Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 54, October 2022

ADELAIDE

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international
monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded
by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015,
the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfic-
tion, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles,
and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to
publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to
promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and
established authors reach a wider literary audience.
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal
internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e
Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic
em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-
ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas,
artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português.
Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais
assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudan-do os
autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais
vasta.
(http://adelaidemagazine.org)

Adelaide

INDEPENDENT
MONTHLY LITERARY MAGAZINE

Year VII, No. 54, October 2022

ADELAIDE BOOKS
New York / Lisbon
2022

ADELAIDE
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal

Year VII, Number 54, October 2022
Ano VII, Número 54, outubro 2022

Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon
adelaidebooks.org

Editor-in-Chief
Stevan V. Nikolic

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For any information, please address Adelaide Books
at [email protected]
or write to:
Adelaide Books
244 Fifth Ave. Suite D27
New York, NY, 10001

ISBN: 978-1-958419-43-4
Printed in the United States of America





REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

CONTENTS

FICTION:
ONDE AS BALEIAS VÊM MORRER par João Franco 7
SOUL FARM by Eric Stevens 13
WHEN SARAH SMILED by Marc Levy 25
TUNNEL OF LOVE by Mark Geisel 33
SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS by Alexander Bondulich 37
GOING DOWN ON ELVIS PRESLEY on by R. Mullin 41
SISTERLY SUNDAY RITUAL by Bette Kosmolak 55
A GIFT FIT FOR A QUEEN by Dru Richman 63
TWO WOMEN by Penny Page 70
ANXIETY CONQUEST by Adam Schmitmeyer 85
THE FERIS WHEEL by Stars Galaxyfire 88
UNWELCOME VISIT by Shyla Pope 91
HIS LOVE MAKES ME BEAUTIFUL by Jake Epstine 95
A CHANGE IN THE TIDE by Katalina Bryant 105
AXEL ‘N’ LULU by Gene Goldfarb 109
TWIN SISTERS by Tom Revitt 115
NOW YOU NEVER CALL ME ANYMORE by David Swan 120

1

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

THE PHOTOGRAPHER by Peter Farrar 132
INVENTING LAUGHTER by Shari Lane 139
ALTERNATIVE CHOICES by J. L. Higgs 146

NONFICTION:
ACROSS TOWNS by Toti O’Brien 163
MEMORIES OF THE DEATH INSIDE ME by Katie Ness 173
THE SHARPENING OF A KNIFE by Christy Bailey 179
THE NUMBERS GAME by Will Maguire 182
HEALTH CARE IN THE UNITED STATES by Nathan Bachand 188
SCARS AND SPITE by Haile Espin 193
ON THE STAIRS TO NOWHERE by Chris Arthur 197
MEMOIRS by Drew Soliz 206

POETRY:
ELEANOR'S POEMS by Nardine Sanderson 213
RAM by Debendra Lal 218
WHERE ARE YOU GOING by Dennis Williams 224
NO BONES ABOUT IT Ken Holland 226
SOFT, DEAD LEAF by Winslow MacDonald 230
THIRD EYE SAGAS by Megan Denese Mealor 239
NAKED IN DREAMS by Michael Eaton 251

2

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

EMPEROR'S CONCERTO by Richard Weaver 258
WHAT IT CAME TO by Peter Cashorali 260
AMICUS CURIAE IN IGNE by William Pruitt 266
TRANSCONTINENTAL by Guiseppe Getto 278
THE RUNNER by Alessio Zanelli 282
FOREVER by Adelaide B. Shaw 288
A BLESSING by Dayna Lellis 292
EXPAT by Joe Albanese 296
MY FIRST REAL SKY by Juan Mobili 302
MY FIRST PET by Duane Anderson 307
A CHILD LOST by Ray Keifetz 311
NOT TO BE BLUE by Diana Raab 316

3

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

4

FICTION
FICÇÃO



REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

ONDE AS BALEIAS VÊM MORRER

par João Franco

Lóa acordou com um solitário raio de Sol que bateu no vidro da janela
do seu quarto. A casa onde morava com a mãe e o irmão mais novo,
estava ainda silenciosa. O pai tinha ido com a traineira para longe, para
muito longe, e nunca mais voltara, tal como muitos outros habitantes
da ilha, que se dedicavam sobretudo à pesca e à transformação do
peixe nalgumas fábricas locais. Pouco tempo antes do desaparecimento
do progenitor, homens fardados tinham vindo buscar muitos jovens
também, e nenhum deles regressara até então. Esses militares tinham
aconselhado os habitantes a partir. Muitos tinham decidido ficar. As
casas da vila e as que se estendiam pelas pequenas localidades vizinhas
pareciam mais frias, mais escuras e silenciosas, sem os risos e a presença
alegre daquela juventude, subtraída aos seus sonhos despreocupados.

Só o vento bramia com a mesma intensidade e vigor, como fazia desde
o alvorecer dos tempos, imutável e indiferente ao que acontecia ali, como
se o destino e o comportamento dos humanos fossem patéticos, e além
do desprezo lhe inspirassem por vezes uma sobranceira indiferença.
A ele juntava-se o mar. Cinzento, bruto e frio como sempre, mas que
era o sustento e o grande benfeitor daquele povo, apesar do seu ar
zangado e dos seus modos de tirano. Todos o temiam em certo grau e
respeitavam-lhe os caprichos, dos velhos de barbas brancas às crianças,
ouvindo estas as histórias que passavam de geração em geração.

Navios acinzentados, com bandeiras diferentes da que Lóa conhecia
desde tenra idade, tinham chegado ao arquipélago, despejando uma

7

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

maré de jovens de uniforme, veículos blindados e tanques, mudando a
vida de todos.

A jovem saiu de casa já apressada. Cruzou-se com várias pessoas, a pé
ou de bicicleta. O trânsito, na ilha parcialmente abandonada, tinha-se
reduzido consideravelmente. Homens e mulheres desempregados
deambulavam um pouco ao acaso e era de supôr que o mesmo sucedia
noutros pontos do arquipélago. Os terrenos pobres e constantemente
batidos pelo vento, dominados pelas gramíneas e pelos raros arbustos
e ocasionais árvores, torturadas e vergadas pelos caprichos do vento
sub-árctico, iam produzindo a muito custo as batatas e alguns vegetais
para as panelas, e serviam de pasto para as ovelhas e póneis. Muitos dos
habitantes, habituados à pesca ou à vida mecânica ligada às fábricas,
não viam com bons olhos cavar de enxada. Preferiam aventurar-se pelas
falésias em busca dos apreciados papagaios-do-mar, ou pelos montes na
caça às lebres da montanha.

Depois de certo dia a seguir ao Natal, Lóa recordava-se de que a
televisão e a internet tinham deixado de funcionar. Fora algo estranho
ao princípio, mas depois habituara-se. Os adultos, que ela já achava
habitualmente tristes, mostravam-se ainda mais cabisbaixos, e nos
seus olhos havia algo que ela não conseguia definir com exactidão, um
silencioso desespero. Durante duas semanas a escola estivera fechada.
Lóa e a mãe tinham ficado na casa dos avós paternos, que era maior e
mais confortável e todos juntos sentiam-se mais seguros. Lembrava-se
que a mãe tinha os olhos vermelhos de chorar e que mesmo o avô,
a maioria das vezes imperturbável, se mostrava nervoso, ingerindo
mais aquavit do que era habitual. Faziam o possível para que Lóa e o
irmão mais novo, Erlingur, não ouvissem as notícias, que pareciam ser
parcas. Algumas vezes, Lóa percebia que o rádio de pilhas do avô apenas
emitia estática e os mais velhos murmuravam palavras como “guerra” e
“catástrofe”. O avô passava muito tempo sentado no alpendre, fumando
cachimbo e olhando o horizonte. Mas, ele já não tinha aquele ar sereno
que habitualmente lhe vinha da contemplação do mar. Tudo mudara
quando ele vira pela primeira vez no porto os navios de guerra com

8

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

a bandeira branca, azul e vermelha. O seu semblante agora aparecia
carregado e franzido, perante aquela intrusão violenta e inesperada.

A escola reabrira, mas o ambiente era diferente, mais pesado e menos
divertido, ela que gostava tanto de estudar e de aprender, sentia no ar
que algo mudara radicalmente. Notava-se bem como os professores,
dantes compenetrados no seu ofício, olhavam muitas vezes pela janela,
de olhos fixos no horizonte longínquo, esquecendo-se da sala, da matéria
e mesmo dos alunos, imergindo nos seus pensamentos e sendo por
eles arrastados num turbilhão, até alguma criança ou o burburinho
da turma resgatá-los e trazê-los à tona novamente. A acompanhar os
alunos nos autocarros escolares iam sempre polícias armados. Com o
desemprego galopante cresciam os furtos, mas também os assaltos, e as
vítimas aumentavam a lista mantida pela polícia local, que pouco podia
ou queria fazer.

Beinar, um rapaz que morava na mesma rua dos avós de Lóa, fazia
sentir à rapariga a sua presença reconfortante nos intervalos. Ele andava
dois anos mais à frente, já tinha dezasseis anos e ela sentia que o jovem
a procurava sempre com o olhar, aproveitando aqueles momentos de
pausa. O interesse de Beinar fazia-a corar, sentindo as bochechas muito
quentes. Deu por si a arranjar-se com mais cuidado antes de sair de casa,
a ter muito cuidado com os sapatos e botas, a pentear cuidadosamente os
cabelos cor de cobre e a ponderar cuidadosamente sobre que roupa vestir,
sentindo uma confusão de sentimentos naquele processo de transição
de menina para mulher. Ela gostava da escola, do estudo, ao contrário
de muitos outros colegas, mas mesmo que fosse apenas para ver Beinar,
já valia a pena a ida à escola.

Contudo, os sonhos de Lóa não eram povoados apenas por perspectivas
de romance, de um primeiro amor que despertava e que certamente
perduraria na sua memória, inspirando sentimentos duradouros de
ternura, mas também por memórias de dias alegres, que pareciam agora
mais distantes. Sonhava muitas vezes com o pai, sempre sonhos felizes,
em que ele voltava a casa, a traineira bem pintada a entrar no porto,
soando a sirene, o rugido do motor ouvindo-se cada vez mais alto,
as pessoas saindo das suas casas em direcção ao molhe, ela e Erlingur

9

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

correndo à frente, vigorosamente, o coração a ribombar do esforço e de
felicidade, a mãe mais atrás, com dificuldade em acompanhar o ritmo
das crianças, esperançosa e incrédula ao mesmo tempo, mas reprimindo
o desejo de rir nervosamente.

Acabava por acordar, desiludida, às vezes confusa e suada, os cabelos
bastos desgrenhados, espalhando-se sobre a cara, tinha sido mais um
sonho, ficava muito tempo desperta, a olhar o tecto, a ouvir o estalar
do soalho e dos móveis, aqueles rangidos da madeira que se dilata ou se
encolhe ao sabor da humidade e da temperatura. Nessa altura invejava o
irmão, que parecia dormir descansado, indiferente aos dramas familiares
ou locais.

A mãe de Lóa perdera o emprego de supervisora numa fábrica de peixe,
as grandes embarcações tinham na sua maioria desaparecido, e o peixe
que os barcos remanescentes pescavam era consumido localmente ou
enviado para longe, para o país do inimigo. Os ferries que serviam o
arquipélago tinham cessado o seu labor e as autoridades ocupantes das
ilhas apertavam o seu controlo de forma cada vez mais autoritária. A
mãe e por vezes Lóa passavam largas horas nas filas do racionamento,
segurando com as mãos suadas os cupões, esperando pelos víveres a
que tinham direito, mas que nalguns casos não apareciam. Era quase
impossível encontrar açúcar, farinha, ovos e muitas outras coisas. Isto
levava a que um florescente mercado negro fosse cada vez mais procurado
e que alguns ganhassem muito dinheiro com isso. Até o avô aproveitara
para vender a sua reserva de aquavit, recebendo em troca ovos e manteiga.

Aos fins-de-semana o velho Knút deixava o aconchego da casa, levava
consigo os netos e vagueavam pelas praias, em busca de salvados, sobretudo
madeira que pudessem pôr a secar para mais tarde queimar. Lóa e Erlingur
gostavam daqueles momentos com o avô. As praias, ultimamente,
estavam sempre cheias de destroços, sujas. A isso juntavam-se ocasionais
visitas de focas-cinzentas que deambulavam apatetadas pela areia escura
e grossa, enredando-se no lixo e nos destroços, parecendo perdidas e
descoroçoadas com a situação. Voluntários tentavam ajudar com a
recolha do lixo, e desembaraçando os animais, mas no dia seguinte,

10

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

tudo recomeçava. De pontos estratégicos, sentinelas invasoras vigiavam
os transeuntes, prontas a esmagar a tiro o mínimo sinal de resistência.

Noutros dias, diversos tipos de cetáceos davam à costa, desde os
botinhosos às orcas, das baleias-piloto às comuns toninhas. Os cetáceos
acostavam mortos ou já moribundos e nada havia a fazer por eles.
Polícias apareciam com estranhos aparelhos, circulavam em torno dos
animais com medições, impedindo os populares de aproveitarem a
carne e a gordura dos mamíferos. Rapidamente pulverizavam os bichos
com gasolina e pegavam-lhes fogo, incinerando-os. O cheiro da carne
queimada e o espectáculo da dança das chamas incomodavam Lóa e
invariavelmente ela voltava costas àquele lúgubre cenário, sem conseguir
evitar um aperto súbito na garganta. O avô tinha-lhe explicado que
aqueles aparelhos eram contadores Geiger, que mediam a radiação,
mas ela não conseguira perceber totalmente para que serviam, só que a
radiação era algo mau e que agora havia muita, sobretudo onde dantes
havia grandes cidades.

Beinar e Lóa, enleados, esqueciam-se do mundo, passeavam falando
apenas com o olhar e com o carinho, sobretudo nos caminhos de terra
e nas praias desertas. Nessas alturas parecia a Lóa que o pulsar do seu
coração ia soterrar tudo o resto, estabelecendo um silêncio de paz, só
ficando ela e Beinar sobre a Terra.

Não havia notícias do mundo exterior. Os invasores andavam cada
vez mais irritados e agressivos, o que levava a crer que as coisas não lhes
corriam como o esperado.

Foi então que o submarino apareceu. Navegava à superfície,
dirigindo-se para a costa. Ostentava desafiante a bandeira branca, azul
e vermelha, que recebia o fustigar do vento. Naquele dia do início de
Março, a praia encontrava-se, como de habitual, varrida por um vento
que levantava a areia, desgrenhava os cabelos, desafiando a coragem de
quem se aventurava naquela zona em passeios ou em busca de salvados.

Contudo, o submarino não se dirigiu para o porto, para juntar-se aos
barcos patrulha que já lá estavam, mas sim para a praia. Os marinheiros

11

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

pareciam ter encalhado propositadamente o submarino. Eram rapazes
de cabelos claros, olhos azuis húmidos e assustados, barbas ainda ralas
de adolescentes. Que loucura fora aquela, que cega fúria de que tinham
sido apenas peões? Queriam viver, queriam amar, naquele momento
respirar o ar fresco e receber o vento na cara, atirando as armas ao mar.
Os vigias na costa começaram a imitá-los, abandonando as armas, os
veículos, cansados de tudo, sobretudo da guerra.

Beinar aproximou-se do submarino, contra a vontade de Lóa, que via
naquilo um acto insensato. Os marinheiros lançavam uma escada de
corda para descerem do submarino e nadarem aqueles escassos metros
até à praia. O rapaz já estava na água pronto a ajudar aqueles que agora
via como rapazes parecidos consigo. Contudo, um oficial emergiu da
escotilha, de pistola em punho, gritando na língua do inimigo e disparando
à queima-roupa sobre dois dos marinheiros que se aglomeravam junto à
escada de corda, desejosos por descer. Enraivecido, disparou ainda alguns
tiros na direcção de Beinar, antes de vários marinheiros o subjugarem e
manietarem. Os tiros tinham soado como relâmpagos na praia silenciosa,
atraindo todas as atenções.

Os marinheiros transportaram Beinar para a praia. Nunca a areia
grossa parecera tão escura e triste. Lóa apoiou a cabeça do amado no seu
colo. Não era aquela a recordação que pensava vir a ter do seu primeiro
amor, que lhe sujava as calças de ganga com sangue que lhe saía dos
vários ferimentos de bala. Ele pagara o supremo preço na alvorada da
reconquistada liberdade. Ela pagaria com o vazio no seu coração.

João Franco (n. 1977 em Lisboa), é licenciado em Relações Internacionais e pós-graduado
em Estratégia pela Universidade Técnica de Lisboa. Publicou dois poemas na colectânea
Poiesis, vol. XVI (2008), a colectânea poética Azul Profundo (2012) avançando depois
para a prosa com o conto O teu semblante pálido, na Revista Lusitânia (2013). No campo
da não-ficção é autor do livro Sun Tzu e Mao Zedong-Dois estrategas chineses (2012)
e tem artigos publicados em periódicos como Finis Mundi, Revista Intellector, Revista de
Geopolítica, Nova Águia, Boletim Meridiano 47, O Dia e Jornal de Defesa e Relações
Internacionais. Tem também experiência na área da tradução.

12

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

SOUL FARM

by Eric Stevens

Charles sat in front of his old TV with his son Harper, watching
the evening news. "The latest reported death numbers for today are
another 4,304 North Korean soldiers, and 305 U.S. soldiers." The man
rang off the numbers in a monotone voice with an air of sadness and
professionalism. "Once again there seems to be no end in sight for this
violence, and the President has not released an official statement in
fourteen days."

Charles changed the channel, and a woman dressed in a navy-blue
business suit appeared on screen. "Reported explosion today in Dubai,
resulting from an underground gas line leak. The city has determined the
gas line hadn't been checked or maintained for several years," she said.

Charles shook his head, and changed the channel one last time to the
local news station. "The boy's body has been found ten miles north of the
river," The news anchor said. He let out an audible sigh--unknown to the
audience whether it was genuine or fake for the camera--and continued.
"Police have determined the cause of death was strangulation. So far, no
suspects have been identified."

"Hmm," Charles said, stroking his chin. "Sounds like there's going
to be a big batch coming in this season. It's a good thing I'll have some
help this year," he said, turning towards his son.

Harper groaned. "C'mon dad. I wanted to go to camp this summer!"

13

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

Charles let out a sigh. "I know you do son, but you have to understand
this is very important work. Whatever the circumstances, we have to do
this. Don't worry," he said, placing a hand on Harper's left shoulder.
"Once this season is done, I'll make sure you get plenty of time with
your friends. And tonight..." He said, picking up the nearby telephone
from the end table next to the wall, "How about pizza?"

Harper's eyes changed from dread to excitement. "Ok, but you have to
get one with pineapple!" He said. "Only pineapple. No ham, it's nasty."

Charles rolled his eyes and ordered the delivery.
One month later Charles stepped outside onto his old wooden porch.
He could hear the faint buzzing of cicadas in the distance, and the mild
heat from the Sun creeping up his face. As he turned to look at his farm,
his eyes grew large and wild. "Harper, get down here!" He shouted.
Harper hurried down the stairs and onto the porch. "Woah!" He
shouted. "There's so many!"
Charles and Harper looked at the massive harvest. Dark green stalks
were sprouting above the ground, each of them hosting a batch of
glowing orbs with different colors. Some shown bright, others were
dim. Some were pristine, others clouded and muddied.
"Alright, let's get to work," Charles declared.
They opened the large shed nearby to retrieve a dozen carts, each with
sturdy wheels and able to hold several hundred pounds. They worked
tirelessly each day gently pulling the orbs from their stalks and placing
them into the carts--being careful not to damage them.
After two weeks passed, all of the carts were filled with orbs and placed
back into the shed. "Good work son," Charles said.
"I didn't break a single one!" Harper replied.

14

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

Charles beamed. "That's great. But now, the hard part comes. Get
ready to dig in for the next couple of months... There's a lot of souls
to clean."

The next day, Harper walked down in the morning with a yawn after
hearing a large commotion downstairs. "What's going on?" He asked.

Charles was bending over on the wooden floors of the living room,
sweating profusely and standing next to one of the carts he'd pulled in
from the shed. "Well, it's about time you got up! Eat your breakfast
and let's get started."

Harper groaned again, and reluctantly joined his dad a few minutes
later.

"Now," Charles said, pulling out two crates from the nearby closet.
He placed them down in front of the carts. "Clean ones on the right,
anything that we can't clean on the left," he said, pointing the two
crates on the floor. "We're gonna have to fill all of these from the carts.
But first..." He went to the closet and rummaged around for a minute.
"Where are they... aha!" He exclaimed.

Charles smiled and pulled out a small box, placing it on the nearby
kitchen counter. "Here we go. Now, watch closely." He pulled out three
glowing orbs from the cart and placed them on the counter.

"Look at this one. Looks pretty good, huh?" He said. He placed the
orb in Harper's outstretched hand.

Harper stared. The orb glowed with a bright blue hue. As he rotated
it in his palm, he couldn't see any scratched or clouded surface. "Looks
pretty good, dad." He said. As he held the orb, he felt an overwhelming
sensation of happiness come over him, and he smiled.

Charles looked at him. "Feeling pretty good right now, huh?"
"Yeah! What's going on?" Harper asked.

15

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

"This is a clean soul, son. Whoever this belonged to must've had a
rewarding life. What you're feeling now is his soul speaking to you,
sharing that with you. Quick, put it in the crate to the right of you.
Don't hold it for too long," Charles said, pointing.

As Harper reached to place the soul into the crate, he paused for a
moment. He heard something in his head... a voice. It's ok, honey...
Harper's eyes began to cloud. He no longer saw the room with his
dad and the crates, instead he was looking through the eyes of an old
woman in a bed. A twenty-something girl was looking down towards
her. The girl's face was red and tears were streaming down her cheeks.
You're going to be alright, the voice said, and Harper felt the old woman
smiling. I'm going somewhere better.

Harper abruptly felt his body shaking, and his dad yelling at him.
"Harper! Let go of the orb, now!" He felt his dad pulling the orb from
his hand and quickly placing it in the crate. All of a sudden, the voice
of the old woman and the vision of the girl staring at him faded, and he
came to his senses. The cloud over his eyes was gone, and he was back
inside the living room with his dad.

"What... what happened?" Harper asked, and blinked.
"I told you not to hold on for that for too long..." Charles said. He
reached inside the box on the kitchen counter and pulled out a cloth rag.
"Make sure you hold the souls with these when you're checking them."
He used the cloth to pick up the next orb, holding it out to Harper.
"Here, take this rag now and look at this one," Charles said, handing
Harper another cloth and the orb."
Harper stared at the new orb in his hand. It let out a faint purple
glow. It wasn't as bright as the previous one. As he rotated the orb, he
saw that the center was clouded, and several small scratches were visible.
"This soul is pretty dirty," Charles said. "The life of this person was
obviously far from perfect. They must've had a rough go of it, like most
of us.

16

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

"But don't worry, we can clean these with some of the tools..." He
looked inside the box, and pulled out a bottle filled with a strange
glowing fluid and a tube of something. He handed the items to Harper,
along with another cloth--much larger than the one in his hand. "Here,
pour some of that oil on the orb and rub it in."

Harper followed his instructions. Within seconds, the cloud was gone,
and the purple light shown as bright as the previous orb. "You see? This
soul's owner might've had a rough go of it, but we can clean this soul
to be used again!" He said, smiling. "Now, if you put a bit of that paste
from the tube on the scratches and set it aside, they'll go away soon.
After that, place it in the crate on the right."

Harper followed his instructions, and stared as the cracks began to fade
several minutes later. He grinned and placed it in the crate.

"Alright, last one." Charles said. His usually upbeat and cheery voice
faded into monotone as he continued to talk to Harper. He picked up
the last orb on the counter. "I'm going to hand this to you. Make sure
you don't touch this with your hand, use the cloth. Careful, now." He
gently handed the orb to his son. "What do you see?" Charles asked.

Harper held the orb close to his eyes, rotating it slowly. It was yellow,
but there was no light coming from it. Large cracks ran all along the
surface, and it was chipped in several places. "There's something in the
middle..." He said, putting it even closer to his eyes. In the middle was
a small dark hole.

"It's broken, son." Charles said. Harper looked at his father and
witnessed a tear roll down his cheek. His smile was gone, the only
thing Harper could see in Charles now was solemnity. "Unfortunately,
there are going to be some souls that we just can't fix. Here, place it in
the other crate."

Harper reached towards the crate, and the orb slipped out of the cloth.
Instinctively, he reached to grab it with his other hand. As the orb made
contact with his skin, an immediate wave of sorrow rushed over him.

17

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

He wasn't prepared for this extreme emotion, and he began crying loud
and hard. "Drop the orb!" Charles shouted.

Harper barely heard him. The only thing he could hear was the
screaming of a girl in his head, and the only thing he felt was sadness.

He soon managed to make sense of his father's screams he dropped
the orb inside the crate, still crying from what he'd just felt. "It was so
sad, dad... I know, I don't..." He didn't know what to say.

Charles rushed to his side and embraced him. "It's ok, you're gonna
be ok." A minute later Harper calmed down, and Charles brought him
a glass of water. "That's a broken soul. The owner of it led a very painful
life." He sighed. "Nothing we have could fix this soul; the only thing
we can do is throw it out."

"Throw it out? What do you mean, it won't be used again for someone
else?"

"I'm sorry, Harper. There's nothing we can do for this one."
Over the next several weeks, Charles and Harper worked to clean and
sort out the souls. There were several times when Charles noticed Harper
placing a broken soul inside the crate full of clean ones, trying to hide
it from his father. "You have to stop, son." Charles declared, grabbing
the broken souls and putting them into the other crate. "I know it's
hard, it was hard for me too in the beginning. But putting these inside
the good crate is only going to hurt the clean ones."
Harper's face dropped, but he followed his father's instructions.
Thankfully, there were very few broken souls found, but each one further
depressed his heart when he placed it in the crate.
Cleaning all the souls was a tedious process, but after two months
all twelve carts had been cleaned and sorted. Out of the entire harvest,
only two small crates had been filled with broken souls. Charles placed
the last cart back in the shed, closed the door, and walked back inside

18

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

the house. He wiped the sweat off of his forehead and turned towards
Harper, sitting on the couch.

"Well, it's finally done!" He exclaimed. "That usually takes me almost
four months! You were a huge help Harper, thank you," he said. He
picked up the phone to order another pizza. "Pineapple again?" He
asked.

Harper said nothing. He just sat on the couch, staring at the floor and
holding the cloth he used to clean the souls in his hand, now covered
with dirt. A few seconds later, he looked up. "Huh? Oh, sure dad," he
said, and turned back towards the cloth.

The smile on Charles's face faded. He knew what his son was feeling;
he'd felt it himself after his first harvest many years ago. He also knew
there was nothing he could say that would bring a smile back to Harper's
face, only time could do that. He ordered the pizza, and after dinner
they went to bed.

At two o'clock in the morning, Harper snuck out of bed and walked
towards the closet--careful not to wake his father. He opened the door
gingerly and peered inside at the two crates of broken souls. He stared
at the various cracks, chips and holes inside each one, thinking of how
bright these crates would shine if their owners might've had a different
life, like the clean souls which were in the shed waiting to be reused.

He stepped inside the closet. He noticed to his surprise that the same
broken yellow soul he'd accidentally touched two months ago was
resting at the top of the crate. Weird, he thought to himself. Could've
sworn dad put this one at the bottom. Instinctively, he pulled a cloth
from his pocket, reached in and pulled out the soul, carrying it upstairs
to his room.

He turned on the lamp next to his bed and placed the soul on the
side table, peering inside the orb. The incandescent light illuminated
the soul, revealing each crack and chip and the dark hole in the center.
He couldn't take his eyes off of it. Something about this soul spoke to
him, longing to be known.

19

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

He reached towards the orb once again with his bare hand, readying
his mind and body for whatever might be behind all of the cracks and
holes of this broken soul. It's just memories and feelings. They can't hurt
me, he told himself. Just stay calm. I can do this. He touched the orb with
his outstretched index finger.

At once, that familiar sorrow washed over him. It's not real, he told
himself, bearing the brunt of it. His eyes clouded, and another vision
came to him.

This time, he was staring through the eyes of the screaming girl. He
felt pain now--physical pain, as he saw the hand of a man slap the girl
across the face. "Shut your damn mouth!" The man screamed, yelling
obscenities so close to her face that saliva from his mouth pelted her
cheeks.

Harper could tell she was no older than twelve or thirteen. The sorrow
he felt was gone now, replaced by terror. What ensued after the man's
shouting was a beating of the poor girl. Harper felt every punch and
kick from the man as if he were the one being hit. He felt the wind
knocked out of him, and the girl’s vision became hazy. "Don't you ever
spill anything in my car again. And if you tell your dad about this, I'll
make sure to finish the job next time," The man said, and walked away.
Harper felt tears sting the girl's eyes and run down her face.

The vision faded, and Harper's eyes became clear once again. He could
still feel the slap of the man's rough hand on his face, and the punches
and kicks on his torso and legs. The tears of the girl were running down
his eyes now, and Harper let them flow. He felt the pain and fear of the
girl's encounter, wishing he could've done something--anything--to
help her.

The soul remained in his hand. Now the sorrow had left him, and no
visions came. He placed it on the bedside table once again, and after an
hour of mulling through his thoughts he managed to fall sleep.

He awoke to the sound of his father shouting downstairs. "Harper! I
made pancakes whenever you're up," Charles said.

20

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

Harper rubbed his eyes. He felt tired and a little sick, but gradually
rose from his bed and dressed. As he began to open his bedroom door,
he turned towards the orb still resting on his bedside table. Once again,
he felt a sense of longing from this soul to be held. He reached down
and picked it up. No emotions came, and no vision clouded his eyes.
But as he stared at the soul, he noticed something new. The dark hole
in the middle had disappeared. Surprised, he pocketed the orb and went
downstairs, feeling slightly better.

"Morning!" Charles said, placing a plate of hot pancakes and a tall glass
of orange juice on the table. The condensation on the glass ran down
and greeted the wooden table underneath. "Hungry?"

"Yeah, thanks dad," Harper said, and managed a smile.
Charles nodded. I hope he's feeling a little better now, He thought to
himself.
As Harper ate, he reached into his pocket and grabbed the soul, hiding
it in his palm. As he moved his fingers around the orb, he noticed it felt
smoother than it did last night. "Thanks for breakfast dad, I'm going to
the lake if that's alright," he said.
"Of course!" Charles exclaimed. "You go play wherever you want
today. You've earned it."
Harper put on an old pair of sneakers and walked outside, making
his way downhill towards the small lake nearby. The buzzing of cicadas
grew louder, and the Sun shone brightly, periodically blocked by the
white clouds moving across the sky. It was a beautiful day.
He sat under a tree next to the lake and pulled out the orb, then gasped.
The cracks and chips in the orb had all but vanished, and the clouded
surface had started to clear up. A slight yellow glow filled middle. "You
just wanted someone to know, huh?" He said.

21

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

In the evening, Harper returned home. His dad was sitting on the
couch, reading a book, and when Harper opened the door Charles
turned. "Fun day?" He asked, closing the book.

"Dad, I need to show you something," Harper replied. Charles looked
perplexed, and stood up.

"Alright, what is it?" He asked, walking towards him. Harper pulled
out the soul and placed it on the counter. It was pristine now. No hint
of scratch or mark could be seen, and it glowed bright yellow. Charles
frowned. "Did you get this from the shed? You know we can't keep these
Harper; they're going to be used for new owners again soon."

"No, dad. I got it from the closet."
Charles's mouth opened. "What do you mean... you pulled it from
one of the crates in there? The ones with the broken souls?"
"Yeah, I did. It's the same one I touched on accident last time, and
it's clean now." Harper replied, smiling.
"What? How?" Charles didn't know what to say. "I've never seen one
that bad get cleaned before. What did you do?"
"I touched the soul dad. I watched the whole thing. I felt what she
did, what she went through" Harper said. He remembered the pain,
and the terror. "It was... really bad."
"Why? Why did you do that?" Charles replied, exasperated. "I don't
want you to see those things. They'll hurt you."
"It did hurt, dad. But after I saw it... that's when the soul started to
heal," Harper said. "I think that's it. All the broken ones in those crates,
they just want someone to know. To feel what they felt, and see what
they saw."
"...Ok, Harper. Give me the soul, and go to your room," Charles said
with a stern tone.

22

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

"But da-"
"I said do it. No questions. I'll come get you for dinner."
Harper sighed and walked upstairs, closing his bedroom door. He laid
on his bed and stared at the ceiling lost in thought. I wonder what else
her life was like, he pondered. Probably terrible. I wish I could know.
His eyes were heavy, and he yawned. At least her soul is ok. At least it
can be used again... He drifted off.
He woke up several hours later. It was night now, and the moon shone
through his bedroom window. He looked at the clock, which read 9:00.
Did I sleep through dinner? He thought. Where's dad?
He quietly opened his bedroom door and looked outside. The lights
were off, save for the kitchen light poking its way up the stairs. "Dad?"
He called out. There was no response, but he heard some kind of small
movement coming from the kitchen.
He made his way downstairs. "Dad, are you ok?" He peered into the
kitchen. Charles was sitting at the table, quietly sobbing. His back was
to Harper and his head bent down. "Dad, what's wrong?" He asked,
walking towards him. He placed his hand on his father's shoulder and
Charles slowly lifted his head.
Charles rolled the yellow orb from earlier towards Harper. "Here's that
soul you showed me," Charles said. Then, he rolled another soul next
to the yellow one. This one was orange, pristine and glowing brightly.
"What's that?" Harper asked.
"It's another soul from the closet. It's ok now," Charles replied,
managing a smile. "He just wanted someone to feel what he did."
Charles held the two souls out to Harper. "Here, take these out to the
shed with the clean ones. I think we have more work to do."

23

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE
Eric Stevens writes short fiction as a hobbyist and recently moved to Colorado Springs.
He's been published twice before in Adelaide Magazine and hopes his stories will spark
an emotional response and give the reader a different perspective.



24

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

WHEN SARAH SMILED

by Marc Levy

Most good people go quietly.—Frank Serpico

Steven walked briskly up the stairs, signed forms, entered the crowded
elevator, strode down the corridor, finally entered a small overheated
room. He looked about. Curled up beside Theo on the hospital bed,
Sarah lay sleeping.

“Sarah.” He gently tapped her foot. She roused herself. Rubbed her
eyes. Fluffed her hair.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. She yawned. Stretched.
Theo was dying. “Inoperable,” she’d told Steven the week before last.
He lay there, blind, inflexible, as though sealed in amber, lips pulled
inward, his mouth contracted to a rictus hole. A faint yelp escaped from
the infinite yawn. What was that, Theo? What was that?
Sarah cradled Theo in her arms, repeatedly stroked his hair.
“There’s nothing we can do.” She kissed him again, looked up dreamily,
winced, and asked, “Would you like something to drink?”
Steven had known them for years, visited often. He and Theo sitting
for hours at the round kitchen table. Theo, chain smoking, recalling his
travels: in Beirut, as they roamed the desert, the one-eyed Dutchman
who taught him the German word for “butterfly.” In Spain, the perfectly

25

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

timed uppercut that dropped a man with deadly intent. “Like this,”
Theo had said, illustrating how he planted his heels, dipped his shoulder,
launched upward the spectacular blow. The day in Brazil when he woke
from a dream which led to a story which became a book. Or he would
tell the most ribald jokes. The most outlandish stories.

When Steven recalled his own less fortunate events, Theo would fold
his hands, peer over his glasses, look into Steven’s tear filled eyes, quietly
listen as horror spilled out. “It’s over,” he would say. And Theo would
take Steven’s hand until Steven calmed down. Sarah too. She would
listen. Comfort him. Sarah and Theo.

Unused to the sight of it he stared at the dying man. He’d known
only sudden deaths. Frightful. With no time for grieving. Tried to settle
himself. Eyes closed, inhaled. Exhaled.

“Coffee?” Sarah repeated.
“Sure.”
Footsteps.
A woman’s voice. Lighthearted. “Knock, knock.”
“Joe and Gail. Family friends,” Sarah whispered. “Come in! Come in!”
“We’re very sorry,” said Gail.
“Yes. We’re sorry,” said Joe.
“Why, thank you,” said Sarah, accepting the flowers Joe gave her.
She introduced Steven. The four of them sat on folding chairs, chatted
pleasantly, recalled Theo’s wit and charm. As if all were well, thought
Steven. As if fixed-face, frozen body Theo is happy and all is right in
the world.
“Honey, show them what you brought,” said Joe, brightening.

26

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

Gail reached into her pocketbook, with both hands held out an array
of small tinkling glass bottles. Vodka. Gin. Whiskey.

“From the connecting flights,” she said. “It was the least they could
do, all that traveling. Aren’t they precious?”

“Don’t let her fool you. She collects them,” said Joe.
Playfully, Gail punched Joe in the arm.
Sarah fetched four paper cups. Ice from the tiny fridge.
“What’ll it be? What’ll it be?” asked Gail.
Joe’s eyes widened. He pointed to the cylindrical shaped bottle, its
red and white label.
“Vodka it is!” said Gail. Handily, she unscrewed the foil caps of two
bottles. “One for Gail and Joe. One for Sarah and Steven. Vodka it is!”
She poured the liquor into the cups. They sipped. Talked. Steven
listened politely to the outrageous jokes. To the stories Theo once told.
Sat still as the couple laughed loudly, Sarah nearly doubling over at their
parodies. As they continued their antics his mind wandered. Why isn’t
Theo telling the jokes or tales? Where are his reading glasses? When will
he pluck that last cigarette from the crumpled pack, smoke it to the very
end, thoughtfully grind the butt into the ashtray, before bidding “Good
night, old chum.” He glanced out the window. A light rain speckled the
roofs of passing cars, blurred the windshields of whooshing buses, patted
the slouched backs of hurrying passers by. He peered at the dying man.
Wake up, Theo! Wake up!
Gail refilled their cups, now with gin.
After a time, to clear her head, “Don’t mind me,” said Sarah. “I’ve been
here all afternoon. Just going for a walk outside. Steven, why don’t you
tell these nice people more about yourself. Steven’s a good talker,” she
said. “He and Theo could talk for hours!”

27

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

When Sarah had gone Gail asked, “So tell us, Steven. What is it you
do?”

“Book?” said Joe. “You write books? Now that takes discipline!”
Work never changed. Real estate had its cycles. Buy at the dips. Sell
to the market. You make good money.
“It’s a living,” said Steven..
The book? He did not care to tell them that early each morning he
would stand and contemplate the topographical maps which lined the
walls and ceiling of his study. Their elegant pastels, marred by muddy
finger prints, helped recall the rich organic scent of earth, the fragrant
green jungle, the crackling chorus of AKs and M16s. The green time
he called it. A framed photo on the wall: eight armed men, shocked out
and weary.“Steven,”they seemed to be saying, “Always remember. Do not
forget.” Clear as day, the year of shells and bodies and stink and squalor
would ricochet inside him, and Steven would sit and methodically write
it down.
“It’s coming along,” he said. “Short stories. Run of the mill. Coming
along.”
“Well, good for you,” said Joe. That’s good to hear. Isn’t it Gail?”
“More gin?” she replied. “Oh! I’m so sorry. We’re all out.” She selected
another bottle. “What’s this one, Joe? What’s that say?”
“Your favorite,” he said. He took the bottle and poured whiskey for
each of them.
“Well, cheers,” said Joe.
“To Theo,” said Steven.
“Here’s to Theo! Cheers!”
They gulped the liquor. Immediately afterward, Gail switched on the
wall mounted TV set.

28

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

“No, no, no,” she muttered, flicking through channels. “Music. I want
music!” She found an audio channel. 70’s rock. “Now that’s more like it!”

She refolded the chairs, set them aside, raised her arms, swayed her
body in time to the music.

“Come here, Joe. Come dance with pretty Momma. C’mon, now.
Come dance with Momma!”

Joe, sizeable, ungainly, made more so by drink, flailed his arms, wiggled
his hips, stared at the ceiling.

“Oh, Joe. Honey, you can’t dance. Poor little Joe. You just can’t.”
Out of breath, mopping his brow, he stepped away, leaned against a
wall.
“Spoilsport,” said Gail. “You’re nothing but a big fat no good spoilsport.
Now close the door, will you sweetie? Turn that music up, will you now?”
Joe shrugged feebly. Did what he was told.
“That’s it. Not too loud. That’s my boy.”
She turned to Steven. Raised her hand. Beckoned him with one finger.
“Come here, handsome. Come dance with pretty Moma.”
Head thrown back, mouth open, Gail clasped her hands behind her
neck. Lewdly, she thrust and rotated her pelvis side to side. Steven,
excited by her titillation, approached her, angled his shoulders, swung
his arms, nimbly pivoted left and right. In their stark gyrations, the
tipsy couple whirled their hips, bumped their loins, pressed their lips
together, their sinful speed increasing their tempo.
“Oh my! Oh my! Oh my!” cried Gail. “Oh, Steven....Steeeeven! You
are such a good dancer! Such a good boy! “She pressed a long kiss to his
mouth. “Where did you ever learn to dance like that?”
Steven, breathing heavily, stood silent. Abruptly, the room went still.

29

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

“What happened?” exclaimed Gail. “Where’d my music go? Who stole
my goddamn music?”

“That’s enough,” shouted Joe. “You hear me, Gail? “That’s a goddamn
‘nuff.”

“Oh, you. You’re such a big old...a big old...”
“That’s eeee--nough!”
Gail turned her gaze to Theo. Ambled to the bed. Took a drink from
her cup. Talked to him.
“Sarah told us alllll about Steven. How interesting he is. All the things
he’s done.”
She sipped. Smacked her lips. Savored the whiskey’s slow burn down.
“Said Steven came all the way from New York city. Come to see his
best, best friend in the whooole wide world. Dear old Theo. Who is
dying. Dyyyiinnnggg! Isn’t that right, Steven? And Steven. Oh my, my,
my, my, my. You were in war, weren’t you? You sweet thing. It hurt you
some, didn’t it? Joe, isn’t that the saddest, saddest thing in the whooole
wide world?”
She snickered. Recited her favorite ribald joke. At the scandalous tag
line guffawed loudly, twice punched the near corpse in its unfeeling arm.
“Get it, Theo?” she cried. “Get it?”
Even drunk—they were all drunk—Steven rushed to her. Grabbed
Gail by the shoulders. Pulled her away, shouted, “What the hell are you
doing? Are you crazy, Gail? Are you out of your mind?!”
She broke free from him. Slapped Steven hard in the face. Slap.
Laughed loudly. Screamed, “You bastard! You...” Walked away.
He adored Theo. Loved him. Dedicated the book of joy and death
and sorrow to him. He stared at her. From somewhere deep inside felt
a great steel door, long locked shut, suddenly burst apart. CrackBoom.

30

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

“What was that, Steven?” asked Gail flippantly, drink in hand. “What
did you say?”

“No more,” said Joe. “Honey, please. No more. Can’t you see the
boys not right?”

Too late.
Ordinarily, the rocket-like punch would have broken a man’s jaw.
Shattered his skull. But as Steven swung at Gail she turned to set down
her cup, and he sailed past, collided against the folded chairs.
“Jesus!” said Sarah, entering the room. “What’s going on here? I could
hear you two from down the hall.”
Joe tried to speak. Gail raised her arms.
“It’s nothing,” said Steven. “We were just... we were just...
The room stunk of alcohol.
“Never mind,” said Sarah. “We’ll talk later.” She tugged and hustled
Gail and Joe out of the room. “You two. Out! Get home safe!”
She turned to Steven. “Go wash up. Get yourself some fresh air. Go!”

§
“Just a bruise,” said Steven, patting his swollen right arm. “Thanks
for understanding.”
“I should have known,” said Sarah. “They do like their liquor.”
“It’s getting late. I’ve got a long drive. If you don’t mind, I’d like a few
moments...”
While Sarah stood in the hallway, calming the nurses who’d heard
the shouts, Steven knelt bedside. A strange harmony of sobs and words
escaped him. How long it lasted he did not know. Finally Steven
whispered, “I love you, Theo. Good bye.”

31

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

In the hallway, he embraced Sarah.
“He had a good life” she said. “He loved butterflies. He could name
them in twenty-five languages.”
“In German,” said Steven, “Schmetterling.”
Sarah smiled. A final embrace, a kiss on the cheek, and Steven was
gone.

Marc Levy's work has appeared in New Millennium Writings, Stone Canoe,
CounterPunch, The Comstock Review, The Bosphorus Review of Books, Stand and
elsewhere. It is forthcoming in Queen's Quarterly, Fiction International and Black Scat
Review. He won the 2016 Syracuse University Institute for Veterans and Military Families
Writing Prize. He was a finalist in the 2022 Cuddy Foundation/Military Writers Society
of America Writing Contest. His website is Medic in the Green Time.com.

32

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

TUNNEL OF LOVE

by Mark Geisel

The worker pushed down the bar into the couple’s lap locking them
in the cart. Michael sat to the left of Shelly. The cart was shaped like
a swan, and its size pushed the two together. The track was filled with
water in order to mimic a river, but the water was shallow enough to
see the railing. The swan moved towards the heart-shaped entrance of
the ride. The words “Tunnel of Love” were sprawled over the entrance.

“Have a romantic ride,” the worker said as the swan entered the tunnel.
“Thank you,” Michael said with a wide smile. He tried to adjust
himself, but the bar was pressed down too far for him to move.
Shelly glanced back but stayed quiet. She sighed as soft music
played over the speakers of the dark tunnel. Hearts adorned the walls
throughout the tunnel. Michael reached his arm over Shelly’s shoulder,
but she swiftly pushed it off her. Michael leaned to look her in the eyes,
but she continued looking away.
“Is something wrong?” Michael said at last, breaking the silence.
“Do I really need to answer that?” Shelly said.
“Can we not do this right now? This is supposed to be romantic.”
“And why would you think that I would want to be romantic?”

33

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

“Because it’s our two-year—“ Michael stopped himself. He shook his
head before saying, “Okay. What did I do wrong this time?”

“This time? So, you recognize that this is a habit then?” Shelly finally
looks over at Michael.

“I recognize that this is something you’ve been waiting to say for a
while, so spit it out already.”

“Screw you. You have never once cared about what I have to say.”
“Screw me? You have made this entire trip miserable. You have been
moping around this entire park.” Michael waved his hand around as he
spoke. “At least I have trying to have a good time. At least I—”
“How many time have I told you that I hate the carnival?” Shelly said,
interrupting Michael.
“Not once.”
“Oh really? What about the last time you dragged me here? Or the
time before that?”
“Come on,” Michael said, throwing his arms up. “Who hates the
carnival?”
“I do, and I made that abundantly clear.” Shelly looked away from
Michael. The soft music continued to play over the two. The tunnel
showed a story of two swans falling in love. The story ended with the
two swans coming together to form a heart.
“What about carnivals could you possibly hate?” Michael said.
“The crowds, the overpriced food, the terrible rides,” Shelly said,
holding up a different finger for each thing that she said, “and I hate
how this bar is cutting off my legs.” Shelly attempted to move but to
no avail.
“I am sorry that the carnival isn’t up to your standards, your majesty.”
Michael tried his best to bow from the constraints of the bar.

34

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

“Go to hell.”
“Look, I am trying to make you happy here.”
“How is doing something that you want to do going to make me
happy? Just admit that you wanted to go to the carnival for you and
that I had nothing to do with it.”
“Fine,” Michael said as he rolled his eyes. “I wanted to go to the
carnival. I thought it would be fun. Screw me for doing something I
want to do for once.”
“What are you talking about? Name one thing that we have ever done
that I wanted to do.”
“The concert.”
“The concert?” Shelly laughed as she leaned over the side of the swan.
“I didn’t want to go to the concert.”
“What?” Michael said, glaring at Shelly. “Then why the hell did we
go?”
“I just thought you had a bad taste in music.”
“I wasted three hours of my life for nothing.”
“That is a whole lot less time than I wasted on doing things you
wanted.” Shelly frowned as she looked at Michael.
“Oh my god. If you are so miserable, then why are we still together?”
Michael said as he stuck his arms out. Michael and Shelly locked eyes.
A tear rolled down Shelly’s face as she looked away. “Wait, no. That is
not what—”
“No.” she said, interrupting him. “You are right. Why are we still
together?”
“You know I didn’t mean that.”

35

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

“I mean it.” Shelly looks at Michael. “I guess I just got scared of being
alone, but I mean, anything has to be better than this.”

“Ouch.” Michael looks towards the wall. Red light from one of the
tunnel’s heart displays fell over Michael’s face.

“I don’t hate you, Michael, but my god, I hate us.” Shelly looks away
from Michael. Both of them were pushing away from each other leaving
a sliver of space between them.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Michael said. His jaw shook.
“Do I really need to answer that?”
A flash lit up the tunnel as a camera took a picture of the broken
couple. The swan turned a corner, revealing the end of the tunnel. As the
ride ended, the same worker from before came to help them out of the
swan. The worker raised the bar, releasing the couple from their captivity.

Mark Geisel comes from Southeast Texas. He spends most of his time working and writing
at his computer.



36

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS

by Alexander Bondulich

A dark light emerges from the endless nothingness that is death. “What
the hell is going on?” asked Clifford. As the dark light dissipated Clifford
found himself sat down in a white chair at a white table in a white room
with white walls and a white door.

“Hello, is anyone there?” Clifford called out.
The white door opens and a well-dressed man, from his shiny shoes to
perfectly straightened bow tie, walks out and pulls the seat across from
Clifford making room for himself to sit down.
“Hi there, my name Nigel I’ll be filing your paperwork today,” Nigel
said and pulled out some forms and a pen that had Things get better
written on the side of it.
“What’s going on…where am I… how did I get here?” Clifford asked.
“So, this might be a little difficult for you to process but you're dead,”
Nigel said, clicking the pen and handing it to Clifford.
“What do you mean I’m dead… how did I die?” Clifford asked.
“Due to violent or traumatic deaths we keep the details of the incident
private to help the easement of our clientele,” Nigel said with a smile as
he pushed the forms across the table. “So, you are going to just sign right
at the bottom for me confirming you are Clifford Wagner,” Nigel said.

37

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

“A traumatic death… are you trying to tell me I was murdered,”
Clifford said.

“It would appear so but sadly that is all I can disclose to you at this
time,” Nigel said, interlocking his fingers together.

“So, you’re telling me I was murdered, and I’m not allowed to know
who or why,” Clifford said clenching his fist on the table.

“I understand this must be difficult for you,” Nigel said.
“I need to see my family,” Clifford said as he tossed the paperwork
aside. He kicked his chair back and took off running to the white door.
“Mr. Wagner come back,” Nigel called out.
Clifford ran down a long white hallway with identical rooms to the
one he had just escaped from. He ran. Eventually, he came across a
lonely wooden door with a crooked sign above it that spelled Live Room.
Nigel called to him to come back so he swiftly opened the wooden door
entered locking the door behind him.
“This is crazy,” Clifford said under his breath then a formular voice
came echoing from the dark abyss laid out in front of him. A woman
sobbing in a chair in a corner slowly came into view. As Clifford got
closer the picture it became clearer; the sobbing woman was his mother.
“Who would do this to my boy?” Helen bellowed.
As Clifford got closer to his mother more and more people started to
fall into frame until soon, he found himself standing in the middle of
his own funeral service.
“Mom, it's okay I’m right here,” Clifford said as he reached out for
his mother, but when he put his hand on her shoulder, he went right
through her. Clifford glared at his hand in shock and then tried to get
other people’s attention.
“Hey, I’m right here, see I’m alive!” Clifford shouted but no one could
hear him.

38

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

A priest in long black and white rob wandered up to the casket where
Clifford’s body lay.

“I think we are ready to get started now,” the priest said as he began
the service.

“Hey, don’t start yet. I’m not dead. I’m right here!” Clifford shouted
into the priest’s face and yet again there was no response. Clifford
looked down in horror into the casket to see himself lying there almost
peacefully sleeping in a well-cut black suit.

“Oh my god, I’m really dead,” Clifford said as he almost falls to the
ground in sheer panic. Clifford, with nothing left to do, ran for the
exit. He almost made it to the door when a man in a sharp black suit
with a gray vest with scarlet buttons paved perfectly in a line down his
chest walked in.

“Tony, you came,” Clifford said now with a bit of a smile on his face.
Tony walked with confidence, but there was pain left behind in every
footprint his shiny black shoe created in the carpet. Clifford followed
his brother back into the service and took witness of his brother holding
their mother in there crying fit.
“It’s ok mom, I’m sorry I’m late,” Tony said comforting her.
Clifford stands in a room filled with grief unable to move. When a
hand grasp on to Clifford’s shoulder.
“Tears the water of caring, love and loss,” Nigel said walking from
behind Clifford.
“I had no idea so many people cared,” Clifford said wiping a tear from
his eye.
“The human condition life after death it’s a hard thing to watch which
is why I didn’t want you running off by yourself. We don’t want any of
our clients getting hurt through this process of moving on,” Nigel said.

39

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

Clifford turns and hugs Nigel crying into his nice white silk shirt.
Nigel stands there holding Clifford in the middle of room of people
with nothing left but to move on and keep living.

Alexander Bondulich hails from a small town in New Jersey. He’s a dyslexic storyteller
who just wants to share his stories and raise awareness about those with similar difficulties.
You can follow him on Instagram @Disorderlycomicx.

40

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

GOING DOWN ON ELVIS PRESLEY

by R. Mullin

There’s something that must be made clear from the beginning, which is
that I’m only talking about myself, my own special circumstances; there’s
nothing to generalize here. I well understand we’re all different, after our
own fashion. However, since recently reading through Theophrastus and
his characters, I’m not as sure as I once was. But putting all that to the
side, I’ll start in by saying I’m generous and community-minded. My
practice is to go out visiting every Wednesday. In fact, I’m pretty much
required to. But that’s a story for another day.

It’s Carla one week, Victoria another, then maybe Malcolm. Sometimes
Melissa. I make the stops as regular as I can. And report them on the
forms provided. Have to. And I live alone in a small house atop a spine
of hard yellow loam in Mississippi. Those two items alone say more of
me than would four pages of ornate prose. So I visit around, trying to
keep up, and trying to keep me out of sight of authority and surveillars.

Last Wednesday Melissa was up. Her husband George met me at the
door and said, Hey, Raphael. No, sorry, she’s not in. Flat, straight out.
Just like that. I knew he was lying, or prevaricating, or equivocating,
covering for her. He loves his Melissa. But I knew that what he was really
saying was ‘she is not in her right mind.’ Melissa is bad on psychedelics;
so I understand where George is coming from. Consequently, no visit
that day for Melissa. She’ll get through it though, she always does.

41

ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

Next up was Malcolm. He was in. That was a near certainty. As he
always is. If no one else, I can count on Malcolm. All of his groceries
are delivered by one of those ‘you-don’t-have-to-do-nothing services’;
his mail is brought up from the box by the little drug-addict girl next
door doing ”community service.” Malcolm’s probably not started his
truck in six months. One of the neighbors picks him up for church
whenever he agrees to go.

I knock on the door the way I always do, two quick and one following.
Almost immediately, from off in the back of his aluminum tube I hear
the recliner crack into upright and then that followed hard on by the
sand-whispering of his slippers across the floor that hasn’t been swept
in six months since I last did it. He gets there and stops for a moment.
I can hear him breathing in his deep COPD, wondering if somebody
really knocked. Or they might just go away if he waited. I wait. And
he waits. Sometimes he’ll go first with, who’s there? Sometimes it’s me
first with, Malcolm, you home? He always is. I think he’d be a great 911
dispatcher, always on the qui vive. But that will never happen, given
his history, his record. What’s up, Malcolm? It’s me, Raphael. Finally,
he lets me in with unfastening of three deadbolts and two slide latches
and a heavy security chain.

All he does much anymore is sit in his chair and fidget with the TV
remote and read his Bible and a bunch of erotico-romantic novels. He
has a stack of them beside his chair — «Captain Come On», «Persian
Seduction», «Warrior-Beast.» He watches his share of TV, but for the
most part it’s always seemingly on mute, at least when I’m there. I say
‘seemingly’, because if one listens closely the tinny burble of voices that
leaks like smokey poison from the wired earplugs he has draped across a
hook in the side of his reading table lets you know it’s on to one of the
conspiracy channels — NPR, FNN, ABC, CNN — things like that. If
there is anything at all that interests Malcolm it’s current events.

He offers me the usual chair and we get settled in and it doesn’t take
long for him to offer me a beer and a smoke, both of which I readily
accept, even if it is before noon.

42