Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 45, February 2021

WHERE ARE YOU
GOING?

by Joseph Hodges

The blanket of stars spread out onto the Her name is Melissa, a girl that tor-
night sky. Down below, there were blinding mented him since they were in the third
colorful lights, indicating a feeling of whim- grade. She wasn’t like most girls, her being
sy and nostalgia. The sounds of excitement a tomboy. She played in the girls’ basket-
and laughter along with dings and pings, re- ball team and played a little bit of softball,
veal that it was a time for amusement. The while Jerry usually studies art and music.
smells of buttered popcorn, fried pastries, He didn’t know what he did to make him
and fluffy cotton candy overwhelms the be her target in the first place. Was it that
area. This place indicates a symbol of fun, to he was skinny back then? Awkward? A nerd,
be a kid again. Or to enjoy one’s childhood somewhat? He doesn’t know, she just liked
until reaching into adulthood. to mess with him at times.

The fair was in town, that much can be Granted, it wasn’t in a malicious way. The
said. However, Jerry was not having fun. No, abuse was more of name calling, him being
Jerry, at that moment, was stuck high up on the target during a dodgeball game, a little
a broken Ferris-wheel ride with someone he bit of roughhousing, some shoving, or just
would rather not be stuck with at all. insulting him. She even made insulting quips
about his artwork at times. Thankfully, during
To be fair, he hadn’t spoken to this person 8th grade, she mellowed out, and started to
for a while. Maybe somewhere when they get a little more social with the other girls.
were fourteen is when it stopped, he would
think. Now they were seniors in high school,
enjoying their time here at the county fair
Grasping onto the thin metal plating seat before graduating and going off to what-
that he’s sitting on, Jerry took a glance at ever college they’ve been accepted. Jerry
the one that caused him so much frustra- was enjoying the time at the fair with his
tion during his childhood. A girl, plain and buddies, while Melissa was with her gal pals.
simple, with her long golden locks all curled She became more feminine now, getting
up and displayed - she probably let her into cosmetics a bit more.
sister do her hair, cause there’s no way she
would have done it herself - sat there simply.

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One could even say that Melissa looked… saying with another smirk, “We’ll sort of be
pretty now. close by.”

He wouldn’t admit that, though. “…Yeah,” said Jerry, a little uneasy at the
look she’s giving him.
His lips pursing into a thin line, he gripped
the metal seat under his fingers. This awk- Her smirk then turned into a soft smile.
ward situation was surely constructed by His stomach felt like it was fluttering up to
some force to let these two somehow meet his chest. It was an odd feeling, a feeling
again. that was caused by her as of right now.

Darn Ferris-wheel just had to stop “When do you think they’ll get this thing
working, didn’t it? He might as well strike a going again?” Melissa asked him.
conversation with her.
“…I…don’t know,” Jerry said to her, now
“So…” said Jerry as he started the con- noticing that the girl who used to make fun
versation. of him looked tranquil thanks to the light
below and the stars above.
Melissa turned her head over to him, her
face expressing curiosity at what he has to What is happening?
say.
Silence pushed through their tension.
“…Where are you going?” he asked her.
…Jerry then said to her, “Hey, uh…you
She looked at him strangely, almost as if seem…different.”
he’s asking him to elaborate.
Melissa blinked and snorted at his com-
“I mean, what college are you going to?” ment, “I guess I am. My sis basically prepped
clarified Jerry. me up.”

Now understanding what he meant, Me- Ah, he was right.
lissa just smirked and said one word, “Yale.”
“Oh…” Jerry uttered.
Yale? That was a good school.
…It was then Melissa started to say, “Hey,
“Yale, huh?” said Jerry, impressed. um…I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Want to be a lawyer or something.” “About what?” he asked.

“Not a soccer or basketball player?” Melissa giggled. Wait, she giggled? Who
is this?
“Nah. Want to try something different.”
“You know…about all the crap I gave ya,”
“Hm…” she says.

“Where are you going?” Melissa asked “…Oh? Um…I, uh…didn’t think anything
him. about it.”

“Just an art college in New York City.” He “Well…I guess I was like that…because you
waited for her to say something negative were so good at everything, and I wasn’t.”
about his art.
More silence followed…
“Hm. Cool,” she said, much to my sur-
prise. She even surprised him further by Melissa smiled softly at Jerry. “Thanks.”

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Jerry blinked at her weirdly, “For what?” It felt odd to kiss someone that you used
to not like…but maybe he preferred it that
“For inspiring me.” way.

Then, in one swift movement, Melissa So, they kept that kiss going…
leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on his
lips. Things truly had changed. Was it for the
better? He would like to think so at this
The taste of her lips was sugary, she had point.
just consumed cotton candy. He remem-
bered somewhere that she loved anything And then, the Ferris-wheel started to
cotton candy, to ice cream, to jellybeans, move again. Much like Jerry and Melissa’s
and to candies. newfound relationship for each other. Their
thread of fate has been tied to their beings,
…It was nice and they still will be when they go their sep-
arate ways. It will lead them back to each
The feeling of shock wore off, and he other…
began to kiss back. All those memories of
her back in his childhood? Gone. That’s where they were going.

About the Author

Joseph Hodges: I am a 32-years-old, and I love to write stories! Whether it be fanfiction
or an original fictional story, I love to write as well as craft my writing into something

extraordinary! I’m also an online student at Full Sail University,
and I’m studying to get my degree in Creative Writing! I’m
sending one of my stories for extra credit! I hope to make
it someday to be a head writer and creator of some of my
own original animated shows(I’m an animation nut)! I’m just
trying to broaden my horizons, so to speak! I originally am
from Mississippi (lived there for 31 years) but I am now living
in Houston, Texas. I hope my writing and stories will be an
inspiration to all!

101

THAT NIGHT

by Jaimie Eaker

The bass shakes the walls of the frat house. A shocked emotion takes over his face.
Warm bodies press together in the small “What? Why would it be a bad idea?”
living room. Bouncing and grinding to the
beat of NEFFEX’s newest song. The sharp I roll my eyes and laugh, “Austin, you
burn of vodka and tangy lemon lime hits know Tommy doesn’t like you.”
my tongue as I finish off the last of my drink,
hips swaying to the beat. “That’s only because I’m the better ball
player and we play for rival schools.”
I check my phone for the hundredth
time. Still no response from Tommy. I sigh “At least you think you’re the better player.”
and slip my cell into the back pocket of my I tease.
blue jean shorts. Gliding between sweaty
bodies I wander into the kitchen. Liquor Austin clutches his chest as if he was
bottles and soda line the kitchen counter. wounded. “Damn girl, right in the heart.”
People filter in and out, a constant rotation
of college students refilling empty, red solo “I’m sure your heart is just fine.” I say with
cups. I snatch the vodka and sprite from the a laugh.
sticky counter and mix a new drink.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m pretty
“Yo, Misty!” sure I felt it shatter. So now you have to
make it up to me. One dance?”
I spin on my heels. Austin is leaning against
the beige wall, muscular arms crossed, cov- Sipping my drink, I consider his words,
ered in dark blue jeans and a red shirt. “One dance.” I agree.

“Hey Austin.” Austin smiles and grabs my hand. I set
my cup on the counter and let him lead me
“No boyfriend tonight?” He asks. back into the packed living room. He pulls
me close and the music starts to take over. I
I shrug. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of bounce, sway, and grind to the music. I lose
him, but he’s not answering.” track of time as one song bleeds into the
next. Pretty soon, I’m letting Austin pull me
Austin pushes off the wall, and strides back into the kitchen for shots before we hit
closer to me. “Well that’s too bad. You should the dance floor again.
let me keep you company.”
His strong hands go straight to my hips.
I shake my head. “I don’t know if that’s a He pulls my back against his firm chest and
good idea Austin.”

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we move to the beat of the song. Sweat Tommy stops walking and turns to face
drips down my temple and suctions my me. He crosses his arms and clenches his
black top to my body. I lift my blonde hair jaw. He searches my face but doesn’t say
off my neck in an attempt to cool off. a word.

Austin’s warm breath sends chills skating I rush to explain as words tumble from my
across my skin. “You want to step outside lips. “I’m sorry! I was drinking and I wasn’t
and cool off?” thinking, and I don’t know it just happened.”

“Yes please!” “That’s it? It just happened?” He ques-
tions. “Seriously Misty? We’ve been to-
Austin chuckles and takes my hand. We gether for five years and the best you can
weave our way through all the party goers give me is it just happened?”
and stumble out the front door. The brisk,
fall air feels like heaven on my heated skin. “I don’t know what else to say.” I tell him.
I fall onto the wooden porch swing tucked
away in the corner. The swing sways lightly “You don’t have to say anything, because
as Austin sits next me. we’re over.” He says. The crack in his voice
almost sending me over the edge.
“I’m having a lot of fun tonight Austin.”
Tommy turns his back on me and starts
Austin scoots closer to me. Resting his walking again. I rush to keep up with his
arm along the back of the swing “Good. So long strides.
am I.”
“Don’t say that. We can work through
Suddenly, he cups my face in his warm this! I know we can!”
palm and before I can process what’s hap-
pening his lips crash onto mine. My hands I follow Tommy all the way back to his
instinctively grip the back of his neck as I car. Begging and pleading with him to just
deepen the kiss. stop and listen to me. To give me a chance
to make things right. He acts like I’m not
“Misty?” even there. I watch helplessly as he gets
into his car and takes off. The glow of his
I jerk away from Austin as that deep red taillights disappearing into the night.
voice reaches my ears. Emerald green eyes
are staring at me with hurt and betrayal I don’t bother to look back at all the
swirling in them. people from the party that I’m sure just
witnessed my breakup. Wiping my watery
“Tommy.” My voice is barely above a eyes, I start the walk back to my dorm room.
whisper.
It’s a short, ten-minute walk. Not both-
Tommy turns and starts to stomp off. I ering with the lights, I just crawl underneath
jump up from the swing and race down the my purple comforter. I pull my phone out
porch steps. “Tommy, wait!” and try calling Tommy. Straight to voicemail.

“Why? So, you can tell me it wasn’t what “I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry
it looked like?” He calls over his shoulder. I am and how much I love you. I know I
Never once slowing down. messed up, but we’ve been through so
much together. We can work this out! Call
“Tommy please! Just let me explain.” I me when you get this. Please.”
can feel the tears building up.

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Time passes in a blur. The darkness and I pull the phone away from my ear and
a silent phone the only thing to keep me glance at the screen. “Mr. Smith?” He’s
company. quiet and I have a sinking feeling in the pit
of my stomach.
When my phone starts vibrating, I sit up
immediately and answer without checking “Misty.” He says again, “There was an ac-
the caller ID. cident. Tommy didn’t-”

“Tommy?” The phone slips from my hand, and ev-
erything goes quiet. I fall back on my bed,
I can hear faint crying in the background. tears streaming down my face as my entire
“Misty.” world shatters.

About the Author

Jaimie Eaker is a contemporary romance novelist that likes
to dabble in other genres. She is currently attending Full
Sail University, working towards a BFA in Creative Writing
and has interned for Waldorf Publishing. In her free time,
Jaimie enjoys reading, playing Harvest Moon, and getting
way too invested in game shows on TV.

104

STALKER

by Chris Viner

As the golden autumn leaves tumbled along washing down turfed-out gullies and bou-
the cobbled ground near the stone walls, levards. Rain cleared things; cleared the
which meandered up the hill towards the air, the streets, the buildings, the restless
rose pink café on the corner, Warren noticed knots and entanglements of a life. Even the
how Montmartre appeared less busy than homeless avoided it, opting for resident
it had done just a few days ago. He liked it enclosures and empty porches, rather than
this way. The sky a more concentrated grey the customary roll of cardboard under rows
and the crowds all but dispersed from the ofstreetlamps.
notorious district. He was able to absorb it
now—its quiet, alluring charm—he could He liked to go walking in the popular dis-
breathe better too, without all the noise. tricts, when they were just quiet enough for
Black birds carved ovals across the chim- their real, romantic charms to start brightly
ney-plotted landscape, which slopped and festooning into existence. It was humdrum
bevelled with an organic composition, like enough for that mysterious moody colour
a beautiful, misshapen fruit; it felt good, to to come hovering over the night lights, and
be able to walk through such a fine part of across the waiter fixing the table in the café
Paris without the usual hoorah of tourism. under the blue, early evening sky. The time
when the rain had swept away the pastiche,
As he turned a corner, descending a and when the cold had kept the narrow av-
narrow street, the moisture in the air sud- enues clear enough to walk by without a
denly sprinkled fresh specks of rain across knock from the shoulder of a stranger.
the dark trees and the roads ahead. Rain
possessed such a freedom, Warren thought. As he strode up the hill, foot by foot,
It was everywhere, not confound to a body with the smell of smoke and alcohol stirring
like humans and animals. It was liberty through the oily, embalmed air, he thought
incarnate; bursting from nowhere and about the first time he had come here. He
out into every corner and crevice of the was young; very young then—still in school.
old world. And it could follow anything or He thought about how he’d scaled the
anyone it liked. Although desire was prob- steps up to the Sacre Coeur and a man had
ably not something with which rain con- chained a beaded bracelet around his wrist.
cerned itself. It had better things to do. Like How he’d panicked. ‘He wants money—give
paint Paris in its wash of archaic colour, as him some euros,’ his friend Luke had said at
it skittered across rooftops and pavements; the time; Warren’s French being under par,
was unable to speak. The man had gripped

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on to the string of the bracelet. ‘Pour Vouz. Warren turned and saw a young lady
Cinq Euro,’ the man had repeated, following leaning on a beam in a black apron. Her
Warren, with a calm yet menacing determi- arms were folded and she struck a cheerful
nation. The swirl of foreignness around him, demeanour.
the thick alien tongue in the heat of the sol-
stice, striking him as blunt and harsh. “Vouz avez la menu?”

Warren, his head meekly bowed, finally “I’ll get you a menu,” she smiled when
offered the man a scrap of coinage, and the she detected his accent.
man had released his grip.
The smile was an affectionately mocking
That seemed like so long ago now. And one, since Warren’s French was too English
although it really wasn’t very long ago at all, sounding to be taken seriously. Warren
his perception of Paris had almost entirely hadn’t gathered this, however—all he saw
altered. Back then, it had quite firmly ter- was a classic, pretty face; and, perhaps,
rified him. Now, as his face had deepened, most especially, blunt, ruby lips, which
and an understanding had shaped around being so striking in the wetness of the land-
experience, he’d earned an appreciation for scape appeared to stain the air—even as
its heavy, oneiric smells, developed a strong she turned nonchalantly on the beam to
affection for its ritual, its food and wine, and whisk herself back into the kitchen—like a
its rickety, appealing balance between bo- smudge; a stamped rose on the impeccable
hemianism and aristocracy. Although he scene, stuck in the visual portage of War-
was not much of a part of its social life, he ren’s guileless, dumbfounded mind.
could admire it now from a distance. He
dreamed of it too, romanticized it; hoping, The young lady returned and Warren
one day, he too might be a silhouette, in its glanced at the menu.
shining, elusive window.
“I’ll get a coffee—un allonger?” Warren
When he reached the summit of the dis- said, a half question, causing the young lady
trict, Warren noticed a small, empty café in to curl the side of her lip again. “And the
the square. Was it open? There didn’t seem onion soup.”
to be anyone around. His carves ached from
walking up the steep hill and the chairs “Well, alright!” Her face was bright now,
were out, so he decided to sit down to catch twinkling with a novelistic enjoyment of his
his breath. He looked out onto the patio: earnest character.
pigeons grazed at morsels; a few strangers
passed over the curve of the square and out She scribbled down his order on a small
into the foggy distance. There were no be- pad, and to Warren’s surprise, she remained
rets or chalk faces in sight; nobody’s relative leaning on the beam. The young lady asked
was being distorted into a caricature, which him how long he’d been in Paris, and he
brought an unusual and serene peace to the told her of the aunt he was staying with for
environment. Warren listened to the rain the autumn season. It became apparent to
drift and sputter down the gutter spouts Warren that the young lady harnessed an
and skim across the paving stones, and al- unusual sense of comfort around him. She
most, for a moment, lost where he was. began to complain, thrashing her arms into
the air, staring at the rain-soaked square
“Tu vu quelque chose?” melodramatically, as she groused about tiny
rooms and extortionate rents; torrential

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summers and stuffy tourist traffic in a snail- character. A bit of a religious fanatic you
shell of a city. could say…”

“It’s expensive—there’re a lot of people “Ah, we have had a lot of those here. Not
here. And… it’s small,” he said, trying to think all of them good.” Chloe’s complexion sud-
of what to say next. And then there was that denly became cold. Colour withdrew from
smile again, which reassured Warren. After her cheeks, causing Warren to lose the
all, a smile could almost only mean she liked small slice of confidence he had uncharac-
him. This, to his mind, was affirmed by what teristically forged.
she said next: “Don’t worry. You’re not one
of the tourists I hate. At least not yet!” Was “No, I suppose…”
she blushing? He wasn’t sure; the reflected
pools of rain often exposed uncommon co- “Excuse me, I have to check on some-
lours in things this time of evening. “Donc. thing,” Chloe said, flicking her cigarette into
I’ll go and place your order.” a puddle and rushing to the kitchen. For a
moment, Warren thought he’d really blown
When the young lady returned, she it; that he’d offended her with his stupid,
placed a steaming bowl of onion soup, then insensitive remarks. He was, after all, fairly
one hot coffee, in front of Warren, and in- new to the culture. The French, surely, were
troduced herself as Chloe. different to the English. To be so different,
and yet separated by such a slim channel
She leant on the beam and lit a cigarette, of water… Warren’s foggy bleak thoughts
the smoke mingling into the dank air, be- dispelled, however, when Chloe returned.
fore wafting under a canopy and out into This time, with a brighter smile on her face.
the open. Perhaps he hadn’t offended her. With her
arms folded, and her gait leant on the beam,
“So have you been learning French very she stared out into the misty rain and began
long?” “Well, actually, yes—you could say to talk of her life; her voice different now,
that I have.” Chloe’s lips pursed into a smile. her tone more sombre, yet truer, as though
she were reining in to some inner focus—it
She let him continue, not feeling the seemed then that Chloe were as close to
same gravity in the pause to which Warren him as any other important person in her
had become unusually sensitized: “I mean… world; as if she trusted him.
if you count the lessons at school, and the
preparation I did for this trip—that’s a long “My parents are English. They were
time! Although it probably doesn’t seem bohemian, so when Thatcher came into
like it!” power, they moved here without a second’s
thought.”
“French is hard—you’ll get there,” Chloe
said. She breathed smoke into the air, bored Warren savoured the drawn out, atyp-
by her own response. ical phonetics of Chloe’s phrasing. The way
‘here’, was delivered to sound like ‘ear’,
“Yeah… I’m not sure if I will actually.” for example; how the pronunciation of
Thatcher came out as a rough, textualized
Chloe unearthed a cackle, instinctively ‘err’ at the end of that name.
putting her white cloth to her mouth to
smother it. “So, you are staying with your “They cut off everybody and started this
aunt? You are close with her?” Chloe asked, new life,” Chloe said. “It was that easy, huh?”
feigning interest. “I am—but she’s a funny

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“Much easier then, actually—believe it or ‘friend’? He doubted it very much. He,
not. We think ourselves freer now with the therefore, must have been special to her;
internet and such things, when in fact they must have felt the connection he had felt—
slow us down; keep us tied together with Warren was sure of it. ‘Friend’ could have all
people we don’t really careabout…” kinds of connotations, especially in France,
and in Paris!—well… who knows what she
“Is that weird for you?” may have been subtly, but surely, signalling.

“How do you mean?” Warren turned his head and admired her
angular, waify frame; her dark complexion;
“Like, you know, living here. You know, the way her scruffy hair hung down from
having parents from England… you seem so her shoulders, as she set a table in the back.
ingrained, sort of, in the whole…” He noticed the ridged line of her nose. Her
misshapen nose and large brown eyes made
She smiled, and Warren noticed her him think of a renaissance portrait; the dark
teeth were a stained, tobacco smoker’s background, the unusually intimate gaze of
yellow, that her hands were not as clean as the subject. So familiar and penetrating;
he had first perceived, that the black varnish and yet so, incomprehensibly, far away.
of her nails were chipped; all of which had
the strange effect of relaxing him around The next day, Warren decided he would
her a little more than before. crawl up the hill again to the same café in
the hope of finding Chloe. The weather had
“Well, yes. But I’ve been here since I was cleared and the district was busier now.
a baby, so… and anyway, you don’t have to People jammed through trails of Mont-
be here very long before you start to feel martre and caught themselves in the nets
Parisian. Look at you right now, for instance, of melodramatic painters and mime artists,
with your cup of coffee, your French, your which made the area seem lacking in its
onion soup!” Her eyes brightened. “You see, truer mysteries living beneath the façade.
it doesn’t take long atall!” It had lost its oneiric quality and the walk
seemed to Warren sobering rather than
Chloe pulled out another cigarette, lit romantic or dreamy, as it had done only
the end and took a deep drag. yesterday. It almost appeared to him as a
different place, the atmosphere was so
“Besides, my parents… they made a rule changed. But he knew that it wasn’t. A cold
when they moved here. Never speak English. breeze blew across his face and refreshed
him. In the shop of local paintings with
Never look back. So that’s why…” “Why…” the yellow walls, he watched an elder lady
pridefully hang up a small framed piece out
“… My English is quite bad, yes… hup!” the front—a Van Gogh style mustard land-
She shrugged her shoulders and tapped scape with a thick blue sky—and Warren
some ash into the air, which blew the flakes thought to himself that things weren’t so
into nothing. bad. He walked the long way, through nar-
rower avenues, around the backs of flats
“No, it’s not necessarily that… it’s just…” and bistros, where men in grey one piece
suits moved furniture along ramps from a
“I should let you eat… bon appetite, my
friend!” She smiled and her eyes seemed to
glimmer like a pair of beautiful dark stones.

Warren did not take that ‘friend’ lightly.
Did she refer to every customer as her

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building, and odorous heaps of steam pum- “Bonjour!” Chloe exclaimed, lightly and
melled out from the open windows. with an air of affirmed distance.

Warren’s hair was still wet from the shower One thing was clear: she’d retained
and he felt the morning sun through the pale some of her brightness. The colour in
trees on the other side of the road beginning her cheeks, the soft transient glow in her
to dry the roots as he walked. The quieter way eyes, as though even during the waking
had led him straight to a bustling metro sta- day a portion of her were lounging on the
tion, where suddenly he was sifting through couch of a dream. Still, something was off;
crowds and feeling that familiar yet unusual something not quite there that had been.
collective loneliness, as he felt the fabric of Warren wanted to find a way to get it back;
stranger’s clothes brush past him, until finally to destroy the wedge that time had driven
he reached the café at the top of the hill. between them. Just then, he noticed how
she held the notepad high, how the pen
He approached and then paused outside in her hand sat readily on the page; how
the café. He noticed Chloe serving coffees the voices of the crowds seemed to shake
and putting bill trays on tables. The place the day turbulently forwards. He anxiously
was busier now—and the café seemed to looked at the menu and tried to translate
overflow from the rafters on to the cobbled before quickly giving up.
street with an older, financial type. Chloe, in
turn, noticed Warren, but— contrary to how “What would you like, sir?” Chloe smiled—
he’d imagined on his way up the hill—she and although there was life in it, the smile
did not smile, or wave; nor, indeed, did she was not the same as the day before.
present any indication to him that she at all
knew of who he was, which was a bizarre “I’ll get the… yeah… I’ll just get the same
and troubling disposition to with which to be as yesterday, thanks.” “And what was that?”
greeted. A greeting which, by degrees, was
true, of course—they did not really know He couldn’t help but frown. “Uh, the
each other—and so he sat down at one of onion soup… the… the coffee?” “And that
the empty brown tables, like any ordinary is all?”
customer, and looked out sadly at the detail
of the winding district beneath the rising sun. “Yes. I… I think that’s all.” His eyelid invol-
He waited; a little longer than he’d expected untarily trembled. “For now.”
for Chloe to come over. When finally she ap-
peared, hovering over his rickety, street-side “D’accord,” Chloe took the menu with
table, Warren found the initial feel of sto- an impossible graciousness, and before
icism that had formed—at having not been Warren could think of what to say she was
acknowledged in the way he expected—had gone.
stiffened; hardened into a firmer barrier,
which, not wanting to appear sinister—or But something else, too, had disappeared:
sensitive—he tried to shake off, but was un- the spirit of yesterday; its sense of possi-
successful by the time she approached. bility, its magic. Now the dry sunny weather
blew things along, and the customers yam-
“Hey,” Warren found himself saying, a mered away about their problems as usual,
little deeper in the throat, and a touch more drawing shapes in the air with their hands;
severe than intended. and so it seemed something important was
lost. It was like their perceptions of one an-
other had recalibrated. The awkward, fuzzy

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energy between them now stifled Warren “No, it’s not,” Warren replied, feeling a
with a sense of betrayal. And although there sharp pang of stupidity. “Well, enjoy your
was anger, this was mostly aimed at himself: day—and the opera!” She said, lifting he-
for having allowed room in the midst of a reyebrows.
mere passing day, for the glimmer of inti-
macy and trust, to have spread its wings and Warren watched her glide over to an-
come stooping down into the next morning. other table and hand out menus to new cus-
But days are so different, Warren, thought. If tomers. He could just about make out the
a day changes, if the weather and energy of quick startle of her soft voice mingling with
a city changes, if the planets move from one the birds in the pale trees on the other side
position to another, why do we presume a of the road, and watched at how the cus-
person stays the same? The sky was just an tomers moved and startled as they spoke;
idea. But things—feelings—they were con- and the world itself seemed to move and
stantly influx. startle.

When Chloe returned to Warren’s table Warren wasn’t sure why he climbed the
she surprised him. steps to the Sacre-Couer the next day, only
that he seemed to be pulled there by some
“What are you doing today?” She asked, invisible lustre of gravity. As he marched
as she set the onion soup and the coffee each step in a half-daze, nobody bothered
in front of him. When he didn’t answer im- him. Not the lost tourists with their maps
mediately, she folded her arms. She was and phones; not the accordion players with
smiling and he felt a familiar tingle in his their blazed smiles; nor the men parked at
stomach beginning to stir like a cocktail of each turn, hanging colourful wristbands
hormones. As he looked at her smile, her from their hands. He let himself be carried
dark eyes, it seemed they were sharing in to the church, as though no other route
something almost akin to what had been could have been picked that morning.
shared before; as though just for a moment,
the doors of yesterday had opened, and all When he pushed the heavy door open,
its faint, lightheaded promises lay once and let it glide back in place, a pious silence
again ajar. washed over him. People seemed almost
to tiptoe around the interior, gently me-
He’d almost forgotten she had asked him andering around statues and paintings of
a question. saints and the famous theological scenes.
There was a chill in the air, and a distinct
“I… actually, I might have to go and revise musky Damascus smell, stirring off the dark
at one of the libraries. I’m trying to get into marble and the ancient construction of the
this university for Art History.” building.

Chloe didn’t say anything back; but The weather was slanted, mystical and
rather simply held her smile; comfortable in grey through the stained glass, and he felt
the ring of silence fattening between them. once again a strange spark of possibility.

“Then my aunt wants to see some opera. That was when he saw her: Chloe, knelt
She’s crazy my aunt. She loves that kind of beneath a painting of Mary and Jesus. The
thing.” “Oh, Opera’s not crazy,” Chloe said darkness of the oily shadows in the back-
softly. ground caused the faces of the figures to

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appear stark and eerie. The way the curva- was obviously deeply important to her, even
ture of the bones, in the expression of the as he sensed a detachment within her mo-
Jesus figure, was sallow; how the eyes of tions of that ritual. Neither of those options
Mary were bloodshot with an apocalyptic seemed right somehow. It was only proper,
fear. Chloe put some coins in the donation then, to wait, and watch. Of course it was.
box and lit a candle with a match, sitting
back reverently on the bench, her thighs A few seconds went by in stillness and
somehow effusing sublime energies. The silence.
fire cast a red glow across her face and for
the first time Warren saw in her a different Then Warren observed closely, as Chloe’s
temperament. He knew that it was just a hand arose, followed by a sweeping move-
collection of forces—the atmosphere, the ment which he couldn’t discern. Perhaps
lighting, the silence—but from where he she was making the cross symbol above her
stood she looked almost holy; as though chest. But no, it appeared then that she was
she belonged there, as though it were im- pulling a note from somewhere. Suddenly,
possible to distinguish her from the oily he had a sense, like an electrical tingle run-
canvases upon which she set her eyes and ning down his spine, that he should remove
prayed. himself from the situation; that—as she
placed the note somewhere on the shrine
Warren didn’t want to disturb Chloe, so and a faint tear rolled jaggedly across her
he sat on one of the chairs diagonally be- cheek—what he was watching was simply
hind her, a few yards away, where he could too private. He shifted his weight as if about
still make out the solemn expressions at the to leave; he imagined himself walking away,
side of her face; the movements of her deli- past the candles, the Baroque canvases,
cate, spidery hands. Was he doing anything and out the door into the cool, chaotic
wrong? He didn’t feel like he was; their throb of Montmartre. And yet he couldn’t.
crossing was, after all, coincidental. Or fatal- It was like some insurmountable weight of
istic, depending on how one saw the world. gravity had kept him there, bound to his
chair; bound to the sight of Chloe. And so
There were a few things he could have he watched. He waited. And he saw what
done then: he could have left, of course; she was about to do next, like a witness to
or else disturb the ritual in which she was a holyparable.
clearly wholesomely engaged, and which

About the Author

Chris Viner is a writer based in Los Angeles. He is the author
of Lemniscate (nominated for a Pushcart Award). His work
appears in Colorado Review, Critical Read, Culture Trip, The
Festival Review, The London Magazine, and Woven Tale
Press, among others. He holds degrees from Goldsmiths,
University of London and St Anne’s College, University of
Oxford, where he was a recipient of the Pasby Prize for his
writing. He is poetry editor at Twin Bill magazine.

111

TEMPTATION

by Ashley Jones

Warm drops of rain caress Melanie’s rosy “I will always be here to save you,” Jim
cheeks. Rays of gold peek through clouds. says. He smiles and hugs her.
The terrace opened out into a sea of green-
ery. Jim stares as Melanie exhales and re- Her hands slide along his chest and wrap
laxes into her seat. Wet grass tickles her around him. The light disappears and the
feet as she digs deeper into the soil as if to once warm droplets turn into steamy pel-
root herself there. The garden was the only lets. Without looking up, he rises and leads
color against the dull washed asylum. Melanie back toward the doors. He pulls on
the door and it does not budge.
A storm is brewing.
“What’s wrong?” Melanie says.
“Thank you. It’s peaceful here,” she says.
She smiles at him and pulls away. “If the
“I’m just glad I could help. Are you sure door is locked. I may know another way,”
you want to sit outside like this? The rain she says.
will be a lot harsher soon,” Jim says.Stark
white and neatly pressed pants and coat Her sly expression turns as dark as the sky.
hug his fit body. A name tag states his status.
“What are talking about? I just need to
“I know. I want to. I haven’t been outside try my badge,” he says.
in so long,” she says.
He reaches for his coat pocket.
“I’ve never seen you so calm. But I could
get into deep trouble if we don’t get you “Wh — Where is my badge? Where is the
back inside your room. You still have to take pen?” he says.
your medicine,” he says.
He frantically looks around. He sprints
Jim’s eyes travel along Melanie’s face. back toward the table eyes darting across
the terrace. It’s too dark to see clearly now.
Melanie looks up and smiles. “I’m glad it’s
you though,” She licks her lips and reaches Melanie chuckles, “What’s wrong? Looking
her hand out, “Jimmy, you’re the only one for these?” she says. Her smile stretches ear
who gets me,” she says. to ear. She saunters over to him waving his
badge around and clicking the head of the
Jim leans into her. The smell of Irish Spring pen. Jim’s face turns red.
soap seeps into his nostrils. Jim’s bright red
cheeks brush along Melanie’s face. A chime rings loud echoing in the ter-
race. Lockdown, all patients should be in
their rooms.

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“Now is not the time for jokes Turner. and she skips inside letting the door lock
Give me back the badge,” he says. behind her. She turns around and waves as
the furious doctor comes barreling toward
“Nope. Now is the perfect time for jokes,” her. She holds up her hands to her face and
she says. She twirls around and skips out sticks out her tongue. “The director surely
to the edge of the terrace. She dangles his will love to hear it,” she says.
badge over the railing. “How many seconds
does it take for an angry doctor to get to Three orderlies walk past and spot her
this side of the terrace? Um. I wonder,” she at the door.
says, pretending to throw his badge.
“What are you doing?” Greg says.
He leaps across the grass to her. He grabs
her arm and they struggle over the badge. She turns around and points out of the
“This is not a game. This is not a joke!” he door. “Playing with Dr. Jim of course,” she
shouts. says.

Thunder roars over the asylum. She She’s soaking wet, dripping water all
drops the badge over the railing, and it falls over the floor. The orderlies look at each
into the bushes. other and stalk down the hall toward her.

“Damn it!” he says. “Dr. Jim? You mean Dr. Williamson?” Tom
says.
“Oops. My bad. What are you going to do
now?” she says. “Yes, just playing a little prank,” she says.

He looks up at her, enraged his hand flies The two orderlies grab her arm. They
up and he stops himself from hitting her. lead her away from the door.

“Are you going to record me again like “Dr. Williamson has not been at this hos-
you always do,” she says. pital in over five years. I don’t know how
you got outside during lockdown but, it’s
She holds up his pen. “Neat little device time for your meds and bed,” Greg says.
you got. I wonder what would happen if the
director hears what we’ve done,” she says. “What do you mean? He is just outside. I
was going to tell on him. I have his special
“She won’t ever hear anything. You’re recorder pen right here. I was going to tell
going to stand here with your mouth shut the director. I – I,” she cries.
while I get my badge back,” he says.
“You aren’t feeling well today are you
She nods as he hops over the railing and Melanie? Dr. Williamson was fired for
dives into the bushes to look. abusing his position years ago,” Tom says.

Lighting is chasing the thunder now. “She must be having an episode. She was
his last victim,” Justin says.
She smiles and opens her mouth as
rain falls in. She laughs hard. “Sayonara, Dr. Melanie looks back out toward the
Jimmy Boy,” she says. doors one last time. A steamy plump tear
falls down her rosy peach cheeks.
She hops back toward the door and pulls
out a badge from her bra. The door unlocks

113

AS LUCK
WOULD HAVE IT

by Daniel Pié

The oily humidity of late August causes his don’t know the difficulty of looping a ring
new cotton-blend shirt to cling. He gently over the top of a Coke bottle or bursting a
pulls it loose, hoping to forestall wrinkles, balloon with a dart. They jabber in anticipa-
but it re-attaches like a persistent omen. As tion of their conquests only to discover just
the sun sets, the arc of the day’s heat has how challenging—some say rigged—these
yet to retreat from the pavement. games are. They don’t stay at it long. Futility
works its frustrating effect in half the time
A covert sniff returns a warm plume of on little people.
Right Guard. The shirt, canary yellow with
faint baby-blue pinstripes, is already losing The real action picks up when the shades
its freshness. He waited several months to go down on the day. That’s when the car-
break it out. His aunt, who gave it to him at nies hone their craft, pulling out every en-
graduation, made inquiries. ticement to draw in the naïve. The barkers
are the front men, but the true craftsmen
The smell of stale popcorn and the clank are the carnies working the booths. The
and drone of kiddie rides greet him simul- carnies’ game is to take the patrons’ money
taneously. He regrets arriving so early. He and to keep them coming back.
should have waited for nightfall. There will
be few, if any, recognizable faces here now— He observes the carnies in action and re-
certainly not hers. He foresees languidly cir- solves to resist their tactics. Without realizing
cling the grounds for an hour or more. The it, though, his pace slows, and he walks about
carnies will beckon, but he’s determined aimlessly. The pop of pneumatic BB guns,
not to blow through his twenty. the click-click-click of prize wheels, and the
shrieks of winners and losers dilute his con-
The traveling grifters don’t face much centration. Two-dimensional enchantresses
of a challenge at twilight, when children in bikinis and lingerie cast their spells from
high on cotton candy and snow-cone cock- oversized posters. Though meant to enhance
tails test the limits of love, badgering their the fantasy atmosphere, the models trigger a
parents to stop at every booth across the memory of a previous summer’s day.
converted parking lot. These obnoxious kids

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She came out of her parents’ lake house explained that wasn’t going to happen, it
wearing a scanty two-piece. Her father, grill changed him. It felt like he had been used.
utensils in hand, grumbled his disapproval He vowed never to use the word love again.
from the porch as the canoe was launched. Yet he tried to figure out ways to get back
The destination was the forested far side of into her life, even showing up at carnivals
the lake, out of sight from protective par- on the off chance she would be there, too.
ents. The reflection of a high sun glistened
off the water as the anticipation of being The mix of emotions disorients him. His
truly alone with her grew stronger. feet move steadily under him, but his mind
is somewhere else. To the hunter, he is weak-
The possibilities were snuffed when, ened game that has drifted from the herd.
arriving on the other side, her cousin and
his friend emerged from the trees. Both “Back again, Johnny?” the carny’s voice
seemed to have been expecting her. The interrupts.
friend’s athletic body was deeply tanned for
so early in the summer. He was bashful, or “Rob.” As he says his name, he realizes
wanted to give that impression, deferring to he has volunteered personal information
everyone else’s lines of conversation while that gives this stranger a wedge into the
smiling broadly through brilliantly white doorway of his life.
teeth.
The carnies come to this sleepy mid-At-
The attention she paid him throughout lantic town each year late in their circuit. In
the hourlong visit was kindling for an argu- a few weeks, they will close out the season
ment later in the evening back at the lake on Labor Day weekend. It’s their last chance
house. She downplayed her interest, saying to haul in some serious cash and make up
she was just being polite. At one point, she for the money they’ve parted from in seedy
referred to the friend as “some preppy guy.” bars all along the tour.
It seemed much more than good manners
and, in hindsight, might well have been an The carny makes a show of sliding a long
early sign of her changing feelings. non-filtered cigarette from behind his ear.
The paper is damp in spots from the high
When the relationship ended a few gloss on his blond hair, which thickens be-
months later, it was difficult to let go. She hind an M-shaped hairline and is lacquered
couldn’t have sat farther away on the bench straight back. A faux tortoise comb pro-
seat of the sedan. She was unusually quiet truding from his rear pocket is white be-
on the drive home from the movie and tween the teeth from a coagulating gel.
started crying as the car stopped at the curb
in front of her house. She spelled out her “Smoke, Rob?” He extends the burning
decision in painful detail. She was grateful, Pall Mall in Rob’s direction.
had loads of fun, and hoped he’d remain a
friend. “Trying to quit,” Rob says, blushing at an-
other little truth that has been extracted.
Then he was the quiet one. It wasn’t
shock that silenced him. Hints of her un- The tip of the carny’s cigarette glows
happiness had been mounting. It was the brighter with each drag, signaling the de-
finality. Somehow, he thought he could scending pitch of night.
reignite her feelings for him. When she
“I took you for an athlete, Rob,” he says
after a long silence that Rob experiences as

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testing him. “What do you go? Six-foot-two Now they are both shooting freely and
or thereabouts?” reaching for new balls. Rob’s are finding the
range consistently while the carny seems to
“And a half,” Rob answers, and as he have lost his touch.
does is transported back to his adoles-
cence, standing in front of his grandpa, who After a horribly off-target shot, the carny
gushes over Rob’s rapid growth and what it feeds Rob another ball. “Tell you what,” the
portends, as if being tall were a guarantee carny says. “Five shots for a buck. You make
of good things to come. three, you win a stuffed animal for your girl-
friend.”
“Play hoops at your high school?” the
carny asks, taking a basketball from the “I don’t know.”
rack at the front of his booth. The cigarette
hangs precariously from his lips, its smoke “Come on. You’re on fire.”
encircling the carny’s squinting eyes as the
ball rolls off his fingertips and zips through “I mean, I don’t know about a girlfriend.”
the chain net. He cups the Pall Mall in one
hand and, with the other, flips the next ball “How can you not know about a girl-
in Rob’s direction. friend?” the carny asks.

“Impressive, but I’m hanging on to my “It’s just that she used to like to come
cash for a while.” to places like this,” Rob says. “I thought,
maybe . . ., I don’t know.”
“Five-foot-five, but I could shoot like a
son of a bitch back in my school days in In- “Can I tell ya something, Rob?” the carny
diana,” the carny says. “County all-star my says, eyeing the ash on his cigarette. “Girls
senior year.” are like buses. You miss one, another one
comes along before you know it. Forget this
“I can believe it,” says Rob, gauging the young lady, what’s-her-name.”
carny to be in his early forties, although the
lines in his drawn cheeks suggest he’s older. “Her name is . . .”

“Relax. The meter ain’t runnin’. I just wanna “Doesn’t matter. You can make three out
see what you got. Go ahead. Toss it up there.” of five in your sleep,” says the carny, who
dribbles the ball from one hand to the other
Rob’s attempt clanks off the front of as he waits for Rob to show his cash. Rob
the rim, which isn’t as close as it appears reluctantly hands over the twenty-dollar bill.
and probably smaller than the ones at the “Change,” Rob says. “I won’t be spending all
school gym. that.”

“Oh, man, you’re not gonna get any Rob’s first two shots go through the
after the big game shooting like that,” the basket without touching iron. “Might want
carny says, throwing Rob another ball. Rob to get that big teddy bear down,” he says,
glances at the bikini girls, who reassure him his confidence building.
in their silent seduction. Exhaling, he shrugs
his shoulders and dips at the knees before “My man!” the carny says. “Wait till you
launching another shot. Swish! see the look on her face when you give
her that teddy. She’s gonna love it.” Rob’s
“There you go, Rob. Lookin’ good.” next shot misses, as does the one after that.
There is no girlfriend, he wants to tell the

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carny. The last time he presented her with a bring much-needed relief from the dog days,
gift—he showed up unexpectedly with roses but storms usually veer away from the city,
on her birthday—she handed them back to just like the men who work the crowd with
him. “It wouldn’t be right, Robby,” she said. a promise of a choice of prizes that doesn’t
“You’re very sweet, but it’s over.” Rob’s eyes materialize, and the pretty girls who bat
tear up at the memory, but he blinks them their long eyelashes at boys, filling them
dry. His fifth shot misses everything. with hope for romance that isn’t in the
cards.
Before Rob has a chance to call it quits,
the carny takes another dollar from the Rob seeks out a refreshment stand,
change Rob laid next to the basketball rack. parched from the oppressive heat and
“Concentrate, Rob,” the carny implores. “You the stress of his experience with the carny.
can do this. Nothing to it.” Rob’s hands are grimy from handling the
basketballs. He reaches to wipe them on his
Rob puts up shot after shot, feeding shirttail, which has come untucked. It’s the
the carny dollar after dollar, but can do no only part of his shirt that doesn’t feel glued
better than two out of five. Her words de- to his sweaty skin.
claring their relationship finished echo in
his mind even as he tries to conjure happier The large Coca-Cola cuts into his cash
times. He has gone through nine dollars and by nearly half again. The drink is borderline
missed the first two attempts of his tenth flat and mostly ice. A large cube lingers on
game. “It all rides on this shot,” Rob tells the his tongue. He nearly swallows it whole
carny. “Either way, I’m pulling the plug after when, wish granted, he catches sight of her.
this game.” Rob arches a shot toward the The burst of excitement he experiences is
rim. It hits the back of the iron and ricochets tamped as he watches her take hold of the
to the right. hand of an older guy. Her date is familiar
looking, but Rob can’t come up with a name.
“One more game?” the carny asks. Rob’s
closed eyes and bowed head are his answer. Rob remembers the sleeveless top she is
“Better luck next time,” the carny says. “Hey, wearing, its vertical pastels. It verifies what
you were just starting to heat up.” Rob once was. A bracelet jangles with every ges-
wants to believe that, but he catches the ture of her tanned slender arm. She exudes
carny grinning, pleased with his successful a sweetness that clutches at Rob, as if for
hustle. A flash of anger in Rob’s eyes puts the first time.
the carny on the defensive. “A good shooter
keeps shooting through a slump, Rob,” he The splintering ice cube and a gust from
says. “She’ll come back to you. I got a good the threatening storm give him a momen-
feelin’ about that.” tary chill. He panics when he no longer sees
her.
Rob doesn’t know if the carny means
Rob’s shooting touch or the girl will come He walks in the direction she must have
back. He walks away irked for having been gone. For what purpose? To say what?
manipulated, but not by the carny. “You look really nice,” or to ask if there still
is room in her heart? When her interest
A jagged streak of lightning off in the dis- in him guttered and they struggled to find
tance signals an approaching storm. Yet an- things to talk about, it was her formal po-
other tease, Rob thinks. A downpour would liteness that crushed him.

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He spots her again near the darts booth. about rescuing his ex-girlfriend from her
Her date is placing a paper-mâché garland date with one mighty punch. Then, pitying
over her head, being careful not to muss himself, he thinks it is he, Rob, who is taking
her new hairstyle. It’s short, which surprises a beating. He sees himself in the beast, un-
Rob, but it captivates him in the way it re- able to understand the stinging blows that
veals long sparkling earrings. She was never assault him.
one for accessories. That she is wearing
them for her date squeezes Rob’s heart. A group of friends persuades one of its
own, JP, muscular and in his early twenties,
As she tries not to move while receiving to take the challenge. The stubble of his full
the garland, her eyes meet Rob’s. He is far beard makes him appear older than he is.
enough away not to be noticed by her date. A crop of thick black hair sprouts from the
Robby, she mouths, her expression a mix unbuttoned top of his white shirt.
of surprise and alarm. She hurriedly ushers
away her date, who looks back over his He is stoic as he is fitted with 20-ounce
shoulder. Rob ducks behind a ticket stand boxing gloves that look like tattered relics
to avoid being detected, at the same time from a 1930s-era gym. The abundant cush-
asking himself, Why? ioning of the equipment makes contact
easier but minimizes damage. Smart, Rob
A barker’s robust voice comes on the thinks. Punchy, who fights most nights
loudspeaker, interrupting the emptiness during the summer, may be stunned but he
and hurt her rebuff causes Rob. Bingo will won’t suffer any lasting damage.
be ending for the night. Once the indoor
facility is cleared, a portable cage, ten feet Rob wonders if JP’s thickness and de-
wide by twenty feet long, will be erected meanor intimidate Punchy. He overhears
on the stage for the feature event of the another spectator say he once saw JP back
evening. down an aggressor without saying a word.
JP is up on his toes as the clash with Punchy
“Is there a man out there with guts is about to begin. JP’s rowdy friends are in
enough to take on Punchy, the Menacing a state of fevered excitement, shouting en-
Marsupial of the Outback?” Hissing and couragements.
boos erupt from groups of teens. “I’d kick
that kangaroo’s ass,” escapes from one Rob stands next to a teen he can’t place
scrum in which friends enact a beating. at first. When their eyes make brief con-
“Probably get arrested for cruelty to animals tact and they exchange quick nods, Rob
after I got done with him,” boasts another. remembers the teen was his successor at
the DQ last summer. On Rob’s last day, he
Rob wishes he would have taken that walked the teen through the duties of a
Pall Mall. He is shaken from the encounter front-counter cashier. Rob worked there
with his ex-girlfriend. He dabs at his brow only a few weeks, thinking the job was be-
with his shirtsleeve, then scoops out his neath him. That’s what he said to family and
remaining cash, which is enough for admit- friends. There was a more pressing reason
tance to the indoor show. for Rob’s decision to quit. He wanted to use
every moment of free time to win back the
A surliness elbows its way into his mood. girl who dumped him. Standing next to the
He wants to see someone bust Punchy in teen now, and recalling the earlier events of
the snout. Rob fantasizes momentarily

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this evening, Rob wonders if it would have look silly, her incongruously broad clown
been smarter if he’d stuck it out at the DQ. feet visible beneath them. Rob ponders her
eight-ounce gloves. They are proportional
Rob and the teen join a chorus of whoos to her small hands but disguise a potency
as JP unleashes a barrage of air punches. for lacerating a foe.
The teen gives Rob a second, puzzled look
but can’t make a connection. Looking around, Rob reads a near delir-
ious excitement on the faces of the specta-
The muzzled beast emerges. Spectators tors over the carnage they’re anticipating. A
wedge themselves in at every angle for a barker waves an arm to signal for quiet, then
glimpse. Their collective body heat turns waits for the last smattering of hoots and hol-
the small room into a sauna. Punchy is lers to die down. There will be no weigh-in,
nearly as tall as its handler, who keeps a ca- he proclaims. “Both fighters understand the
sually loose grip on a short leash attached risks,” he says, which draws nervous chuck-
to a body harness. Punchy’s eyes are wide ling. There will be three one-minute rounds.
open, tall ears cocked, and the animal’s “If”—and he takes a long pause—“needed.”
head makes small darting movements while Then the barker drops a bombshell: “No one
scanning the faces. Hopping toward the has ever gone the distance with Punchy.”
cage, the animal remains alert for danger Hearing the previously unpublicized fact, JP
as if it were in the wild. and his friends give each other concerned
glances. The rest of the crowd, Rob notes,
Punchy’s boxing shorts are loose-fitting, including the DQ trainee, roars enthusiasm.
exposing the top of the pouch. “Punchy’s a
girl!” a flabbergasted spectator in the front Punchy is unharnessed just as the bell
yells, triggering an outburst of laughter. sounds. JP charges across the cage, arms
“Hey, JP,” one of the fighter’s buddies shouts, and fists locked in classic boxing form. He
“how do you feel about beating up a girl?” moves from side to side and back and forth,
Another spectator cautions that female braying taunts at Punchy, who is motionless
kangaroos can be as fierce as males, which and seems dumbfounded. Its little arms are
ignites a volley of taunts between JP’s fans raised, too, but not as though it’s prepared
and Punchy’s backers. for a slugfest, but as if it’s daintily carrying
a basket of greens.
Rob is thinking about a female of a dif-
ferent species. He turns toward the DQ teen. For all his taunting, JP keeps a safe dis-
“They don’t know my ex-girlfriend,” Rob yells tance from Punchy. Thirty seconds in and
into the teen’s ear, trying to be heard above the first punch hasn’t been thrown. The
the din. “She can dish out a world of pain.” crowd, even JP’s friends, cry out for action.
JP flicks a series of jabs that graze the kan-
“Right,” the DQ teen shouts back, having garoo’s face, causing her eyelids to flutter.
heard only the last part of what Rob said. Rob glances at the timer: Ten seconds left.
“I think Punchy is gonna be a tough girl to JP delivers his first right, a thunderous shot
beat.” Rob smiles rather than repeat himself. to the torso, momentarily knocking Punchy
off-balance. Her handler quickly steps be-
Showing no effect from the hubbub, tween the combatants, as much to protect
Punchy continues toward the cage. Her Punchy from further harm as to mark the
upper body is slender, which suggests a bell’s ending of the round.
soft target. If anything, the trunks make her

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The heavy blow electrifies the crowd. clenching his fists, squeezing his eyes shut,
Shouts of “Here we go!” and “Oh, yeah!” ring and mumbling something inaudible.
out. JP’s buddies exhort him to “pour it on!”
JP rises from his stool, looking more confi- Rob sees a different fighter as JP crosses
dent, but the second round starts in the same the cage. Gone is the confidence and swagger
dull fashion as the first. The animal doesn’t of the earlier rounds. Blood is drying brown
move but watches as JP advances. The crowd on his white shirt. Punchy hops forward at
buzzes angrily. Is Punchy sedated? Are they first, then straight up and down. She soars
not going to get the fight they paid for? higher with each leap, almost coming to a
stop at the highest point.
The first boos come from the back of
the room. Rob can feel the crowd’s restless- “What the hell?” JP shouts, looking over
ness growing. Here we go again, Rob thinks, at his friends. “She’s punch-drunk!” one of
watching the timer pass the halfway point of them yells back. “Finish her off!” Instead, JP
the round. Maybe JP’s caution is tactical. Does mimics Punchy’s jumping, then waves his
he want to go the distance, to be the first to arms like he’s flying. The two combatants,
do so? Rob is trying to figure it out when JP within two feet of each other, are bouncing
charges Punchy. No set-up jabs this time. JP is like kids on a trampoline. One of them is
all fury, his shoulder and arm muscles bulging laughing, the other edging a little closer to
under his shirt as he aims a powerful right. JP with each bounce.

Punchy suddenly snaps out of her This IS a stinking carnival, Rob thinks.
slumber. The crack of leather hitting flesh The show. That’s what it’s all about. Could JP
is startling. JP is unnerved, too, judging by be a plant, hired on to be part of the show?
the fear in his eyes as Punchy slaps viciously
with her backhand after JP’s right misses. A “Weeeee!” comes from someone in the
second, then third slap turns JP’s nose into crowd in a shrill voice. “Having fun, boys
a spigot of red. He raises both hands to his and girls?” another chimes in. Even JP’s
face to block the onslaught from Punchy’s friends join the mockery. This can’t be how
eight-ounce gloves. A trail of blood spots it ends, Rob thinks, checking the time left in
marks JP’s retreat to his stool as the round the round. If JP keeps it up, he can pull it off.
ends and the handler restrains Punchy, this He can go the distance!
time less urgently.
Rob observes the silliness transform JP, his
The crowd is in a frenzy as the bell begins buddies, and much of the crowd into playful
the last round. Rob is unsettled by the rage children. The intensity rampant a minute
and fear in their faces. He recognizes some- earlier morphs into frolic. The serenity lasts
thing of himself in the furor, those times only a moment, then Punchy strikes! In mid-
with her when he impulsively blurted out leap, she cocks her huge feet and slams them
stupid things and acted half his age. into JP’s chest. Surprise etches his face as the
kick rockets him into the side of the cage
Claustrophobia descends on him in the with nauseating force, a whoosh of air de-
sweltering room. He desperately wants parting his lungs. JP collapses face first. Rob
out, but the path to the doors is blocked gasps and hears screams.
by seething spectators. If he can get the
DQ trainee to run interference for him . . ., “Stop the fight!” someone yells. Punchy
but the teen looks lost in his own emotion, keeps stomping as JP lies unconscious and
defenseless. The animal’s handler, joined by

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two other men, rushes into the cage. Car- Rob sees a few people still trying their
nival workers drag a partition across the luck at games of chance at this hour, even
stage to block the audience’s view. Many as cleanup crews disperse throughout the
turn away, Rob among them. As he does, grounds. Luck isn’t something you should
the DQ trainee cranes to see the mayhem. go looking for, he wants to tell the last-
Too late to spare JP, the bell rings. The fight minute players. You might find it.
and the show are over.
He thinks about where she might be
An emergency crew arrives as the crowd right now. It surprises him that the an-
is dispersing. Must have been nearby all guish of knowing she’s with someone else
along, Rob figures. The flashing red and is slowly dissolving. Could it be that every-
blue lights atop the ambulance brighten thing he experienced this evening, what
the night sky enough for him to make out seemed like bad luck, was pointing him
the menacing storm clouds now overhead. toward tomorrow? Something or someone
Thunder startles him and reverberates in his better could be there waiting.
chest as it rolls. He watches the DQ trainee
force his way for a closer look inside the The ping-ping-ping of a bouncing basket-
ambulance. Does he want to help, or is he ball disrupts Rob’s musing. He’s far enough
some kind of sicko? Rob wonders. A man away from the booth of his earlier misfor-
in uniform asks the teen if he is a relative, tune to avoid being noticed. The carny is
then orders him to move back. None of JP’s dribbling, a burning cigarette still a fixture
friends is anywhere to be found, Rob notes. between his lips, talking to an adolescent
boy in a wheelchair.
“That guy’s hurtin’,” a stranger tells Rob,
the two of them moving with the flow of “You’re just having an off night,” Rob
the exiting crowd. hears the carny say. “A good shooter keeps
shooting through a slump. Eventually, your
“How bad you think it is?” Rob asks. touch will return. When it does . . . look out!”

“Heard one of the EMTs say something Rob winces watching the boy, whose
about fractured ribs, stitches. Got out of hand arm muscles are atrophied, struggle to get a
there at the end. He’s lucky it’s not worse.” grip on the basketball. His shot fails to reach
the iron, weakly brushing the net.
Strange word, lucky. If he was lucky, it
crosses Rob’s mind, he’d have won the fight A swell of sympathy washes over Rob,
or at least not taken that beating. A calm- who senses the carny must feel it, too, be-
ness takes hold of him, assuming JP will re- cause the carny shows the disabled youth
cover from his injuries as the stranger sug- how to place his hand behind the ball and
gests. Rob exhales deeply, recognizing his encourages him to aim just over the front
emotional exhaustion and the slow release of the rim. The tenderness of the carny’s
of tension from all the evening’s events. guidance moves Rob.

Clear of the crowd as he angles toward “Tell ya what,” the carny says. “Five shots
the parking area, Rob scratches at patches for a buck. Make one, and you can take
of salty residue left by drying perspiration. home any stuffed animal I got.”
The humidity no longer bullies him now that
the imminent storm lowers the temperature. The first drops from the storm create
little steaming puffs as they pelt the asphalt.

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About the Author

Daniel Pié, 70, is retired. He was a daily newspaper journalist for 44-plus years, the final 30
as a copy editor at The Arizona Republic, in Phoenix.

122

THE MAN

by Alyssa Taylor

“If only there was someone to boost me up,” I stopped mid breath and his words re-
The man mumbled. played in my head like a relentless church
bell ringing in my ears. It was the sound of
I could barely make out his words, so I slacks rubbing together that snapped me
was sure he was talking to himself. He was back to reality. He was shuffling to get up
the first to break the silence since the ele- from his corner of the elevator and was
vator screeched to a stop twenty minutes careful not to hit his head against the fire
ago. It was refreshing to hear when com- extinguisher.
pared to the low hum of the lights flickering
or the sputtering A/C struggling to stay on. I “If only there were another-” The man
glanced in his direction to see him studying began before turning in my direction. He
the white-spotted panels above our heads. gave me a condescending up-down before
he stuttered, “-able person here to help me.”
“Are you craz-” I said.
I clenched my jaw as I took in a deep
“Maybe a little, but it could get us out,” breath to calm my boiling annoyance. As
he replied. His eyes remained on the panels. much as I wanted to scream at this man, I
He wiped the drops of sweat on his fore- was determined to prove my competence to
head before finally glancing in my direction. him. I stood up quietly and began removing
I noticed that the bags under his eyes hung my jewelry. When my watch thudded
so low that his face seemed to be melting against the tile, he turned to face me.
off. His eyes didn’t shine with youth even
though he was probably no more than thirty. “What do you think you’re doing, little
lady?” He asked. He crossed his arms and
“Why are you in such a rush? The main- cocked his hip to the side, clearly mocking
tenance-” I began. me. He grinned at me to reveal his cof-
fee-stained teeth.
“I have an essential meeting to go to.
Harry Wilkerson is coming today, and I can’t “Well, seeing as I am the only other able
miss this meeting,” he interrupted. person, I’m going to help-” I began. I moved
forward to stand next to him, but he held
“Well, I’m sure that-” I began. his hand out, stopping me in my tracks.

“I don’t blame you for waiting on “No offense, little lady, but I doubt you’d
someone else to solve all of your problems. be much help.” He said. He gripped my
You know, being a woman in all,” he stated.

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shoulders and gently pushed me behind me to sigh in relief as the cold air brushed
him. across my skin. I shivered slightly as the cold
air hit the back of my neck. The lights on
He turned his back to me, and I let out a the buttons flickered before we continued
staggering breath. He pried at the reflective our journey to the top floor of the building.
metal doors, and with each failed attempt, I gathered my things and took out the notes
his warped reflection grew more and more that I would need for today’s meeting. I
frustrated. Seeing him struggle brought flipped through the documents as the man
more joy than I cared to admit. struggled to get to his feet. He grunted as
he contorted his arms to grip the railing to
He punched the wall three times. Each hoist himself up, but he failed.
pound harder than the last, and it seemed
to shake the elevator and echo loudly like I groaned before stuffing the notes
metal slamming into each other. The ex- under my arm and offering my hand to him.
tinguisher rattled on the wall, and I was He pushed my hand away, and I shrugged
opening my mouth to warn him, but I si- my shoulders. Some people just can’t be
lently watched it fall on his foot. helped.

I flinched at the sound of his foot The elevator dinged once before the
crunching and wanted to cover my ears doors opened. I quickly stepped out, careful
from the inhuman high-pitched screech to step over the man’s outstretched legs.
that was released from his throat. He slid
down the wall ripping the emergency exit I briskly walked through the building, my
paper off the wall and landed with a thud heels clicking with every step. I got lost on
that caused the elevator to bob. my way to the boardroom since I neglected
to realize this branch has a different layout
“Help me, please,” He cried. He rocked as than Chicago.
tears fell down his face.
After two minutes of aimlessly walking
I blankly stared down at the pitiful man around, I finally found the boardroom.
as I fought the inward battle to help him or
ignore him. Oh, how the tables have turned. “Good morning, everyone. My apologies
I know what the ‘right’ thing to do is, but for being late. I was stuck in-,” I began.
I could not bring myself to move from my
spot to help him. Instead, I opened Face- “What are you doing here?” a voice asked.
book and began scrolling through my home
feed, looking for a video to distract me. I recognized the voice instantly; it was
the man from the elevator.
“Are you going to ignore me?” he asked.
“Forgive me, Mister...?” I asked.
I didn’t bother to look at him, and in-
stead, I laughed at a meme that the CEO “Jackson Holmes,” he replied.
posted on the cabinet’s Facebook page.
“Well, Mr. Holmes-” I began.
The man stopped talking after two min-
utes of useless attempts to get my attention. “We’re expecting a Harry Wilkerson; I
think you’re-” he began.
Soon the elevator roared to life, and the
hum of the A/C functioning properly caused “I’m speaking, Mr. Holmes. Oh, and Harry
is short for Harriet.” I said

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About the Author

Alyssa Taylor is an aspiring show creator attending Full Sail University, working towards a
Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing. She will be the first of her family to graduate from
college and obtain a degree. She is currently working on Twilight of the Avatar, a spinoff of
Avatar, the Last Airbender series, and This is America, a crime show thriller that follows a
dance between a cop and a serial killer. In her downtime, she enjoys spending time with her
family, watching movies, cooking, studying psychology, or reading her favorite book, The
Odyssey, by Homer.

125

THE LOCKER

by Wayne Dickerson

“I can’t exactly get a grab of what today’s “Let’s hurry; I’m not exactly happy about
club activity is Micheal, ” said Simon. Every- it either,” said Micheal. As Micheal opened
day Micheal would put a letter in Simon’s the door, the smell of chlorine wafted out.
locker. That letter would describe where
the two were supposed to meet and the “Close that! What if someone sees you,”
whimsical named objective they were sup- said Simon.
posed to accomplish. A name like the ad-
venture’s club caught Simon like a fish on a “Every sports club has an away game
hook. In the way that he did not know the today and the other clubs don’t stay this
severity of his action. late,” said Micheal as he used his hand to
beckon Simon to follow him.
“Another afternoon spent looking for the
treasure to end all treasures; isn’t this the *
life Simon, ” said Michael. A reward no one
except for the Cunnighams would believe “This really doesn’t feel right,” said Simon
exists. Obsessing over this list ran in Mi- as he enters the women’s locker room after
cheal’s blood. Micheal’s grandfather, Jake Micheal.
Cunnigham found the list and instilled in all
of his family that completing this list would “Everything will be alright Simon. It’s
change their diet from tuna to the salty an in and out job,” said Micheal. Micheal
smell and sour taste of caviar in their mouth. spotted a bench after checking a few rows
of lockers. The bench was made out of
“What is the task Michael,” said Simon. wood with chipped blocks of cement at
each corner. The bench was engraved with
“It’s a bit more difficult than usual. I got “women’s swim team circa 1989” but the
Zania to help us,” said Micheal. number was scratched out and replaced
with multiple different years.
“Why bother your poor sister on a day
she has practice”. “Here it is, help me flip it over and we
can get out of here,” said Micheal while he
“It’s because she has practice that we strains in an attempt to flip the bench alone.
need her help. Today’s mission is to have a The two succeed in flipping the bench and on
boy flip the bench in the ladies room”. the other side of the bench is engraved “El
Psy Congroo”. El Psy Congroo is a code that
“You’re joking, Micheal,” said Simon. appears on any mission that is dangerous.

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“We did it now let’s get out of here,” said “We should wait it out. The door is locked
Simon as he nervously looked around. so they won’t find us. There’s no way to see
out of this thing so it’s not morally wrong
“Wait Simon this is obviously a clue,” said either,” whispered Simon nervously. As if to
Micheal. mock him, the sound of the swim team’s se-
crets and their undressing flooded the boys’
“That doesn’t matter, we have to get out ears with a painful force akin to pouring
of here,” said Simion. magma into an anthole.

Micheal ignores Simon and begins to ex- “Just a little faster and I can make regionals,”
amine the engraving. said Zania.

“Simon, this engraving was done with a “That was Zania wasn’t it; text her and
knife or something equally as sharp,” said see if she can pull the fire alarm or some-
Micheal. Simon screams in terror when a thing,” said Simon.
lightning strike simultaneously comes down.
“That was almost a good Idea Simon. I
“Shhhh Simon,” said Micheal. think I’ll do this instead,” said Micheal. Mi-
cheal pushed the letters on his phone at a
“Sorry but it’s fine the lightning covered fast pace until the two of them heard the
it,” says Simon. ping of Zania’s phone. Though the two of
them could not see this, when Zania phone
“Lighting,” whispers Simon in a pondering pinged she covered herself and began to
tone. Simon rushes closer to Micheal and speak with a face of detest planted as firmly
grabs the anomaly key from Micheal’s book as a willow tree.
bag. The anomaly key is a key that opens
every lock it comes across. Jake gave this “Oh my god everyone the boys won their
key to Micheal to represent that he was game. They just got back to school and are
going to be the Cunnigham to unlock the waiting for us,” said Zania in a monotone
secrets of the list. voice. The girls fell for it nonetheless. Every
team member rushed to finish dressing and
* left for the parking lot. Zania was the first
one out the door.
“They are coming Micheal,” said Simon.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Simon.
“What, I don’t hear anything,” said Micheal.
“Wait,” said Micheal. Simon’s face began
“We only have an outdoor swimming to contort.
pool; swimming probably always gets can-
celled when it rains. There’s no way to know “Don’t worry; This was an hour long plan
how close they are if we ran out they could and it’s been 50 minutes. I have time to take
have spotted us ,” said Simon. The sound of some pictures of the bench,” said Micheal
multiple girls coming into the locker room as he emphasized the words “of the bench”.
makes the two boys afraid. They are afraid
in a way they have never felt in any of the “Simon,” said Micheal.
other El Psy Congroo missions because they
both came to the understanding that time it “Yea,” said Simon
wasn’t their body on the line it was their life.
“You did great today. You saved us after
After a few moments of silence between I made us take unnecessary risk. I’m sorry,”
the both of them Simon began to speak. said Simon.

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“It is not exactly what I had in mind but I
got my adventure. I’ll forgive you as long as
the next one endangers my health and not
my reputation, said Simon.
After taking the pictures the two of them
left the locker room unseen and smiling.

About the Author
Wayne Dickerson is a fantasy focused author. Wayne was
a lead writer on the short films sharkflix, Rent free, and
Rent free 2. He is a student working on his creative writing
degree.

128

LUCKY PENNY

by Page Powers

My Pawpaw’s steamer trunk sat on the porch watched as the old chair danced in the wind.
covered with stickers that mapped his trav- When I turned to reason with her, the disbe-
els of the world. Next to it, rocking back and lief in her gaze shamed me. Without a word,
forth in the chair he made for his bride, sat she made it clear she would not leave that
my grandmother. She stood up to greet me, treasure behind.
silencing the little dog yipping around my feet.
Years of living together had taught me
“I am plenty glad to see you, Penny,” she it was pointless to argue. A few precious
drawled. She was the only one that called minutes later, I had it tied down under the
me that anymore. It used to make me cringe tarp with the trunk. Thunder clapped in the
when she called me her lucky Penny. Now distance, urging me to hurry.
it made me feel lost in time, wishing things
were the way they used to be. The truck rumbled to life, coughing in
displeasure. We raced to outrun the storm.
Giving her a quick hug, I said, “We don’t Dark clouds bruised the sky as angry winds
have much time. Is everything packed that pelted rain and debris around us. White
you want to take?” knuckles gripped the wheel. Wipers beat at
the deluge that was pushing back at us.
Looking around, she let out a tired sigh.
“Ain’t nothing left here but memories and Within minutes of the highway, we heard
chores. Let’s git. Everything is on the porch,” the song of the tornado siren. The water
was her gruff reply. was rising fast and flooding the route ahead.
Eyes glued to the road, I pushed the gas
Grandma stepped into the downpour, pedal to the floor and prayed until, with a
shielding her dog from the raindrops splat- final shudder, the truck’s engine finally died.
tering the dirt. Without looking back, she
left me to get her things. Relieved it was all Stranded beneath the highway over-
we had to take, I lugged the battered trunk pass, we listened as the savage storm raged
down the rickety stairs and wrestled it into above, and the water seethed around us.
the back of the truck. Slick with the wet of Water pooled in the floorboard. Grandma
rain, I slid into the cab next to her. tried to push open her door, but the flood
was already too high.
“You forgot the chair,” she admonished.
The growing puddles made me think fast.
I pushed my soggy bangs out of the way, The cargo window was just big enough to
and through the rain glazed windshield, I

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squeeze through. “We have to climb into The warm rain pelted us as the flood
the back!” I said. pulled the truck out of the protection of the
overpass. Before it slid away again, we used
“You go first and untie the tarp so we can the trunk like a stair and pulled ourselves
get underneath it,” said Grandma. onto the top of the truck’s cab, dragging the
tarp up over our heads. The staccato of the
Forcing open the window, I wiggled rain beat the rhythm of the storm against
through and into the slippery bed of the the bright blue plastic. We held on to each
truck. The shifting water was frightening, other with the dog sandwiched between us.
and my hands shook as I took the small dog
first. When I tried to pull Grandma through, The acrid tang of lightning lingered in
she shook her head no. the muggy air. A crumpled bike with its pink
plastic spokes spinning in the murky water
“I won’t fit, Penny,” said Grandma. drifted past. The little dog whimpered when
the sirens sounded in the distance. I looked
The truck lurched forward, the flash flood at my watch. Only an hour had passed since
trying to push us out of our concrete refuge. we fled the storm. My grandma leaned her
I stumbled back and fell hard against her be- head against my shoulder, looking at the
loved chair, smashing it into pieces against broken chair below.
the trunk behind it. Grandma crawled out of
the passenger window, trying to get to me. Grimacing, I said, “I’m sorry about the
chair. I know how much you loved it.” Guilt
“Oh my God, Grandma, hang on. Let me clutched at me as I remembered trying to
help!” I said, leaping to help her, terrified leave it behind. The rain running down my
she would fall. face tasted salty.

Crawling over the broken chair, I pulled Reaching out, she tucked my hair behind
her out of the window with a heave. We my ears, caressing my face for a moment.
both fell backward, narrowly missing the “What I loved was rocking my babies in that
trunk as it slid to rest underneath the back chair,” she said in her slow country drawl
window. Grandma looked around in a daze that would always sound like home to me.
at the pieces of her chair. The little dog The sky cleared as the sun pierced the re-
barked for her attention and jumped into treating clouds. Holding each other close,
her arms, eager to be held. for the first time in a long while, we swayed
in the drizzling remnants of the storm as the
“Are you OK?” we both said at the same truck rocked back and forth.
time. A small smile from Grandma gave me
my answer. I answered with a swift hug.

About the Author

Page Murray, (Page Powers) returning to her roots as a writer of fiction and poetry after
years of creating ads and pitching marketing solutions for a local newspaper. Currently
working at Full Sail University, she has a passion for education, literacy, Gulf Coast beaches,
and her black cat Toothless.

130

DEAD TO ME

by Tailyn Augustine

The sun was out, but it didn’t provide any you’re far from the accepting type, but you
warmth; the chill of autumn crept into my could at least be respectful.”
body. The sounds of wildlife or at least the
rustling of leaves from the wind usually “Respectful?” A crack appeared in his
filled the woods. Today, however, it seemed mask, letting the anger that’s festered
as if the animals had all fled, and the forest come seeping out. “We’re supposed to be
itself held its breath. brothers, twin brothers. We’re a duo. You’re
trying to throw that all away!”
I’d told him, finally, and he hadn’t taken it
well. We mutually decided to come out here I took in a deep breath and sat on the
to talk. Everyone else never liked to see us ground, grabbing handfuls of grass as if they
argue. My whole body had tensed into its would keep me from running from this. I
fight or flight mode; it’s hard to believe you shifted my gaze to the surface of the nearby
can feel that way around someone you used lake through the trees to avoid looking at
to have such a close relationship with. my brother.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. He “We’re still a duo. We always will be.
did his best to prevent any emotion from es- Nothing will ever change that.”
caping him, but I’ve known him long enough
to understand that just meant he was mad “Well, you’re letting whatever the hell is
anyway. going on with you change it! Why didn’t you
ever talk to me about this? You said you’ve
“I need to, for myself,” I said. “I know you been figuring this out for a while now. How
don’t understand, not sure if you ever can.” come this is the first I’ve heard of it, huh?
I thought we told each other everything? I
“I understand that one of your ‘friends’ thought we trusted each other.”
has talked you into thinking you’re a trans-
gender or whatever. You’re not. You’re fine “Well, I guess I didn’t trust you with this!
just the way you are, as Lane.” From how it’s going so far, I think I had the
right idea!” I shouted back, desperately
Hearing that name was like getting stung wanting his barrage to be over. I knew I’d
by a wasp, but I shook it off. made a mistake as soon as I’d said it, though.

“My friends didn’t do anything. I’ve been He kicked up a storm of dirt directed at
figuring this all out before I even started me. Tears were forming in the corners of his
hanging out with them,” I said. “And I know eyes.

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“Can you not see how this is already I wanted desperately to cry when I heard
making things worse between us? Please, that, but the tears wouldn’t come. If that
for the love of God, don’t throw your life was how he felt, there wasn’t any point
away.” dragging this on. My eyes turned downcast,
and I simply walked away.
“You’re the one making things worse,” I
said as I stood up and brushed the dirt off. The chill suddenly felt colder. As if my
“What I’m trying to do is live my life. I didn’t heart had fallen into a bucket of ice water.
spend years digging up parts of myself just The wind of the forest had returned, al-
to bury them again.” though nothing more than a whisper. My
crazy imagination thought that maybe the
His face morphed into one of his famous woods had been listening and was trying to
glares. He’d balled his shaking hands into comfort me with its presence.
fists.
He must’ve been shocked that I left.
“You can have this or me, but you can’t After some time, I heard him shouting at me,
have both. I won’t be a part of it; I won’t calling out that name, Lane. That wasn’t my
associate with those kinds of people. If you name anymore, though. Lane was just as
choose this, you’re burning this bridge. You dead to me as I was becoming to my brother.
won’t ever see or hear from me again; you’ll He never really existed. My name is Laurel.
be dead to me.”

About the Author

Tailyn Augustine comes from the small town of Toano
nestled just outside Williamsburg, Virginia. She studies
creative writing at Full Sail University. Follow her on Twitter
@TailynWrites.

132

ZEN AND THE ART
OF APOLOGIES

by Alexandra Carmichael

The Lululemon girl prances to the front of What kind of mother can’t stop her baby
the studio and unfurls her yoga mat. She from crying on the subway? And why is she
places it on the floor in the middle of four just carrying him? Where is the stroller?
rectangles, as if the rules only apply to Just get off already and spare everyone.
those whose arms and legs aren’t as toned
as hers. Grace watches the girl, teeth grind- You are not pulling off that top, girl. You
ing. Blue masking tape divides the floor of may think you are, but you just don’t have
the yoga studio into a neat grid like a park- the figure for it.
ing lot. Grace put her mat in the middle of
a rectangle, like you’re supposed to. What That guy might almost be cute if it weren’t
kind of psycho takes up four spots at once? for the patchy beard and beer belly. How
Grace was tempted to place her mat in be- about putting in the slightest bit of effort?
tween two rectangles to get more space,
since the class isn’t full, but didn’t. She’s In order to quiet this inner narrator,
trying to be more Zen, and hogging two Grace has come up with a rule. She’s not
spots seems very non-Zen. allowed to think mean thoughts about
someone unless she has three solid rea-
Being more Zen is code for being less sons to do so. Three strikes. Taking up four
of a bitch. Day-to-day, Grace comes off as spots is the Lululemon girl’s third strike. The
kind and harmless. People often describe first happened a few weeks ago when she
her as sweet, a label that makes her skin walked into class six minutes late and inter-
crawl. What could be more boring, more rupted an otherwise silent deep breathing
absolutely forgettable, than sweet? Inside exercise. The second strike was last week
her head, though, Grace is a hardcore, judgy when she did a headstand in the middle
bitch. During most of her weekday subway of class for no other reason than to show
rides, her inner narrator spews out a string off. This third strike comes as a relief. Grace
of vicious thoughts about the strangers watches the Lululemon girl stretch out on
around her, whether she wants it to or not. her rudely placed mat, and the swell of ma-
licious thoughts that have built up over the
last month start to pour out.

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Who does she think she is, asks the in- Grace laughed so hard she fell out of
ner-bitch, wearing $100 yoga pants to a chair pose.
scrappy studio in Queens that’s really just a
stuffy converted apartment above a Dunkin Now Sarah walks to the front of the class
Donuts? We’re not in Brooklyn, sweetheart. and lights a thin stick of incense that fills the
This is a studio for normal people who come room with a heady lavender. She dims the
to class in baggy t-shirts, old sweatpants lights. The routine triggers a delicious calm
and frizzy hair. This is a place where you can that radiates through Grace’s body. Nothing
struggle through a downward dog and give else matters, not the Lululemon girl, not the
up halfway through without feeling judged. wisp of a headache brought on by her body’s
Maybe this means the neighborhood is being whine for caffeine. It’s all endurable. Sarah
gentrified. What if Grace’s rent goes up? What instructs them to lie down on their backs,
if she can’t afford her apartment in a year? and Grace closes her eyes. She takes another
breath. Someone opens the door to the studio
Grace is aware of her chest tightening, and it bangs shut behind them. The intruder
her heart rate increasing, and catches her- tiptoes inside and places their mat in the
self. Zen, she remembers. Be Zen. She closes empty rectangle next to Grace on the right.
her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her heart
slows. She won’t let Lululemon girl ruin yoga. That’s strike one. Grace sneaks a glance
— it’s a young woman in humble gray sweat-
Grace has been taking Saturday and pants — and closes her eyes again. Sarah’s
Sunday morning classes at this studio for chipmunk voice, which is inconceivably
four months, part of a quarter-life crisis relaxing, guides the class through deep
slash self-improvement plan that includes breaths. Grace ignores the woman next
doing yoga, being less of a bitch, and giving to her and begins to maneuver her body
up coffee. That latter part really set her up through the steady cadence of warm-up
for failure. It’s extremely difficult not to be poses. Three weeks ago she was fumbling,
a bitch when you’ve quit coffee cold turkey. a step behind everyone else, but now the
flow comes easily and she keeps her eyes
The instructor arrives. Sarah, who closed. Her head is clear as she moves
teaches on Sunday mornings. She is a pe- through whatever pose Sarah calls out in a
tite brunette with a high-pitched, slightly hypnotic rhythm.
squeaky voice that should be annoying but
just adds to the no-pressure vibe of the shift forward into upward dog as you inhale
place. No one here is perfect. Besides, Sarah
is funny. A few weeks ago her cell phone exhale, back to downward dog
went off during class. Grace was sweating
through chair pose, her most despised of inhale, lift the right leg high
all poses, when suddenly the music from
the Star Wars movies started blasting from exhale, step forward into low-lunge
Sarah’s phone. That dramatic march that al-
ways means Darth Vader is about to show twist to the right as you inhale
up. There were a few giggles from the other
students, and Sarah grabbed her phone. It’s during this twist that Grace opens her
eyes, sees the face of the girl next to her and
“Sorry, sorry! That’s the ringtone that freezes. The girl has dark hair and a round
plays when my mother calls.” face, the kind of face that announces its kind-
ness to the world. A face that says its owner
is someone you can talk about books with

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over tea, someone who won’t cancel plans never mentioned being married. Others swore
the morning of. Her name is Yumi. The mo- she’d been fired for some academic scandal. A
ment of recognition brings a clammy shame friend of Grace’s was a journalism major and
that oozes down Grace’s spine and settles as interned at the local paper. He’d heard that
nausea in her gut. Grace tries to remain fo- Glover was involved in some sort of cult, that
cused on the poses as Sarah calls them out, they took all of her money and kicked her out,
but any mindfulness she’d cultivated has leaving her with nothing and no one.
evaporated. The sick feeling in her stomach
festers. She and Yumi took an English course Grace was too young to know how to
together in college, the same semester as the feel, so mostly she didn’t feel anything. She
suicide. They had a few polite conversations mustered the distress and surface-level sad-
in between classes, nothing more than small ness that come from the shock of a death,
talk. Grace often thought of her as that kind- cursory emotions that centered on the dis-
looking girl before she learned her name. ruption of her own life. The campus-wide
email noted that the largest lecture hall
The last time Grace saw Yumi was six would be reserved all week as a meeting
years ago, after the casino night at Bing- place for those who wanted to grieve to-
hamton University. Right after Professor gether. Grace didn’t go.
Glover killed herself.
Casino night continued as planned. Grace
Every year one of the campus dining halls went with a group of friends. She was mostly
was turned into a Vegas-themed jumble of sober, but the rest of her group was com-
blackjack tables, roulette wheels and craps pletely hammered. Yelling and belligerent,
boards. All proceeds went to a local charity. the kind of people she couldn’t stand to be
Apparently public colleges can sanction a around yet was always surrounded by. Grace
self-destructive and largely illegal activity as had spent two semesters convincing herself
long as students are throwing their money that she enjoyed these people’s company,
away to a good cause. that they were all friends. Really, she was
just hopelessly in love with Mark, the leader
Only a few days before casino night, each of the group. Mark was in her Intro to Polit-
of Binghamton University’s 15,000 students ical Science class and looked a bit like Patrick
had received an email notifying them that Dempsey from Grey’s Anatomy, with curly
Professor Glover, a mousy woman with a dark hair, deceptively kind eyes and a chis-
short gray bob who taught in the English eled jaw. Mark was one of those privileged
Department, had passed away unexpect- white guys with a personality so bland it was
edly. Her classes would be on hold until a impossible for anyone not to like him. He
replacement was found. Rumors about what had the too-perfect edges and shiny surface
had really happened polluted campus within of a slice of American cheese. Grace could
hours. They began as hushed whispers within never quite explain what it was she saw, or
lecture halls and spread down tiled hallways, didn’t see, in Mark that infatuated her.
gaining momentum until spoken audibly in
the dining halls and then hollered over the din This was back before Grace became se-
of frat parties. There were claims that Glover cretly a bitch, before the constant stream of
had been found in her apartment, that she’d mean monologuing in her head. Back then,
hanged herself. Some people said her hus- she was just a pushover. Grace had spent
band left her, although Professor Glover had months following Mark around campus,

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watching his flag football games, helping him Grace rolled her eyes. When Mark and
with assignments, shrinking herself into the Nick ran straight to the roulette wheels,
airless confines of his hobbies, his friends, she walked in the other direction. That was
his life. They’d fooled around at one of the when she first saw Yumi that night. They
crummy bars downtown that didn’t check ended up side-by-side at the same black-
IDs, in the middle of a sweaty dance floor jack game. Grace and Yumi smiled at one
lit by sporadic strobe lights. This triggered another but said nothing until the dealer
a pattern of intermittent makeout sessions paused between games to shuffle the decks.
whenever Grace and Mark were drunk at the The two men sitting next to them were
same party. Afterward, Mark would barely having their own conversation. After a few
make eye contact, even though they shared seconds of pained silence Grace turned to
a class and she often went to his dorm room Yumi and said, “So, did you hear Professor
to play beer pong with his friends. Grace Glover was in some sort of cult?”
was always so sure that the next time they
hooked up, Mark would ask her to be his Yumi went pale and her lower lip trem-
girlfriend. He never did, but her crush would bled in either grief or fury. “That’s not true
linger for another three semesters. at all,” she murmured and stared down at
her hands.
That night when they all went to the fake
casino, Grace’s delusion was at its most po- It was then Grace remembered that
tent. Her heart fluttered whenever Mark Yumi and Professor Glover had both been in
glanced at her or acknowledged her pres- the Outdoors Club, that only a few months
ence. Mark and his friends had pre-gamed ago they’d gone with a half-dozen other stu-
hard in his dorm, with Grace tagging along. dents on a weekend backpacking trip. Her
They entered the converted dining hall face went as red as Yumi’s was white.
hooting and hollering. Handmade signs were
set up at each of the dining tables to explain “Sorry.”
the rules of the games, while black-vested
dealers manned each station. The hum of Grace got up, hurried away from the
giddy chatter mingled with the pop hits that table and went to find Mark and his friends.
streamed down from speakers in the ceiling. They had run out of money after only an
Grace, Mark and his friends had arrived late, hour and were staggering toward the exit.
and most of the tables were already sur- She followed them outside where they
rounded by students waiting to place bets. waited for the campus shuttle bus, which
would take them from the main cluster of
One of Mark’s friends was a huge guy brick buildings back to their dorm rooms in
named Nick who had looked about 30 years the hills. The campus buses were all painted
old since the age of 18. His favorite pastime light blue, with the same cramped brown
was saying offensive things to get a reaction seats you’d find on an elementary school
out of people, especially while drunk. When- bus. When they climbed aboard, the shouts
ever someone grimaced, he’d say some ver- of Mark’s group filled the tiny space. Grace
sion of “Don’t be so sensitive! It’s a joke!” wished she’d walked home instead. She had
almost sat right next to Mark at the back of
As they looked around the large room the bus, but ultimately chickened out and
Nick hollered, “Aren’t there supposed to be sat a few rows ahead of the group, a choice
hot girls offering me free drinks or dancing she was now thankful for.
on the tables? Some casino.”

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Nick’s mood had soured. As the blue the back of the bus to face Nick. There were
bus rolled through campus, Grace could tears on her cheeks.
hear the dregs of vodka and lost bets in his
booming voice. “Why don’t you mind your own busi-
ness?” Nick yelled back.
“I don’t understand depressed people.
Why can’t they just choose to be happier? “Yeah, who even is this girl?” Mark said.
Go to the gym or go get laid or something.” The group around him cackled.

Grace held her breath. He couldn’t The bus stopped. Yumi shot out of her
possibly be talking about that. Even Nick seat and ran through the double doors as
wouldn’t go there. they squeaked open. Grace imagined going
after her, asking if she was okay and making
“Maybe it’s all about attention or some- it clear that Nick was intolerable. But she
thing. Either way it’s stupid.” hesitated. What if she made a scene and em-
barrassed herself? The doors closed and the
Mark tried to hush him. But that never bus continued up the hill as her nails bit even
worked. deeper into her palms. From the smudged
window beside her, Grace watched Yumi
“No! I just want to understand why walk toward the dorms alone in the dark.
someone would do that to themselves. It’s
so selfish.” After that night, Grace and Yumi no
longer made small talk during class. The se-
Oh God, he was talking about it. This was mester ended and Grace no longer saw her
really happening. Grace tried to sink as low around campus. But she replayed that mo-
as she could into her seat, to disappear as her ment in her head often over the next few
face grew hot and her heart raced. She looked years. Why didn’t she get off the bus and go
around and saw Yumi sitting a few seats after her? Why didn’t she make sure Yumi
ahead of her. Even from behind, Grace could was okay? She kept imagining Yumi’s long,
tell she was upset. Her head was lowered and lonely walk up the hill.
her shoulders were up to her ears. When she
turned to glance back at Nick, her mouth was And now here was Yumi, six years and
a thin line of distaste set in a clenched jaw. 200 miles from Binghamton University, pi-
geon-posing right next to her. Grace spends
“No, no!” Nick was yelling now. “Why am the remainder of yoga class sneaking
I not allowed to talk about this? Maybe if glances at Yumi’s face. She has that same
we talked about it more all those people knot in her stomach she felt on the bus, that
would realize it’s not that hard to be happy.” tingly, sour feeling when you know you did
something wrong.
Grace had her eyes closed at that point,
her nails digging into the flesh of her palms. The next thirty minutes are filled by imag-
She glanced at Yumi. Was she crying? ined apologies. Grace runs through scenario
after scenario, what she could say, how to
“Anyone who is selfish enough to con- avoid sounding like a crazy person. What if
sider suicide should just do it already!” Yumi doesn’t remember her or that night?
What if she doesn’t want to remember, and
Time froze and everything was silent. Grace sprung this crappy memory on her
Grace thought she was going to puke.

“Shut the hell up! What is wrong with
you?” It was Yumi, who had turned toward

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for her own selfish reasons? A silent debate carry her outside of the room, then down
plays out between warrior ones and for- the stairs and out into the street.
ward folds. By the end of class, when they’re
supposed to be meditating in corpse pose, Grace tells herself that she’ll see Yumi
Grace knows she has to say something. She’s again in the studio, that she can get to know
memorized her little speech and practices her over a few classes and build up to the
it in her head with her eyes closed, making apology over time. A lingering tension creeps
minor revisions each time. into her chest as she walks to the end of the
block and waits for the traffic light to change.
Hey, sorry, did you go to Binghamton? I The tightness ascends to her head where a
think we were classmates together, in En- headache flares. The light turns green. Grace
glish lit? Grace wouldn’t mention Professor crosses and turns left onto her street.
Glover’s name, of course. Then she’d say
something awkward but brave. Listen, this Halfway down the block, a thought bar-
might sound weird, but I have this memory rels into her mind with such force it makes
of you from school that I’ve always felt really her flinch: that was strike three. Her first
bad about. We were on a campus bus and strike was at the blackjack table with that
my friend was really drunk. He was being stupid comment about Glover and the cult.
a complete idiot and saying horrible things Next came the bus, her failure to do or say
about depression and suicide. I remember anything that mattered. Ignoring Yumi in
you were on that bus and you seemed re- the yoga studio was the final strike. As she
ally upset. I always regretted not checking walks past her apartment and continues
to see if you were okay. It’s so random that down the street, her inner bitch has a
I ran into you, I just had to say something, to monologue ready and waiting.
apologize I guess. I’m sorry.
You are such an overwhelming disap-
How would Yumi respond? Would she pointment. With your weak chin and your
laugh, say she didn’t remember? Or would fat thighs that no amount of yoga will fix.
she say thank you, that means so much to Dull brown hair that you’re too cheap to dye
me? Maybe they would hug, or decide to another color. Your filthy apartment. All the
grab a smoothie together after class. Maybe men who never loved you back were right.
they could be friends. Devon and Lance and Mark and James. You
are unloved. Unlovable.
Class ends when Sarah delivers a final
namaste and everyone begins to gather Grace doesn’t notice her teeth grinding,
their things. Grace moves in slow motion, but she does look up and realize she’s
spends as much time as possible rolling walked nearly two blocks past her apart-
up her mat. Yumi is putting on a light-blue ment. She stops in the middle of the side-
hoodie by the cubbies at the front of the walk. Her favorite coffee spot is at the end
studio. Grace makes eye contact, and Yumi of the street. She hesitates. The morning
holds her gaze for an extra beat. This gives breeze animates a pile of leaves beneath
Grace courage. She walks toward her, opens her feet so they glide around her ankles
her mouth to speak — then the hesitation as she waits. Grace takes a step, continues
comes. The fear of looking stupid. Grace up the street toward the cafe. She orders a
succumbs to it. Again. She looks down at large vanilla iced coffee, takes her first sip of
the floor and watches her own feet as they caffeine in four weeks, and feels her head-
ache recede as she walks back home.

138

NONFICTION



FEAR OF
REJECTION CAN

DROWN

by Nathan Sweem

An artist’s ability to maneuver waves of re- distract him. He focuses entirely on his
jection often determines the fate of her ca- own mission. While it may not be a grand
reer. Sooner or later, she finds that not every- one in everyone’s eyes, it belongs to him
one shares her intense love for her artwork. and no one else. That makes it special, and
No matter how painful, she mustn’t let this worth seeing through to the end. When the
heartache sabotage her efforts. Especially in weather turns against him, the sailor doesn’t
the face of rejection, the artist must press on. halt or sit dead in the water. He doesn’t turn
back. He finds a way through the storm or
The artist braves the elements alone, around it, no matter how long it takes. He
captain of her vessel. At times, the world knows his course like he knows the stars.
may seem to her full of individuals who Sometimes there’s no choice but to sail into
could live without her. In the choppy wa- a strong headwind. He does so cheerfully,
ters of rejection, she may need to remind even when it requires double the labor.
herself that her journey isn’t solely for her
benefit. There are people around the globe Rejection is as far beyond an artist’s con-
who need her art like they need sustenance. trol as the wind and the currents. Let her
With them in mind, she can weather even find relief in this simple fact and know that
the worst torrents of rejection with the holding onto fear of rejection isn’t worth
vigor of a hardened sailor and bring her art the effort. She can release it forever. As
to where its needed. often as she feels that fear trying to climb
back into her head, she has the power to
A sailor doesn’t bear his cargo for ev- cut it loose. Let it fall to the wayside and
eryone’s sake. Rather, he toils on behalf into the water. Give fear to the abyss. An
of those who crave what he has to deliver. artist has no use for it.
Other boats and distant harbors don’t

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One beautiful thing about an artist’s Now is the time for the artist to let go of
creativity is how it connects her to other fear. Find that tether that weighs you down
people, and those to others still. Let her and take a knife to it. Let it drop. Watch it
carry on for the ones who need that sense sink and disappear for good. Let it drown.
of connection, the ones who feel alone and
stranded, the ones cut off and isolated, the Now she can drive on. Her loved ones
ones entrenched in vicious struggles, the will be ever forgiving of any unexpected
ones who fight to get through each day. To delay she bumps into. They’ll forever be
them, her masterpieces are as crucial as grateful that she decided not to quit. With
food and water. They need her to do what favorable wind or without, she must arrive
she loves and create. or sink trying.

About the Author

Nathan Sweem served five years as an Army linguist. He holds degrees in Arabic Studies,
Mathematics, and Data Analytics.

142

ALEXA, PLAY RAIN

by Michael Riordan

I have trouble sleeping these days. So, I ask On weekends, fisherman would arrive for
my Alexa device to play re-created sounds the bass, bluegills or crappie, but you might
of falling rain, which she mixes with some have the place for yourself during the week.
low-toned thunder. Nightly melatonin Trails were unpaved and often muddy or icy,
stopped working, so this is giving “nature” but walking was always optional for us. The
a shot. Alexa’s offering always does the only asphalt around was in the parking lot
trick for my slumbering wife who readily where Arnette and I steamed up the inside
lets the purring drone cover her like a blan- of the car—especially when it was raining.
ket. It doesn’t work for me.
Big Bend opened at dawn and closed at
The trouble with rain is that it makes me dusk. Once, a spring storm showed up just
think of Arnette, my first girlfriend in high before closing time, and suddenly there was
school, and how later we got engaged when even more steam and darkness and some
I was finishing up college. Then, like an ass, security guy’s flashlight shining through the
I judged her beneath me and dismissed her fogged-up windows--and Arnette screaming,
as just part of my childhood. I remember and me, rolling down my window and
her sobbing, and she said: “You’re not re- yelling, “I’m not doing anything!” How easy
ally doing this are you?” I went on my way it is to lie in bed and bring back those ad-
in life without her. I know I let her down, olescent longings and the buttery smell of
but once we had lots of fun and smooched fresh rain-laden leaves and branches.
whenever we could. Mindlessly alive then,
I never understood the rarity of so many After school, I would hop into my moth-
oozing feelings, nor did I recognize that pe- er’s 1961 powder blue Dodge Dart. Ours
riod as anything more than it was—youth. was a big school, so I had to pass the
campus police check-point as I darted out
We made out after school at Big Bend to pick up Arnette from her strict all-girls
forest preserve. Years before, county plan- high school in nearby Wilmette. Nearly all of
ners had laid out an elaborate system of her teachers were nuns, and they checked
trails for hiking, fishing, cycling, or just for uniforms each morning to make sure girls
strolls in the woods, when you could al- hadn’t found a way to hike up and shorten
most hear tiny creatures breathing around the length of their skirts. We laughed about
you. Seasonal colors and smells around Big things like that as we made our way to Boo-
Bend Lake could make you forget you were by’s fast food joint on Milwaukee Avenue.
only twenty miles from downtown Chicago. I looked it up-- the restaurant is still there.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Mom’s car had push-button automatic much handier than the forest preserve.
transmission and a pretty good radio. We’d We’d take a little walk until we found a place
pick up a snack at Booby’s and fill the car in just the right stage of construction—roof
with the aroma of French fries and the on, exterior completed, door-unlocked.
comforting tunes of The Beatles, The Lovin’ Before the cuddling, we pretended to be
Spoonful, and the Zombies as we headed a young couple out house-shopping: Oh
to Big Bend. Lyndon Johnson was President look, Honey, such good-sized bedrooms—
and was escalating the war in Vietnam, but and a study, too! This play-acting lasted a
I didn’t care much because I was seventeen. couple of weeks until we opened the door
I had a girlfriend, a part-time job, and a B+’ on a family, already moved into their tract
average, so I was cruising. home, and looking like a Norman Rockwell
illustration: Suburban Surprise! I had mis-
We must have talked about lots of things, judged the state of the building progress.
but how strange that I can’t remember spe- This house had surpassed “under-construc-
cific content of our banter—just the kissing tion” and had reached both “completed”
and the warmth and the closeness and Ar- and “sold.” We didn’t give the guy on his
nette’s make-up on my shirt. And the next couch in front of the TV a chance to say any-
day at school, when I was supposed to be thing or come after us. I inanely blurted out,
solving quadratic equations or taking notes “Sorry, we thought the house was empty.” as
about The Scarlet Letter, she still clung Arnette and I shut the front door and scram-
to me. All of her: Arnette’s sugary breath bled down the block back to my mother’s
and chuckling kisses when one of us had car. We giggled our way to Big Bend to pick
to come up for air; the tingling warmth. It up where we left off.
never took much for blood to gush through
me--just the thought of her. Arnette had a I can’t decide which is worse: raking up
smile that couldn’t stop itself and brown all these memories into a seductive pile you
eyes I would get lost in. We had our solar can never jump back into again, or sleeping
system, and we weren’t interested in mat- soundly in the present, pretending you have
ters outside of it. She made all the boring no regrets. I don’t know why I can’t sleep,
and bleak stuff about high school bearable. or why I keep thinking of half-century-old
kisses from an old girlfriend. Maybe be-
Arnette’s dad—Arne--was from Norway cause I looked up her name once—because
and had died of a heart attack before I met you can do that now. Arnette died almost
Arnette. Her mom was beautiful, too, but she twenty years ago when she was just over
always looked sad. Arnette would cry about fifty. Too young. She married, she had chil-
her father. Then I would do the best I could, dren, and she died. I didn’t find out any-
holding her close and learning to be silent. thing more. It’s all I deserve to know. I let
her down.
We got the notion to park our car in the
new subdivision close to Arnette’s house,

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About the Author

Michael Riordan is a retired teacher and professor of English, Writing and Film Studies
who has taught in the U.S., Australia, Singapore and China. He was co-founder and C.E.O of
Creative Action Now, a Singapore-based English Language educational consultancy. He has
published poetry, short stories and feature articles in the U.S. and Australia and has written
musical plays, produced in Australia. He was awarded First Prize for nonfiction in the spring
2020 Ageless Authors writing competition.

145

KEYSTONE STREET

by Jennifer Blanke

If you stand quietly at the corner of Key- to my hair and clothes so I wouldn’t easily
stone Street and 52nd, turn your ear to the forget. I used to wonder why my mom al-
southwest, and wait until the traffic sub- ways made us leave our winter coats in the
sides, you’ll hear the ripple as the Monon- car forcing us into the cold without cover,
gahela joins the Allegheny forming the but when I became a mom and faced the
Ohio. Reach high on tip-toe, peek over the endless amounts of laundry, it made com-
row houses toward the river, and the thick plete sense.
black plumes rising above the orange-red
Bessemer glow will captivate your view. The three by three foyer was hazy and as
You may even see my grandfather making we ascended the stairs to their apartment,
his way up Butler Street after a long day at the banging of the screen door was a re-
the steel mill. Now slowly close your eyes minder that fresh air wasn’t welcome and
and inhale deeply and you will smell the would be waiting for us upon our return
aroma of my childhood. outside. The clouds parted as the six of us
made our way to cheek-kiss our paternal
Sweet memories of my Polish grandfa- relatives. My siblings and I never became
ther and Croatian grandmother are linked smokers because second-hand smoking a
to strong piquant odors that would dispel pack a few times a year was enough. Thank-
many, but keep me forever connected to fully, there were smells stronger than ciga-
them. The pungent sour smell of sauerkraut rette.
and salty Kielbasa, and the gaseous lingering
odor of Brussels sprouts fuse with a thick I’d fast-walk to the tiny kitchen, slide
cloud of cigarette smoke reminding me of past my grandfather in his yellowed white
many childhood visits to Keystone Street. sleeveless tank, and my nose would get a
smoke break thanks to the commanding
Although the smell of cigarette smoke smell of cabbage. Always cabbage. Whether
practically makes me gag today, it also con- we were having Polish sausage, soft potato
jures a beautiful picture of my grandmother and cheese filled pierogi, and sauerkraut or
leaning from her second story window my grandmother’s homemade meat filled
awaiting our arrival. She would wave and stuffed cabbage known as Halupki, the star
the dangling ash from her cigarette released ingredient was always cabbage. I’d take
and gently floated in the air. As the smoke a deep breath and quickly replace smoke
swirled around her head, it danced the Polka with the tangy smells that tasted of their
in greeting, promising to cling with affection sweet, rich homeland.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

As I settled onto the red cushioned my grandparents were celebrating Saint
chairs at the chrome-rimmed Formica table, Nicholas Day in their own way. I have my
I anxiously awaited my dad opening the childhood stocking tucked away so one day
fizzy purple pop so I could feel the sugary I can fill it with fruit gold for my grandchil-
bubbles tickle my nose. The first sip was al- dren.
ways the best. Sparkly bubbles going down
as the effervescence consumed my nostrils. My grandmother’s meals will forever
I was in pop paradise until one of my an- reign in the prime position on my list of The
noying brothers knocked over their drink Best Food I’ve Ever Eaten because they were
causing a ruckus and all of the adults to delicious; but mostly because they were
reach for towels to begin the clean-up. I’ll rich with childhood memories. Sometimes
always wonder why they didn’t guard that I simply long for a bit of ground pork drip-
sweet memory of the first sip. My pop be- ping with tomato sauce or for a chewy flour
came soda when I moved to the Midwest, dumpling as it rises to the top of the creamy
but every time a Fitz’s grape soda tickles pumpkin soup. I do my best to honor the
my nose and the sweet flavor touches my food traditions that I was so privileged to
tongue, I can feel my sweaty legs peeling experience. Every autumn I buy a small
away from the plastic chairs as I move to pie pumpkin and follow my grandmother’s
find my place on the couch. simple pumpkin soup recipe that is stained
with bits of orange and drips of milk. Kiel-
If it was Christmas, I knew my stocking basa and pierogis with roasted potatoes
would be filled with red apples and juicy or- and sauerkraut are a common meal that I
anges. And after glances from my parents serve and when one of my children requests
warning us not to complain about the gift this meal, they have no idea how happy it
of fruit, we would silently reach down into makes my childhood heart. The following
the toe and find the chocolate bells and foil- day when the faint yet persistent cabbage
wrapped coins and quickly eat a few before odor remains in my kitchen, I smile remem-
one of the adults would remind us not to bering how the cabbage aroma was always
spoil Christmas dinner. I didn’t understand strong enough to overpower the cigarette
the significance then, but being Catholics, smoke on Keystone Street.

About the Author

Jennifer Blanke has a BS in Elementary Education and a Master of Fine Arts in Writing degree
from Lindenwood University where she is an editorial assistant for The Lindenwood Review.
She is a mother, teacher, and writer in St. Louis, Missouri and has writing published in Mum
Life Stories.

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THE PHOTOGRAPHS

by Anita Lekic

I enter the small jewelry shop in our little It is more difficult to read the expressions
town. There are two or three people ahead on the faces of the two crouching women,
of me, hunched over the glass counters, although the woman on the left seems to
perusing the gold pendants and rings and have the slightest hint of a smile. My eyes
other assorted jewelry on display. The jew- are drawn again to the young man. He is
elry and silverware on offer in this dusty looking directly at the camera. His face re-
shop are antiquated and tarnished; this lit- mains inscrutable as I attempt to decipher
tle shop has been around in Monte Estoril something about this person across the
for forty years. As I wait my turn to have schism of time and history. All I know is
a watch battery replaced, two photographs that his gaze is a gaze forward, into what
catch my eye. They are displayed in the tar- lies ahead, into his future. But it moves me
nished silver frames that are also for sale. profoundly, this gaze into what is to come,
One shows an ensemble of people, a tight- into a projected future which for me is al-
knit group – no doubt the family members ready an moment in the distant past, a brief
of the shop owners, long since deceased. episode of cursory interest in a country that
But my gaze is drawn to the second pho- is still foreign to me, where even everyday
to: three people against the background objects are vested with a strange and unfa-
of a field covered with shrub-like growth. miliar allure.
The photo is old and discoloured. I make
a mental calculation: it was taken during The second photograph displayed in
sometime during the Salazar era, when the an ornate tarnished frame shows a young
majority of Portuguese lived in extreme married couple. The photographer has set
poverty, cut off from the rest of the world. the scene: the wife is sitting in a period
In the forefront I can make out two figures, armchair. She wears a white embroidered
hats atop their heads. They seem to be dress, a large crucifix suspended around her
crouching, but I cannot be sure. The photo- neck. Her husband is dressed in formal at-
graph is too old and faded. Two of the fig- tire, a white shirt and white cuffs showing
ures appear to be women. Standing behind under his suit, his tie artfully arranged; he
the two women is a young man in a white leans slightly to the left towards his wife, in
shirt and light-colored trousers. As the sin- a somewhat protective manner. The pho-
gle person standing, he has the central po- tographer has provided a decorative pillar
sition in the photograph. He looks at the and a rug beneath the couple’s feet. The
camera with an almost startled expression. wife rests her right arm on the arm of the

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