Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 45, February 2021

Revista Literária Adelaide

“I can be so sure because there’s been something wrong. Can someone go down
something I’ve been waiting to do as well. there and check on him?” she asks the three
When the time is right, I have faith that neighbors.
I’ll find the strength to do what I’ve been
wanting to do for some time now.” “Why can’t you just go down there your-
self?” a neighbor asks.
“What would that be?”
“I have an anxiety disorder that prevents
“When it occurs, you’ll be the first to know.” me from leaving my apartment. So does my
friend, Kyle, down the hall.”
8:00 p.m.
“You mean you both have agoraphobia?”
Kelly opens her door and waits for Kyle
to do the same. The phone calls throughout “Yeah. That. We’ll both have a feeling of
the day pale in comparison to seeing Kyle being trapped if we leave our apartments.”
in person. During the day, when she feels
like she does not have the wherewithal to “I thought that it was the fear of wide-
do work, it is a simple text message, call, or open spaces?” another neighbor asks her.
video chat that gives her that one little push
to get her day going. It is different with the “There’s a spectrum. For the two of us,
ball roll, though. She can see Kyle, and Kyle our only safe place is our apartments. We’ll
can see her. After today’s failure with her both have severe panic attacks, or worse, if
mother’s wedding ring, she is especially we leave. Trust me,” Kelly replies.
looking forward to the ball roll as a way to
lift up and reinforce her spirits. After that quick exchange, the three
neighbors go down the hall towards Kyle’s
Today, Kelly has the ball. Sitting just on apartment. They ring and knock to no reply.
her door threshold, all smiles from cheek Silence is all that remains among the four
to cheek, she anxiously awaits the sound people along the hallway.
of Kyle’s door opening, seeing his real face,
and hearing his real voice. As quickly as the “He’s probably just in a deep sleep,” an-
minutes pass by, so does her concern. It is other neighbor tells Kelly.
five minutes past eight and Kyle is never this
late. “You have to get in there,” Kelly replies.

“Kyle! Can you hear me? Are you there?” “Why?”
she shouts as several neighbors emerge.
“I just have a bad feeling.”
Other than Kyle and Kelly, all their neigh-
bors are transient. There is not any neighbor “We’re not going to break down a neigh-
that she knows well enough to call upon. bor’s door over your bad feeling.”
Kelly knows deep down inside that some-
thing is wrong with Kyle, and at this point With that, the three neighbors return
she is unabashed at calling upon anyone to their apartments as Kelly counts down
that would listen. the time that has elapsed towards what she
feels could turn out to be something that
“Hi, my name is Kelly and my good could be detrimental to Kyle’s life. Kelly
friend down the hall there is Kyle. He isn’t retreats inside her apartment and immedi-
coming to his door and I know that there’s ately makes a call to 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the op-
erator asks.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“I need an immediate welfare check on a number. Kelly realizes the magnitude of her
friend that’s not answering his door.” accomplishment. What was once unthink-
able to her is now real. In a nanosecond, she
After Kelly gives the operator Kyle’s ad- realizes only a few feet separate her from
dress, she asks how long it will take for the Kyle. In that same moment, she realizes
police to respond. After hearing that it is de- who has given her the strength to overcome
pendent upon the nearest patrol car, Kelly her fear and do what she once thought was
hangs up to a feeling of impatience. There impossible. It is the person she loves the
is a germinating feeling inside her gut that most.
Kyle is in trouble and needs immediate help.
Kelly does not know where or how she has “Kyle! Can you hear me! Please, say
come to this conclusion, yet she finds her- something if you can hear me! Please, come
self believing this religiously. Her door is still out if you can hear me!” she cries out to no
open to the hallway. She turns and looks at response.
it and knows that she must face her destiny
and that Kyle’s fate depends upon it. “You’ve given me an aurora of invincibility
that I was unable to accomplish on my own.
Kelly’s time has come. She is now at the You’ve given this gift to me and I now know
threshold of her door. Courage to overcome that it’s my turn to give something back to
her fear is a mother that is urging her to you, Kyle,” Kelly tells herself.
take a leap of faith. As she looks out at the
hall, she becomes disoriented, so she closes Kelly jumps over the hallway and forces
her eyes. As she takes a step out her door, Kyle’s door open. She sees Kyle’s body mo-
she can feel the beating of her heart throb- tionless on the floor. Her instincts take over.
bing throughout her body. Panic attacks She goes over to his body. His face is blue.
her body like millions of pieces of shrapnel, She takes his pulse. He is still alive. She sees
and she knows she must find a way to al- a half-eaten hot dog next to Kyle’s body.
leviate the pain. Instinctively, she clings to She touches it, and it is still warm. This
the wall which calms her soul. Kelly and the must have just happened. She knows the
wall have become one entity like the fluidity Heimlich maneuver, so she performs it on
of water. She is now gliding like a leaf on him. There is no response. Kelly does not
a stream toward Kyle’s apartment. Every keep the time. Kelly keeps her focus. She
movement she makes generates ripples continues undeterred. Suddenly, the piece
pulsating in every direction. of food flies out of his mouth and there is a
gasp from Kyle. He begins to cough before
“In the past, I could only image that there his airway becomes clear. His eyes open. His
would be moments in my life where I might body is no longer limp. He can now breathe
feel as if I were floating outside my body, on his own and is stunned that he is alive.
looking at myself from above, and this is
one of those moments for me,” Kelly says “I had food stuck in my throat. You brought
to herself. me back. You saved my life. Kelly, there’s
nobody here but you, though. How did you
After counting the number of doors she leave your apartment? How did you get to
has passed, she realizes that she must now mine? How are you here, Kelly?”
be directly across Kyle’s apartment. She
opens her eyes and that theory has now be- “The answer is more obvious to me now
come a reality after she sees the apartment more than ever. The answer is because of

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you. Because of you, I’m not afraid to stand
up and fight. Because of you I’m not afraid
to stand up and be free.”

“Thank you for saving my life, Kelly.”
“Thank you for saving mine.”
“When I fell to the ground, the first
thought I had was that I would never be
able to do what I’ve always wanted to do
but never had the strength to and that is to
tell you how I really feel about you.”
“You don’t have to, Kyle. I already know.”

About the Author
Ross Mayo Jr is a writer based out of Maryland focusing
on flash fiction and short stories primarily dealing with
inspirational issues and the human experience. His work
has appeared in such places as The Scarlet Leaf Review.

51

A WOMEN OF
THE PERIOD

by Timothy Resau

HE would have left long ago if it wasn’t for meet his nervous smile. She grinned, low-
her—a striking girl-woman of eighteen or ering her gaze back to the doll house, per-
so. She had black hair that fell across thin haps a little uncertain of what to make of
shoulders and down her back. Her image his presence: — The kids who played with
belonged to the late, late night, suggesting that must have had a wonderful time, don’t
someone who may have experienced life you think?
from a more reckless or interesting side.
Her face was beauty itself, suggesting a lack — Of course, they must have, she an-
of concern—maybe even casual drug use. swered.
Her pale blue eyes were large; heavily ac-
centuated with liner and having such depth The old doll house was a large three-sto-
a mere glance demanded all his attention. ried mansion of cracking cardboard with
Her lips held a punkish-pout and were a red chimney at either side, and all the
without a trace of artificial color. She wore rooms had the appearance of once having
a long black evening dress with a red rock- been painted a different pastel shade. The
et designed on the back, and silver shoes right side of the red roof was slightly caved
with black bows—obliviously a remarkable in where someone had probably handled it
woman of the period. too roughly—maybe even a bruise received
from a child’s angry fist.
She was standing by an old doll house
that rested on a piece of black velvet, cov- — Whenever I see something like this, he
ering an old teak game table. AJ wanted to went on to say: — I can’t help wondering
go, to speak to her, to say something, but he whatever happened to the kids who use to
thought he might frighten her by saying the play with it? Whatever became of them?
wrong thing. Worse yet, he might end up
standing next to her like a fool, not knowing — I wouldn’t dare to imagine. It does
what to say. Suddenly, as if compelled, he seem sad, I guess. There seems to be some-
started towards her. Sensing his approach, thing sad or tragic about antique shops.
she glanced, lifting her light blue eyes to
— I always thought they were mysterious,
but, yes, sad, too.

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Now that he stood close to her, she was — But I don’t even know you.
much smaller; more fragile than from a dis-
tance, making his earlier nervous hesitation — Right. Surely you think I’m odd, but
seem almost ridiculous. When she began I’ve never done anything like this before.
moving away, he noticed a small, well-de- Never! As it is, I’m only a breath away from
fined brass sculpture of a dancing ballerina the unemployment line. All I’m trying to do
next to the doll house: — Look at this; he is … meet … you. Don’t laugh. I know how
called, hoping to regain her attention. this must seem.

— It’s beautiful, she said, stepping back — I’m not laughing, and if you want, I’ll
to where he stood. He handed it to her, keep it ... steadily looking at him with those
watching as she took it carefully into her irresistible eyes.
thin fingers to examine its articulate de-
sign—first at one angle then another: — Re- It was true that AJ had never been so in-
ally beautiful, she said, putting it down next trusive with a stranger. He didn’t completely
to his hand: — I like it because ... well ... she understand what had brought him to such
looks happy. You’ll notice if you look closely. boldness. Usually he was the exact opposite,
The artist may have understood dancing. keeping to himself, minding his own business,
never thinking of charging into another’s pri-
Deciding to buy it for her, AJ picked vate universe. He imagined what she made
up the sculpture and hurried over to the of his obnoxious finesse and it was enough to
man behind the case, asking how much he make him want to apologize and walk away.
wanted for it. The man, who was wearing a Of course, he knew he wasn’t so sure or as
bright kimono, said he’d be giving it away suave as he might have appeared. She may
for anything under twenty-five bucks, but have been aware of his nervousness and un-
since he was in an especially good mood, certainty—that he wasn’t so confident or as
he’d let him have it for ten. Although it was sure as he hoped he had appeared....
more than AJ wanted to pay, he knew he
could be making a costly mistake; AJ gave They continued browsing around the
the man the cash and returned to give the shop, looking at things, casually pointing
young woman the gift. odd pieces of bric-a-brac out, and while
they did, AJ allowed himself to think that
— Here, now it’s yours. she was becoming friendly—in fact, he
didn’t think she was defensive at all. The
— What? she said, looking at him as if he more he observed her discreet gestures—
were out of his mind. the careful way she touched small objects
and glanced at him—the more certain he
— You must have it. It’s yours. became that since he had gone this far; and
had been so fascinated by her, there was no
— Why? Why should you? point in stopping before he had, no matter
how impossible it seemed, asked her to
— You understand the art. leave with him.

— Awfully kind of you, but— — Since it’s warm today, I was wondering
if you’d like to go with me. Have a drink ...
— Keep it. Think nothing of it. an iced tea … something! We could talk
about ballet or … art. Anything you like.
— I ... don’t know ... what to think … I
mean, people don’t just give—

— Does that prove it’s wrong?

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She blinked her eyes; a smile parted her — China? Is that your real name?
lips: — Sure, I’ll go.
— AJ? What’s that stand for?
Her answer was a surprise to him. It
wasn’t what he expected, though it was what — It’s stands for nothing, really.
he wanted. Her acknowledgment seemed to
have subtracted him from reality, casting him They both laughed.
into a moment of absolute silence; unable to
respond, locked in the store’s presence—like — China’s a name I’ve given myself, she
a scream looking for a voice—where he could said: — it’s a beautiful word, you know?
only stand, looking at her in utter disbelief.
She must have understood the awkward ex- — Yeah, I agree.
pression that decorated his face, but she held
her discretion, merely smiling, as he opened — I like the way you say, yeah.... Are you
the door, following her, very much in a daze. working, a student, perhaps both?

He suggested a mom and pop coffee — No ... I have a job. I do work.
shop off East Fifty-Third around the corner.
She agreed with a nod. They walked fast. He — Must be a good one if it allows you
thought it was like walking with an old friend, to walk around the streets, visiting antique
someone accustomed to his steps—it was shops, picking up women.
almost like they weren’t strangers at all.
— I took the afternoon off, kinda. You
They entered small coffee shop. AJ had know I don’t make a habit of this sorta thing.
never been there before, neither had she,
or, if she had, she didn’t mention it—he — Sure, she said and grinned.
only knew of it because he’d passed it be-
fore going into the antique shop, stopping — First time, seriously.
to admire its ageless quaintness.
—You could be a fucking murderer. —
They sat down and AJ asked where she Me? Do I look like a murderer? — Does
lived. She said she currently lived in the anyone? — Interesting point. You must
Village. Since she didn’t say where, east trust people sometime, though. You can’t
or west, he decided not to press for addi- be afraid all the time. Suppose, just suppose
tional personal details, fearing she might I met you at a club or something, then after
think it sounded suspicious. Fortunately, a few drinks ... dances ... whatever, asked
the shop wasn’t busy. They chose a high- you to leave ... have a nightcap? It happens
backed wooden booth in front of the pic- all the time. — Clubs? Dances? Do I give
ture window, facing the street. She said she you that impression? — Okay, okay in an art
wanted to spy on the people … that she class or something. You know, struck up a
loved to watch people perform. conversation, any conversation, then asked
you out. What I’m saying is you really don’t
— Really? he answered: — me too … know those people. Everybody’s a stranger
quickly adding: — By the way, my name’s AJ. till you meet them. Didn’t Will Rogers, Mark
Twain or somebody say that? Maybe an an-
— Oh? she laughed: — I’m China. tique store is a little out of the ordinary and
everything, but, hey, if you didn’t trust me,
The both ordered iced teas. you didn’t have to come here. Look, China,
I found you … beautiful. I wanted to meet
you. I took what I’d call a terrible chance.
Christ, I don’t think I need to tell you all this.

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It seems too, too … I don’t know … antique, but told him to go right ahead if he wanted
I guess— another, that she wasn’t in any hurry. He
signaled the waitress for another ice-tea,
—So, then, what do you do? not because he was thirsty, but because he
wanted to stay with his new acquaintance for
— Not much, really … I’m a customer as long as he could.... However, every time AJ
service representative at Avant-Garde Pub- began talking, or attempting to explain some-
lishers, you know, I’m sure, America’s most thing to China, he found himself becoming
progressive publisher? Unfortunately, as it distracted by the changing emotion in her
goes, I expect to be fired any day. I’m always lovely face. Her expressions were constantly
being fired, it’s like a habit. A bad attitude or changing, as though she were reflecting his
something like that…. feelings; the emotions of those she watched
passing along the street, and her own. At
— You hate it … the job, I mean? — All one point, her face became so sad; AJ asked
day long. They, my employers, hate me be- if there was something wrong. She answered
cause I don’t run around pretending that ev- that everything was wrong. When he asked if
erything’s a big publishing deal, that’s the there was any point in discussing it, she said
main reason they’re going to dump me.... point blank: —Talking about it is a joke.
What about you?
— Doesn’t it depend on who you’re
— I don’t work. If that’s what you’re talking to? — It usually ends superficial no
asking me? I’m not qualified for that much. matter with whom I speak. — Any sugges-
I’ve been a waitress. Does that count? she tions to rise above the superficial?
asked, looking at the moisture melting
around the bottom of her glass, then lifting — Sometimes. — Like what? — I’d rather
it, she began unconsciously smearing the not get involved with existential matters
moisture absently from the circle in pro- at this time. Have you read Camus? — No.
truding lines: — And before that I was a Camus? — He’s an exceptionally good French
drama student, but quit. I did like the school novelist and philosopher. Truth be told, I
but didn’t like a lot of the students. If you rather enjoy philosophy. By the way, may I
know anything about aspiring young actors, ask what’s that book in your jacket pocket?
you know what I mean, she said, her voice — This? Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,
trailing off into almost a whisper. you know? — I can’t believe you’re reading
that! How is it? — It’s incredibly good.
— How do you spend your time? — As if
I had a lot of it, it’s free, isn’t it? — You know, I know a man who owns
a bookstore, he told me he’s read Ulysses
An intimate silence followed; a moment twelve times! He also sells classical record-
or two that burns into a lasting, life-long ings, records. You know rare and hard-to-
memory. They also absently watched the find things. His store’s tiny, like real tiny. He
hectic street, those rushing past—a fat even looks like Joyce. Bow ties, cream suits,
man waved; they laughed, and at intervals round glasses. Perhaps he thinks he is Joyce.
exchanged, where is this afternoon leading
glances? And this resulted in accepting, if — Ever ask him? — No. He’s too much of
not shy, grins. a friend. Should it matter who he thinks he
is? Another silence followed.
AJ noticed China had finished her drink
and asked if she wanted another. She said, no,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

China took a cigarette from AJ, lit it with he knew she’d soon be telling him she had
her artistic fingers, inhaling an enormous to go, and that—at this time—was the last
amount of smoke, which she exhaled in a thing he wanted. They had talked for a long
thin blue cloud over the table’s scratched time, and it had gone quickly—it wasn’t
surface; gazing absently, her head sup- until the lights in the shop were turned on,
ported by the palm of her right hand, onto that AJ realized how late it was. He consid-
the busy street, where a group of furniture ered asking her to go somewhere else, but
movers were unloading a truck. The sound since he was nearly broke, he was limited to
of AJ’s voice drew her far-away attention; the number of places he could take her. He
she responded with an inquisitive nod. They remembered what she’d said about ferry
had no trouble in finding topics to discuss— rides—that she loved them. Not knowing
each subject lead to another in a very casu- what the possibility he had she’d go: — Look,
ally way. They spoke of current events and China, he said, hesitantly: — strangers
other absurd things. They found it amusing though we are, wouldn’t you like to take a
when they discovered a mutual dislike for ferry to Staten Island with me? I mean, think
war, politics, sports, Sundays, and Holly- of it…. It could be the beginning of a life-
wood. It was even funnier when they agreed long memory, in not more. Her eyes opened
on admiring foreign films, jazz, antique wide. A crooked smile crossed her lips, and
shops, and, as a means of transportation, leaning further back in the booth, till her
ferries. AJ found China more than inter- back arched itself parallel to it, and her
esting, and even more intriguing as the time arms crossed along the table edge, she said
passed. She completely entranced him by looking directly at him: — Strangers in the
opening and closing her eyes—those light, sense that we don’t know anything about
seeming almost transparent blue eyes—of the other’s past, but couldn’t we know ev-
which a mere flicker sent him spinning into erything about each other and still be
an unusual musical world. Unfortunately, strangers? In other words, yes, I’ll go…

About the Author

Timothy Resau is an American writer of fiction and poetry,
originally from Baltimore, Maryland. He currently resides
in coastal North Carolina, and he’s just completed a novel,
Three Gates East. His career has been in the international
wine industry. His writings have appeared in Anti-Heroin
Chic, Eskimo Pie, Scarlet Leaf Review, Down in the Dirt,
Covid-19 Univ of Plymouth & Nottimgham Trent University,
and in The Poet.

56

MY PORCELAIN
GIRL

by James L. Blackburn

The voice of Janis Joplin awoke me. She was and without andirons. It shamed the carved
wailing that she needed a man to love her. wood and stone mantel above. Across the
But “it just can’t be”, she lamented over and room was another mattress. On it, a couple
over. I was still high. I left my eyes closed were sharing a joint, kissing, passing smoke
as I listened to her cry out. Her voice en- through their kisses, giggling, petting, mur-
tered my body and lifted it up, aloft, out muring. Through the doorway, whose big
into space. I floated in the black, the stars wooden door was pushed aside, one hinge
orbiting, swirling, swimming like a school broken, drifted waves of smoke and the
of fish. That voice; it reached into my head scents of tobacco, marijuana and incense.
and tugged at the nerves, drawing them out, I scanned the room, watched the unself-
turning my head inside out. That raw, raspy, conscious couple and listened to Janis, her
from-the-gut, oh-so-sexy, teasing, taunt- plaintive final “cry” echoing down a tunnel.
ing, heart breaking voice. She brought me Then Big Brother pounded out the first
back to earth and lay me in my bed, and I chords to “Piece of My Heart”, and Janis
ached to hold her, to press her to me, to be implored me, “Come on! Come on! Come
her man, to please her. But Janis was as far on! Come on!” I rose to find her.
from me as those stars, so as the opening
guitar notes of “Summertime” played, I just Through the doorway, I entered the end
opened my eyes. of a long hallway. It was wide and the ceiling
was high like the room I left. Posters were
I was lying on a mattress on the floor taped to the plaster walls: The Doors, Jimi
of a large room. In the glow of a lava lamp Hendrix, Sergeant Pepper, Jagger. Old gas-
and candles I could see the ceiling was high. light sconces, now holding squat, dripping
There was a large ceiling medallion with a homemade candles, painted the space a
broken chain. Crown molding the size of soft yellow-white. Smoke trails hung like
barn boards ran the perimeter. The walls diaphanous curtains, parting as I moved
were plaster, cracked, chipped, in places through them. I came to an open doorway
the lathe exposed. To my left was a fireplace, and looked in. A couple guys and their chicks
empty but for cigarette butts, cold, sooted were sitting and lying on fat pillows around

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

a hookah. It had a blue glass water vase and “I can’t believe these trails,” she said.
a tall wooden column crowned with a brass “This stuff’s great.”
bowl full of pot. From the vase extended
a long cloth hose they were passing be- “Blotter acid’s always the best ... if you
tween them. The room was a fog of smoke can find it,” said one guy. “They say this
penetrated by the light of a few scattered shit’s from Owsley.”
candles only because the walls and ceiling
had been papered in aluminum foil. The re- “Really?”
flection of the wavering, flickering flames
made the room dance. It seemed to do this “And it’s so smooth. No edge, no para-
in time to the music. Beside the hookah was noia,” said another guy.
a bag of cookies, ripped open, nearly empty
now. There was no conversation. They were A girl slowly swirled a stalk of incense
testing themselves, trying to hold their before her face, watching the smoke trail
breath until the hose came round again. spiral upward, at times using her breath to
When one failed, exhausted the smoke make the ember glow.
and gasped for air, the others giggled, then
failed themselves, and the circle burst into “I don’t get Hesse,” a third guy said, “Well,
laughter. Then they would start over. not this, anyway,” indicating the book. ‘Sid-
dhartha’ I got ... at least, I think so. But
I could feel their joy. I could feel their ‘Steppenwolf’ ... I don’t know, man.” He
fraternity, their insouciance, their abandon reached across the table and picked up the
to sensation. They were entirely there, in book. “What’s he doing here?” he asked,
that room, that moment. All outside the looking at it, then at his friends.
room, all in the past and the future was ir-
relevant. Janis moved on to “Turtle Blues”, The girl making finger trails stopped.
and I moved on with her. “Alienation? Isolation?”

Across the hall and further along was “The Self is all that matters?” asked the
another open door. I stopped, but the half third girl.
dozen guys and girls took no notice of me.
They were sitting and sprawling on tattered, “Isn’t that Rand? Like in ‘Anthem’; isn’t
dirty stuffed chairs and a sofa, scattered that what she’s about?” said another guy.
about, more or less facing a small round
coffee table in the center. The table held a “I don’t understand the existentialists,
lava lamp, its light – blue, then green, then man. I wish I did, but it’s heavy shit,” said
red, then yellow – illuminated an ashtray, the guy holding the book.
cigarette packs and glasses of what ap-
peared to be water. There was a book too. “Yeah, those guys are far out. But they’re
They were still, quiet, and when they did so damn interesting.”
speak it was slowly and in soft tones. They
seemed to be speaking to themselves as “Have you read Huxley? The guy’s a trip.
much as to one another. One girl was put- That guy died tripping, man; on purpose!
ting her palm to her face and pulling it away, He knew he was going, so he dropped a hit.
trailing her fingers like a swimming octopus. Can you dig it?”

“Far out,” the others said at once.

I left them and walked down the hall
to the next room, the last before a landing
with descending stairs. The door to this
room was half closed. A dim light spilled

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under and around it into the hall. I stopped low, slow and easy, sitting by her window,
and cautiously pushed on the door, afraid looking out at the rain. She hypnotized me
of interrupting a couple. The heavy wooden as might a beguiling serpent. Her voice
door moved slowly and silently aside. A coiled around my mind and clasped a ball
bare light bulb hung from the high ceiling and chain to it, dragging me down to the
medallion, its light harsh, unforgiving. Two epicenter of the ‘Frisco quake.
guys were standing with their backs to
me. Between them I could see a girl in a I stopped on a landing that looked out
wooden chair, facing me at the doorway. over a large foyer. Its parquet floors, once
Beside her was another girl, bent over her. beautiful, were now scarred and dirty. Dark
I stepped into the room, but all were so in- oak crown molding framed a ceiling at least
tently watching the girl in the chair I was fourteen feet high. Below me an enormous
unnoticed. Her left sleeve was rolled up and grandfather clock stood beside the bottom
a belt wrapped around her arm above the newel, guarding the staircase entrance and
elbow. The other girl held the buckle against helplessly witnessing the irreverent scene.
the muscle while drawing the belt tight. The Odd bits of dumpster furniture were scat-
girl in the chair was making fists over and tered pell-mell. A few framed paintings
over, flexing her muscle, straining against from when the house was a home, a real
the belt. home, were shamed by posters and mac-
ramé mandalas. Light bulbs of different
“Tighter,” she insisted. colors sprouted from the former gaslight
sconces. Only one globe remained intact.
There was a line of scabs running along People stood in twos and threes or crossed
the vein inside the elbow, blocking access the foyer on their way to other rooms. I
to the easiest part. Her right hand held her watched them awhile from above, then de-
works: a plastic syringe with an eye dropper scended and made my way through them
bulb tied at the top. The needle hovered toward an arched doorway of pocket doors,
back and forth over the line of scabs, looking one of which was off track and hung askew,
for a point of entry. not quite tucked away.

I wanted to help her. I knew how to help I passed under the arch into an enor-
her. I was very good at it now. I would even mous room. The smoke seemed to hang
do it for her. I tried to speak but the words low overheard, like a canopy. I looked up to
would not come out. All at once they looked see that someone had attached a parachute
at me with surprise and annoyance, and I to the ceiling medallion and pinned it along
knew I was intruding. I felt embarrassed. the corners so that it draped down the walls.
My help would not be welcome. I withdrew Candles and incense were everywhere.
into the hall as “Ball and Chain” began. Hash pipes and small water pipes were
passed within small groups. Joints were
The unmistakable San Francisco sound handed off as people milled about, entered,
of the Stratocaster vibrato rumbled up the left or passed by. Empty pizza boxes, soda
staircase and reverberated through the and beer cans, cookie and candy wrappers,
hallway like the tremors of an earthquake. cigarette packs, matchbooks and ashtrays
The staircase became a crevasse, and I was littered the tables and floor. A fire burned in
drawn to the edge, to peer into it. There the fireplace, to my surprise. On the hearth
was a flight, another landing, and another,
longer flight ending out of sight. Janis began

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were a busted wooden chair, a wooden me. I put my left hand on the small of her
stool missing a leg and a mallet. As Janis back and my right on her hip. I could feel
closed her song with her last, drawn out, myself swelling, my jeans restraining me.
mournful “chain”, I stopped in the middle I ran my fingertips along the valley of her
of the room, closed my eyes and waited for spine and the dimples over her hip-hugging
the final avalanche of guitar chords. They skirt. She raised her left knee, rubbing it
shook the floor, bounced off the ceiling and slowly up and down my thigh. I let my hand
stopped all conversation for several sec- slide off her hip, around her bottom and
onds. Then I heard a sweet familiar voice onto the back of her thigh, holding it up and
call out to me, and I opened my eyes. pulling her even closer to me, pressing my
pelvis against her. I opened my mouth to
“Where were you?” she asked, walking speak and she stood on tiptoe and used her
up to me. “I’ve looked everywhere but the lips to silence mine.
attic.” She laughed and kissed me, then
smiled and squeezed my hand. I could I was hard now and ached for her. She
not speak for looking at her. She had long whispered in my ear, “There’s a time to
straight blond hair parted in the middle like speak and a time to act.”
Peggy Lipton. Her eyes were light blue, her
complexion fair and smooth as porcelain. She slowly released me, sliding her thigh
She had a few freckles on her cheeks and down my leg. One hand cupped my cheek
nose. Her smile radiated warmth. It was the other moved down my chest, across my
sincere, as was everything about her face. stomach and brushed the bulge in my jeans.
I searched it over and over as we do works It came to rest on my hand, bringing it up to
of art and things of beauty. I was oblivious her bosom and pressing it against the soft
to everyone else in the room until a girl warmth.
passing handed her a joint. She toked and
handed it to me. I took a long hit, held it, “Come on,” she said in a low breathy
and it became a contest between us. She voice. “Let me give you some acting lessons.”
finally exhaled, laughed, and I did the same.
Someone put on “Surrealistic Pillow” and The opening guitar notes and snare drum
we alternated hits for a while as Jefferson for “White Rabbit” reverberated through
Airplane played. We did not speak, did not the great room. Conversation quieted.
need to. Someone turned it up. Grace Slick began
low and slow, drawing us into a psychedelic
As the Airplane and the grass took us paisley vortex. My porcelain beauty led
higher, we gazed around the room at the di- me by the hand across the room toward
sheveled madness. She passed off the joint the foyer. The floor fell away beneath my
to another girl and put her arms around my feet, and I drifted like a balloon she were
neck. She was wearing a tube top and mini- pulling by the string. We weaved our way
skirt. Her midriff was bare, flat, firm; the past the clusters of giggly potheads, slack-
skin even more porcelain than her face, if jawed downers and jittery speed freaks. We
that were possible. She was elfin but sen- passed the glassy-eyed acidheads, the para-
sual, familiar yet mysterious. She pressed noid coke snorters and smack shooters. The
her tender body to me, the heat from her staid grandfather clock with his impotent
small breasts and tummy distinct against pendulum silently disapproved as she took
me up the stairs. I watched her legs move
and looked up her skirt as I followed her. I

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grew more excited with each step until my At last I could go, and when I finished
turgidity was painful. I stood and pulled up my pajama bottoms.
Only then did it strike me, the oddity of sit-
I awoke to silence and opened my eyes ting to pee. And how, I asked myself, did I
to darkness. There was no music, no voices. find pajamas in that hippie flophouse when
I realized it was a painful erection that I was so high? She may have gotten me into
awakened me; my bladder was bursting. I them after we finished, but I just could not
reached out for her, but I was alone on the remember. My head was foggy. I was a little
mattress. I rolled off and fell to the floor. dizzy. I steadied myself with one hand on
My head was thick, dizzy. I had no idea how the sink and the other on the towel rack.
long I’d slept, but I thought I must still be
high. From my knees I reached out in the I tried to clear my head, remember what
darkness and felt a real bed, not a mattress had happened. I peered around the dimly
on the floor as before. She had taken me to lit bathroom for a clue. There was little to
a different room; no lava lamp, no smoke- see apart from the framed picture, a por-
kissing couple. I stood, my head swimming trait of a man, not a painting, it seemed, but
from the grass and the fall, and tried to an amateur photo, a snapshot. He was old,
make out the room. A thin shaft of light bald, gray hair, not even smiling. Probably a
came in between the curtains, probably grandfather to one of the hippies.
from a streetlamp, and drew a line on the
carpet. I could barely distinguish features. I turned to go back to bed. My head
The ceiling was low, the room very small. was swimming. I thought I might faint. I
reached for the door casing to steady my-
I could see a dim light out the doorway self. In doing so my palm slid over the light
and walked to it unsteadily. My body ached, switch. The light burned through my eyes,
my joints and muscles stiff. My back hurt. I and I quickly squeezed them shut. While
needed to find a bathroom. Standing in the waiting for the pain to subside, I thought
doorway I could see just a few yards away rather than turn the light off, I might ex-
another sliver of light between parted cur- plore this place I was in, perhaps find my
tains. All I could tell was that I was in a very girl. I opened my eyes slowly, just squinting
small place with a low ceiling and a very at first, as they became accustomed to the
narrow passage. She may have taken me to brightness. I looked around me.
the attic, made into a bedroom or tiny flat.
The faint light in the passage came from a I knew now where I was. I knew where
doorway. I went to it. the hippies had gone. I knew why the music
had stopped. I understood why there were
There was a nightlight above the floor. no lingering smells of tobacco and mari-
A tiny bulb gave off barely enough light to juana and incense. All was clear now. I could
reveal the commode. I had to wait for my remember again. It all came back to me. It
erection to recede before I could relieve my- came in a wave, a great dark wave that
self. I felt a towel rack and held it to steady threatened to crush me. It rolled over me,
myself as I waited. I could make out little swallowed me, threw me down. It chilled
more than a shower curtain and a small sink me to the bone and wanted me dead, and I
across from the towel rack. The bathroom would welcome death. The black wave
was no bigger than a closet. The walls were could take me, because there was no one
bare but for one framed picture. left here for me. Janis had left me. Grace

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
and the Airplane and the hippies had left
me. Even my beautiful porcelain girl, that
love child in a mini-skirt had gone. I was left
alone here in this tiny bathroom, in this
little apartment. My only companion was
the framed old man over the sink. And it
was not even a photo but a mirror.

About the Author
James L. Blackburn is a columnist and feature writer for
the Sun Coast Media Group of newspapers and magazines
of Southwest Florida. Although he has been publishing
articles for years, he only recently put together his first
book of short fiction.

62

MEEK

by Robert Parker

Norman doesn’t like sharing. He is begrudg- as a financial manager in the City. He was
ingly sharing this with you now, albeit in the never a handsome man, but he had wealth
past, anonymously and once removed. If and that counts for much when selecting
you want to stop reading he wouldn’t care, a partner. He invested wisely, because he
he’s not too bothered about sharing with now has a huge pension. It’s because of this
you or anyone else. He probably wouldn’t pension that Norman needs to go on his fa-
like you anyway. That’s not to say that he vourite kind of holiday, twice a year: a cruise
wouldn’t have an opinion of you, no mat- with his partner, Janet.
ter what your breed, race, creed or sexual
deviation from the norm you might be. He You would have thought that Norman
is not biased in any way really; Norman has was a happy man, with all this money and
equal contempt for everyone. Including time. But of course, he isn’t. There is and
you. He is not prejudiced any more than always has been something missing, but he
anyone else is and, like all humans, Nor- couldn’t quite decide what that was. So he
man has a sense of self-preservation which had spent his wealth on things that might
makes him suspicious and un-trusting, at solve the problem. Holidays abroad, house
least to begin with. So Norman doesn’t will- extensions, fine wine, investments, a second
ingly share unless he knows you. But that’s home in Devon. Finally, he had a half-a-
not going to happen now, of course. dozen oaks cut down in his garden to let in
more light. There might have been a subtle
If he felt the need to impart something clue there for Norman, but he was blind to
to you it would not be for altruistic reasons, subtleties, despite the added light. He dealt
you understand. It is probably his vanity. in facts and proof, but the remaining oaks
He is always taking care of his nearest and seemed to make him even more unsettled.
dearest. Himself. Perhaps you should know Instead he buried himself in routine and so
a little more of Norman before continuing. of late has become a man of habit, getting
After all, you should have context in which into his BMW X5 sport (2019 model) every
to make sense of what he says before you morning to collect the paper (The Times).
judge him. He could walk, of course, but the car needs
a run. Instead, what he does sometimes,
Norman stands 5’8” in his casual sports is leave the car somewhere different, and
attire with aspirational branding. He enjoys walk home from the parking spot, returning
golf. He has done very well for himself, re- the following day to collect it. He feels that
tiring at fifty having ceaselessly worked

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

this is fairly clever thinking. Which is proof and Norman was a little dubious about ac-
that you don’t need to be that clever to cepting the Samsung device posted to him.
make a lot of money. Best call it a device, because it’s not a por-
table telephone. In fact, there is no word for
Secretly, Norman sees life as a terrify- it other than device, because that keeps it
ingly random, meaningless series of events. neutral, uncontroversial, calming. Your de-
Age might be nothing but a number, but it vice is your friend and absolutely essential
nevertheless marks the starkly inevitable in these days of lock-down. The news has
process of decay. The routine passing of gone viral. Finally: we have something that
each day began to alarm Norman. The has gone viral that is actually important. A
people around him accepted their pleasant virus. The irony. Norman loves that sort of
existence in a very matter-of-fact way, as thing. He’s a miserable git really. He misses
though it was the only reality there was and Janet.
their lives were normal. Strictly speaking,
normal had come under a lot of criticism Norman didn’t like the smartphone and
of late. There was no normal, only different that the data collectors were filling their
and this irritated Norman. The bell-curve boots in an unprecedented information bo-
distribution of the scientist was conve- nanza. Previously he had what his acquain-
niently discarded for this acceptance of all tances called a brick. Another irony. It was a
things diverse, which Norman saw as ironic, quarter of the size of the black mirrors that
as science and technology had become his daughters stared into. Mind you, not
such a trusted part of everyone’s life. Nei- many people called Norman anyway, which
ther could save Janet unfortunately. She suited him just fine. Back in his heyday, he
succumbed to the virus very early on. They had used an actual brick-sized analogue
had just returned from a brief Pacific cruise, cell-phone. Now that was a brick. The kind
ending rather fatefully, in Singapore. of phone you could kill a burglar with. He
didn’t let Zoe and Zena know, but he hung
Because he was now alone in a huge on to his old ‘phone, just in case.
house, Norman had turned to social media
where everyone seemed to mark their ex- Change was happening too quickly for
istence by the Emoji, the Like and the rant, Norman. His solitude, his rude introduc-
but he soon got into the swing of the begin- tion to Facebook, the dragon-virus from
nings of the New Normal. As time passed the East and the exit of his significant other
ever more quickly, Norman hid in the time- from this mortal realm. He had always told
thieving world of social media. It was a salve his colleagues and vanquished competitors
to his mortality, despite its immediacy and (these were often synonymous) that ev-
demands on one’s time. Nevertheless, time erything changes but change, yet Norman
marched on. Tik-tok. “How much time have was stunned by the speed of these changes.
you spent sharing on your device during And despite having everything except Janet,
the virus lockdown daddy? We’ve heard he still knew that he lacked something
hardly anything from you.” His daughters, important. So his walks back to his home
Zoe and Zena had introduced him to all each day were now an opportunity to re-
this, but three messages a day is consid- flect, something that quite frankly, he had
ered hardly communicating. His daughters’ rarely done before, as proper reflection
lives revolved around their smartphones needs time and he had always been in such

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a hurry. Perhaps he was maturing with age. Since the 26th of February, Norman had
Reflecting was good and Norman was wres- adhered to a diet. This had nothing to do
tling to keep his head focused on one reflec- with weight-loss. It stemmed from a conver-
tive task when he had an epiphany. sation that he had had with his friend Abu
Kabir about Ramadan. Abu took his fasting
It happened as he was passing the grave- very seriously and ate nothing in daylight.
yard of St Mary’s. It was a bright spring When he did eat, it was simple fare. He told
morning and he skipped breakfast for the Norman that it gave his life perspective and
fourth time before his habitual walk at allowed him to truly enjoy the gifts of Allah
about 6am (to miss other walkers), having and particularly the meaning of food. This
left the Bimmer outside a large ex-farm- had impressed Norman and now, since the
house with conservatory. The candles on beginning of Lent and through the 20th of
the horse chestnut were in full turgor and March lockdown, he was trying the same.
the birds were twittering delightful airs. The
air smelt good. Norman strode purposefully The next morning, a little earlier than
along the lane but stopped in his tracks. He the previous day, Norman went for his
almost wept. walk which passed the graveyard. He had
to see the angel again: he had not slept
The angel was standing in the grave- well and decided what he would do if he
yard. It was brighter than the morning and saw it again. He took a camera. On his per-
seemed to shimmer. It was beautiful, even ambulations he had occasionally paused at
to the pouched and jaded eyes of Norman. the graveyard, staring over the wall at all
Its beauty transcended the word. The angel the gravestones and pondering, as many
stood below a yew tree. Norman stared. did. With some, sardonic gratification, he
The angel stared back. It could have been admired the equality. He spent ten min-
a statue but for the slight movements in its utes surveying the church yard and as he
pose. Norman knew it was real: he felt it. scanned the gravestones his vigilance was
It knew him and was so calm and benign eventually rewarded, as out of the corner
that Norman had no response to give as in- of his eye the angel had returned. This time
stantly, everything he was, was as nothing. there was no shock, no jolt; he gradually
noticed it standing there, appearing almost
A small dog yapped in the woods behind as a magic eye picture. This time it was in
the graveyard and the spell was broken. front of a horse-chestnut, but was definitely
Norman was distracted and in a blink of a standing on the ground, not floating like in
tear, the angel was no longer there. Norman pictures. His heart leapt. The angel seemed
cursed the dog and after searching for the to fade if he looked straight at it, so he held
angel he falteringly continued his walk, his breath and watched indirectly, slightly
bitter that such a stupid thing as someone’s averting his gaze, almost as if he were not
retirement pet could deprive him of such worthy to look upon the divine. A great
beauty. Hate welled up in him. All the dog- wash of comfort and joy came over Norman
walker saw from his two-yard distancing, and again, he was moved to tears, only this
was a quickly-walking man wringing his time the tears started to come from some-
hands and talking angrily to himself. He said where below his lungs in huge, convulsive
good morning anyway and was reminded gasps, like a little child. The angel’s face
that social distancing was not such a bad had an expression akin to the Mona Lisa,
thing after all.

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at least that is what Norman thought after- and he started to wonder whether his ac-
wards. The image of the angel swam in his tions had been just. He had had the trees cut
tears and was once again gone, but Norman down because they were old, twisted and
stayed there weeping. The dog-walker took took away all the light. Norman noticed his
a different route today. reflection in the window as he though this.

The third visit to the churchyard was un- Norman was covertly religious. Covertly
rewarded. Norman stood there for nearly because a popularly-held belief of his age is
an hour. In the end he walked into the that effectively, science has disproved reli-
cemetery and looked at the two different gion and anyway, the current trend was to-
trees where the angel had appeared. It was wards multicultural secularism. Everyone can
almost as though he had lost something get along just fine without a god, economi-
and continued to return to the same place cally at least. Man had invented God and
in the hope that your keys or wallet might now had no need of Him. Janet, his partner
re-appear, which of course, they never did. had been religious, but in a New Age sort
They were usually under the sofa. He felt a of way, with scented candles, sacred stones
sense of great disappointment. The kind of and a bit of tree-hugging. She had believed
disappointment that he a felt as a small boy that religion is innate in humans. She saw
when his father had forgotten to visit him all her humanist friends as deluded and sad,
at school. He felt dejected and the feeling but she never told them so, much as a bul-
began to build on his way back to his tan- lied child eagerly agrees with the other chil-
gible monument to his success, the shiny dren in order to conform and be safe. Janet
BMW. The dejection had become bitter saw religion as a need proven over count-
by the time that he returned to his house. less millennia. “You go against this need at
The huge property loomed over him with your peril” she would say. “It is there to be
its enormous gable end windows and its questioned perhaps, but not discarded as so
quadruple timber-framed garage. All very many progressive liberal-minded folk have
modern, all impressive, all meaningless. Or done”. Janet was a good person, looking for
so it now struck Norman. Disconsolate, he deeper meaning and probably had some
strode in and slammed the solid oak door. idea of what that was by now.
Why was he crying again?
Despite Norman’s apparent curmud-
Over the next few days, Norman stayed geonliness, thanks to Janet, he had sur-
in, as directed by the Government. He had prisingly profound views on a variety of
more-or-less ignored the advice up until philosophical themes and this is what had
then, saying that it was all a load of rubbish enamoured him to what Abu had said. Janet
and he will damn-well make up his own had been his guide in many ways. Perhaps
mind and do what he wishes to do. Social that is what attracted him to her. He had
distancing? Pah! Face mask? Not for me! a need for a guiding partner, his first wife
But this time, he just didn’t want to go out. was as shallow as a puddle. He referred to
The angel had shaken him without saying a her in Latin as Vadum Conlectus. You can
word, or doing anything. He looked out at Google it, if you wish, but Daniella his wife
his garden as it started to rain. The missing never thought of doing so, she just assumed
trees were still there in ghost form, the gaps that it was a posh name of endearment. His
left in the remaining trees were tree-shaped attraction to her was solely physical and for

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status. Most of his colleagues agreed: she ease. It was only a month or so ago that
had a great figure. Impressed by the length he wouldn’t think twice about taking the
of her legs though everyone was, an intel- BMW to the local shops, less than a mile
lectual giant she was not and fairly soon away, for the most minor of reasons. He
after their seventh wedding anniversary, reached the church in fifteen minutes and
Norman got a divorce and started seeing seemed almost to demand an audience
Janet. Not necessarily in that order. He was with the angel. It wasn’t there, so he sat on
not sorry to see her, or Poppy her yappy the wooden bench by the church and en-
Pekinese, depart the house, even with the joyed the morning sun. There was a night-
sizeable amount of his cash she took with ingale in the ash tree by the church, singing
her. One thing that Daniella did, apart from joyfully. The ash was looking a bit thread-
giving him two daughters, was cure him of bare for the time of year, but it meant that
ever wanting dogs again. An un-remunera- Norman could see this tiny broadcaster of
tive outlay of capital if ever there was one. life. A robin fluttered into view and cocked
an eye at him. Norman didn’t move, but
Janet and Norman never got married but quietly greeted the small bird. Looking up
they had been well-matched partners for from the robin, he saw the angel standing
thirty-two years. Because of Janet, Norman nearby, under the ash. Norman kept calm
now had some views on life, other than his and readied himself for his plan. He had
previous glib aphorisms about it. Janet had bought his small camera again and slowly
believed that the planet is an organism but pointed it from his knees at the angel. He
one so complex and beautiful that no one depressed the button a few times at dif-
component of that organism can compre- ferent angles, then put the camera down.
hend it. To start looking for a God particle Part two of the plan: ask the question.
(Norman was reading a book about it at
the time) is no different from looking for “Are you an angel?”
the perfect scone recipe. It might make you
feel better if you find it, but it will not allow No reply.
you to understand God. This is because, ac-
cording to Janet, God is not a thing, God is “Have you come here to see me?”
all there is. From a human’s tiny and insig-
nificant viewpoint, God is in all things on the No reply. In fact the angel remained
planet and has the power to be both angry just an apparition, with no physical mani-
and destructive and loving and benign all at festation but its image. They continued ex-
the same time. Shit happens is possibly the changing gazes. Norman was surprised to
best way to comprehend the state of affairs. find that this time he could look straight at
Norman hid these interests incredibly well the angel and it appeared extremely clear.
from the boys at the Probus and golf clubs. Light seemed to emanate from its face, but
not in a theatrical way. Before it faded, it
It was with some determination that spoke. “Choose your next question more
Norman marched out of the house sans wisely”. Norman was left in a state of rap-
BMW and headed for St Mary’s, which ture. He sat on the bench for a further hour
was about a mile away. His fitness had im- before returning home.
proved since the lockdown and a couple
of miles’ walk would be completed with Choose your next question more wisely.
What did that mean? He pondered this as
he looked at the picture of an angel-free

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graveyard taken with his camera. He Norman was enchanted by the voice, it
thought about it for quite some time. In fact, was soft and sonorous, just as one would
it was dark by the time he realised that he expect an angel to sound like. The voice was
was hungry and that he had been sitting in the medium but the message was a little
his easy chair for nearly five hours. Janet harsher. He was stunned into unbecoming
would have called it meditation. She used unfamiliarity. “You can’t say that! That’s not
to do it every day for an hour or so. She very angelic language”.
claimed that it helped to empty her mind,
but Norman was quite doubtful of this as “I speak in whatever language I need to,
it is impossible to empty one’s mind. The to communicate with the earth-bound. It
words spoken by the angel tumbled in his could be any language or dialect. As you
head, like numbers in a drum at his moth- seem little more than a shaved monkey, I
er’s bingo nights. Wisely. To be wise. What have adjusted to your normal parlance. If
is that? Wisdom. Janet said that as you give you don’t like it then I’m afraid I am merely
away health, you gain wisdom. Why can’t a linguistic mirror. Angels don’t have a po-
you be wise and healthy? Healthy, wealthy litical life, correct or otherwise”.
and wise. He knew that he had two of these.
Norman started to feel anger: anger that
The next encounter with the angel was someone was being rude to him. Stupid?
on the following Friday. It was a grey and Who is this person to say?
cold morning, the first flush of spring having
flown. It was not the kind of morning you “I am an angel and I can say. I am unaf-
would expect to see an angel, especially as fected by human resource training in what
there was a gentle wind, hushing the leaves. language to use”.
The angel appeared far more real this time.
More defined somehow, more matter-of- The angel was even aware of Norman’s
fact. It stood, as Norman stood, near the HR training! In the normal course of events,
front of the graveyard by a hawthorn, where he would retaliate with all sorts of unpleas-
all the older, more interesting graves were. It antness, sometimes even fists. It had been a
was almost a confrontation in that the angel long time since someone had done this and
was quite close and facing him. Norman’s it seemed to Norman that all that façade,
question burst forth. He blurted it almost: that material fence and all that pretension
to wealth came crumbling down. Although
“Is, is Janet with you?” “stupid” might have disappeared from
current language, so had “humble” and
The angel seemed to ever-so-slightly Norman wasn’t a humble man.
wince. Perhaps not the wise question it was
expecting. It had seemed to Norman that he “I am certainly much more than a monkey”.
had spent as much time over crafting it as
the NASA plaque team did choosing images “Are you?”
for the Pioneer probe. So much more was im-
plied in the simple question. The angel spoke. “Yes, I have developed so much since I
was twenty”.
“I’m afraid not. She was too… she had yet
to develop sufficiently to be able to do that. “Why twenty?”
I’m sorry to say that some people are just
too stupid to get to the higher plane”. “Because that’s when I was aware of
being aware. I knew who I was and what I
wanted to be”.

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“Ah me”, said the angel. “Only being friendly”, said the jovial
owner. “Get down Ben”.
“I give money to charity. I go to church,
I…”. Norman deployed his Glock 17 automatic
pistol which up until then had been well
“Can I stop you there? I know all about concealed at the back of his belt. The owner
you. I am an angel, it is my job to know. stood horrified as Norman deftly despatched
In your own idiom, you are a git. You go both animals with ruthless efficiency, one
to church in your shiny German car trying round in each head. Norman’s imagination
to squeeze yourself through the eye of a had been wasted on investment fund man-
needle. You casually invest in other people’s agement. What he actually did was benignly
hard work and misery. Well it won’t rub. rub the dribbling mutt’s head before walking
God’s not that easily fobbed off”. Norman on with an understanding smile, to all the
was dumbfounded. happy dog-lover. The older dog caught Nor-
mans’ look with his own rheumy cataracted
After a while he realised that rain had eye and joined in the deafening barking,
started to blow against his face. He ached knowing Norman’s true intentions.
and needed to sit down. He looked at his
watch and noted that he had been standing He walked past the cricket green and
there for two hours, the angel long gone. headed towards the graveyard. He turned
How could he have stood for so long? Was into Church Street and at the cemetery his
he going mad? He ambled home, dazed. hopeful gaze was returned by the angel.
The morning dog-walkers long since gone. “Hello” said Norman. He was much more at
ease with this situation now, which is part
Norman continued his daily walks and of the human condition. Familiarity breeds
each one got a little earlier, as the dawn familiarity and perhaps contempt would
did. The angel was on his mind a lot, it was follow. The angel suggested that Norman
almost as though it was always with him: love not only the dogs, but the owners too.
in the kitchen, in the toilet and in bed. It Norman doubted that he could do either as
escorted him on his walks. Perhaps it is my the dogs were made that way by the owners.
guardian angel, he supposed before turning
towards the cricket green. A couple hove “In the same way God has been made by
into view with his ’n’ hers dogs. The first humans” said the angel, completing Nor-
was a Pomeranian-pug aberration, which man’s thoughts.
gave an angry staccato yip. Its beady little
eyes informing its tiny brain that making an “That doesn’t sound very much like
irritating noise is the most gratifying thing it opinion of God’s messenger”.
could do. It knew that nobody could harm
it because the owner would always defend “God exists outside human ken, but
it. The owner spent more on its food in a humans have set God up as to what they
week that a Syrian family spends in a month. truly wish to be: it’s easier that way- work
The impotent bitter rage the dog had, was in eternal progress. They can never achieve
focused into its bark. That is all it has. Its col- what they aspire to be, only aspire to it. The
league, an aged and rotting Labrador, that dogs are a more realistic project. They are
dullest clone of dogs, plugged its wet nose merely what humans actually achieve and
up Norman’s crotch and snuffled noncha- of course a reflection of that owner in all its
lantly as the Pomerpug yipped on. bitterness or beneficence”.

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The angel was standing next to a grave- life in order to be rewarded in the next?
stone in the middle of a leafy part of the Can you think of a better way of keeping
graveyard, near a holly tree and Norman peasants in order? Work hard now for your
drew near in the faith that he might learn brief, miserable life and things will be much
more. better when you are dead- and look, here
are some pictures on the wall as proof!”
“You are mortal”, said the angel. “You are
called a mortal and like all words humans “But what about our bible reading this
contrive to describe things, it is at best a very week on the vicar’s podcast: Verily, I
metaphor, at worst a euphemism”. say unto thee, He that heareth my word,
and believeth on him that sent me, hath ev-
Norman looked down at the gravestone erlasting life?” Norman was secretly proud
which separated them. It had been a week of the fact that he could remember quotes
since his last meeting with the angel. He from the Bible and Shakespeare. It made
had not noticed the gravestone before. him sound educated.
On it someone had added a small wooden
plaque upon which was written: “Ah yes, saint John. He’s dead too you
know. It’s all so up for interpretation isn’t
John is dead it? A bit arcane, and all those thees and
thous. The seventeenth century was such
He’s not resting in his bed. a wonderful time for the English language.
It always sounds so much better, more
He has not passed, away or on poetic, when said in such terms. That was
one translation for the masses that really
Not asleep, nor at rest is John worked. That New International version is
so demotic, so dull and impotent. You don’t
So let it just be said like all that, do you Norman? All that egal-
itarian crap: level playing fields, equality,
That John is simply dead. equity even. I am an angel and I know my
place as do you and that’s why you voted
The angel looked to the tombstone too for the Eaton Mess.”
before continuing. “It was the Romans
who named you such: mortal: doomed to Norman thought that quite witty, for an
die. This life is not your destiny, death is. angel.
Anything you do in this life is merely your
spiritual quickening, part of the path to “There are a lot of pre-conceptions about
your death. I cannot say what that destiny angels”, said the angel, “we’re not the only
is, because that would be a bit of a spoiler, ones discriminated against. I don’t float
wouldn’t it?” around in the clouds you know, I am as
earth-bound as you are. How could it be
A flippant angel, Norman thought. But otherwise? Angels are for guidance, not
maybe you have to be flippant in order to blind following. I have joined the choir in-
recognise flippancy. As if reading his vaguely visible to become a guide to humanity, spe-
self-aware thought, the angel continued. cifically: you. I am your guardian angel and
I know you well. But let’s cut to the chase”,
“You will die, Norman, of that there is said the angel, “why am I here?” Norman
no doubt. You are only here for four-score
years and ten. Three-score if you smoke.
But what about eternal life? The life here-
after? All that stuff about being good in this

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was not now entirely sure that he wanted trying to regain balance but never managing
to know. it while in a state of permanent tumble. No
control, no aim and no way of stopping.
Norman’s father had been a small busi- In the end, plague was the only way the
ness owner in Doncaster. He had worked earth could speak back. It will do so until all
very hard but had never done particularly those little blinking lights, all those frivolous
well. Norman was proud of his name- man products, all that consumerism and waste
of the north. He had invaded the south and is brought to a halt. No more Range Rovers.
done so well for himself, much better than No more mini-breaks to a city not unlike
he had ever dreamed, that now, he had the one you just left. No more trip-of-a-life-
become the things he owned: big house, time cruises, twice a year. No more weekly
big car, big bank account. Perhaps what luxury food. No more anything. The planet
Norman had not become was aware of his will be here, but you won’t. Only a Thund-
situation. Lots of zeroes in a bank account bergian change in human development will
cannot be eaten. They could disappear as assuage the planet and evidently, nobody
quickly as they arrived, and in Norman’s wants that. Not really. Life is too comfy. You
case, as easily too. would all be wise to come out of this covid-
ious situation humbler, more penitent and
The angel spoke up. ”It’s right and meet certainly less arrogant”.
that you think of your father. Did he not
used to say that he got an honest day’s pay “But how can God allow this?” gasped
for an honest day’s work? He was right. We Norman. “It’s His fault! God allowed it to
are paid for what we do, good or bad. There happen!” he blurted, before tempering it
are signs presented to you in life, to all of with “Surely?”
you, signs in the path of life to guide and
inform. But the signs have been ignored, “Don’t blame God”, said the angel, “that
through negligence, through weakness, is for cowards, as your father would have
through your own deliberate fault. Only said. You have the ability to build or destroy.
now are you truly sorry for what used to be You choose. And for many decades as a race
called sins”. you have known that what you have been
doing is wrong and is bound to end in di-
“But I haven’t hurt anyone. I haven’t broken saster. You know this individually, but as a
the law. I have only done what was best at the race, you do nothing. It is almost as if you
time in the situation. I haven’t been shown have been waiting for someone to stop you.
any signs; I didn’t know.” Norman knew that Sins are sins for a reason. A sin causes bad
he had sinned. things. Sometimes it is hard to do the right
thing, but if enough people choose to do
“How many signs do you need?” said the right thing then good things result. You
the angel. “Raging fires, deluges and floods, are flawed but you are also blessed”. At that
drought and now plague. And you still talk final word, the angel faded into the shrub-
about getting the travel industry back to its bery and left Norman to his thoughts.
pre-pandemic level? Your builders are still
destroying your environment in the name Despite the family’s northern roots, Nor-
of economics. You are still arrogantly ex- man’s daughters, Zena and Zoe had forsaken
ploiting. You can’t eat cash. Humanity races the open, honest exchange of northern
toward the future like a tripped sprinter, English friendliness in favour of cynical

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

southern competitiveness. It was not sur- “Hi Zo, howayou? Good, good. Has daddy
prising really. Their mother was a vacuous been in touch?”
and profligate woman and Norman had not
helped. During their formative years, he had Both women talked loudly through their
relentlessly pushed them through private respective tracts of countryside while they
school, pony club, gap year and then Uni- marched their respective dogs along leafy
versity. They had been cossetted and had a lanes. They both agreed that Norman was
fairly skewed vision of the world compared acting out of character but what with the
to their forebears. Norman was unremitting lockdown, what could they do?
in his drive for wealth and his brutal ruth-
lessness was channelled into his unfaltering “I’ll give him a call this evening”, offered
campaign to acquire status. He had made Zoe, posing the statement as a question.
both his daughters singularly selfish in their
climb to the top. He had often repeated to “Thanks Sis, ask him if he needs anything.
them: no excuses, no apologies, no regrets. Love you, love you… bye; bye…bye.
It made him feel strong and decisive, but
both daughters could see through this. Both women felt that their daughterly
duty had been done and got on with their
They had both done well in their mar- surprisingly busy lives.
riages. Zoe had married Mike, a venture
capitalist and Zena had married Steve, who The next morning was another early one
was something in international recruit- for Norman. He left his BMW at home and
ment. Both were clever men and not unlike walked briskly towards the church, drawing
Norman, save for the façade. The husbands in the good air and yet still feeling full of
were products of the post-Thatcher age: regret about what the angel had said. It
greedy, arrogant, self-important. The se- wasn’t quite self-loathing yet, but what
cret of both daughters’ success was that Norman felt was akin to some sort of… yes,
they spent as much time and money doing remorse. It wasn’t really his fault that the
what they wanted to do as possible. It was world was coughing up arterial blood. ”And
practically a religion for them. Kitchens and hey”, he said to himself, recalling a song
bathrooms were regularly replaced, cars “I’m not so blind that I can’t see where we’re
too. The skip outside Zoe’s house contained all going. It’s no fault of mine if humankind
more wealth than the entire contents of reaps what it sows. All it’s ever been is the
most people’s houses. The lives of all four pursuit of happiness.” Yet Norman was so
young people were entirely unsupportable. desperately unhappy that he knew some-
thing had to give. His phone rang. It was Zoe.
“What do you think about daddy then?
He doesn’t seem himself. Sad face sad face.” “Hi daddy, howayou? Good, good thanks”.
Zena texted Zoe on Whatsapp to see how It seemed strange that his daughter, who
she felt about it. Zoe responded unusu- rarely called, would do so at such a time.
ally tardily: “Hi Sis. Do you think he misses “Just off to dollop the pony’s field and
Janet? Query face.” “Do you think he has thought I’d check-in”
another woman? Query face.” Zena was
quite perturbed, so felt the need to actually “Thanks Zoe, I’m fine.”
speak with her sister.
“Only, Zena and I were worried daddy.
Are you feeling OK? You’re not poorly are
you?”

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“No Zoe, I don’t have a cough or tempera- health conditions too. He told no-one of
ture, if that’s what you mean.” this and hoped that his doctor wouldn’t no-
tice. Keep your head down Norman, is what
“Oh thank God”, said Zoe, a confirmed he told himself, although even if his doctor
aethiest. “Do you need anything?” had contacted him about isolating himself,
he would have ignored it.
Do I need anything? Norman thought.
For decades he had wanted for nothing. “Darling, I live on a large piece of land in
He had everything, everything he had ever a small rural village, miles from the dull con-
wanted. It dawned on him that he had never urbations of mediocrity. I am as low risk as
truly known what he had needed. “Yes, yes, I can be. I will be buggered if I sit in front of
I’m fine darling”, he replied, in a tone that a telly for months just because the Orien-
mollified his daughter. tals made a balls-up experimenting with the
mother of all Chinese take-aways. Actually,
An ageing jogger sweated past, fending come to think of it, was it a balls up at all?”
off the inevitable. Why bother? Thought
Norman. Never give up! Fight! Why make “Oh daddy, you are wicked. We know for
the inevitable even more painful than it al- certain that it was an accident- something
ready is? The runner’s face said it all. What to do with chickens and bats.” Norman gave
are you trying to prove? Thought Norman. a sardonic smile at his daughters trust in
If Europe had simply negotiated with Ger- social media. He found it quite remarkable
many and if Churchill had merely done the how a whole generation avoided any form
same, then London and Coventry would be of critical assessment. Both daughter and
in better shape and we would be making su- father had run out of things to say, so Zoe
perior cars. In fact, Churchill would probably made a few must-get-on noises and rang
have been a peacetime Prime Minister, or off. It started to rain. He turned and headed
possibly Neville Chaimberlain would never back home for the last time.
have been ousted and Churchill would be
what most youth think him to be: a dog in The gentle shower started, hissing on the
an insurance advert. Norman was knocked leaves and pattering on the grass, wafting
out of his reverie by his daughter. around Norman’s head and soaking his hair.
It was a hazy, gentle rain- a dousing mizzle.
“Daddy? Daddy?” The angel seemed to shimmer in the rain,
like a hologram projected onto it. It seemed
“Sorry Zoe, I lost the signal for a bit- you more grave today, with a sombre look. It
know what it’s like in the village.” was watching.

“1955, you mean?” “Did you consider why I might be here?”
Said the angel.
“Yes, mobile signals have difficulty pene-
trating the mists of time.” “You are here to make me more aware
of my life and how I conduct myself”, said
“So, are you OK?” Norman.

“Of course, of course.” “You are still saying what you think I want
to hear”, said the angel. “You are still both-
“Don’t ignore the advice”. Zoe rep- ered about what people think of you- your
rimanded him, knowing that he would.
Norman had ignored advice and had what
the government described as underlying

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

public image. You need to let that go- be- caution, he sat next to the angel who was
come who you are.” now sitting there.

“Who am I?” “There is no such thing as death” the
angel said, comfortingly, “as we all know,
“That’s better. As an angel, I can only be energy is eternal, it can be neither created
honest with you. Your neighbour calls you nor destroyed. Ask a scientist. However, it
the cunt next door, you know” can be transformed, and that just about
sums up what death is. The self evaporates
Norman thought his neighbour was a and the energy of the mind, the thought,
cunt too, truth be told. He had a ride-on is left. We cannot measure this any more
mower, a pig-ugly wife who dressed like a than we can measure the soul- it is beyond
bouncy castle bound in bailer twine and a matter.
Bentley, the pretentious cock. Bentley. Once
a car for the discerning. It had class, poise Space and time are not constants, they
and quality written all over it. Now it is a are as much created from our minds as
vulgar thug of a car for the vaguely insecure death is but as we don’t fully understand
obscenely wealthy. this, it scares us. Fear has been our guiding
principle for millennia. Fear of the wrath of
“You see”, said the angel, “Your mind is God; fear of the unknown; fear of mortality.
still chattering away like a monkey. You are
still so rooted in the material now that you “Fear of missing out, losing or failing”
cannot even consider your own mortality proffered Norman.
without hate.”
“That’s the spirit! And did you ever stop
“Mortality?” A thud went through Norman. to consider the current situation?”

“Yes, that’s right Norman, your mortality. “What? Covid 19?”
I tried to hint, but you are not a subtle man.
I am here to prepare you for the life here- “Yes, the virus. How do you feel about it?”
after.”
“I am not sure: I suppose fear has made us
It was a strange feeling, to put it lightly. do strange things. Fear has made everyone
The physical impossibility of death in the buy loads of toilet rolls, fear has made us
mind of someone living. We all know our ever-so-thankful do the medical profession.
birthday, but… Fear has made us more tolerant and polite
perhaps. But the fear is from mankind’s
Norman felt dizzy, light-headed and went own doing. We were happy to get cheap
into a crouch with one knee on the grass. goods from China without asking too many
Soaked through, he was unaware of it. All questions, but this is the downside.”
he could hear was his laboured breathing.
“You are not too far from the truth”, said
“It’s shock”, said the angel. “You’re not the angel. ”You have put money before all
dying. Not as such. I’ll give you a minute”, else. It is an old tale.”
it said, as though Norman had just been
kicked in the bollocks. “Not God’s wrathful vengeance, surely?”
asserted Norman. “They said that about
Winded, Norman carefully walked to the SARS and AIDS. It is a man-made problem,
bench at the side of the graveyard. With with a man-made solution.”

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“Had you considered that mankind might everyone else, yes. Get it now and get away
be the virus? That the earth has finally had with it before someone else does. Use it up,
enough and these simian pretenders need burn it out. All humanity from the Amazon
to be reminded how fragile they are?” to the Arctic knows what it is doing is wrong,
but pleads helplessness in the face of such
The angel remained stern. “You are now enormity, hoping that they will not be the
living in the time of Revelations. ‘And the ones to pay the bill for the enormous party.”
sea gave up the dead which were in it; and
death and hell delivered up the dead which “It is time to pay the bill?”
were in them: and they were judged every
man according to their works’. Their works “Eschatologically speaking, yes. But that
collectively are detrimental to man’s very ex- is part of the reason why I am here. The
istence. People have excitedly awaited this virus is a convulsion in the final cycle of the
fire and brimstone end to humanity, but the human race on this planet and I am one of
fact is far less immediate; far less dramatic. many here to ease the passage of souls and
All the souls that ever were have been rising in my case, it’s you.”
on an unprecedented scale. Billions of jab-
bering monkeys, all wanting more. The pop- Norman sat upon the bench letting the
ulation of the world now equates to all the word of the angel sink much as the rain was
people that ever lived- give or take. This seeping through his clothing. It was beau-
means that they have to live on this mortal tiful, dense but gentle rain.
plain somewhere and that means sup-
porting these huge numbers of risen souls. “Walk with me” said the angel. It was
How we care for all these people, who are in a placid command, as gentle as the rain.
fact as ourselves, is how we will be judged.” Norman stood, feeling quite light. They
walked together out of the graveyard and
”I am being judged?” into the leafy lane which ran alongside the
church. What they spoke of, Norman could
“Yes, of course you are. By everybody. All not bring to mind, but it was as in a dream
the time. Of course, they all say that they where you were walking with a good friend
are not judgemental, but they all absolutely and talking about commonly-shared events
are. Some hide it better than others. To be from your lives. As the lane started to rise
judged and found wanting by God, only we towards the hills, so the rain abated. His
are all God and man’s feast is over.” lungs heaved for air as he walked up the
hill. They walked on upward to where the
“That sounds rather biblical” last hedgerow gave way to the open land
where the sheep grazed.
“Book of Daniel”
After some time Norman felt rather
“What has that got to do with me?” tired and out of breath, so lay down in the
sunny meadow with the buttercups and let
“You already know the answer to that. the sun dry his heavy clothes and warm his
Remember, you are your own judge too.” face. He breathed in as deeply as he could,
taking in the pure and magical air through
“But I am powerless to make a difference. his nose and exhaling through his mouth. It
I am just adapting to the situation. I am not felt good. The rising vapour from the rain
a bad man, I am…” whispered through the mingling airs and

“Excuses, excuses. You are exploiting
the situation as you find it, the same as

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

into Norman’s head. He glimpsed the sky He was no longer Norman, the bitter,
between his eyelids and drifted away. The greedy little egotistical being which jealously
angel was now nothing more than a pres- inhabited its small patch of space-time. He
ence, but a reassuring one. Norman felt understood. He had been guided by the angel
himself falling’ leaving his fatigue and dis- and was now part of the angel and part of all
comfort behind. Plunging into a profound else too, inseparable. Through his developing
and deep sleep. It was good. His breathing roots, he received nutrition, communication,
deepened, his mind became hushed and wisdom and love. Unity is a word he would
time seemed to slow. And yet in its slow- have used to describe how he felt, but what
ness, it seemed to Norman that everything he now was, was beyond description. His
around him buzzed with energetic speed. being was not human, not plant, not animal,
it just was and is and will be.
As he lay on the earth, his body became
as a wonderfully mellifluous, leaden weight, Rising with the others, the new Norman
dragged down by gravity from the very core of towered above the ground and sunk deep be-
the earth. He felt the vital undertow drawing neath the rich soil. There was no now, then or
him under. Presently, delicate tendrils flowed ever, only being and new Norman looked out
from his fingertips searching for moisture in upon a timeless landscape of green. Green,
the rich earth, before broadening and thick- the only light rejected by the forest, yet
ening into ten tender roots. The heels of his symbolic of the life force of the planet, the
feet burrowed smoothly into the subsoil like tiny cell in the amniotic fluid of the Universe,
taproots, joining the oak, the ash and the fir. which new Norman was a part of. Hope, faith,
He felt connected with wondrous things. trust and truth all merged into one benign
existence, feeding, breathing, reciprocating,
The grassy meadow in which only a growing and dying in an eternal cycle. New
moment ago he had lain was now full of Norman had faded like a gene and had
sycamore tree saplings which swelled and evolved into the aspiration of all things, irre-
grew at an astonishing rate. Hazel and Birch spective of their form. He didn’t want to re-
rose from nowhere, their seeds previously turn. The inner sun was guiding him, but this
invisible. The roots of the beech snaked happy state was being disrupted with noises
their way under him, he could feel them penetrating deep into his reverie. With huge
moving. The grass leapt and receded like sadness he realised that he had glimpsed the
lapping waves. There was a low, thunderous Infinite and the Oneness of Being, but that
tremor in the earth and trees all around him was now ending. Time had returned. He was
rose. Flowers came and went- cow parsley, suddenly aware of his conscious mind trying
celandine, herb Robert, cowslips. He sunk to make sense of the noises.
into the deep, rich, humid soil which rose
and fell with his chest. His chest was as a His physicality disturbed him. The feeling,
barrow; a mound of mossy, grass-covered the noise, the stench of the individual. Indi-
loam. Norman fell from the tree of life and vidual again. He tried to suppress it but in-
as all leaves do, returned to his roots, the stead he began to awake as if from a drowsy
roots of the tree of life. He was becoming slumber by a loud shrieking sound. It was a
at one with an entity too vast to perceive, horrible, ugly sound. Norman tried to speak
the light of the sun, still and constant, the but could not, his lungs felt leaden. An arm
interconnectedness of all things evident. reached in to his returning field of vision fol-
lowed by a face. Zoe.

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Zoe was not in tears. She was not per- final, fluttering thoughts Norman once again
turbed. She was rational and in control. was aware of the angel and considered his
Systematically she was doing the things lot. He saw his brief human existence in
needed to resuscitate her father. Had she summary. He had been a foolish man, he
not chosen to be the idle wife of someone had destroyed, lied, polluted and exploited
rich, she would have made a fine airline his fellow human beings. He had been ar-
pilot. On the spur of the moment she had rogant when he should have been meek.
decided to make the hour-long journey “The meek shall inherit the earth” said the
to see her father, forsaking her daughters’ angel. As he quietly expired on his newly jet-
pampered ponies to be with him. She was washed driveway, Norman’s daughter was
unsure why, but she hadn’t liked the way already considering how to dispose of the
her father sounded on the ‘phone. Norman property. She called 999 and prepared to get
was pale and the virus enfeebled his pulse. into character for the paramedics.
His mind, however, was strong and fought
the return to the pink. He had seen what Norman had been a selfish man. How
existence really was and wanted no more could he have been anything other? It was
of the constrained and pained carnal life. in his nature to be so and truth be told, it
Perhaps if he had had anything worthwhile was a broadly human trait. He had never
to return to, he would have helped Zoe, but liked sharing; he had trusted no-one and
in truth, he had nothing. Zoe worked harder, had been essentially selfish, the self being
feeling her father slipping away. Finally, she to Norman, all there was. And for what? He
attempted the kiss of life as his last breath died in the presence of an unloved and un-
left his body. Most fathers would have de- loving daughter in a neat and tidy garden
scribed their daughter at this point as an next to a shiny metal box on wheels. The
angel. But not Norman. virus had taken another victim, yet Norman
had effectively killed himself through his
The angel watched dispassionately at the own arrogance. Even that was selfish, really.
struggle for death: the death of an individual.
To the earth-bound it was a tragic end, to Without Norman, the angel returned to
the angel, it was merely a transformation the oneness of being. The remaining trees
and certainly not tragic. What had been the in the garden meekly waited for their com-
sunny uplands of the sheep-strewn hills to panions to re-join them. Of course by that
Norman had in fact been his own garden, al- time, the shiny car, the garden, the house
though he could have been anywhere. In his and its occupants would all have passed to
dusty death.

About the Author

Robert Parker is a dyslexia tutor based in Sussex, England and
lives with his marvelous wife and son. He has been writing
for several years. He considers his chief accomplishments in
life to be overcoming the various obstacles in his way, one
of which was dyslexia. Other than that, his goals have been
somewhat abstract but he has thus far achieved quite a few,
sometimes quite unintentionally.

77

WHEN THE CLOCK
STRIKES

by Nicole Carpio

The small analog clock’s ticking fills the space. “For the past few years, I had to deal with
The man is wearing a fancy black vest while your nonsense. I don’t want to do this ei-
the woman is wearing a fancy bright red ther, but I’m left with no choice.”
dress. Both of them are on opposite sides of
the beds of a motel room, the lady on the “We can fix this. I can change—”
right, the man on the left. One light bulb is
failing to keep up. Despite the lights trying “You said that before. You said last time,
their best, the room remains dim and lifeless. yet you continue to be the same. I can’t take
your word for it anymore.”
“So…” Harry says. “Anything else you like
to add?” Harry throws the clothes onto the ground,
making them no longer of importance.
“I don’t think there’s much to say anymore,”
Abby says. Abby moves closer to Harry, preventing
his actions from moving any further. She
Harry makes his move. He stands up puts her hand on top of his, feeling the
from his bed and moves to the front side warmth and dryness of his skin onto her
of the room. He grabs the big, grey luggage delicate fingers.
from the room and moves back to the bed.
“I know that, but I’m trying, Harry,” Abby
The clock ticks, following Harry’s move- says. “It’s not the easiest task for me to do.”
ments as he picks up the luggage and places
it on the bed he was sitting on. He unzips “I suppose I can’t blame you,” Harry says.
the luggage revealing a pile of clothes, a “I just feel sorry for you.”
mixture of his and a mixture of hers.
“I don’t want you to leave me. I want this
“Listen, I don’t want the worst case to work, I do.”
happen. I mean, we’ve been through so
much together, you know?” Abby says. “I know you do.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Harry “I can’t see myself doing this. I’m not that
says, removing the clothes from the luggage. kind of person and I know I’m not. Count-
less times, I’ve been doing these things for
you, so we can be together.”

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Abby shifts herself closer to Harry, em- “It’s a risky task…”
bracing him from behind. The light that
shines on both lovers, stops flickering. The “I know that, but that’s the gist of the job.
clock ticking stops ticking. The two stands Is your mother still in town?”
there, motionless.
“She is, but I don’t think she would like to
“I try helping you, I try taking care of the see me again. Not after learning the truth
kids, I even try to stay home to not make about us.”
any trouble for you,” Abby says.
Harry returns to the luggage, unzipping
Harry shifts his body from Abby, removing a small pouch on the top cover. Inside of it
her soft hands from him. He resumes to re- was a stack of money. He divides the stack
move the remaining clothes from the luggage. and hands one to Abby.
A face of disappointment forms on Abby.
“I have a sister in Michigan. You can take
“It’s not enough. There’s still so much you the train in the morning,” Harry says. “She
have to learn if you want this—us—to work,” would likely take you in.”
Harry says.
Abby takes the money as Harry takes the
After throwing mountains of clothing on other half.The silence returns back into the
the ground, Harry reached the bottom of motel. Abby help Harry pick up the clothes,
the pile. A black box lays on the luggage with placing them back into the luggage. The
a lock to seal the box. Abby fixes her brown, lights of the left side of the bed resumes to
curly hair, moving the front to her right ear. flicker. The clock continues to tick, closer to
the midnight mark. Abby zips the luggage
“Would you like me to help you with any- as Harry puts on his shoes, fixes his tie, and
thing else?” Abby asks. turns to look at Abby one last time.

“Can you grab the keys?” Harry asks, mo- “I guess this is goodbye…” Abby says.
tioning his hand to the drawer.
“Yes,” Harry says. “The years were good
Abby open the drawer. She puts her while they lasted. I’m sorry that it had to
hand inside to receive a small silver key. She come to this.”
walks back to her lover, handing him the key.
Harry leaves the room with the pistol still
Using the key, he unlocks the black box. He on his vest. Abby stands in an empty motel
opens it and grabs the item that lays inside of room with the scattered clothing on the
it. He raises a loaded pistol, closing the box. ground. She sits back down on the left bed
He puts the pistol onto the pocket of his vest. beside her. The lights resume flickering until
it stops working, creating darkness on the
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Abby opposite side of the room. She weeps, taking
asks. in the isolation as the clock strikes twelve.

“Who else is going to do it?” Harry says.

About the Author

Nicole Carpio left her hometown to study creative writing in Orlando, Florida at Full Sail
University. When she’s not writing stories, she plays video games with her faithful dog
Poncho, or voice act on web projects. Follow her on Twitter @NC_Write.

79

WHEN THE SUN
KISSED THE RIVER

by Nancy Chadwick

My little brother was a wanderer. And I am enthusiasm for the outdoors was a window
a walker. There’s a difference, you know. to his soul of the earth.
Bean’s goal was to explore as much ground
as he could, miles over what mattered. And Come spring, Ma couldn’t wait to get
mine was to get to the bridge to see stars out her gardening toolbox from its winter
explode. parking spot in the shed. She’d pluck her
gloves, once pink, now covered in grey, from
Bean never met a finish line when the box and knee pad from her armpit, and
walking in the woods, but one time in early start planting her favorite red geraniums in
spring, he got to the end. The little bridge clay pots then line them up so evenly on
over the Oak Creek river was a tantalizing the floor of the front porch that if you took
destination I told him about where from a ruler to their spacing, you’d see the same
overhead, he could spot turtles digging in measurement every time. As soon as Ma
the sandy beds, ducks parting the water pulled that box, Bean would announce, as
with no wake, and if he was lucky, a doe he did every year, “It must be time now, huh,
sipping from the shallow spots. Ret?” I always was “Ret” to him. Margaret
was just too much of a mouthful of syllables
Setting out for our walks, he’d pick up and using only one seemed to get to the
speed while I watched him from behind, point. And finally, when I’d tell him, “It is,
crisscrossing from dried clumps of dirt, hop- Bean. Shall we go out and welcome earth’s
ping over a cauldron of mud and decaying rebirth?” I thought every seam on Bean’s
leaves, his foot sinking before pulling it from clothing would bust from excitement. After
the indented earth to find solid ground. being cooped up in hibernation, he was
He scaled this trek often, by the looks of ready to greet another new life cycle of
layers of dried mud, twigs and acorn bits growing things.
covering his shoe, like how plaster of paris
sticks to his fingers in Mrs. Weatherly’s art Living a half mile from the Oak Creek
class. Bean chased the horizon in front of river, Bean and I set out in exploration of it
him with a good clip to his gait where his from early spring to fall’s first frost. The slap

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of the screen door sounded like a starting flood because it lacks “proper drainage.” So
gun, as if we were anticipating a race of after a good rain, I’d challenge Bean to look
some kind. Pop. We were off. “Don’t you out from the front porch, and to count the
come back without each other,” Mother number of footprints from the first step
would yell before we hit the last step of the to the driveway. You could count them by
porch stairs. And then one day Bean started seeing each step pooled with water. You
walking ahead of me. I guess he outgrew could also tell the ones that were Father’s
the guiding ways of his big sister. At first, I by the large size and deep indent marked
was glad to be alone, but I missed seeing “Wolverine” in the mud. Mother had a
the forest through his eyes; I’d come to de- narrow foot and so did I, so sometimes it
pend on his interpretation of the world, as was difficult to tell whose foot was whose.
if I’d grown too old and the familiar too trite. Chip’s paws were mingled in, but his pads
didn’t hold enough water, so they didn’t
After our walks, we’d return home to count. Father usually won as he was the
our whitewashed framed house, where busiest one of all, going back and forth
it’s been stuck in rural Oak Creek and in from the driveway to the front door. Early
the family for three generations. At least one Sunday morning, a clanking of rocks
that’s what Father told us since we were woke me. I peeked between the curtains
old enough to understand our origins, as to see Father constructing a sidewalk from
he called it, and the value of a good story. the driveway to the front porch steps with
“Sit close and listen hard,” he’d say, as if this flagstone pieces left over from the backyard
night’s story was going to be better than last barbeque pit. The walk was long and windy,
night’s. Sometimes it was, but Bean and I like the curves of our shoes indented in
thought every night made for a good story. mud. Father usually took inspiration from
what he saw, and I believe he saw those
Father looked large as he rocked in a footprint patterns in the driveway just like
chair by the fireplace in cold months, or we did. I’m glad we can inspire Father just
outside on the porch if it was warm enough, like he inspires us.
while we sat small on the floor in front of
him. With both feet encased in old leather Father never liked hearing gossip. After
but with new soles, flat to wooden floor- he would come home from work, some-
boards, he’d rock, his heels falling into a times I’d overhear him telling Mother
rhythm, before he would commence telling. about some of his regulars. “Every time
I’m not sure if he waited to get started Shoots comes into the store, he’s got a story
until his rocking was underway or until he about someone.” Mr. Shoots, our closest
felt there was sufficient silence to ask, “So, neighbor and only farmer within five miles
what makes for a good story?” Bean would of us, would come into Father’s store and
say, “One where I want to know what hap- pick up chicken feed, coup construction
pens next.” I told Father, “One that makes materials and fertilizer. By the time he was
you think.” done ordering, Father said he had learned
more than he cared to about Bob “Shotgun”
Where we live, the only sight of pave- Stevens from Mr. Shoots, as every time Mr.
ment is a two-lane that runs parallel to the Stevens would hear something cracking the
river. Both will get you into town, and luckily, silence of the blackest of night, he’d grab his
neither has flooded in spring rains. But the shotgun, pull open his front door as hard as
“back forty,” as Father jokingly calls it, does

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he could, stand his ground, and aim down Mother by taking us out. Mother says she
that barrel straight ahead. The door rico- could only be happy if her kids were happy.
cheted off the wall and hit him in the back-
side so hard it startled him to shoot his gun. Bean was always eager for spring to start
Mr. Stevens had a short fuse just like his gun, as it meant that summer was right around
shooting willy-nilly like that. He had no par- the corner. With Bean’s active imagina-
ticular aim, so once when his gun went off, tion, Mrs. Wilmert couldn’t seat him near
the pellet went clear through the chicken a window in her classroom because day-
coup and landed stuck in the wall. “He was dreaming would flood his body and like a
lucky he didn’t kill all his chickens with one ghost in the flesh, he’d see himself floating
shot, though there were a lot of feathers out into the schoolyard, over the fence, and
left floating in the breeze,” Father told us. down the road to the river. I learned this
as I overheard Mother raising her voice at
Father didn’t work on Sundays so after him about fighting the urges and to focus
church, he’d take us into town for some on what Mrs. Wilmert had to say.
“family time,” he called it. It was a short
ride from Cavalry Baptist to Central Street, But Father was no Mrs. Wilmert as he’d
where we could get just about anything teach us a thing or two “never to be found
we wanted. Ice cream? Patty’s Soda Shop in a book,” he said. This got Bean’s and my
had it all, from root beer floats to banana attention, as we considered learning some-
splits. Mervin’s mercantile had just about thing not in a book to be like knowing some-
every piece of clothing in denim and camo thing no one else did. “It’s about the senses,”
you’d ever want. And who needed the Sears he’d say. “Listen hard and you’ll recognize
catalogue when you could get things right the howls of the coyotes. Stretch your eyes
away at Mervin’s? Mervin’s was where the far and you’ll spot a deer nibblin’ from the
men gathered on a Saturday morning to blackberry bushes.” Then he’d bend over to
“tell each other what they needed,” Father see us close in the face. “Breathe deep and
said. Mr. Bruce was always eyeing a new long to smell the rains coming soon. Hug
fishing pole and his fishing buddy Mr. Cal an oak and feel it connecting to you. Spot
gave him every reason he could think of to mushrooms poking from the bottoms of
get a new one. And he’d repeat the same old trunks.” This is when he starts gesturing
reasons every Saturday as if they were new with his hands, waving them back and forth,
ones and the best ones yet. Father rarely and then with a turn of his wrist, points up
stepped into that store as he didn’t want to the sky with his finger. “Study cloud for-
to get stopped by the “know-it-alls” who’d mations and herons’ flight patterns, find
corner him and tell him what he needed. east by the direction of the sun and what
If Father was in a particularly good mood, time of day it is by how high it is in the sky.
which seemed to be on a Saturday morning, This is home.”
the morning after I’d hear a lot of commo-
tion going on in Mother and Father’s room When Bean was a toddler and I was ten,
quickly replaced with some giggling, he’d Mother corralled us to the picnic tables
take us out to the Oak Tree Inn for the best in the backyard under the black oak tree,
buttermilk pancakes and thick smoked where we ate our bologna and cheese sand-
bacon. I figured Father felt bad about wiches while listening to Mother’s lessons
making noise so he wanted to make it up to about trees. “We come together under this
oak to remind ourselves of how connected

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we all are. Your Grandpa Fred planted this awaken mother’s roots. But somehow it all
tree almost . . .” Mother always paused works out, and I trust that she wouldn’t let
here to recalculate the years, looking into anything bad happen to Bean or me.
the sky as if doing the math in the clouds.
“. . . eighty years now. And it’s still going “If you get to the little bridge at just the
strong, just like the Mulvaneys have been right time, you’ll see the sun make the river
doing for generations.” Bean and I would sit sparkle as if it’s exploding diamonds,” I told
up taller. “We respect this black oak,” she’d Bean.
say, giving its thick, craggy trunk a pat or
two, “as it was thought the top branches Bean raced ahead. I stopped at my fa-
extend so far into heaven they reached vorite place on a tree stump lying on its
God, and the roots dive deep into an un- side, in a valley just off a bed of river rock.
derworld below. We hold our faith in this “I’ll find it,” he yelled, pushing ahead while
old tree as it will always provide.” I could pulling a knit cap over a mop of cinnamon
tell by Bean’s wrinkled brow that he didn’t hair. “Maybe they are diamonds, Ret.” It
quite get how a tree could provide, but he took Bean only ten minutes to get to the
took Father’s word for it. “You may not un- little bridge and I was behind him by almost
derstand this now, but when you’re older fifteen. Bean followed the river’s curves,
and gone from Oak Creek, when you think counting the number of tree stumps up-
of home, you’ll remember this black oak.” I ended that diverted water flow to the
couldn’t imagine never having home. The riverbed sides. That’s what Bean did. He
wind chimes hanging from a rusted hook by counted. If he wasn’t counting footprints in
the front door had never quieted. As long as the mud on the driveway after a rain, then
black oak provided and wind chimes sang, he was counting rocks and shoots of willows
I’d be at home. and cottonwoods busting through the soft-
ening ground.
One day in March we scratched a spring-
time itch and headed out to the forest after I broke the peace of the forest and the
lunch on an unusually warm day, thinking quiet of the moments with scribbles in my
how close we were to budding season but notebook of the trees talking their stories,
how far we had yet to go on the calendar. carrying their energy underground to en-
Adding to the already worn path from house courage new growth. And how I could smell
to the river, the trail still looked like some freshness born from compacted leaf beds
stand-in for breadcrumbs that showed our and feel a chill on my ankles from the rising
way back home. Naked trees surrounded cold of the floor. Though I was alone, I never
us in black brush strokes against a blue sky. felt lonely. I thought of what Mother told
Tree stumps and broken limbs interrupted us over many luncheon picnics, how every-
the defrosting water’s urgency to travel thing is connected.
again. I heard the tweets of robins and the
songs of the cardinals before I could spot Soon, the sky was a kaleidoscope of rib-
them. The sun felt like an extra sweater, bons of pink and gold, dazzling the early
one I happily didn’t need anymore. After twilight as the sun traveled earth. I noticed
a winter of not more than a few inches of a change in the wind’s direction, carrying
snowfall, I feared that there wasn’t enough the noise of old pickups hauling heavy loads
water to push through a defrost and to and backfiring from the road that leads into
town. A sudden boom of a noise jolted me
and was even loud enough to drown out

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my hollering for Bean that it was time to Right then and there I prayed while tears
get home. I closed my notebook and took flowed. I prayed to the Black Oak at home,
off. “Beeeean,” I called long and loud. Usu- and to the river nearby.
ally, if I listened closely, I knew where he
was at from the snapping of branches and “I was hurrying to get to the bridge to catch
the cracking of defrosting ice. But the only the diamonds, Ret. I wanted to see the explo-
sound I heard was the river’s trickling that sion on the river,” Bean said, grabbing my arm.
had broken through thin ice. “I wanted to watch God sending us diamonds
from the sun.” Bean’s voice was weak.
The daylight was quickly shutting off
her lights, foreshadowing nights into blue “Gimme your belt . . . now,” I yelled to Mr.
black. I hollered louder. “We’ll be late for Stevens. I pulled a final yank from his waist
supper and our good story.” But Bean never and wound the belt around Bean’s leg, like a
answered. tourniquet. “It’ll be all okay, Bean. I’m going
home to get help.”
Then I heard the snapping of branches.
Mr. Stevens stood paralyzed, mumbling,
“Bean? Is that you?” A figure much larger “I didn’t mean it, Margaret . . . I thought it was
than Bean was stopped in front of me. His those coyotes getting just too close again.”
dark bulk standing still, unlike any animal He still was holding onto that shotgun.
that would have run away.
Mother nature seemed to have parted a
“Who’s there?” a familiar husky voice way for me as my legs ran like never before,
barked. hopping over tree stumps and downed limbs
while breaking the thin ice coated leaf piles.
“Mr. Stevens? What are you . . . it’s me, My heart raced in tandem with the time.
Margaret Mulvaney.”
I blasted open the front door and nearly
“Well, I think I got us something here . . ran into Father who was pacing the front
. a live one working its way along the river room wondering where Bean and I were. I
and probably to my chickens.” was speechless in fear, splattered with mud
with nothing but the whites of my eyes to
“Got something?” I asked. identify that it was me. “Where have you . .
. where’s your brother?” Father yelled, grab-
“It’s around here . . . somewhere . . .” Mr. bing onto my shoulders. “I told you to never
Stevens said, taking a few steps back to leave . . . ,” Mother said, running down the
search more ground. stairs so quickly she nearly took a tumble.
We all stared at my bloodied, shaking hands.
“Shush.” I heard moaning getting louder
and then quieter. The cuckoo stuck its head out of the little
door in the clock to cuckoo twelve times,
“Bean?” I yelled. My heart raced, and I breaking that night that seemed to have
took off, following the sound’s volume. And stood still.
then I spotted him. Bean was lying on his
back, his leg mangled and bloodied. “Bean’s been shot.” I said, now crying full
force. “At the river bend . . . Mr. Stevens . . .”
“Bean, I’m here,” I told him, exploring
every inch of him with my hands as if my Father tore out the door so fast, he was
simple touch was strong enough to heal. like Mr. Cal’s bloodhound on the loose.

“Mr. Stevens, what did you do?” I screamed.

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Fear struck Mother; she hit the floor. I the trust I had in it and in mother earth. In-
knelt beside her, my arms around her trem- stead, I opened my notebook to find com-
bling shoulders. We warmed the braided rug fort among my words blurred from mangled
for what seemed like forever. The cuckoo clock and muddied pages from that frightful night.
struck only once when Father broke through I was reminded of the natural spirits of a
the door cradling Bean who lay sprawled spring awakening, the memories of magic
limp over Father’s open arms. Father stood in summer’s growth, the falling of autumn
stiff and stared dazed ahead. Bean’s eyes flut- into slumber carrying healing with every
tered; his face was white as a bedsheet. breath, reconnecting to the sky above and
to Oak Creek river at my feet, and to trees I
“Get him in the truck. Now,” Mother de- had good talks with.
manded, coming out of her stupor on the
floor, jolting Father to action and Bean to I believe it was God who led Bean to the
open his eyes. “I’ll call the hospital and tell river with the allure of promise, of happi-
them you’re coming,” she said. ness. Bean stepped into a halo of bright sun
reflecting off the river and back to him in ex-
“It’s a good story tonight, Ret, isn’t it?” plosions of diamonds. He understood what
Bean whispered to me as I helped to put Mother had been telling us when sitting under
him in the truck. “I found out what happens the black oak and used his senses just like how
next in the story . . . I saw the diamonds. Father said. He saw the web of connections
They were really sparkly, Ret.” I covered him from the heavens to the earth in diamonds.
snuggly in the wool blanket.
Bean was a walker that day with a desti-
Bean died the next morning when Billy nation in mind.
crowed at first light.
It’s what mattered to Bean. He was at
I couldn’t go to the river for at least a year. home.
I couldn’t go to the river because it betrayed

About the Author

Nancy Chadwick grew up in a north suburb of Chicago. After receiving a Journalism degree
at Marquette University, she got her first job at Leo Burnett advertising agency in Chicago.
After ten years there, she couldn’t get to where she wanted to be in the ad agency business,

so she reinvented herself and turned to the banking
industry. Then, after another ten years, she realized she
wasn’t a banker. She quit and started to write, finding
inspiration from her years in Chicago and San Francisco.
Her essays have appeared in The Magic of Memoir,
Inspiration for the Writing Journey, Illinois Emerging
Writers, the memoirnetwork.com, and the Chicago
Writers Association Write City and Brevity blogs. She is
also a contributor to shewrites.com. Her first book, Under
the Birch Tree, a memoir of discovering connections and
finding home was recently published by She Writes Press.

85

ME AND THE FISH
ATTACHED TO MY

SKIN

by Audrey Renner

I live afloat in the ocean with fish attached my chest like a pool. The saltwater burned
to my skin. As long as I have been here, I’ve like fire. It was the most painful wound I
had two fish attached my shoulders and had ever felt. I wondered why the fish had
they have never let go. The longer I’m out ever attached if it would just tear me apart.
here, the more fish attach to my body. I wondered why all the fish except for the
fish on my shoulders bothered to attach if
Sometimes fish decide we should go our they would just let go.
separate ways. Some fish let go of my skin
and it’s painless. But the fish I love the most I decided I would have no more fish at-
will take pieces of my body, leaving holes tach. That meant the fish on my shoulders
for the saltwater around me to heal. As the had to go. They could never choose to leave;
saltwater heals the wound, it stings, burns, they just had to.
and hurts.
I ripped the fish on my right shoulder
I once had a couple of fish that I liked away, along with a piece of my body. The
attach to my chest. One had to let go and hole burnt like Hell, more than the hole
it brought a patch of my skin with it. The in my chest. The fish on my left shoulder
wound burned for a while, before a different carefully let go, not taking any part of my
fish attached in the same spot. It stung much skin, but didn’t swim away. The fish from
more than I expected, and that fish could tell. my right shoulder put my shoulder to-
So it swam away and never tried to attach gether and waited for the saltwater to heal
anywhere else on my body. That hurt differ- me. The healing process hurt because I just
ently. It would have been a nice replacement. wanted the fish to be gone. I just wanted
my body to come apart so I wouldn’t have
Another fish on my chest ripped away a to feel anymore.
piece of my body and let the water fill in

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As my shoulder fused back together, the I have holes and wounds that may never
fish came closer and the fish on my left heal. The fish I was most fond of may re-
shoulder attached to me again. The fish I member me with the parts they took or
ripped off hesitated to try again. I was hes- maybe not. But there are always fish on my
itant too. But my fondness of this fish that shoulders, and they will always be there,
chose to stay made me reconsider. even if I tell them to go.

So, when we were ready, the fish care-
fully reattached to my shoulder, deeper
than ever.

About the Author
Audrey Renner is an Overland Park, Kansas native. She
studies Creative Writing at Full Sail University.

87

THE BUTTON
MAKES THREE

by Dex Campbell

Will and Dawn stared at the red button in- “Professor Craven is an engineering pro-
stalled on top of the white pedestal. fessor working on a new type of capital pun-
ishment that’s supposed to make it more
“One of us has to press it,” Will said, al- instantaneous and cost-efficient than what
though he makes no move to step closer to the state is currently using.” Dawn wrinkled
the button. her nose and cursed her newspaper editor
for giving her this assignment. “I’m not sure
“There has to be another way.” Dawn fid- why would he put us in a social experiment
dled with her press badge as she scanned instead of trying to defend the need for a
their surroundings for the five hundredth new form of death penalty.”
time in the past ten minutes since they first
entered the room. It was just them, solid “Well, why else would he do this?”
concrete walls, and the button.
“I don’t know, but you’ve heard the ru-
“The doors are electronic and deadbolted, mors about him.” The rumors of Professor
and we can’t open the vent-” her friend Craven’s less than ethical experiments in-
pointed at the small vent on wall next to the volving unexpecting students and forcing
door. “There is no other way out. Professor them to interact with his inventions until
Craven told us that if we want to open the they get the results that he wants, or
door – one of us needs to press the button.” they need to be hospitalized. But the only
sources for those stories are two decades
“Even though he said that one of us will-?” old and on a defunct conspiracy forum;
no one in the school’s administration or
Will interrupted her, and she didn’t want student population has evidence to prove
to say the word as much as he doesn’t want them true or false. Dawn had scoffed when
to hear it. “Maybe he’s trying to test our she heard those stories, but she’s more flex-
self-preservation instincts or something, ible in her beliefs now.
and this all a social experiment. So that
when we press that button, the doors will “No one’s been able to prove that he did
open, and he’ll be like ‘Surprise! This was any of that stuff, and here I thought you
just a test!’”

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were all about debunking falsehoods, jour- “Remy’s not coming, Will,” Dawn said,
nalist.” Will crossed his arms. strained. She crossed her arms and clutched
at her sides as she still stared at the button.
“Well, it certainly feels like we’re in a situ- “One of us has to leave this room.”
ation that proves those rumors right.”
“I’ll do it,” Will said, planting his feet on
Will pursed his lips. His brow furrowing the ground.
as he thought of something. “Wasn’t Remy
supposed to come with us?” “But I’m the reason why you’re here in
the first place. You shouldn’t have been
“He was supposed to come in with us, but here.”
he was running behind. He just told me that
he was having problems with his camera “Dawn, out of the two of us, you’re the
and to go ahead with the interview, but he one who’ll be able to break the news about
would catch up with us before we left to get whatever Professor Craven is doing here.
a picture for the article.” You need to be able to leave.”

Will’s eyes suddenly widened, and he Dawn looked up at Will. She nodded at
rushed towards Dawn. He grabbed her arms. him, and Will stepped forward, avoiding the
“Dawn, Dawn,” he repeated her name, and crop circles, and into the white square at
she just raised an eyebrow. “I know a way the base of the pedestal. She hovered her
that could result in both of us leaving.” hand above the button and closed her eyes
to keep her from making a mistake. She
“How?” forced her hand down the remaining half-
inch. Her palm curved with the red plastic
“We could just wait for Remy to rescue us.” cover, and the metal base pressed into her
hand. She heard the door open but she kept
Dawn pulled his hands off her. “I don’t her eyes closed, not wanting to face what-
think that’s going to work.” ever the professor made them do.

“Why not?” “Wait, what?”

“We don’t know if opening the door from Her eyes shot open as she snapped her
the outside will have consequences – for us, head up.
or for Remy.”
Will was still standing – alive. He stared
“But it’s worth a shot, right?” at her with similarly large eyes.

Dawn didn’t want to agree – all they “I guess you right that this was just some
would be doing is delaying the inevitable. kind of an experiment.”
Someone will be pressing that button, and
she didn’t want to think about who was Will didn’t reply. His eyes welled and his
going to. chest heaved before his face hardened. He
balled up his fists and turned on his heel
“We can try,” she said. and marched out of the now open door. He
turned and paused – staring at something
They stood in uneasy silence. Eventu- on the floor.
ally, Will started circling the button with
a vulture’s glare as if he could somehow “Dawn,” Will said as if he was being stran-
find a hidden escape button on the plain gled. “You might want to check this out.”
white pedestal. Dawn paced back and forth,
glancing at her friend as she did so.

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She ran out of the room, not wanting to
risk being in there for another second. She
skidded into Will, who didn’t even budge.
She saw an identical red button on the
wall before she looked down at what Will
was staring at. She gagged and her eyes wa-
tered as the burnt smell sunk into her nose.
Remy had found them.
“We need to go,” Dawn said. “We need to
stop this from happening ever again.”

About the Author
Dex Campbell hails from the rural suburbia of Navarre,
Florida. She studies creative writing at Full Sail University.
Follow her on Twitter @Overgravity.

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LOVE AND
HERMAN COGAN

by Robert Sachs

It was the fall of 1961 and Cogan was alone inches taller than Moscovitz—and trim, and.
again. He looked around his apartment for has an engaging smile.
something to do. Not one to make a mess,
he saw little to clean, nothing to rearrange. “Why is this so difficult?” he asked his
He had dusted the previous Monday, the friend, Stern, the druggist.
morning after Carole had broken it off. “It’s
you, not me,” she had said. “You lack ambi- “It’s a crap shoot,” Stern said. “Stay in the
tion. You lack spunk. You lack…” Cogan felt batter’s box and keep swinging, Herman.
her searching for another key attribute of Eventually, you will meet the right girl.”
life. He wanted to say “glistening hair,” but Cogan left the pharmacy with an antacid
he knew she wouldn’t find that funny. In and a gnawing feeling that persistence is
the end she shook her head, said goodbye not the problem.
and left. And now Cogan, straightening a
stool in his small kitchen, thought, “What He opened one eye. The room was still
next?” dark and the woman lying next to him
on the bed was snoring lightly. She had
His relationships with women always youthful, thick hair splayed out across the
ended, sometimes well, sometimes, as pillow like a holiday wreath. Like Cogan, she
with Carole, not. Hershey Moscovitz, Cogan was forty-two. He closed his eye and hoped
thought. There’s a guy with little to recom- she would remain asleep long enough for
mend him. He’s short and fat. His nose is him to formulate a tactful plan to get her
slightly to the right of center and one eye out of his apartment.
droops. He began losing his hair at twen-
ty-two and he flunked out of college. He This was Sandra Mellman. They had met
is a shoe salesman with scant upward mo- only a few days earlier at a synagogue social.
bility. And yet. And yet he is married—hap- She was new to the neighborhood, having
pily, it seems to Cogan—to Joanie Morrison, only recently moved to Albany Park from
his high school sweetheart. Joanie is no the far South Side. “Somewhere close to
Marilyn Monroe, but she is tall—several Mississippi,” she had joked. It might as well
have been. Cogan was familiar with only a

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small part of Chicago: Albany Park, on its It was great, Herman. I’ll call you.” And she
Northwest Side. But the South Side was a was out the door.
mystery, like Mississippi or Uruguay.
It was great? No morning-after kiss? No
Their first date, two days before, had hug? Cogan felt…what? Relieved? Not quite.
been downtown: Lunch and a movie at Violated. But what was the violation? Not
the Chicago Theater. After the movie, they the sex. That he liked. Her aggressiveness?
walked to Buckingham Fountain. It was Cogan was ambivalent about that. It was
there, in front of a herd of water spouting new. “It’s the Sixties,” Stern would say. “Get
seahorses, that she flung her arms around with the program.” He was willing to learn
him and kissed him. It was a sensuous, ag- the program. What he couldn’t forgive, he
gressive, wet kiss, and Cogan was thrilled. realized, was her forceful taking control of
She was a secretary for four accountants at the situation that morning, their very first
Rubinow & Clarke, CPAs. “It’s not a typing morning. She could have just as aggres-
pool,” she assured him. “I handle everything sively doted on him, made him feel like Cary
for these guys. All junior level. That’s why Grant to her Eva Marie Saint. But no, while
they have to share me. I’m good at what I he was debating with himself about how to
do.” The next night after a quiet dinner at bring this long date to a conclusion, Sandra
the Gold Coin, Sandra invited herself back had grabbed the helm and steered the ship
to his apartment. to her port of choice. I’ll call you, she said.

On one hand, he wanted to wake her to “Why not?” he asked himself on the short
tell her how beautiful she was. He wanted walk to his storefront office. “Let her take
to continue talking with her, see her lovely the lead. Is that such a terrible thing?” His re-
smile. On the other, this feeling fright- luctant answer was yes. Isn’t it like opening
ened him. He feared it was too much, too a door? The man opens it and waits for the
soon. “Well,” he could say after a peck on woman to cross the threshold. It’s his move,
the cheek, “coffee?” What if she dragged not hers. Should there be an on-going rela-
him back into the bed? Would he let that tionship with Sandra, this would have to be
happen—she was a very satisfying sexual worked out. Addressed. Maybe they could
partner—or would he beg off? “Work,” he alternate days. She would take the lead on
could say. “Got to open up at eight thirty. Monday’s, Wednesday’s and Friday’s. He
Client coming in.” That’s it, he thought. Have was being silly. Perhaps they could share
to meet a client. It wasn’t true, of course. in making these decisions. He had no idea
He didn’t have a client waiting for him. A how that would work. But he felt Sandra was
paucity of them was another of his prob- someone worth making adjustments for.
lems since opening his own insurance busi-
ness. He felt awkward having her hanging “It’s a New Woman kind of thing,” coun-
around in the morning and he wasn’t sure seled Stern from behind the drug store
why he had this sense of unease. Perhaps it counter. Cogan had stopped in for an Al-
was too domestic. ka-Seltzer and advice. He fudged on the
circumstances, of course. Sexual activity is
But Sandra was up and out of bed before not something he’d discuss with his friendly
Cogan could say anything. “Got to run. Get druggist. Even in the Sixties.
home. Shower and change clothes. Need to
be downtown in an hour for a staff meeting. “What about Helen?” Cogan asked. “Has
she turned into a New Woman?”

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“No, thank goodness. After twenty-two downtown. He pictured her walking down
years of marriage, we’re both too old to State Street, past Carson’s or Goldblatt’s,
change. My advice? Force yourself to be stopping perhaps to look in the windows at
open to new ways of doing things.” the new fashions. While Cogan was in Al-
bany Park, alone in his office, Sandra was
Cogan could hear the phone ringing likely surrounded by dozens of people: at
as he unlocked the door to his office. He her desk, around the office, on the street.
rushed to answer it and was disappointed She’d probably go to lunch with her co-
when it wasn’t Sandra. Well, that’s some- workers. He wondered if some of the ac-
thing, he told himself. Surely being disap- countants had made passes or asked her to
pointed meant he was looking forward to lunch. Or dinner. He wondered if she went.
her call. Was this it? Was he in love with
Sandra Mellman? He warned himself for Cogan’s saw his life as circumscribed.
the umpteenth time not to conflate sex He lived in a second floor apartment half
with love, to which he responded aloud, a block from Kedzie Avenue. Stern’s drug
“Easier said than done.” store was at the corner. His office was four
doors down. The grocery, fruit and vege-
Sandra didn’t call that day or the next. table shop, barber, and candy store were
“After our last date,” he said to Stern on the all on this block. His grammar school was
third day, “she said, ‘I’ll call you.’” two blocks away. High school and his syna-
gogue, three blocks. Three movie theaters,
“Kiss of death,” said Stern. “The ‘Don’t call the Gold Coin and three other restaurants,
me,’ is silent, like the e at the end of trouble.” bars, the A&P, all within five blocks, all so
stultifyingly familiar. Maybe that was part
“I suppose you’re right,” Cogan said, of it, Cogan thought. Sandra was worldly,
lifting the glass with the Alka-Seltzer. while he was provincial.

“Of course, it could be a ploy.” “I’ll be out in a second,” she yelled when
he rang her doorbell. She lived with her
“What kind of ploy?” mother on the second floor of a three-flat
six blocks from Cogan. Sandra slipped out
“She reads the magazines,” Stern said. the door without offering to introduce her
“She knows men are turned on by strong mother to him. “Pizza?”
women, aggressive women. Maybe she’s
just acting this way to get your attention.” “Pizza’s great,” Cogan said.

Cogan laughed, but the idea intrigued She took his hand as they walked toward
him. Was Sandra playing the New Woman the bus stop. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
role just to lure him in? Reel him in like a
fighting amberjack? Did she think it was a “You said you’d call,” Cogan said.
turn-on? Did he want to be reeled in? He
called her that night. She seemed some- “Did I?” Cogan thought her tone was co-
what cool, but she agreed to go to dinner quettish. He let the remark pass, waiting to
with him on Saturday. see how the evening progressed.

Cogan was born and raised in Albany It progressed back at his apartment, in
Park, and hadn’t strayed far beyond it. his bed. “Won’t your mother worry?” he
Sandra meanwhile worked in the Loop. asked Sandra at midnight.
He knew she got up early and took the L

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“I told her not to wait up. I’m a big girl. It “Bony and I were downtown this afternoon
will be fine.” and thought we saw you,” Cogan said over
dinner at the Chinese Much Luck restaurant.
Such confidence! This is a woman to
be reckoned with, he said to himself. But “Yes,” she said. “I was with one of the ac-
a small, unspoken voice whispered in this countants. I noticed you across the street.”
head, “Am I up to it?”
“You were holding hands.”
Cogan awoke at five. He gathered his
clothes and dressed silently in the dining “Tim and I have gone out a few times.
area. He left a note for Sandra: “Early start. Jealous?” She reached across the table
Coffee in the cupboard. Let yourself out.” for his hand, but he withdrew it. “You are
He signed it “H.” jealous,” she said with a laugh.

She called him before lunch and asked He didn’t have the right vocabulary to
what they were doing that evening. Not, he respond. He wanted to say, you were un-
realized, are you free tonight. But what are faithful, but he couldn’t. Unfaithful meant
we doing. The assumption tickled him. He there was an obligation to be faithful. He
liked that part of this New Woman. thought there was, while she obviously
didn’t. Could he blame her? Had he said,
They went on in this way for three like a high schooler, let’s go steady? Had he
months. Cogan was ecstatic. Every morning addressed in any way their future together?
he looked forward to the next time he would
hold Sandra’s hand, caress her. He brought “Damaged goods,” Bony said the next
her candy and flowers. He commented on day over lunch. He could trust Bony to be
her loveliness. He liked her smile. Certainly, discreet and Cogan had told him everything.
this was love. “Walk away,” Bony counseled. But that’s what
always happened. Either he would walk
One afternoon, Cogan and his friend away or the woman would. Cogan was tired
Bony Fishbein were in the Loop for an in- of walking away. Not this time, he thought.
surance seminar. They had eaten lunch at
Carson’s Men’s Grill and were walking back “I think there’s something here, Sandra,”
to the insurance company office on LaSalle. he said after the movie, when they were in
Bony pointed across the street at a couple his apartment. “I’d like to give it the best
walking hand-in-hand. “Isn’t that Sandra?” chance of success. Let’s just stick with each
other for a while. See how it develops.” He
“Hard to tell,” Cogan said. But he was had carefully chosen his words. He had re-
sure it was. Was he sure they were holding hearsed in front of the bathroom mirror.
hands? It was a busy time, cars clogged the
street and people were scurrying past each She laughed. “After all the time we’ve
other on the sidewalk. It was a brief glimpse. spent together, you’re not ready to say
They could have been walking next to one you love me. You’re not ready to make a
another, not holding hands. Maybe there commitment. You just want a comfort girl,
weren’t even together. Cogan assessed the right? Like the fucking Japanese. You think
possibilities. He was hurt. Still, he had no ‘there’s something here?’ Listen to yourself,
ties on her. They hadn’t talked about their Herman. We’re middle aged people, not
relationship. She was free and he was free. teenagers.” She dressed without another
Why then did he feel betrayed? word and slammed the door on her way out.

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The next morning, he told Stern that Later at the drugstore, Cogan was sur-
Sandra had demanded a commitment. The prised to find that Stern agreed. Or both
druggist said, “I know you love her.” At lunch, of them were just trying to make him feel
Bony said, “It’s over.” Cogan’s stomach was better. He didn’t know which.
churning. He knew they were both right.
In the weeks that followed, Cogan threw
When he called Sandra that evening, himself into his work like never before. He
her mother said she was busy and couldn’t signed five new customers. He understood
come to the phone. The next morning he that Sandra was history and he told him-
called her at the office and she hung up on self that even though the experience was
him. He wrote her a note: painful, he had learned from it. He spent
hours wandering alone through River Park
I’ve been stupid. I do love you. I think in the afternoons, crunching the autumn
I have from the start. Give me another leaves like a schoolboy, following the paths
chance. I promise I’ll get it right. that meandered lazily along the North
Branch of the Chicago River. Bony invited
He attached the note to a half dozen him to sit in on his weekly poker game and
roses and had them delivered to her office. he decided it might be good to go. These
There was no response. A week went by were guys he knew from high school and to
during which Cogan could not concentrate his surprise he had fun. Artie Portman said,
on business. He took the L downtown and “Where you been hiding yourself, Herman?”
waited in front of her office building. His mother called from Florida and he told
her things were fine. He was worried that
“Got a minute?” he said when she walked if he told her how he really felt, she’d be
out at lunchtime with three other women. on the next plane up. Winter rolled in off
the lake early that year, burying the city
Sandra stood there looking at him for a in two feet of snow. Cogan busied himself
few seconds. “No,” she said and, grabbing the tidying up his apartment, dusting, doing
arm of one of the other women, walked off. the laundry. Bony called: There was a syn-
agogue social the week before Hanukkah.
Cogan felt stabbed. Bludgeoned. Kicked Cogan decided to go.
in the kishkes.

When he told Bony, his friend couldn’t
believe it. “You tell her you love her and
she won’t even give you the courtesy of a
minute? Wow. What a ball buster.”

About the Author

Robert Sachs’ fiction has appeared in The Louisville
Review, the Chicago Quarterly Review, the Free State
Review, the Great Ape Journal, and the Delmarva Review
among others. He holds an M.F.A. in Writing from Spalding
University. His story, “Vondelpark” was nominated for a
Pushcart Prize in 2017. His story Yo-Yo Man was a Fiction
Finalist in the 2019 Tiferet Writing Contest. Read more at
www.roberthsachs.com.

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CONTROL

by Jacob Hengen

The black, heavy clouds covered the sky “Just like any other day,” Will said. “Lots
for weeks. Each day, it looked like it would of schoolwork and useless information.”
rain, but none came. But today, it looked He took off his shoes and walked into the
like the clouds were ready to release their kitchen. Will’s chain suddenly increased its
downpour. weight, making him stagger a little. It rum-
bled along the wooden floor behind him as
Dragging his chain along the sidewalk he entered the kitchen.
behind him, Will walked up the path to his
house. He lived in a small old home located “It’s almost time to eat, so sit yourself down
at the edge of town. Looking up at the dark, and we can talk about it,” Will’s mom said.
cloudy afternoon sky, he said to himself, She got out a bowl from the cupboard above
“Is it ever going to rain?” Will opened the began to pour some soup with the ladle.
door, and the familiar musty smell filled the
house. Wiping his shoes on the carpet, he Will gulped and sat down at the small
sighed deeply. round wooden table. The table has many
small pen and pencil marks from when he
Making sure the chain didn’t get caught would do schoolwork. Will’s mom walked
in the door, Will wrapped his arm around over with a bowl of steaming tomato
the chain and pulled. The rest of the chain soup with a spoon and placed it in front of
came inside. For the past four months, the Will. He didn’t like tomato soup because
chain connected to Will’s arm, and had no his stomach would get upset. Will’s mom
idea how. He just woke up one morning to pulled out a chair and sat across from him.
have a chain connected to his left wrist. The
chain was only a few links long and the other “Go ahead and eat and tell me about
high schoolers couldn’t see it, meaning it your day,” said Will’s mom. Her eyes were
was invisible to everyone but Will. peering into his.

Closing the door, he turned around and Will stared at the soup. The window
saw his mom cooking something in a large next to them let in a cool breeze, making
pot. She had a ladle in one hand, stirring the steam from the soup dance. There was
something in the pot. She looked up from a sudden tug on Will’s chain, making Will
the stove to Will and smiled. snap out of his fazed state.

“Hi Will!” she said. “How was school “What’s wrong?” Will’s mom asked. “Did
today?” something bad happen at school?”

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Will looked up at his mom. He clenched to get distracted from classes, so I placed
his fist around the chain so hard that it felt the chain on you.” She then lowered Will
like he could bend it. Will took in a deep to the ground, letting him stand. He rubbed
breath, and said, “Yes, something bad is his shoulder from the pain. “Now, do you
happening at school.” understand the dream I have for you?”

Will’s mom sat up and looked at him Will then looked up at his mom. “But
with a curious look. “Really? What’s hap- what about my dreams?”
pening at school?”
“Irrelevant,” she answered immediately.
Relaxed, Will said, “I don’t think I’m “Your dream to become a musician won’t
liking the classes you chose for me.” be able to support my future.”

Will’s mom then closed her eyes and Will stared at her for a moment. “So,
sighed deeply. “Now Will, you know why I you’re just going to decide for me from now
chose your classes.” on?” he asked.

“I actually don’t know why,” Will said. He Will’s mom nodded. “Thanks to this.”
stood up and held up his arm that had his She held up the chain, somehow connected
chain connected. “And I don’t know if you to Will’s. “As long as this chain connects us, I
can see this, but this chain was placed on have full control over your decisions.”
me four months ago. Ever since then, I ha-
ven’t been able to do what I wanted, like Will looked at her, then looked at the
hang out with friends or even think my chain. He then started wrapping the chain
mind!” around his arm.

“Don’t talk back to me, young man. I am “What are you doing?” Will’s mom asked.
still your mother.” Will then suddenly flung the chain around
her head, and pulled hard, bringing down
“A mother who doesn’t know that her his mother to the ground. Her head hit
son doesn’t like tomato soup.” the floorboard first, making a loud thud,
knocking her out cold.
Will’s mom then yanked her hand. His
chain got heavy and he dropped to the “Sorry,” Will said. “But this is the best
floor. She then stood up and walked over for both of us.” He then took the chain out
to Will. In her hand was a chain that was from her grasp and held it in both hands. He
several links long. Then she pulled up on the now had full control of his chain.
chain, bringing Will’s chain up and making
him hang in front of her. Will’s mom’s face Will grabbed a piece of paper and a
was serious. pencil and wrote down that he was going
to go stay at a friend’s house and to contact
“The reason you had for why I placed this him when she finally comes to her senses.
chain on you is exactly correct,” she started. He placed the folded note in the hand and
“I chose your classes so that one day you walked to the front door. Will put on his
can become successful, like a doctor, and shoes and backpack and opened the door.
pull me out of this shack. I didn’t want you It finally started to rain.

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About the Author

Jacob Hengen has lived all over the country. From Oklahoma, North Carolina, and Alaska. Now,
he lives in Orlando, Florida, and is currently studying creative writing at Full Sail University.
Follow him on Twitter @HengenJacob

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