excavated decay.
Also gaps where teeth too-far-gone for repair
became simple extractions, unlike other regrets
and fissures begotten with subversive rewards.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Southern Exodus

Six decades to recognize their systems, and trysts of hate.
Poisoned fruit trees and dark-road abattoirs.
To pursue the marvelous path, I must break down
doors of my fathers’ forced-heritage. Break open
rusted gates, hung off fluted posts lynched
on devious hinges.

I tried to roll with the foul,
wink away the profane, walk it all off, but now
I decipher their language, and push back to suffer
as the few suffer. Plead pardon for past crimes.

The good shout has slept beneath my timid tongue.
Each must condone new stance with fawn-eyed freedom,
overcome the meager, and the crouch. Accept red-blooded
blue lights at the corner. Intercept dissention with justice.
Accept tainted condolences.

Both hands belong to the body.
I willingly sacrifice the finger to spare my hand. Accept
an ugly self, but still able to distinguish the beautiful:
loosen the grip, and surrender the fist.
Eye blessing eye.

My departure puts rusty cans and empty boxes in storage.
Fear whispers it cannot part with them. I will leave
the bookshelf empty. Straighten the catty-cornered and askew.
Stand a new ladder against the cross, ascend to the rose’s heart.
Thou shall not solely rely on divine deliverance –
rejoice in healing the self.

I will strap my epistle
to the Dove’s foot to inform distant counties. Or cork
my polemic in a bottle and toss it into lowest tide’s
white-capped fury.

Yes, my prayer may remain unread.
Or return in the smooth hand of a savior, a new voice –
in persona of a sailor, or pirate, or another
thirsty fisherman,

bearing treasure, sharing fresh fruit.
We will sing a song together of Land Ho! A tune

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

deadened ears ignore. Drink from a fresh spirit,
toast the holy charm and rapture on joy’s ocean
where I swim into daybreak’s diversity, and know . . .

I want this.

About the Author

Sam Barbee poems have appeared Poetry South, The NC Literary Review, Crucible, Asheville
Poetry Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology VII: North Carolina, Georgia Journal, Kakalak,
and Pembroke Magazine, among others; plus on-line journals Vox Poetica, Sky Island Journal,
Courtland Review and The New Verse News. His second
poetry collection, That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53),
was a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of
North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016. He was
awarded an “Emerging Artist’s Grant” from the Winston-
Salem Arts Council to publish his first collection Changes
of Venue (Mount Olive Press); has been a featured poet on
the North Carolina Public Radio Station WFDD; received
the 59th Poet Laureate Award from the North Carolina
Poetry Society for his poem “The Blood Watch”; and is a
Pushcart nominee.

164

KETTLE

by Pernille AEgidius Dake

Our Faker, who art in the chalk-white House,
pumped is thy name, crumbly is your fame.
From thy sand trap, thy will be done to what’ll be left of Earth in the name of whatever pops into

your mind, and in half-a-sentence is contradicted.
Give your gopher-lawyers, -bankers, -directors, -secretaries, -executives, and -son-in-law cake,
and pardon their jail time,
while we suffocate in your trespasses.
Up to our necks in your manipulations, we endeavor to respect our fellow man—even you—
while Senators and House Representatives interpret your Executive Orders like ambulance

chasers—giving new meaning to R-rated—
as you lead the country as with the swipe of a comb-covered rug.
Tweets deliver viral lies about numbers, by number, any number, anytime:
Freeze funding for WHO, disregard Clean Water, exit NATO, make Meadows mime, choke

healthcare, change staff like they’re your briefs—no, not even that kind of briefs—
hype Goya, shrink national parks, devour school resources, bar honest Geoffrey
Berman, abuse abortion, extend pipelines, defile the air, withhold taxes, warp
operations, and grope around in the coffer of those already deprived.
Thine is a rosy kingdom rising still on our fall, your glory having glared
in the eyes of approximately 63 million US citizens—
by your estimation, that’s practically the whole nation.
“Never again,” it was said of W, who now has earned his wings and sainthood.
Vulgarian, your face is unmasked:
what a menace.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Kettle

Look who’s calling the kettle black:
steaming and streaming more hullaballoo-doo-doo:

Crying wolf over the Iranians and the Reds,
but feeling good on steroids,
while the rest of us with less health insurance choke on the COVID blues.
Operation Warp Speed as warped as anything constructed in a sand trap,
and delivered from a crack in the kettle-cooked-to-a-crisp-orange façade—
a tan mere shades lighter than those who must migrate by darkness.
Their beans got the trumped-up thumbs up,
their families the Roman thumbs down.

Self-serving lip-service
blurs blowjobs and job-numbers,
transatlantic trade wars and trouncing on transgender citizens,
what WHO is and who he think he is,
colorful language and those of color.
So let them drink bleach:
maybe, he doesn’t know, maybe it’ll turn them white.

When very very very bad world markets boil over,
and looting leads to shooting,
locking women up is just more locker room talk.
But, that’s yet again another kettle of fish,
made smaller by the small screen;
storms in teacups core constituents opine,
blinded by supreme supremacy and the self-polished halo
of a single-manned kettle of vultures.

About the Author

Pernille AEgidius Dake is a finalist for Glimmer Train Press’s
New Writer Award as well as December’s Curt Johnson
Prose Award and has been published in Skirt!, Meat for
Tea: The Valley Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Dime
Show Review, Glassworks Magazine, and elsewhere. She
is an MFA candidate in Writing at Vermont College of Fine
Arts.

166

X FILES

by Alan Berger

X Files She thinks she’s a fox

I got a cat that’s dead Instead of the toilet
I got a girlfriend instead She uses a litter box
Now I got a lumpier bed
When she gets sick
An abundant woman I take her to the Vet
Short of brains and bread Every other day
She throws away her cigarettes
She had a song inside her
No one could play I appreciate the effort
She had a dragon inside her That she tries to replace my pet
No one could slay Her being a human
If the games you played with her Is my only regret
Did not not go her way
She would pick up her marbles I already know
And call it a day I never go with the flow
A drastic situation with nowhere to go
The bills she sent me I would gladly pay
After the tearful thanks In my head town
I still could not get her to stay All roads lead down
Sometimes you’re happy just
to get what you can All my aims
As I realized with her you’re in a foreign land Turn into reservations
Bereft of a passport All the motions That I file
In either hand Become hesitations at the bottom of the pile

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Standing on the corner

Ringing a bell And if so
The gutters and the sewers know me too well What did ye do with it?
Ringing that bell till end of my time
My love and charm turn on a dime Been in a million hard fistfights
All of them in my soft head
Did you know I never reap what I sew? Not a lover nor a fighter
I thought so That’s what she said

Letting it out May take on an imaginary friend
When receiving the word One that would surely make me sing
Sounds like the confessions But the memory of the past
Of a Cuckoo bird Is usually better than the present real thing
Steady as a weathervane
Forthright and uptight But then again and again
In the wind and rain Here is the thing
Who ever knows?
It was a dark and stormy night What the future may bring
Letting it known
Wherever I am blown So stay far way, close, loose, and tight
I inhabit a dead zone Anything is possible
Anything can take flight
Have you ever had
An original thought? Rock with the punches
Maybe a bright idea Roll with the knocks
And I mean something anything well lit Where the fuck, did I put that litter box?

About the Author

Alan Berger has two films on Netflix that he wrote and
directed and over fifty short fiction and poetry pieces
published since 2018 He lives in West Hollywood with the
memory of his beautiful cat.

168

A SWELL GUY

by Omar Reyes

86’d everything sounds better on vinyl

i don’t write i’m not sure how i got here
anymore instead i use it was most likely a pathetic night as per ush
emojis and eating vanilla ice cream
post cat filtered selfies with approvingly on an empty twin bed
categorized stylish while watching the two pretty actresses
corpses who dream of finding on the computer screen
love behind black eating each other out
mirrors to satisfy the façade i am one hundred and
forced upon by the sixty-nine point seven percent sure
giant glitch this is what sparked it
which gnaws away at i took another dig on an empty human
our core persistently with basic taste in music
till our bones spread out and i’d blame mom and dad for this
take new shapes but i’ve come to the conclusion
and what’s left of the original that that is for pussies
is erased and replaced with an all and besides there’s nothing wrong
new incoherent raising your kid knowing how to groove
pleasure wrapped appropriately and baby do i know how to groove
to not offend the intolerable i groove so hard i once buried my heart
tolerables somewhere in an old lover’s backyard
with a hole right in the middle
punctured by red stilettos
hell will never know misery like i do
but i continue to hang my hopes up high
happily delusional for the girl
who’ll eventually let me eat her ass out
while listening to gershwin’s
rhapsody in blue

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I’m ready to be cool, again, Frankenstein

everyone smiled right before they blew their brains out because it was all one big haha. a scripted
reality with a really bad punch line at the end. i rammed my car into your garage hoping to feel
something. or maybe it was to grab your attention. in school they promised me someone else’s
dream. but i hung myself with pornography and became a nuisance instead. sometimes i wonder
about that dream. i wonder what chasing boring might look like. converting into a predictable brain
eater with two happy brats and a miserable loving wife. inside a big house surrounded by more
predictable brain eaters. blasting lead right into the center of the dream. in exchange for large thick
nails hammered right into the center of my hands for approximately eight hours a day for the rest
of my life. excluding weekends. and only finding solace while taking a shit. but also really having
a hard time taking one because of irony. and finally having that specific part of my brain, the one
that never shuts the fuck up, and always insists on behaving erratically, be choked to death and
stomped on. but then i remember what the great socrates once told me, “you can’t turn a hoe
into a housewife,” and i get my priorities straight. like sliding into my crush’s dms every time she
posts a thirst trap with her tight jean shorts strangling the shit out of her ass and ask if she wants
to rub denim together because, isn’t that what love really is all about? rubbing denim together
and creating memories and stories to share with all your future granddoggies and grandkitties. like
the time you took me to a funeral because the food tasted better. or the time my heart began to
beat again after you told me you wanted to cut my right ear off while listening to stealers wheel’s,
“stuck in the middle with you.” or the time you made me hold your purse like a bitch while you
were in the dressing room not trying on lingerie. i guess i’ve always been way over my head when
it came to love. a hopeless romantic constantly falling for someone new every week. always falling
for the ones with basic taste in movies. i once stuffed a sock in my underwear because i overheard
a girl say she wanted a man from one of those movies with seven sequels about racing with a
big penis and an ipad pro. i had neither except a sock and a vast understanding of the universe
and an obsession for the sex stallion of science, carl sagan. my roommate raymond carver once
told me, “can you just stop talking about love, please!” i told him i just wanted a babe who owns
lots of candles and places hexes on her exes and who’ll accept all twenty-seven versions of me
without running away. no more heartbreaks. no more sad songs. ok, maybe, some sad songs.
from now on we hold hands. we eat good. we fuck good. and only watch movies with subtitles.

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a swell guy Revista Literária Adelaide
The Complicit Middle Ground

this dog has been mutilated and gutted hate came easy to good
in turn has become obnoxious and a recluse consuming patriots
a natural cynic satiated brain
his love is an abattoir eaters with vacant hearts
and he’s easily incensed confined to meaningless cycles
a propensity for bunkum and still fighting a war
contention they lost over
a pretentious fool who believes every a century ago
thought he has is ineffable still afraid of the bogeyman taking
odious to be around with away the things
but in the end this dog has they stole
eyes that still hold light so they hide behind red lines
is sick but not ill and practice the illusion
and more importantly, still able to wipe of peace
his own ass with their backs turned to the
trails of blood that’s kept
their fat faces stuffed
skin melting
their knees dropped
while the snake oil man stretches his legs
inside their homes and
dims all the lights
force feeding them the cancer
they’ll pass down and spread to
all the giants whose shoulders they stand on

About the Author

Omar Reyes is from Miami, Florida. He is a published
creative writer and an award-winning indie filmmaker. As
a member of Backyard Cinema Club, two music videos he
worked on were awarded at the 2018 Miami Beach Film
Festival and as a writer some of his work has been featured
in Horror Sleaze Trash, Your One Phone Call, 48th Street
Press 2018 Broadside Series, Adelaide Voices Literary
Contest of 2018 and a few others.

171

COFFEE AND BEANS

by John Dorroh

Daydreams, Day-drinking, and Dingoes”

1.
The red dirt in Australia looks like clown lipstick.
The tour guide places his cap upside down on the steps
from the belly of the inside of the misplaced shark of a bus.
I see him drop a fiver inside before he lets the first victim
step over it into the parched desert sand.

2.
Meanwhile, they pass laws in Washington state
enforcing bans on plastic straws. I see a senator place
his cap upside down on the steps from inside the Capitol
onto the imported grass; place inside a one-hundred-dollar bill.
The tour guide pushes the first visitor down the steps
at breakneck speed. He needs his straws for sipping protein
drinks in the hospital bed. He begs for soda. The nurse tells
him how bad it is for the body. He doesn’t need a lecture, please.

3.
A pack of dingoes surrounds our bus. They jump as high
as window levels, showing sharp, white teeth. This is not
what I paid for.

4.
Escapees sit in cool confines, sipping red wine from Queensland
and martinis under cancer-blocking screens, indigenous lizards
scaling the sides of the restaurant walls. There are spiders
as big as the back on my hand; hungry crocodiles surfacing in the pool;
and neurotic kangaroos spinning dust storms with their powerful tails.

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5.
Meanwhile, I want to dive from the 3-meter board, spinning my body
like a an rogue missile, up, up into the sky, pushing my jowls into the air
from proper perspective. My coach says no, that I will have unpaid hospital
bills and a sense of over-accomplishment. I spread the towel in the front
seat and plant my wet body into position like a seed in rich, dark soil.

“I French Kissed Winter in the Mouth”

I moved to the Ozarks in the autumn, my eyes. They all
just before my throat closed for the dead say that that happens, and it
of winter. It saved my soul. really does, and it makes
me feel like I’m on a roller
The stairs of my new two-bedroom coaster – the hills and dips
apartment in a four-story Victorian house with fast blood being slung to
sits of the lip of a cliff, 400 deadly feet the top of my head.
down into a ravine of rock and unidentified I long to be in bed with you.
vegetation which would absorb blood like
a sponge. I am on the third I was lonely on some nights and that was fuel
floor with a panoramic for the fire. I warmed my bed with a cat and
view of the knobs of hills that and extra blanket. We woke
wear canopies of trees at 3 AM to the sound
like house slippers. of sleet and ice hitting the
balcony and suddenly
The first night I finally got to sit in my recliner I was snug and warm and opened the curtains
and look out the window, I saw the fog moving to see the ice accumulating on
in over the tops of golden leaves like a robber the burgundy wood.
in the middle of the night. My spine tingled I saw your face out in the trees,
for the first time in months. I sat and cried your eyes full of frozen
because it was so beautiful. I am old and set tears. It was good.
and open and wet. I never
knew this side of me.

Winter moved in viciously as
fast as an automobile
accident. My life flashed before

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“Coffee & Beans” Adelaide Literary Magazine
“A Near Lick-and-Run at Walmart”

The essence of camping out can be Teenage boy in Walmart,
epitomized with cowboy coffee and (bastions for truly terrible events)
a big pot of beans. Until you take LSD standing by the frozen treats,
and reach the very highest plane of existence, peering inside, then looking
understand every detail of everything ever back at the head of the aisle
put on the planet Earth, and fall to a new low to see a teenage girl, poised
after shitting in your pants, falling in the mud, like a ballerina with phone
and presenting yourself before in recording position. I take
a woman and her my time. I am a curious sort.
two children walking out of Is it going to be a case
the campsite bathroom of lick-and-run? What flavor
on their way to church. That’s when you know I wonder? Ice cream or gelato?
that you may have hit your lowest low. A Mrs. Edwards pie perhaps?
They are getting impatient with
me, I can tell. Tough stuff I say
under my breath. Three can play
this game.

I scam the frozen items like I
have a built-in code scanner.
I have all day. I can pretend
I’m a Secret Shopper. The girl
sighs loud enough for me
to hear. The guy looks at me
with disgust. “Can’t make up
your mind?” I quiz. “Go away!”
he demands. “Not gunna. Can’t
make up my mind.”

There are visible butt cracks on Aisle 4
and a woman covered with pit bull
tatts and dirt house slippers between us
now. I tell Bev, the associate manager,
that she should watch those two teens
because they are gonna do a lick-and-
run, I just know they are. She looks
puzzled and asks me what she’s
supposed to do. I shrug. “I dunno,
You get the big money. Now place
your bets.”

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“Breakfast of Champions”

Breakfast is a way to trick your body into thinking
it’s still alive. And needs attention and yogurt. Or
waffles with thick strawberry sauce. Sausage and
bacon does not clog your arteries. Your brain does
that; coagulates far-out fiction into hard-core
reality, making you think that the doctor’s orders
are law.

Breakfast is for meeting in diners with
bad acoustics and unraveling your plans, yelling
at strangers across a sea of tables that you are moving
across the country; to reveal that you are adopted
and that your new family needs you to share in their
drama. I like the regularity with which the server rounds
the corner table, balancing three platters, four half-empty
glasses, and a pot of black, robust coffee, asking
you for the fourth time if you’d like a refill.

Breakfast for Jesus, I’ve heard, was honey and
locust, protein and carbs for performing all those
miracles. He didn’t need an energy shake, or
cage-free eggs, or a fancy-ass latte. He didn’t
need fat-free milk or Eggs Benedict, no orange
juice or bacon. He just made up his mind
that today was gonna be a good day, that he
had a backlog of things to accomplish, started
early, and didn’t quit until the cock crowed
at sunset.

My breakfast is becoming a god. I dream
about it and pray over it and swallow it with
complete abandon. It starts my day with a punch
and solves my problems for at least two glorious hours.

About the Author

Whether John Dorroh taught any secondary science is still being discussed. However, he
managed to show up every morning at 6:45 for a couple of decades with at least two lesson
plans and a thermos of robust Colombian. His poetry has appeared in about 75 journals,
including Dime Show Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Os Pressan, Feral, Selcouth Station,
and Red Dirt Forum/Press. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.

175

THE WORD

by Eve Rifkah

The Word Caw

The word fell into a vat of words When you called
The vat so full sometimes a word 3 crows landed in the maple
Spills over and is lost then there were 5
from one a feather fell
The word drifts down through other words drifted down - no flight
Mingles and shifts lone pinion 
Letters rub off I picked up
Letters are added
The word meets friends I once was blind 
Holds hands becomes conjoined but now can see
Takes on other meanings
Lost meanings sweet Jesus you can
count on me 
When friendships break apart
The joined word becomes two again feather here beside me
Moves in circles everything in its place
Becomes part of treaties yet never all right in the world 
Ideas   love
Sometimes thrown against a hard wall where shall they go to dine today
Of hurt and shame the squirrel flayed at the end of the street
Sometimes becomes a blanket or the skunk stinking down the hill?
Of comfort and shelter they lift and fly straight as…

The word is happy in the vat away
The word is sad in the vat
The word tries to be good now down on my knees
Yet sometimes sometimes where the blue rug ends
That is just too hard and a white cord attaches to a brown
there they are
my glasses swept by a hand’s tide
found

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Driftwood

Bare limbs twist and stretch
along this edge of spume
bones buffeted by winds
a gull feather spindled torn
bark ridged in perfect vee
some piled like bodies in photos
fleshless bones stacked hard
in one, empty eyes and a hand raised
there is no forgiveness

Here on a vast blue day
my body alive leans on wood burnished smooth
a gull and another, movement outside my breath

The blink of my eyes
slower than the waves
I close to colored spots moving
away and back again and again to center

Here my blood courses warm
my limbs still hold me upright
leaning on long sapless branches
my eyes gaze to horizon
over the fine line between sky and sea

About the Author

Eve Rifkah was co-founder of Poetry Oasis, Inc. (1998-2012), a non-profit poetry association
dedicated to education and promoting local poets. Founder and editor of DINER, a literary
magazine with a 7-year run. MFA Vermont College. She is author of “Dear Suzanne” (WordTech
Communications, 2010) and “Outcasts the Penikese Leper Hospital 1905-1921” (Little Pear
Press, 2010). Chapbook “Scar Tissue”, (Finishing Line Press, 2017), “At the Leprosarium” 2003
winner of the Revelever Chapbook Contest. Single poems have appeared in many journals.

177

SOFTLY ABOVE

by Roger Singer

Softly Above PERFECT DAY

the last clouds of day your footprints
are rooms over in sand
the ocean, a path
curtains of moisture a beginning
reabsorbed, as waves turn
exposing a over the ankles
a carpet of stars, touched by
glistening sweetness blue green
nourished by angels fluid diamonds
as we trespass blessing the
beneath heaven presence of
merging spirits
WET threaded within
the circles
rainy city walked into
gray on gray
black streets 178
clouds pressed low
shoulders in the mist
each puddle
a fluid fingerprint
reflecting
jagged photos
of windowed people
and overbearing
buildings

INTERVIEWS



LIBBY BELLE

Author of The Juicy Parts
and Other Quirky Stories

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not
find in the official author’s bio?

I am naturally young at heart and frankly, I forget my age. There are times when I feel an-
cient, intuitively aware of myself before and after. I feel the closest to purity in the gloaming,
at dawn, and when my loved ones smile. I believe in good as an energy that never dies. I
adore laughing. I dream wildly in color and much too often. I have a propensity for quirky
people and unabashed optimism. And if I keep going, this could turn into a confession.

2. D o you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

1994: I wrote a cute article for parents about letting go of their graduating senior, starting
with my own son who attended prom in a top hat, a funky red tux, and Mick Jagger shoes.
2012: My first story, a spin-off of Shirley Valentine, the movie, was published in a 107-year-
old magazine - Woman’s Weekly UK. They only accepted submissions by snail mail, and when
my story was all polished and published, they sent me copies in a brown paper package tied
up with string, I was in heaven. Yep, I had to go all the way to London and the mailbox to get
my first published story.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
The Juicy Parts and other quirky stories is the first of my four completed books of stories.
Many writers, including me, title their collections by one story within the book. Like the titles
of my upcoming books: Closet Love, Humble Fumble and Happy Hour Fools, what inspired
those titles, all depends on where my imagination takes me.

Over the years, short stories were not taken seriously. Novels were king. It was a total
thrill when not so long ago, stories were revived, and publishers began to welcome them.
Inspired by this new awareness and the Reader’s Digest when I was a teen, Adelaide Maga-
zine, and the short stories now pouring out from famous authors, I remain dedicated to the
little story I like to call the sidekick to a novel.

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4.  How long did it take you to write your latest work and how
fast do you write (how many words daily)?

It took me probably a year to write these 22 stories. I have over 100 stories, some songs and
poetry, all written in the past eight years. My writing times are kind of erratic, but I have
been known to write up to 8,000 words in a day. One of my favorite shorties I wrote on the
plane from Austin to Milwaukee.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

Writing fiction requires unusual habits. Observing people, places and things sparks my
imagination daily. I write at bars, coffee shops, picnic tables, in the car on the side of
the road, in a hammock, at airport gates, hotel lobbies, and even in the bathroom. I
get something fresh every time. I sleep well, so insomnia is not my excuse for this habit
– dreams wake me up in the middle of the night and send me hypnotically to my desk
where I write, and write until my feet fall asleep, and I quit just in time to watch the sun
rise.

6. I s writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize,
or is there more to your creativity than just writing?

Early on I wanted to become a character actress. I did my share of acting throughout my
school years. Now, I create crazy characters with my grandkids, and I go wild during Hallow-
een, as you can see in my photo collage. A chip off the old block, my parents composed many
songs, so I’ve dabbled in that, too. I have lovely musician friends and we gather and sing
together often. I spent years nuts over photography – I passed that on to my son who is now
an Austin celebrity with his photographic art and studio, Austin Art Garage. (Mom’s bragging
rights) I’m passionate about many things and love to freely promote non-profits (Balcones
Community Orchestra), local musicians and other writers.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?

I was influenced early on as a teen by Judith Viorst – It’s Hard to Be Hip Over 30. As a young
mother I was influenced by everything Erma Bombeck. Daniel Wallace, author of Big Fish
was the author that sent me soaring. He actually took the time to read one of my stories, and
lo and behold, he said exactly what I needed to hear, at just the right time. He has no idea
how much he influenced me with a few kind words.

8.  What are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

I’m always creating ideas – currently I’m entertaining putting together a collection of stories
from new Texas writers. My fantasy has been to turn my stories into screenplays with the
likes of John Hughes (bless his soul) and Peter Bogdanovich. I’d love to work with Nancy
Meyers, Somethings Gotta Give. Ya hear that, Nancy?

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9. D id you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

Oh sure, but I found that if I focus on that, I lose my tone, my creativity. People are so diverse
these days - and proud of it - in their thinking, their beliefs and how they live, I try not to
guess profiles. But I would say, probably mostly women over 30. I’ve had a few men friends
read my stories and cry. Quite a few have bought my book and are reading it now. The con-
sensus is still out.

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?
Don’t give up (if it’s truly your passion, you won’t anyway), don’t force, don’t stop trusting
yourself, and be smart about who you share with. I don’t give writer’s block much power. I
believe that it’s my subconscious telling me to rest and come back refreshed. Like when I’m
full from eating, and my body screams, “Hey fatty, you can stop now!” On the other hand, I
do believe writer’s block is a great excuse for having a glass of wine.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?
A very fine author told me this: The hardest thing to do as a writer is to find that thing that
makes you different from all the rest. But once you find it, you’re set for life.

12. H ow many books do you read annually and what are you
reading now? What is your favorite literary genre?

I’ve lost count of how many collections of short stories I’ve read by emerging and seasoned
authors. Novels? I just recently finished Enduring Love by Ian McEwan, Where the Crawdads
Sing, and I got a big kick out of Tom Papa’s Your Dad Stole My Rake. ALL FICTION!

13. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your writing?
What is the most important to be remembered by readers?

I want my readers to be entertained – purely and sweetly, that’s my goal. If by chance a
reader gets something more...say a message they needed, or a fresh idea, that’s the cherry
on top.

14. hat is your opinion about the publishing industry today and
about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?
I appreciate that there are so many avenues for emerging writers to get published now,
when before it was nearly impossible. It is admirable that Adelaide opened the door to ev-
eryone, and they seem to be determined to give new writers a voice. Bravo!

If you’re a writer that spends most of your free time writing, you might consider a pub-
lisher. Self-publishing is a full-time job and wearing all hats can put a damper on your creativ-
ity. But either way, new authors always have to work behind the scenes. It’s like parenting,
it never ends. Never!

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184

JUDY HOGAN

Author of BABA SUMMER I & II

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not
find in the official author’s bio?

I’ve been writing since I was seven years old and put to bed with rheumatic fever. I en-
tertained myself by reading and making up little stories. I loved books. This was during
World War two, and my father was in the Navy as a chaplain and serving in the Pacific.
Mother taught me at home and encouraged my writing. By age 10, I had decided to be a
writer. My father said I might have to be a teacher in order to make a living. I began a story
about twins captured by pirates. I never had trouble making good grades at school, and
in 1955 I was the Valedictorian of my small highschool. I graduated from the University of
Oklahoma in 1959 and went to NYC with friends. I received a Woodrow Wilson fellowship
for graduate school at Indiana University, but dropped out. Later, divorced, I entered grad
school in Berkeley, CA in Classics (Latin and Greek). I made good grades but failed the
prelims, and got married. I began a poetry mag in 1970 with a friend, Hyperion Poetry
Journal. I also began to publish more. My second husband and I moved to N.C. in 1971.
I’ve been here ever since. I started my own small press, Carolina Wren Press, in 1976, and
became chair of the national small press association, COSMEP, in 1975. In the 80s I helped
start the N.C. Writers Network and chaired it 1983-87. I’ve been teaching writing and of-
fering editing services since the 80s. I live now in a village, Moncure, in chatham County.
I’ve worked on Sister City Russian exchanges since 1990, and still keep in touch with my
Russian friends. Baba Summer Parts One and Two are records of those exchanges. In 1995
I was invited to teach at Kostroma Univeristy. Frost and Sun, Parts One and Two are about
that experience in 1995-6.

2. D o you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

My first poem was about being an adolescent. I was 13.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
My latest published book is: Baba Summer: Part Two.

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4.  How long did it take you to write your latest work and how
fast do you write (how many words daily)?

In the late summer, early fall, I began keeping a diary of my journey to Finland and Russia. I
was also in Wales and Holland for a time. I had about 4 months in Finland in a cottage and
worked then on turning the diary into one long book, Frost and Sun. I also worked on Baba
Summer, also originally one long book. Later I divided them into two parts. I was inspired by
my experiences and wanted to preserve a record of them.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?
Since the mid-70s, I have been writing in my diary every morning when I eat my simple
breakfast, usually toast and tea, now. I stopped drinking coffee a few years ago.

6.  Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize,
or is there more to your creativity than just writing?

I write poetry, usually a poem every Sunday morning, and I write essays, reviews, grant pro-
posals. I also teach writing, which also is a creative act. And I write mystery novels, 17 in print
now. 7 books of poetry.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?
Virginia Woolf, especially “A Room of One’s Own.” And To the Lighthouse.” Ezra Pound, espe-
cially ABC of Reading AND Personae.

8. W hat are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

I’m 83 now and writing a poetry book of 60 poems called Talking to Myself. I’m also keeping
a diary called Zinnia Garden.

9.  Did you ever think about the profile of your readers? What do
you think – who reads and who should read your books?

Most of my readers are women, many are or have been students. I put the poems on my
blog postmenopausalzest.blogspot.com and lately most of my readers live in Italy, for some
reason. I’m gettingreaders all over the world, e.g., United Arab Emirates. Who would have
thought? In Europe and Asia, Australia, Canada, U.S. etc, none in Africa so far.

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?
Read good books, write a lot, and Keep a diary.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?
Beyourself, be honest. Honesty may make the difference between being good and being great.

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12. H ow many books you read annually and what are you reading now?

What is your favorite literary genre?
This pandemic year I’ve read most of Trolllope’s Palliser and Barsetshire Novels. For my win-
ter writing classes, I’ve read the Poems of Francois Villon, and for the story (fiction/Memoir)
class, I read the book they’ll read: How the Light Gets In by Louise Penny. My favorite genre
to read is fiction, especially now the traditional mystery.
13. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your writing?

What is the most important to be remembered by readers?
I take up the subject of understanding people who are different. I myself have learned that
people everywhere are pretty much alike. I cross the color barrier, the barrier between rich
and poor, between old and young, etc. I hope they remember how many human problems
can be solved if we’re determined and persistent.
14. W hat is your opinion about the publishing industry today and

about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?
I recommend the small presses and literary magazines to new writers when they’re ready to
publish. It’s hard to get an agent, or a big publisher. I’m glad Adelaide Books is still publishing.
I hope it will for a long time to come.

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188

TIMOTHY RYAN DAY

Author of BIG SKY

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not
find in the official author’s bio?

I am in the process of forming an obsession with funghi. We just moved up into the moun-
tains. I am still a cautious forager, but I am becoming more and more interested in all the va-
rieties of mushrooms that grow on the mountainside. I’m really interested in the symbiosis
of the pine forests roots and the networks of funghi that connect them. At the moment this
just involves a lot of walking around in the woods an marveling at it all. After so many years
of urban living it feels a little like coming back to life.

2. D o you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

I was always writing something as a kid. Usually, I wrote strange stream of conscious poetry
that didn’t make much sense to anyone other than me. I have notebooks full of that sort
of thing. Occasionally it tried to become a narrative. Often about basketball, which I was
obsessed with as a kid. I don’t think I realized at the time that the poetry was practice for
what I would write later. It was just something I did. I drew more than I wrote. I had a picture
of Mikhail Gorbachev published in the local paper in Augusta, GA when I was in 5th grade I
think. The first thing I “wrote” was a short picture book about a young raccoon that needed
to avoid talking to strangers when I was 6 or 7. I think I still have it somewhere…

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
Big Sky is my most recently published book. It was inspired by the 1921 race massacre in
Tulsa, which had always been on the edge of my consciousness. I was born in Tulsa. My
brother, sister, dad, grandparents on both sides, and all my uncles and aunts spent most or
all of their lives in or near Tulsa. When my mom moved us to Chicago, I realized quickly how
exotic the South was to Northerners. Most people who grow up in the North never visit the
South other than Florida or maybe New Orleans. There are a lot of prejudices and miscon-
ceptions about what it means to be from the South. I had distanced myself from that part
of me, but when my father went into the hospital before he passed away, I went back for an
extended period. It had been probably 5 years since I had been to Tulsa or seen my family

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there. I was in a vulnerable state, reconnecting with the place, with my siblings, and mentally
preparing for the impending loss of our father. One day I left the hospital and went down to
Greenwood. I wandered the area that had once been this vital center of black wealth, this
place that had been called Black Wall Street, and saw almost nothing that even referenced
it. I went to the museum dedicated to the memory and wandered through the exhibits. The
event felt like it epitomized so much of the violence and misunderstanding that has marked
American life. I started writing almost immediately after my father’s funeral when I got home
to Madrid where I live and teach literature.

4. H ow long did it take you to write your latest work and how
fast do you write (how many words daily)?

Well, I started in 2012 and published in 2020, but that is not indicative of how long it took me
to write. I believe I was actively writing for the better part of 2012, then it sat on a shelf until
2018 when I was convinced to submit it. I edited during the quarantine between March and
July of 2020. I usually aim to write 2000 words a day. That is an aspiration more than a reality!
I get there at least 3 times a week I would say. I alternate between fiction and academic work.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

Writing is kind of an unusual habit in itself I think! The only thing that comes to mind is that I
am almost always, as I mention above, working on an academic and a creative project simul-
taneously, and the two tend to inform one and other. I have a book coming out with Rout-
ledge in January on Shakespeare and ecocriticism which very much informed the character
of Dr. Kane in Big Sky, for instance.

6.  Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize,
or is there more to your creativity than just writing?

I play guitar and write songs, but only as a hobby.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?

Where to begin… Right now my favorite book is probably Richard Powers’ The Overstory. I
am a big fan of Jeanette Winterson. Recently I have been reading Barry Lopez, Robert Mac-
farland, James Rebanks. I have been slowly working my way through Lucia Berlin’s stories.
Savoring them. I am a huge fan of Rebecca Solnit’s essays. Likewise Kathleen Jamie’s. I teach
Shakespeare and Milton, so they always find their way into whatever I am thinking about.

8. W hat are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

I have a novel in the works. I am about halfway through. I am also working on some journal
articles that will hopefully add up to a new academic book. I am hiking a lot too, so that has
led to a lot of nature writing which I hope adds up to something. I always have some poetry
in the works too. Poetry is, for me, the way in.

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9. D id you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

I am happy for anyone to read my work, but no, I don’t actively think about who I am writing
for… I probably should! I always tell my students to be aware of their audience. I suppose in
my academic writing there is a more finite awareness of the reader. With fiction, so long as
it’s not genre fiction, I think it is hard to have more than a sort of amorphous notion of the
consciousness that you would like to connect with. In the end, in my case anyway, I just hope
that someone connects, that it’s not a shout into the void.

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?
Write!

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?
Write!

12. H ow many books you read annually and what are you
reading now? What is your favorite literary genre?

As a literature professor I have to read quite a bit, but I am not sure I could put an annual
number on it. I am always reading 2 or three books. I like literary fiction, and non-fiction
dealing with the natural world. I read a lot of Early Modern drama and poetry, because that’s
what I teach.

13. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your writing?
What is the most important to be remembered by readers?

I hope that I am telling stories that speak to the connective tissue between humans and the
natural world. I want people to consider how narrative itself arises from nature. I want to get
at the idea that our bodies are encoded and textual.

14. W hat is your opinion about the publishing industry today and
about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?

I think you have to write the stories that come to you naturally and ignore the trends. A body
of work is bigger than any one book or story and that is something you build over a lifetime.

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192

NICK PADRON

Author of SOULS IN EXILE

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the official author’s bio?

My new book, as you know, is called Souls in Exile, a theme I know something about. I be-
came a political exile as a boy. My mother and I had to flee our homeland and settle in NYC.
One of the short stories in this collection, Dreaming in America, is based on my mother’s
experience during the early days. It wasn’t easy for her. Me, I felt like a New Yorker from
day one. I never really missed the old country. Adapting to the day to day in the early 1960s
was challenging, though. We came from a family of means; I went to the most expensive
school in the country. Yet, downgrading to a rented room, my mother and I sharing one
bed, wasn’t the worse part for me. Living in in New York’s Upper West Side and going to
school in Harlem—Amsterdam Ave. and 123 St.—that took some getting used to. Wanting
to fit wasn’t enough. Luckily, in time we moved to Queens where the streets were less
problematic. Then at fourteen, I met Lourdes and The Beatles came out on Ed Sullivan,
and that was it. Lourdes and I have been together since and I became a professional rock &
roller. For the next twenty years or so I played in groups, toured, wrote songs and recorded,
including a rock opera based on Carlos Castaneda’s books. In 1985, RCA Victor signed me
to make records in Spanish. That led me to Spain where television was undergoing a renais-
sance after Franco’s demise. The entire country and Madrid in particular were a perpetual
Fiesta in those days. I worked on major TV shows as bandleader and musical director. I
also got involved with scripts, wrote a handful of sketches, did interviews, performed on
camera.

The same way The Beatles were the catalyst to my becoming a musician, so was Gabriel
Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude to my writing. I found even more inspira-
tion reading and studying every book Hemingway ever wrote. After the turn of the century,
I transitioned from music to writing fiction as a personal decision.

My first beginner’s mistake was to attempt to write an epic novel for starters. I had just
finished reading War and Peace and set myself to rewrite the Cuban Revolution through the
eyes of three friends, each following a different destiny. Some quarter of a million words
later, I wisely abandoned the project. In the long run, I don’t regret it. It was a learning ex-
perience I couldn’t have obtained any other way. I learned important things in the process
besides modesty, such as the thrill of writing one good paragraph. It also brought me my first
published story.

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2. D o you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

My first published story, which is included in the Souls in Exile collection, was taken from a
scene in my unfinished Cuban epic. As it turns out, the sequence stands wonderfully on its
own. The narrative involves two characters, a young university student and a blind street
vendor who sells lottery bills in 1950s Havana. It was first published in 2003, and it’s been
published under the titles of “The Numbers Vendor” and “Thirteen” around fourteen times
since. The last time this year, 2020.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?

Souls in Exile is my first short fiction collection. The title sounds a bit darker than the stories in
it. Although they are poignant narratives with plenty of pathos, there is also a good share of
humor in them. What inspired this collection was its pedigree. Most of the titles in this book
have been successfully published in literary journals and anthologies, some multiple times.
It’s a collection that deserved to be available to the public as a single package and thanks to
Adelaide Books it is now a reality. There are new stories featured in this book as well, a novel-
la, a flash short, and a favorite of mine about a dishwasher who meets John Lennon.

4.  How long did it take you to write your latest work and how
fast do you write (how many words daily)?

How long does it take to write a story, a novella, a novel? A week that could last years, per-
haps. Hemingway used to count the number of words he wrote at each sitting. A habit that
came from his days as a journalist. Me, I’ve never been able to do that. I think it’s because I
work with a computer and because my artistic training comes from a different medium. My
approach is to shape the text into a narrative like a sculptor chips away at a stone. I subtract
words mostly. Reshape sentences. One lesson I learned from being a recording artist is a
song’s not finished until it’s pressed into a product and out in the world. The same with prose
writing: a work of fiction is not truly finished until it’s published (or sent out as a submission).

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

Writing is an unusual habit in itself, I think. At least for those of us who write for the need
and love of it. In a world where no one needs another book, too much gets in the way of any
writer. Creating prose requires an unusual amount of dedication and alone time. That need
brands you as an eccentric in many circles. The desire to be read might not be unusual in
itself, but the struggle for it is. Authors need a quiet place to work, no two ways about it. For
most people, choosing a solitary life is not normal.

6. I s writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize,
or is there more to your creativity than just writing?

As a professional musician, I’ve probably done just about everything you can do in the music
business. Composed words and music, TV and film soundtracks, made records, road tours,

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produced recordings for others. I’ve also tried my hand at video editing, even worked with
photoshop and created book covers for my first two novels. I’m a natural DIY, given the
chance. I was lucky in that, since my early twenties, I never had to get a day job. I’ve always
been involved in some kind of creative endeavor.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?

Consciously, not too many outside of Hemingway, Garcia Marquez, and Don DeLillo, writers
I have read their entire oeuvre. Unconsciously, probably more than I can name. Many books
have left their mark on my writing during certain periods of my life. Kerouac’s On the Road,
Bukowski’s novels, the classic Russians, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Dostoevsky. Joseph Conrad was/
is of special interest because we have one thing in common: we don’t write in our mother
tongue. A big number of novels have left strong impressions on me—The Great Gatsby, Var-
gas Llosa’s The Feast of the Goat, Camus’s The Stranger, too many to count. I’m a fan of many
Latin American novelists: Cabrera Infante, Alejo Carpentier, Isabel Allende, Reynaldo Arenas,
the list is long. I read lots of nonfiction as well, History, biographies, Harari’s Sapiens was
a great read. I’m not much for commercial writing but bestsellers like The Godfather back
when, The Mambo Kings, The Kite Runner and others have been important reads.

8. W hat are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

There’s always something cooking or the muses go hungry. Currently, I’m working on a story
inspired by a section of my abandoned epic novel. It’s about a young university student in
Havana on the run from the political police, who becomes a Santeria faithful to remain un-
der the protection of the clan where he is hiding. In time, he will go to the U.S. and become
someone important. At least that’s how it looks like at this time. Also, I have two novels
scheduled for publishing in 2021. The Exhumation, a story set during the Spanish Civil War,
and Where Labyrinths End, an international thriller, both worthy of sequels, which I’m con-
sidering to write on the publishers’ request.

9. D id you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

Not at all. When you write as I do, then your mission is to create work that you convinces
you. Stories you believe in. I suppose since my taste is bound by my cultural exposures,
molded by the work of many different storytellers, and I like my work to be liked, all those
elements combined will find a target in the marketplace. My general taste in books is not
so different from that of the average reader. I think if given the chance, my stories shouldn’t
have a problem finding its public. But, after all’s said and done, it’s like Ricky Nelson’s song
says, ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself.

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?

Not really. If I have anything to say is, “Don’t go about it like I did.” Writing time is golden.
Read as you never read before. Keep records of why you like in another writer’s work, exam-

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ples, passages, paragraphs, sentences that moved you. Learn all you can about the technical
part of written language then forget it. Tell your story not only with a pen or a keyboard but
with your heart. Leave writing behind that you’ll be proud of after you’re gone.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?

You probably know it already. The secret to writing is that there is no secret. You’re on your
own, brothers and sisters. The best advice is love what you write. Write not to force your-
self into the creation but for the love of the creation. Don’t try it if you don’t love it. That of
course brings you to the following question: Do you know what true love is?

12.  How many books you read annually and what are you reading now?
What is your favorite literary genre?

I think the literary genre is my favorite. But is not a rule. It just turns out that way. As the
years pass, my reading habits have become quirky. I am a multiple book reader. Every morn-
ing I read a few pages out of four or five different books. I’m a magazine reader too, New
Yorker, etc. I’m not a devourer of books. Maybe I finish a dozen books a year. There was a
time in my life I read non-stop. As a teenager, I worked in a movie house in Brooklyn, it took
me almost two hours of subways and busses each way. That year I read all the old classics,
Robinson Crusoe, The Three Musketeers, Treasure Island, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under
The Sea. Reading is always a question of time and priority.

13.  What do you deem the most relevant about your writing?
What is the most important to be remembered by readers?

I write to entertain intelligent minds. That’s one goal. To expose my reader to something dif-
ferent, unexpected situations, characters they would meet only in my stories. My narratives
are always multi-layered. They’re consciously composed this way. On the surface, the story
might appear complete at face value. But beneath it, there’s more. Sometimes it’s apparent
but not always. For instance, one of the stories in Souls in Exile concerns the bastard son of a
world-renowned author who remains unnamed. People familiar with this author will guess
who he is by a number of clues in the read. Some won’t but that will not take away from the
entertainment value of the story. Hemingway put it best by comparing an author’s work to
an iceberg. What you see over the water line is but a third of its full size.

14.  What is your opinion about the publishing industry today and
about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?

The same as with every other form of mass entertainment, the publishing industry is a busi-
ness in transition. The internet has changed it all. It has simplified some things but it’s tak-
en a big chunk of humanity out of it. I think in time the book business will assume a more
permanent modus operandi. It’s well on its way to it now. Adelaide Books, for instance, is
definitely a perfect example of a new business model in the industry. There are no geograph-
ic distances anymore in this business. Still, an author who wants to sell books must have a

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good idea as to what she’s getting into. Writing should and must remain an author’s priority
but business is business. Personally, I haven’t been lucky in that respect. I could’ve written
another book in the time I’ve spent reaching out to agents and publishers the last few years.
But that’s how it goes when you’re starting out. And you’re starting out until you sell a mil-
lion books. So might as well get use to it.

Fitting into new trends? There are many writers willing to do it and others who actually
can do it, and that makes it look like a viable option to all authors. But that’s false. I guess if
you ask E. L. James or John Grisham or Nicholas Sparks the same question, they tell you the
book business is just dandy as it is. But writing prose is one thing and selling books is another,
and they have nothing in common.

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