Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 51, November 2021

INDEPENDENT REVISTA
MONTHLY LITERÁRIA
LITERARY INDEPENDENTE
MAGAZINE
MENSAL

ADELAIDE FOUNDERS / FUNDADORES
Stevan V. Nikolic & Adelaide Franco Nikolic
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal EDITOR IN CHIEF / EDITOR-CHEFE
Year VII, Number 51, November 2021 Stevan V. Nikolic
Ano VII, Número 51, novembro 2021
[email protected]
ISBN-13: 978-1-956635-13-3
MANAGING DIRECTOR / DIRECTORA EXECUTIVA
Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent inter- Adelaide Franco Nikolic
national monthly publication, based in New York and
Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco GRAPHIC & WEB DESIGN
Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality Adelaide Books LLC, New York
poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as
well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS IN THIS ISSUE
English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding
literary fiction, nonfic-tion, and poetry, and to promote Joram Piatigorsky, Evie Haskell Maxwell,
the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and Richard Bader, Francis Duffy, Chris Morey,
established authors reach a wider literary audience. Sandra M. Perez,Lauren Colwell Steinke,
Jonathan L. Shaffer, Alex Pugsley, Carlos
A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação men-
sal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Reynoso, Jack Cimino, Zachary LaFever,
Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Ade- Vivien Schwarz, Jesus Francisco Sierra,
laide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é Douglas Cole, Randall Ivey, Craig Dobson,
publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de Frances Wiedenhoeft, Nigel Pugh, Lotus
qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas Zhang, Jozef Leyden, Clark Zlotchew, Chuck
literárias, escritas em inglês e por-tuguês. Pretendemos Teixeira, Bashir Cassimally, João Santana
publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim Franco, Joram Piatigorsky, Marisa Mangani,
como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudan- Renata Hinrichs, Frances Guerin, Joy Drees,
do os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiên- Deborah-Zenha Adams, Michael Serwetz,
cia literária mais vasta. Kris Haines-Sharp, Bernadette Dickenson,
Jess Burnquist, Michael L. Correia, Viviana
(http://adelaidemagazine.org) Viviani, Translated by Giuliana Barile,
Angela Benitez, Caterina Casadei, Hugo De
Published by: Adelaide Books, New York La Piedra, Alexandrina Dec, Rosie Kenna,
244 Fifth Avenue, Suite D27 Ryann Kretz, Richard Leon, Heidi Moura,
New York NY, 10001 Sasha Passadore, Mickela Pitter, Nicole
e-mail: [email protected] Siedlarek, Dante Silvestri, Seth Stein,
phone: (917) 477 8984 Emanuele Pettener, Michele Parker Randall,
http://adelaidebooks.org Fara Spence, April McDermott, John Grey,
Douglas Polk, Linda K. Miller, James Orrock,
Copyright © 2021 by Adelaide Literary Magazine Sofia Lemay, Daniel King, Laura Muncie,
Lewis J. Beilman Iii, Lali Tsipi Michaeli,
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written John Picardi
permission from the Adelaide Literary Maga-zine
Editor-in-chief, except in the case of brief quo-tations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.

CONTENTS / CONTEÚDOS I LOVE YOU LIKE BROKEN GLASS
by Frances Wiedenhoeft 99
SHORT STORIES THE GIFT OF THE RAIN GOD
by Nigel Pugh 103
MISTER PUSHKIN THE LAST DAY OF MY CHILDHOOD
by Joram Piatigorsky 7 by Lotus Zhang 108
LUZIA’S DOWRY
I AM by Jozef Leyden 113
by Evie Haskell Maxwell 17 THE WAITRESS
by Clark Zlotchew 122
THE SPRUCE CREEK DIVERSION AGAINST TIMIDITY
by Richard Bader 22 by Chuck Teixeira 126
GALAH OR GREY
UNLEARN by Bashir Cassimally 133
by Francis Duffy 27 THE WELL OF THE ENLIGHTENED
by João Santana Franco 135
FAMILY SECRETS
by Chris Morey 33 NONFICTION
EATING SALAD WITH A SPOON
LIGHT by Marisa Mangani 147
by Sandra M. Perez 41 WHERE IS THE LOVE
by Renata Hinrichs 150
DROWNING IN SILVERFISH THE DINNER TABLE
by Lauren Colwell Steinke 43 by Frances Guerin 157
STRUGGLE FOR SOME,
CLOSURE VACATION FOR OTHERS
by Jonathan L. Shaffer 46 Book Review by Joy Drees: 164
THEY ONLY SEE US
THE BEST FUCK IN LAUREL CANYON WHILE WE WEAR THE MASK
by Alex Pugsley 50 by Deborah-Zenha Adams 167
CHINA 1990:
THE ONE WITH THE BAG THE SOUL OF AN ENTREPRENEUR
by Carlos Reynoso 58 by Michael Serwetz 169
KNEADING OUR WAY HOME
DEAD ENDS by Kris Haines-Sharp 183
by Jack Cimino 61
3
THE WITCH
by Zachary LaFever 63

THE CELESTIAL DIPLOMAT
by Vivien Schwarz 65

OUR FATHER
by Jesus Francisco Sierra 75

SCREAMING INTO THE WELL
by Douglas Cole 82

THE BRIEF, UNHAPPY
EXISTENCE OF GAY DOBBIN
by Randall Ivey 87

THE BUSINESS OF SHELLS
by Craig Dobson 92

Adelaide Literary Magazine

POETRY INTERVIEWS

AWE LAURA MUNCIE
by Bernadette Dickenson 189 Author of the children’s book
WHAT LOVE CAN DO 227
CREATE A PLAYLIST FOR
THE PERSON YOU USED TO BE LEWIS J. BEILMAN III
by Jess Burnquist 190 Author of the children’s book
LITTLE ÖZIL 232
THE HUMAN PERSONIFIED
by Michael L. Correia 193 LALI TSIPI MICHAELI
Israeli Poet, Author of the poetry collection
I PRETEND NOT TO LOVE YOU PAPA 236
by Viviana Viviani 196
JOHN PICARDI
TO OUTLAST Author of the novel NINCOMPOOP 242
by Michele Parker Randall 199

EQUUS
by Fara Spence 201

I WILL BE YOUR HERO
by April McDermott 202

TOWN PICNIC
by John Grey 205

THE PAIN OF WINTER
by Douglas Polk 208

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER REGRETS
by Linda K. Miller 209

PRIDE PARADE
by James Orrock 214

AUBADE
by Sofia Lemay 218

NEAP SONG
by Daniel King 221

4

SHORT STORIES



MISTER PUSHKIN

by Joram Piatigorsky

Don’t get me wrong. I love humans (most issue, not one of intelligence or sophisti-
of the time), and I know they’re often (not cation. I have a larynx, as do humans, but
always) intelligent. However, they have a the structure of my vocal track – pharynx
blind spot when it comes to other animals. and tongue and lips, the whole nine yards
I say “other” animals because humans are – doesn’t work in quite the same way as it
animals, like me and you and other crea- does in humans, though I’m no scientist. I’m
tures. For some inexplicable reason, hu- a dog and, of course, have a dog voice, not
mans make-believe they’re special, with a human voice. But, hey, that’s just veneer
their fancy language and culture and mon- stuff. I understand what humans say (at least
ey and politics and war…it’s endless. Many what they mean), while they often don’t un-
don’t even believe in evolution and think derstand me (sometimes they guess right)
that God made them separately. I don’t re- when I bark or whine or make whatever
ally care how special humans think they are. sounds to communicate. They just repeat
What galls me – I’m an English Bulldog and like an idiot robot, “Mister Pushkin (more
proud of it! – is that when Helen, my owner, about my name in a moment) wants to go
had this story ( the very one you are read- out to pee,” or, “he’s hungry,” or, “he needs
ing now) critiqued in a writing workshop, some attention,” when I might be saying
and they said I, being a dog, should speak that rain is forecast for this afternoon, so
like an illiterate baboon, or some such ab- don’t forget your umbrella when we go for
surdity (are baboons less than dogs?). Can a walk, or something like that. What dum-
you believe it! What ignorance! What liter- mies, these humans!
ary snobs!
I resent being dismissed as child-like or
“No dog would speak or think like I do,” naïve or a “lower” creature – less evolved
they said. – than a human. If you’re incapable of
reading this story, which I consider a fine
Really? But I wrote this short story en- piece of literature, as if it were written by an
tirely myself. Yea for me! educated dog, no less than a sophisticated
human, please put it aside. There’s nothing
Well, they’re right in one sense: I can’t lowbrow in how I think or express myself
mimic human words like a parrot can (by in writing (I hunt and peck with my left
the way, parrots are extremely intelligent paw – my dominant paw) on the computer
birds, so much for the prejudice of ‘bird keyboard. So, there you are: I can think and
brain’), but I assume that’s an anatomical

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write like a human (as well as in dog terms, “Now who thinks this puppy is ugly, Helen?”
which humans can’t), but I can’t pronounce
words as humans do (I’ve tried, but no go), Her face turned red this time. “Okay,
which saddens me and leaves a melancholy let’s call him Pushkin. It’s growing on me.
streak of being isolated from Helen and But how about adding Mister to his name
other people. Now that I’ve cleared that to give him a nudge of extra status?”
up, I hope you’re ready to appreciate my
relating a slice of life in a dog’s universe. “Good idea,” Bud said. “Mister Pushkin. I
like it!”
But first, about my name. I bet you wonder
why I’m called Mister Pushkin. Pushkin would And so, I became Mister Pushkin, quite
be weird enough, but why Mister Pushkin? different from Thunder, which is what the
It’s due largely (not entirely) to Helen’s hus- kennel people called me before Helen
band, Bud (his real name is Harold, but ev- bought me. To be honest, I like Thunder
eryone calls him Bud since he won a beer better than Mister Pushkin, which I find
drinking contest as a teenager sponsored by pretentious. Also, I don’t understand a word
Budweiser). When Helen brought me home of Russian, although that may not matter.
from the kennel at 10 weeks of age, Bud said, Thunder, on the other hand, sounds…I don’t
“He’s cute, Helen, I’ll give you that, but he’s know…powerful…like nature declaring
ugly – squat, hardly anything for a tail, and ‘don’t mess with me’ in a universal language.
no snout to speak of. He’s never going to win
blue in dog shows. Admit it. Every dog you’ve Anyway, I appreciate the thought that
had has been a champion. This little guy at Helen and Bud put into my name, but hon-
least needs a respectable name to give him estly, Pushkin? I Googled him and read one
dignity. He isn’t going to set the world on fire of his famous poems, Remembrance. It’s
with perfection.” about looking back when old and feeling
like a failure. Is that what Bud had in mind
“How can you say that, Bud? You have for me? Listen to the ending; it’s depressing.
no idea what this dog will be like when he
grows up.” Helen sounded hurt. …And Memory before my wakeful eyes

Bud blushed. He knew she was right and With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy
admitted he was being harsh. He paused a scroll.
moment and then suggested, “How about
calling him Pushkin, the great Russian poet? Then, as with loathing, I peruse the years,
That’s a dignified name, and certainly orig-
inal for a dog.” I tremble, and I curse my natal day,

“Maybe,” she said with hesitation. “Inter- Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
esting, but I’m afraid not many people today
know who Pushkin was. Nineteenth century But cannot wash the woeful script away.
Russian poets aren’t exactly in vogue these
days.” After a moment of reflection, she Frankly, being alive is enough for me…
looked concerned and added, “If his name yet…well…there’s something noble about
is Pushkin, do you think judges will think of having a purpose in life greater than one-
his face as Pushed-In?” self, and then, if you’re really lucky, accom-
plishing some of it. It doesn’t need to be
heroic, just something you respect. Funny,
how a casual comment (like Bud calling me
ugly) or a random happening (like looking

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up Pushkin’s poem) can weave into the tap- Wasn’t just being me enough, at least at
estry of one’s thoughts and life. Whether first? Winning? Winning what? Blue for first
I’m ugly or beautiful (at least for Bulldog place? I don’t have a favorite color. Maybe
enthusiasts), part of me felt ugly (and still no color at all is okay with me.
does) the moment Bud said that I was ugly,
and another part of me felt that I needed I was about three months old the first
to find a purpose in life (not just adopt my time I witnessed Helen’s obsession of win-
owner’s purpose to win dog shows) when I ning. She was wearing a blue dress, not pale
read Remembrance. blue or sickly off blue, but a rich, pure, dark
blue, which matched the blue of the first
My problem, however, isn’t my looks. prize ribbons that lined the wall next to
Pretty or not, it’s Helen’s obsession with the fireplace in the living room. I was lying
winning dog shows. She owns me, which on the plush shag rug, minding my own
means I’m her slave. What a contrast with business, next to the left arch (being left
my caretakers in the kennel before she pawed I’m partial to the left) of the knotty
bought me. They were laid-back, friendly pine rocking chair in front of the TV. Helen
types, who cuddled and petted me con- was rocking the chair back and forth, as if
stantly, saying sweet things, like, “you’re the the arched rockers were blades of speed
most adorable little puppy I ever saw,” and, skates racing in the Olympics. It felt good
“I wish I could keep you forever.” Although I as the wood rubbed my side gently, and I
was adorable (false modesty is hardly mod- absorbed the radiant warmth from the fire.
esty), their fawning over me was bullshit Those were the days! I often dozed off now
(excuse the vulgarity), since they could have and then, but Helen’s exclamations always
kept me forever; no one was making them woke me up. She was continually tense as
sell me. she fixated on the TV, her clenched hands
white from the pressure of squeezing her
Helen’s appearance was like a comet fingers together, as if that would help
crashing through the planet’s atmosphere. Twitter – a decadent (at least in my opinion)
It shattered my world. I knew right away toy French Poodle – win Best in Show. A toy
that life wouldn’t be a bowl of cherries French Poodle, can you imagine? A toy!
anymore if she bought me. Her first words
were, “He’s a w-i-n-n-e-r! I’ll make him a “Come-on, Twitter, come-on baby doll,
blue-ribbon dog – a champion of cham- lift your head, raise those front paws,
pions. I’ll take him.” That said, she turned prance, you can do it girl, you can do it,” she
away (never even petted me) and went to mumbled. Helen didn’t know or care about
the business of buying me. Twitter; she just latched on to one of the
dogs and claimed it as her own. “Be PER-
Nonetheless, I was thrilled that she liked FECT,” she said, with exaggerated sincerity.
me right off the bat, and that made me like Helen asked the indifferent TV, “What’s the
her despite it all. But I sensed something off problem, judge, you dumb-ass, can’t you
kilter, not quite right. I smelled desperation see she’s the best when she’s wagging her
on her part (dogs often think through their tail in front of you?” It was the same – pre-
noses). I wasn’t against winning. I’m as vain dictable – with each dog show she watched.
as any other dog; it was Helen’s urgency
(win or bust) that worried me. She didn’t Bud too had his rituals. His favorite
seem to care how cute – adorable – I was. was beer-drenched rambling and guttural

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

grunts being an arm-chair coach during I also wish I could do something worth-
the Sunday afternoon football games, while instead of feeling guilty so often for
while Helen played canasta with her lady not helping anyone. I don’t expect to save
friends in the next room. Helen and Bud the world, but it would be...heartwarming…
lived in different universes in the same to be appreciated for more than looking
house and slept in the same bed at night. pretty. I want a legacy greater than a few
She was driven to win, period, whether it blue ribbons saved in Helen’s scrapbook.
was a card game or a dog show; winning
was her bottom line of whatever she did. Face it, I’m almost human! Pretend to be
Bud didn’t seem to care about winning. As me as I tell you about my experience in a
for the football games, he said the same dog show.
thing each Sunday: “It’s just a game, win
or lose.” Maybe he felt frustrated with his “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the
lack of accomplishments, like the narrator final event of the West Virginia State Canine
in Remembrance, and ignoring competition Championship,” crackles the high-pitched
made it impossible to lose. microphone. The words bounce off the walls
of the freshly painted brown barn. Every
People are such creatures of habit! year it’s the same. Mister Samuels puts the
cows to pasture and converts the barn for
Although I don’t agree with Bud that the show. He always adds bleachers, puts
competitions are frivolous, I still believe I’m hay on the floor for atmosphere, and has
more like him than like Helen. I don’t care fluorescent lights on the ceiling to make the
which dog wins Best in Show, and I’m happy event festive. It’s covered by local television
to sink into the soft rug, soak in the warmth in Morgantown, making this a big deal in
from the fire, and drift in and out of sleep. West Virginia on the last weekend of April.
Life is short (especially for a dog), so I might
as well please myself when I can. From my viewpoint. it gets monoto-
nous and scary at the same time. I feel
Hold on for a minute. What kind of if I so much as slouch for a moment or
tinted lens am I looking through? Am I dis- scratch myself at the wrong time I’m in big
honest or just lacking insight? I’m sure Bud trouble. The whole state is staring at me,
cares which football team wins whatever he and I worry that I’m as ugly as Bud thinks
says, and, of course, I want to win first place I am, or at least thought so at first. Helen
in dog shows, not just for Helen (although expects me to win Best of Show, as usual,
that’s important), but for myself. I’m more as her other dogs have done. Her anxiety
than her slave. Being adorable isn’t enough rubs off on me. I feel that I’m carrying the
for me. My life is complex and conflicted. I weight of the world on my back – God help
I want to please Helen, even when she gets me – although I realize that it’s just another
mad at me (usually unfairly), but I want ac- dog show that will soon blend with all the
complishments of my own. I am ambitious others. It makes me wonder whether my
to win those damn dog shows, yet I am lazy worth varies with the result of each dog
and love relaxing by the fire without a care show, or am I worth the average of my re-
in the world. And I can’t deny that I desire sults in all the dog shows?
a sexy bitch friend (what male doesn’t?).
Human companionship is fine, but I’m a dog, These crazy judgmental situations make
and dogs need dogs. me think of such nonsense.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The microphone rattles on, “The 14 dogs, tragic death of Sunflower, an Irish Setter
each remarkable for their breed, have won that ran in front of a truck. I guess she
their individual group championships, and wasn’t as bright as she was pretty. Anyway,
will now compete for Best in Show. Please Sunflower’s rust-colored hair looks soft and
give a round of applause to our judge, Ms. glows in the picture, but she seems some-
Shelly Landers.” what emaciated. I wonder what it would
feel like to rub my muzzle against her. Fire-
Ms. Landers was Helen’s biology teacher ball, a sleek Golden Retriever, was another
in high school. It’s all quite incestuous. one of Helen’s blue-ribbon wonders. His pic-
tures are sprinkled throughout the house. I
Oh, please, stop all the talking and let’s especially like the photograph of when he
get started. How long can I stand spread won the West Virginia State Canine Cham-
eagle, all fours stretched beyond reason, pionship, the dog show that I’m in right now.
my hairy chin and cropped tail (meaning My favorite picture, however, is the one in
no tail to speak of) reaching in vain for the which he is flying through a hoop of fire as
fluorescent lights in the ceiling. I can’t help if he’s some kind of God or bird or myth-
thinking of Helen’s outbursts about Twitter ological creature. Fireball was a champion
some months ago as I wait for Shelly, Ms. at obedience as well as being a perfect
Landers, to inspect me. I turn my short neck physical specimen: he was Perfectly Perfect
to scratch my back with my teeth (oops, I you might say. He made Helen happy and
shouldn’t have done that) and am struck proud. What does that make me? Less than
with how imperfect I am. Also, I think of kindling in the fireplace, a fluttering flame
how boring I must be to look at, with short on the edge of extinction.
brown hair that can’t be spun into a fancy
hairdo, like Twitter and many other com- Oh, here comes the judge.
petitors have. I hate feeling the roll of fat
against my truncated nose as I scratch my- “Hello, Helen. So, this is Pushkin that
self, which makes me snort with strange you’ve been telling me about,” said Ms.
sounds and drip saliva. I wish I looked like Landers with a smile of questionable sin-
those four-legged beauties of Helen that cerity.
won those blue ribbons that are pinned on
the wooden wall in the living room. I must “Mister Pushkin,” corrected Helen. She
appear like a mutant. Everyone will laugh slipped me one of those tasty little tidbits
at me, especially if I’m not seen at ground as a bribe to behave, or else! “He’s our little
level, and no one gets that low. I’m an aerial gem.”
view for the judge.
There she goes calling me little a gain. I
Never mind, I beg myself. I’m an En- may be on the small side for a bulldog, but
glish Bulldog, a proud lineage, and the first I’m still in the normal range: not too tall, box-
Bulldog that Helen and Bud ever had, so it like, straight legs. I’m more compact than
must be an adjustment for them as well. small, but my perfection depends o n the
judge proclaiming it. She defines me today.
I never knew Helen’s dogs that got all
those blue ribbons, but I’ve seen their pic- I can feel Helen’s anxiety.
tures around the house. Wow! That’s some
competition for me. I was bought after the Oh, God, there she goes slipping her
sweaty fingers between my back legs and

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

pressing my, well, you know what. It’s so Ah, that feels good when Shelly squeezes
embarrassing, especially in public on TV. my toes and rubs my shins. I have good legs.
Men judges are more discreet in that Uh-oh, there go her fingers in my mouth. Yes,
area. I wish I had a long tail like most dogs Ms. Landers, those are teeth and if you get sa-
to swat her away. Ouch! Not so hard, Ms. liva all over yourself, don’t blame me. I didn’t
Landers. You don’t have to lift my backside. ask you to stick your thick hand in there.
Can’t you just use your eyes? That’s what
they’re for. “Just a few more minutes, Mister Pushkin,”
Helen whispered in my ear.
“What a cutie! I love those ears. See how
they go out to the side and then just flop I think the judge heard that. Her eyes
over,” comes a feminine voice floating from flicked in my direction for a split second
the audience. and she’s emitting a new odor. Her smell
has changed from a sweet musky orange
Is she talking about me? I bet it’s that to a bitter, stronger, acrid orange, not quite
pretty blond girl with curls in the second row. lemon, more like grapefruit. Hard to get the
right fruit so a human would understand a
“Yeah, I suppose,” said the boy next to distinctive odor no dog could mistake. I think
her, the fuzz on his upper lip glistening with that Helen doesn’t have confidence in my
beer foam. Teenagers! “But Bulldogs are ability to remain patient during my humil-
kind of degenerate, know what I mean? iation, but she needn’t be. I can be steady
They’re accidents of nature as far as I’m as a rock if I have to. But it’s too early to tell
concerned,” he said. “They’re not cuddly or how this is going to turn out. I remember
heroic looking, and certainly not cute.” once when the judge hardly looked at me, I
won blue, and another time I was bounced
“But they’re so distinctive, and I hear they after the judge gave me what appeared to
have a heart of gold, really affectionate. I be super-duper consideration. Judges are
like that,” retorted the blond. impossible to read. I think they want you
to think you’re out of it when they plan to
I like that girl! She has a sweet voice, make you Best in Show, or make you think
and she’s right, I do have a heart of gold, you’re the best, that you walk on water,
but that doesn’t help me get a blue ribbon. when they know they’re going to eliminate
Actually, I’m too nice. For example, most you. Judges love to abuse their power, to
dogs would throw a fit when they get a control your mind, so to speak. Well, they
bath and scrubbed to death, whether they certainly have power.
like it or not. It’s more like being molested
than cleaned. But I just bear with it and I wish I could tell Helen everything’s
don’t complain. They mean well. And now, all right, win or lose. Poor Helen. Being a
being poked and pinched and buffed just so Bulldog makes it difficult to communicate
some two-bit judge, who doesn’t know any- with human beings, at least past the super-
thing about what it’s like to be an English ficial nonsense of licking here and there, or
Bulldog, can look me over and decide what sniffing between their legs. Actually, sniffing
I’m worth. Top dog? Maybe. Who cares? can be quite painful when your nose is as
Helen does. Why don’t I ever protest? I just sensitive as mine. Licking is better.
go along with everything.
I hate all the waiting as the judge goes
I’m too nice. around inspecting each one of us.

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Finally, it looks like she’s ready to move to the finals as well? Life is unfair! If he wins,
ahead. they’ll probably celebrate with a dozen
glazed doughnuts. Yuk. The whole thing
“I want Charlie, Babs, Doughboy, Number makes me sick. Good God, there’s another
One and Mister Pushkin to come forth. The fart drifting from plushy Doughboy. Lucky
others may leave now,” said Ms. Landers, thing for people they can’t smell worth a
looking stern, like the commander of a great darn. Some of them wouldn’t smell a turd
naval ship ordering her men to prepare for if they were squishing it.
battle.
Hey, what’s all that commotion? What’s
Number One! That’s sick. Does that going on in the grandstand? Everyone’s
mean piss, or does it mean he’s better than standing by the aisle looking concerned.
everybody else? Number One does look
pretty nifty though, for a Doberman, that “Move aside, please, the gentleman
is. Mean looking critter. I better behave or needs help. Let me help you up, sir,” said
Number One will eat me for lunch. the usher. “I’ll get your cane. It bounced
down a couple of steps. Here it is. Steady
Helen looks happy. I’m in the final five, now. Don’t rush. Are you hurt?”
and now she gets to parade me around a
bit. She loves to do that. I’m happy when “Not at all. Just embarrassed,” said the
she’s happy. gentleman. “Thank you. I didn’t realize
there was another step. I counted them on
“Please walk Babs up and down the the way down, but I guess I missed one. My
runway,” commanded the judge. mistake. Sorry about the popcorn all over
the aisle.”
I never liked Poodles, but Babs, WOW,
she really does something to me. I think What’s a blind man doing at a dog show?
she noticed me from the corner of her
eye. She’s a pro. Look at those furry legs “Never mind about the popcorn, sir. I’ll
dance; I’d like to get my paws around those help you to your seat and then get you
groomed poles! She’s got class and, I don’t some more. Let me see your ticket. There
know, great pheromones! Maybe French you go. Third row, seat 17. Be careful.”
Poodles aren’t as bad as I thought. At least
she’s not a toy, like Twitter. No sir, she’s got “Thank you. My son will get me soon.
mass. Goldy, his Golden Retriever, is in the obedi-
ence competition. Wish I could see it, but I
“Thank you. Very nice, Babs, very nice.” like just being here, sensing the dogs. Blind
people have that ability – sensing things that
Nice? Ms. Landers thinks Babs is “nice?” can’t see. I love dogs, always did. I’m getting
Babs is history. a seeing eye dog next month. Can’t wait. A
German Shepherd. His name is Shakespeare
“Doughboy please. Your turn,” said the – a beauty, or so they say. Thanks again.”
judge.
Why is Helen yanking my leash? Stop it;
Doughboy? Blubberboy is more like it. you’re hurting me. I may be a muscle ball,
He ought to be rolled down the runway. but still…
How does a freak like that Bassett Hound
make it to the final five? What’s the point “Mister Pushkin, please, get some life in
of all my dieting if a vacuum cleaner can get you,” said Helen. “The judge has called you

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

twice. What’s distracting you? Do I have to But…well, I hate to admit it, but the week
drag you? She wants to see you walk,” she you’re knighted as top dog feels pretty good.
pleaded. If I win this thing, will Helen elevate my
name to Sir Mister Pushkin? Winning blue
Okay, okay. I’m coming. Poor guy. Blind. is very different from feeling blue. And then
Was he blind at birth? I wonder if he can Helen is so up the whole week when I win.
see anything, even a little bit, a faint light She just buzzes around like a happy bee.
perhaps. If not, life must be black all over for
him. Why is it always German Shepherds “Thank you, Mister Pushkin, Helen,” Ms.
that get to do the important stuff, like being Landers said. “Finally, Charlie, front and
a seeing eye dog, or a police dog, or just center please. Up and down the runway once.”
about anything people care about? They’re
prefabricated icons. Lassie, the Rough Collie Forget about it, Charlie. You’re boring
is their only competition. What’s the use if and you know it. Why don’t you go home
you’re a Bulldog? and be a good pet?

“C’mon, Mister Pushkin, lift those legs! “Arff.”
Hold your head up! Prance! You look like an
ironed rug,” Helen whispered. “Shh, Charlie. No! Quiet,” begged the
young man accompanying the scrunchy Da-
Man, she’s angry. I do feel like an ironed schund.
rug. She got that one right.
“Arff, Arff!”
“Bring him back, you’ve gone far enough,”
said Ms. Landers. “Shut up, will you? Sorry, judge. Good
boy,” said Charlie’s trainer, as he slipped the
“That’s better. Please, give it what you’ve noisy dog a biscuit.
got. Look sharp for mommy,” Helen begged.
She looks desperate. I hate when she calls Maybe I judged Charlie too quickly. Da-
herself mommy. Helen’s not my mother. schunds are sneaky. Watching those stubby
little legs zip along like a wind-up robot
She’s too big, and certainly no dog, but I makes me feel like a gazelle. Well, it’s all rel-
do love her, sort of. She does own me. I guess ative, I guess, except for German Shepherds.
that means I kind of own her, at least a little They’re in a league of their own.
bit. I never knew my mommy. It’s confusing
sometimes, not knowing where you belong “Please walk Charlie up and down the
or who your parents are, who to be loyal to. runway once more,” requested the judge.

I wonder what it’s like to be blind? It Uh-oh. Sounds serious. Better not get
must be claustrophobic, like being in a your hopes up though, Charlie. She may be
closed cage at night and bumping into bars: just looking for a good excuse to can you.
trapped, jailed, no way out, black on black. It’s that power play again.

What a great name, Shakespeare. Not “Thank you,” said Ms. Landers, and then
Mister Shakespeare. It seems ridiculous, she moved to the central table to announce
being Mister Pushkin. Isn’t just plain Pushkin her verdict.
enough. I wouldn’t have to be a Mister to be
validated by some judge if I was a seeing I can feel Helen trembling through the
eye dog. leash. Best of Show, top dog, top dog-
owner! She can sense it. Any minute now…

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Yes! Ms. Landers is pointing in my direction. bullets of light past Bud, as if he didn’t exist.
Past me. Past reality.
Blue! Blue! Yes! The sky and deep blue
sea! True blue. Helen, I did it! Okay, we did “Damn it!” she mutters again.
it. Yes! What? Why is Babs going towards
the judge? Everyone’s clapping. Babs? She’s Life can be ironic. I was laughing about
prancing, more like strutting, I would say. I Number One, and I end up Number Two. It
didn’t win? Why can’t those judges learn does hurt, earning red, being number two.
to point their fingers in a straight line? Are Oh, what the hell. It’s blue or failure, un-
their fingers crooked due to arthritis? They less Helen says it isn’t. Or, unless you’re a
are old enough. No, it’s the power privilege. German Shepherd. I wonder what would
They’re such a tease. It’s like that all-im- happen to me if Helen went blind?
portant phone call one craves. One waits.
Then ring, ring. Yes, finally. Hello. This is There she goes into the garden to fiddle
Mister Pushkin. Did I win the lottery? Oh. with her flowers. Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle. Helen
Sorry. You have the wrong number. always does that when I don’t win blue,
after her fit that is. She’ll get over it. She
Maybe next time. Yes, maybe next time. always does. Anyway, you can say what you
Perhaps. want, but Babs was really something. No
dog would disagree, at least no male dog.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about,
you’ve never cared about anything. I’ll have to wait until Helen finishes with her
flowers to get my dinner tonight. So what? I’m
“How did Mister Pushkin do, dear? Do not hungry. At least not too hungry. Not yet.
you have another blue ribbon for the wall?”
asked Bud, as soon as we entered the house. I wonder how that blind guy is doing. If
he was born blind, he wouldn’t know blue
“Got red. Damn it. We were so close. from red, or any other color. It wouldn’t
Mister Pushkin just blanked out before matter. His blue would be being able to see,
the walk. I don’t know what happened. He and I don’t think he’ll ever get that.
looked distracted, uncaring. Hard to figure.”
If I were his seeing eye dog, I wouldn’t
Second place was all over her red face. She let him fall down. That would be my Re-
clenched her jaw, her eyes lasers shooting membrance.

About the Author

During his 50-year research career at the National Institutes
of Health, Joram Piatigorsky has published some 300 scien-
tific articles and a book, Gene Sharing and Evolution (Har-
vard University Press, 2007), lectured worldwide, received
numerous research awards, including the prestigious Helen
Keller Prize for vision research, served on scientific editorial
boards, advisory boards and funding panels, and trained a
generation of scientists. Presently an emeritus scientist and

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
writer, he collects Inuit art, is Vice-Chairperson on the Board of Directors of The Writer’s Cen-
ter in Bethesda. He blogs at his website (Joramp. com), has published personal essays in Lived
Experience and Adelaide Literary Magazine, a novel, Jellyfish Have Eyes (IPBooks, 2014). He
has published the following books with the present publisher, Adelaide Books: a memoir, The
Speed of Dark (2018), two collections of short stories, The Open Door and Other Tales of Love
and Yearning (2019) and Notes Going Underground (2019). His short story, Not for Every-
one, was a 2019 shortlist winner nominee, and his short story, The Optimist, won the 2020
Adelaide Literary Competition. He has two sons, five grandchildren, and lives with his wife in
Bethesda, Maryland.

16

I AM

by Evie Haskell Maxwell

“I am death,” said the little girl. harsh enough to draw a reproving look from
the scrawny Latina assisting him. The little
The big man in a stained apron turned. girl said nothing.
Lights from the cooking fire behind him
gleamed on his brawny arms, and sent dark The big man wiped one hand across his
shadows flickering over the tattooed snakes mouth. “Sorry kid. But how the hell do ya
that writhed there. He had a long line of do that with your eyes?”
people before him, waiting patiently in the
night air. But, for this moment, he saw only The little girl shrugged, the thin blades of
the child. her shoulders mirroring the sharp relief of
her collarbone.
She stood barely three feet high, with
light brown hair tied back by a scarlet ribbon. The man frowned. “Damn, girl. You need
She wore a pinafore made of denim and to eat somethin’.”
bright sneakers which matched the ribbon
in her hair. The big man squatted down. She shook her head. “I don’t have money.”

“Death, huh?” he said. “Hell, kid. I wouldn’t take it if ya did.”

The little girl didn’t reply. Rising, the big man turned back to the
fire pit where he was making his famous
The big man leaned closer, staring into blue-plate burgers, selling them for eight
the girl’s eyes. Slowly his lips pulled back, bucks apiece to the people in line. He
his small eyes flared, his nose widened. slipped a sizzling burger onto a soft wheat
bun, and handed it, along with a bottle of
His look was that of a startled rhinoceros. water, to the little girl.
The little girl giggled.
Smiling, she began to turn away and said,
“Jeezus!” The man crossed himself. Shook “You’ve got to tell your doctor, okay? About
his head. Looked back at the little girl. It was the blood on your underwear.”
still there, in her eyes. The clear blue that
he’d seen in the waters of Croatia, the deep *
greens of Australia’s Daintree forest, and
then a blaze of multicolored neon, Hong “Flamin’ jelly up my nostrils!” a desiccated
Kong at its most tawdry. voice rasped through thick fog, redolent with
stale breath and mold-ridden soil. “What in
“You got my whole Army career on tape the Devil’s name does she think she’s doin’?”
or somethin’?” he asked, his voice loud and

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“I told you it’s no job for girls, you boot- wrist, “you’re awfully early. My agent said
licking ghoul.” A second figure came out of late afternoon. And you really should have
the fog. A mantle of slime and moss cov- your guardian with you.”
ered its bent form. Light flickered from one
raised finger, a stick-like appendage, partially “Guardian?”
decayed. “Mark my words! This will end in
disaster.” The woman giggled, a conspiratorial
chortle. “Honey, anyone under eighteen
“Huh.” The first figure turned, wrapping needs a guardian to get on this set. I’m sure
gray mist and slime around itself, a rotting you know that. But you did a runner, huh?
cocoon leaking pus. “Damned committee, Decided to come meet me all by yourself.
claimin’ we need a ‘softer approach’. Ba!” That shows grit. Initiative, and good for you.
With a hawking noise, a globule of spit But come over here.” With one elegant
emerged to splatter on the ground. hand, the woman beckoned to the little girl.
“Let me see you close up.”
The second figure stepped aside. “I told
‘em. This ain’t no tea party.” “But I’m –“

“I know! But the archangels are up in “Don’t be shy.” The lady leaned over to
arms. Say they’re tired of always being the take the little girl’s hand. She pulled her
bad guys. So we gotta try some new things, closer, gently and with a smile. “You’re re-
be patient.” ally quite lovely. I’m sure they’ve told you
that. And I could definitely see you playing
“Patience! A minor form of despair, dis- the role of Aynat. Such a sweet innocence,
guised as a virtue.” The second cackled, then hiding a streak of evil.”
snorted its disgust. “I’d rather piss hot lava.”
“Evil? No! It’s just –“
A grumbling issued from the center of
the fog. “You and your damn quotes. Am- “Just play acting. Of course it is, darling.
brose Bierce no less! You maggot-infested And you’re really perfect for it, especially
piece of dog meat.” with those eyes of yours!” The lady leaned
closer, her own eyes reflecting the multi-
* colored hues that flitted like bits of rainbow
across the little girl’s irises. “That’s quite
“I am death,” said the little girl. remarkable. As if you were a spirit from
another world. How to you do it, anyway?
The woman on the chaise lounge turned. Some kind of contact lens?”
Her long hair shone like polished mahogany.
Dark lashes fringed her sapphire blue eyes; “No lens, m’am.”
her lips pouted a perfect pink. She regarded
the girl, then raised one hand and, with a “Oh come on, sweetheart. I love the con-
diamond-tipped finger, wiped a smudge of ceit, but really, I’ve been in this business
white from beneath her nostrils. long enough to know showmanship when
I see it.”
“Goodness,” she said. “What a line! What’s
it from?” The little girl stamped her foot once,
annoyed. In just that moment, her eyes
“M’am?” throbbed. A greenish blue light reflecting
endless corridors and paths untaken.
“Oh, never mind. I’ve been expecting you.
But my,” she glanced at a gold watch on her

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Revista Literária Adelaide

The woman gasped, a rattle sounding ‘em into a pack of snivelers. Makes people
from her throat. want to vomit up their fright.”

The child clapped her hands over her eyes. “But this –“
“I’m sorry.”
“I get it, you snot-filled bladder. We need
“What was that?” someone with passion, persuasive skills,
creative delivery! Not a pocketful of get-
“I told you. Death.” out-of-death-free cards!”

The woman stared, her face paled to a “You said it, you insufferable sinkhole,
colorless sheen, nearly transparent with not me.”
fear. “Oh my god. My heart. My doctor
warned me but .... Stay with me. Please, “Yeah, yeah. So here’s what we’ll do. Give
darling. I’m afraid.” ‘er one more chance. Just one.” The ghoul
waved his boney finger in the air, leaving a trail
The little girl sighed. “I can’t stay. But of soot-colored slime. “And if she blows that,”
there’s still time. Call 911.” he drew his finger across his throat, “curtains.”

The lady dove for her purse, pulled a *
jewel-encrusted phone from it, stabbed in
three numbers. Then looked to the little girl. “I am death,” said the little girl.

And saw only a slight shimmer, fading in The old couple on the boardwalk turned.
the air. Their wizened faces showed surprise. And a
sort of interest.
*
The little girl frowned. In her short service
“This! This is an abomination! An embossed as an ambassador of death, she’d seen fear,
carbuncle in my corrupted blood. A –“ revulsion, disbelief. But this? This was new.

“So now you’re stealing from Shake- “You don’t say?” The old man patted his
speare?” the first voice sneered. “Don’t got wife on the shoulder of her worn burgundy
anything original to say?” coat. He leaned close to whisper in her ear,
a wrinkled pink shell with a single white
“I am disappointed. Exceedingly, excep- pearl at its lobe. “What do you think?”
tionally, disappointed! She came to us with
the best references. I even watched her per- The woman shrugged, her knobby hands
form. When she gets those eyes going –“ clutching tight to a white cane. “Talk to her,
Henry. But do be careful.”
“I get it. It’s a helluva show.” A snicker
leaked out, an oily puff fouling the air. “Gives The old man hobbled forward, his body
folks something to think about other than shaking with tremors. As he approached,
big, bad death. Guess The Committee thinks the little girl could smell a sickness coming
it’ll soften our image.” from him, a faint rot wafting on its own chill.
As he reached her, he bent down even fur-
“Soften?! She gives one mark a free pass ther to put his face on a level with hers.
from death. Tells another to call an emer-
gency number! I say we yank her now and –“ “You don’t look like death,” he said. “You
look like a little girl.”
“And what? Threaten the arch angels
with more wing rot? All that’s done is turn

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

The little girl nodded her acceptance, “Why on earth would anyone want to do
the lights in her eyes dancing from blue to that?”
green, topaz, brown and lavender.
The little girl sighed. “It used to happen
“Well goodness me,” the old man said. all the time. Back in the old, old days.
He turned to look over his shoulder. “I wish People were closer to nature then, most of
you could see this, Marianne. This child has ‘em anyway. Knew, like animals do, when it’s
a whole light show right in her eyes.” their time. That brought a sort of comfort, a
feel for the cycle of life and death and the
“Well,” said the old woman, tapping for- possibilities beyond.. But it, feeling it, went
ward with her cane. “Then she’s no ordinary out of fashion. That’s part of what got death
child, is she?” such a bad reputation.”

“No, m’am,” the little girl said. She watched “A bad reputation?” The old woman
as the old woman approached, taking note laughed softly. “Not for me, sweetheart.”
of her milk-white eyes, framed by spindly
lashes. The old man put one hand on her shoulder,
reassuring. “Will it hurt?” he asked.
“You really shouldn’t call yourself death,”
the old lady said. “Your poor mother would “Not if you’re ready like. Accepting. That’s
be dreadfully upset.” the key.”

“I don’t have a mother. Least not that I “Oh, we’re ready.” The old woman spoke
know of.” with a kind certainty. She moved to put her
arms around the old man. “My Henry, here.
“Oh you little darling.” The old lady He doesn’t have long. That dreadful cancer
reached out, her soft fingers flitting over from his days in the factory. And I can’t bear
the little girl’s face, comforting. “But really to be without him.”
… death? How could that be?”
The little girl opened her mouth to ob-
“It’s my job, is all. Well, maybe my job. ject. Her mission hadn’t included the old
I’m kind of on trial.” lady. But then she couldn’t think of any
harm to that. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“On trial for what?” the old man asked.
“Okay,” she said.
The little girl put her head to one side.
She’d been instructed on the dos and don’ts “No!” A voice thundered in her head. “That
of her job and no one had said anything is strictly against the rules. Take him only!”
about explanations. But this couple seemed
interested. The little girl smiled at the old couple.
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’m supposed to let people know when
they’re going to die. So they can prepare *
like.”
“Scum, wound rot and wildebeest turds!”
“You mean write their wills and all?” asked The first ghoul jumped from one foot the
the old man. other. “That is not allowed.”

“Oh no! No time for that. It’s just so they “Told you so,” the second ghoul stretched
can gather their senses and experience the talons at the end of his fingers. “The
death.” girl is much too forgiving, letting people off,

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Revista Literária Adelaide

adding people willy nilly. We will need to The little girl smiled. Her eyes flashed. A
eliminate her.” hiss of electricity rolled across the echoing
space. Blue serpents, sparking and cack-
“Pull her fingers off, one by one? Throw ling, wove their whip-thin bodies around
her in a bath of boiling oil?” the demons. With screams and curses, the
creatures began to sink to the ground. Their
“First pepper her skin with small nails. arms flailed in the air as their feet, then
Then throw her in that bath.” their ankles and calves and thighs melted
into pools of smoldering oil.
“Oh no!” the second ghoul said. “We can –“
“You’re giving death a bad name,” said
“I am death,” a small voice said. the little girl. “And that’s not right.”

The two demons turned. She turned then, and held her hands out
to the old couple.
“You!” cried the first

“Will pay!” cried the second.

About the Author

After focusing for many years on non-fiction writing (ads,
magazine articles, documentaries etc), Ms. Haskell began to
study fiction writing as a way to explore the realities that
lie at the edge of human perception. A long time Colorado
native, she now lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family,
three dogs and assorted wildlife.

21

THE SPRUCE CREEK
DIVERSION

by Richard Bader

They had been out for longer than made felt a degree of satisfaction with each iden-
sense, and it had been far too long since tification, but chose not to impress her with
they’d seen anyone else. This wasn’t re- them. The hiking was enough, no conversa-
mote wilderness they were hiking through– tion required. Still, was Jamie quieter than
–a twenty-minute drive from town to the usual? Was something on her mind?
dirt road, and then maybe another ten to
where they’d parked near the trailhead. They had been together for almost a year.
There should be a lot of people here, espe- They met online, after a dating app had
cially on a weekend. It was a well-traveled deemed them algorithmically compatible.
trail, one that Alex had been on several Their profiles indicated shared interests—
times before, though it was the first time outdoorsy things, mostly, things like hiking
for Jamie. But it had been at least, what— and camping and skiing. But who didn’t do
twenty minutes? longer?— since they’d those things in this part of the country? And
seen another soul. This bothered him some, even if you didn’t do them, you’d still put
though he said nothing that might give Ja- them on your profile, because otherwise
mie cause for concern. They were on a trail, who out here would want to date you?
climbing, and they could hear the creek Also microbrews, concerts at Red Rocks—
running beside them, so there really wasn’t all pretty standard stuff, clichés of western
anything to worry about. Alex liked the youth. No “golden sunsets,” thank God, no
rhythm of hiking, liked that nothing more “dew on the early morning grass.”
was expected of him than simply to put one
foot in front of another. Being here with Ja- What really got to him was her photo—
mie just added a new layer. Jamie was knockout gorgeous, with eyes a
cerulean blue, light-brown hair with wisps
Higher up the vegetation would thin out, across a freckled forehead, a tattoo winding
but here the trail cut through a thick forest its way down her bare left shoulder. And in
of juniper and bog birch and chokecherry, of the photo she was laughing, a real laugh,
blue spruce and lodgepole pine and Douglas not a just-for-the-camera laugh, like she’d
fir. He clicked off the names to himself and been all posed and then someone surprised

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Revista Literária Adelaide

her with a joke. And all of this against a “Ask what?”
backdrop of red stone rising into a sky that
matched the color of her eyes. Yet on his “What happened to my arm. You know
way to meet her for the first time, at a you want to know.”
brewpub she suggested, doubt crept in––if
she was what she seemed to be, then why “Only if you want to tell me,” Alex said.
did she need a dating app?
Oh, Jesus, Jamie thought. He’s going to
Jamie had arrived first and comman- be one of those.
deered a table for two. She turned to greet
him, her face every bit as beautiful as in her In the shower before she left her place to
photo, but the tattoo that snaked its way go meet him, she had given some thought
over her left shoulder ended below her to which story she ought to tell him. The
bicep in a rounded stub where her elbow bear attack? The climbing accident? The
should have been––she only had half a left birth defect? The shark? She couldn’t de-
arm. The tattoo both distracted Alex and cide. She would wait and see what story she
drew his attention to what wasn’t there. felt like trotting out. Though probably not
He knew he shouldn’t stare, but when you the birth defect.
meet somebody with half an arm, it’s hard
to put out of your mind that they only have She settled on the climbing accident.
half an arm. She fell, she said, and broke her arm, badly,
and needed surgery to fix it. She said she
* thought that would be that—give it a couple
of months and everything would heal back
Jamie had decided on a simple blue dress, to normal. But then came infection, sepsis,
sleeveless, after taking more time to think two more operations, and it got out of con-
about what to wear than was necessary. It trol and they had to amputate. This was, in
wasn’t like he was going to be noticing her fact, the true story, though it wasn’t her fa-
dress once he saw her arm. She could have vorite. She liked the one about the shark.
worn a burlap sack and it wouldn’t have
made any difference. At least the dress had “You have other questions,” she said.
a scoop neck, which might give him some- He did, like How do you cut your food? or
thing else to look at. How do you tie your shoes? And, of course,
What’s it like when you have sex? Every-
Alex didn’t gawk, she’d give him that. body wondered about that, though nobody
Some gawked, like the last guy she’d met asked.
here. He gawked, excused himself to go to
the restroom, and bolted. That was fine “They can wait,” he said, and her slight
with her. If a guy was going to make up his smile, the barely noticeable upwards pull at
mind about her that fast on the basis of the corners of her mouth, suggested that
that one thing (or, rather, the absence of this had been the right thing to say.
that one thing), then fuck him. What really
pissed Jamie off was that she had to pay for *
his beer.
The trail leveled off but didn’t go far from
“Go ahead, ask,” she said once she and the creek. They still hadn’t seen any other
Alex had settled in. people, which was odd, but in a way was
just as well. There was Jamie’s arm, which
strangers would stare at and then Alex

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

would stare back with his back-off-mother- *
fucker look, a routine neither he nor Jamie
looked forward to. They were like a puz- They took a break, sitting on some flat rocks
zle––you could tell that people who saw just off the trail, drinking water and grazing
them together were trying to figure them from a bag of trail mix he’d brought. “I’m
out. So it was fine with him that they hadn’t pregnant,” she said. Alex stopped mid-bite.
crossed paths with anyone.
“How…?” he said. They’d been careful.
*
“It happens,” Jamie said, with no more
“I come from a big family,” she’d said at emotion than if she were commenting on
the brewpub when Alex had asked, one of the weather. She shrugged and tossed a
those first-date, get-to-know-you questions handful of trail mix into her mouth. To Alex
everyone always asked, so she was ready the action seemed weaponized, performed
with her answer. “Two brothers and two with calculated nonchalance.
sisters, so five kids. I wouldn’t necessarily
want a family that big, but I’d like to have He took the bait. “What are you going to
two kids at least, maybe three.” do?” he asked.

They say it’s not a good idea to talk about “Start throwing up, I guess.” Jamie stood,
wanting children on your first date, but Jamie slipped her arm and a half through the
always brought it up. This, more than her straps on her backpack, and headed off up
missing arm, may have explained why she the trail.
didn’t have more second dates. But later in
the year she would turn thirty, so she thought *
she should get it out there at the start and no
time was wasted. She sipped her beer and On that first date they called an Uber to
looked at him to see his reaction. “You?” take them home. When it stopped at Ja-
mie’s apartment, Alex waited to see if she
“One stepbrother from my dad’s second would ask him in. She didn’t.
marriage,” Alex said. “Other than that, it’s
just me.” “I had a good time,” she said, sounding
to him like she was reading from a manual
“How do you feel about having kids?” of what to say at the end of first dates that
weren’t likely to lead to second dates. But
He hesitated, then lied. “I haven’t Alex wanted to see her again. She was dif-
thought a whole lot about it,” he said. In ferent, almost exotic. He felt a little thrill
fact, he’d thought enough about it to know when he called to ask her out a second time
exactly where he stood. Alex didn’t want and she said yes.
kids. Sometimes he would tell himself that
this was because of the sorry state the After their third date—less an actual date
world was in—what with global warming than just a walk around a lake in a park near
and other problems he had a harder time where she lived—she invited him to stay.
articulating. But the truth was he just Her arm proved to be no handicap at all.
couldn’t see himself going to all the trouble.
“I like kids okay, I guess,” he said. Another lie, *
and she could tell. She let the subject drop.
The trail ascended sharply and narrowed as
the forest closed in on them, forcing them
to push aside tree branches. Neither of

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them spoke as they climbed, either because as he hiked to sort out the thoughts that
they were out of breath—the trail had got- swirled in his mind, which really came down
ten steeper, and they were now above nine to one thought—Whose, then?
thousand feet—or because neither of them
knew what to say after what Jamie had said. The trail would go up some more, then
Both wondered what the other was think- level off and come to a fire road that would
ing. Tree roots and jutting rocks offered take them back to the car, or they could re-
reliable purchase as they made their way, trace their path back down the trail. Or at
though they had to scramble in a few spots. least that’s how he remembered it. The fire
They didn’t see the concrete slab until they road would be all dirt and rocks, and not
almost walked headfirst into it. Behind it much to look at, but it would be quicker. He
was a pool of water, the slab containing the figured that’s the way they would go, that
pool and forcing the creek off to their left, neither of them would have any great de-
where they could hear it trill its way down sire to prolong their adventure. He checked
the hillside. “The Spruce Creek diversion,” his watch. The hike was already taking a lot
Alex said, the place familiar, the structure longer than it should. He looked up ahead,
confirming that they were where they were but couldn’t see Jamie. This wasn’t all that
supposed to be. He felt a little less disori- surprising—the trail switchbacked as it
ented—impregnating Jamie and being lost climbed, and with all the back and forth it
was more than he could handle. wasn’t unusual to lose sight of the person
you were with, even if you weren’t that far
“Water?” he asked, holding out his Nal- apart.
gene, trying to steer things back toward
normal. He thought about her arm, which now
evolved into a liability, a flaw, a deformity.
“No thanks.” Jamie hoisted herself up with He wondered if this was why she wanted
a one-armed hop and sat on top of the slab. children, because a part of her was missing,
and having a baby would make her feel
“We turn here,” he said, pointing up the whole again.
trail. It forked left and right, and he pointed
to the right. He drank from the water bottle. The switchbacks stopped and the trail
went more or less straight up. Alex kept
“Look, Jamie...” he said, wanting to talk looking up ahead, expecting to catch a
about it. She stopped him. glimpse of her.

“Alex. It’s not yours.” Eventually the trail leveled and the
forest thinned, with more blue sky between
“It’s what?” the tree branches. He figured he was near
the top. And there she was, sitting on a
“The baby. It’s not yours. So you can stop tree stump off to the side of the trail. She’d
worrying about what to do about it.” taken off her right boot and sock.

“But––” “I fell,” she said. “I think I sprained my ankle.”

But she was off, hopping down from the Alex looked at her ankle—red and a
concrete slab and heading up the trail to little swollen, but not too bad. If she hadn’t
the right. told him she’d sprained it he wouldn’t have
guessed. “Can you walk?” he said.
He followed, paying little attention to
the trail or to Jamie up ahead of him, trying

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“I think so.” Asking him to tie her boot laces was a
small thing, but it felt like a test, one he
“Put the boot back on, and tie it tight. It’ll wasn’t sure how to pass, or if he wanted to.
keep the swelling down.”
He looked away, stepped past her, and
He watched as with her one hand she kept hiking up the trail.
pulled her sock and hiking boot back onto
her bare foot. She had a fresh scrape on her *
knee, and a thin trail of blood trickled from
it. Later, she caught up to him. The trail was
maddening—it didn’t level out, didn’t in-
“Can you?” she said, holding her boot tersect with the fire road, it just kept going
laces and looking up at him. “Please?” She up. Alex stopped, and stood there looking
wanted him to tie it. up at the trees with his hands on his hips,
trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.
It’s not yours, she’d said. Whose, then, He heard her coming up behind him. If she
and whoever he was, did he know she was was limping, he didn’t notice. It wasn’t al-
pregnant with his baby? Did Jamie herself together clear to him if he had stopped to
even know who the father was? What if she wait for her, or he was just trying to figure
was lying? What if the baby really was his? out what to do next, or if there was a lot of
What if she wasn’t even pregnant? What if difference between those two things.
she had two perfectly fine arms, and this
was all an illusion, some trick of the light? “I think we’re lost,” he said.

26

UNLEARN

by Francis Duffy

Of course, gender reassignment wasn’t him—my earliest recollection of peer pres-
available then. Not that I was unhappy with sure. I did grin yet, owing to my having a
having been born male. Rather, it was the no-account father, no brothers, two older
latter half of the nature-versus-nurture di- sisters and a stalwart working mom, I’d as-
chotomy that vexed me. sumed Mikey meant the exact opposite. That
is, most adult males are (for reasons I hadn’t
My abnormality surfaced early. yet fathomed) dickheads, liars, boozers, fools
and thoroughly unreliable, like Dad.
I’d ridden my Schwinn to the home of a
grammar school pal. In the street in front Theretofore I’d assumed such was the
of it we were joined by a new kid whose norm, and that Mikey was ratifying my as-
family recently had moved into a house sumption, albeit via irony by declaring the
across from pal’s on Beelzebub Lane. Mikey opposite, which was why he grinned. Until
Coogan, the new guy, had swarms of Irish then I’d thought normal families were run
freckles on a round face, laughed often by moms who got scant help from spouse,
and, although two years younger than me, and no help from clergy, lawyers, police or
seemed more carnal. in-laws. I hadn’t yet realized: although born
to matriarchy, since first grade I’d entered
That wasn’t a word kids would have used patriarchy—aka, society.
then, if only because our school’s implant
specialists wouldn’t dare mention sex in daily But, of course, kids then didn’t use
religion class. “Adultery” yes, but only as the words like matriarchy or patriarchy either.
the Seventh Commandment’s last word, and The best I could do was wonder (to myself),
they never explained the word’s meaning. “Who died and left guys in charge of every-
thing?” School nuns were an exception—
I can’t recall how our chat got to a certain yet their gender was open to doubt. Many
topic, and no physical action happened to were robust, had male names (Sister Martin
make the day indelible. Just three grammar Joseph, Mother Saint Jasper) and their orca
school boys standing mid-street, talking. garb hid all but cropped face and violent
What marked me for life was what Mikey hands.
said about females, something like, “Yeah,
we know girls ain’t as good as boys!” For me, school seemed like Stalag 17,
a weekly TV drama of that era set in a
He said it with emphasis and a cheshire-cat Nazi camp for Yank POWs. Age seven, I’d
grin, nudging us to agree by grinning with

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

assumed that, because we’d finished les- Such is how it works in Plato’s Cave: cap-
sons and been filed out of classroom at 3 tors stun captives via a few public object les-
p.m., I’d weathered day one of first grade’s sons so they need not waste time thumping
barrage of yelled threats from camp guards. all individually. A dozen years later I’d see
the same efficiency on the Marines’ uber-
“Eyes straight ahead!” macho Parris Island: fish + dynamite = bel-
ly-up submission. Systemic violence—to
“No smiling, no laughing!” make minds malleable for dogma implan-
tation.
“Do not cross legs when sitting!”
It would take years (decades, actually)
“Boys keep hands out of pockets!” for me to realize that patriarchy rules all
societies.
“It’s ‘Yes, sister’! Not ‘Yes’ and definitely
not ‘Yeah’. Not so in my nuclear family.

“Keep hands away from face and fingers Our rented flat was a short walk cat-
out of nose!” ty-corner from St. Paul’s Grammar School,
so when I got home after day one of first
“No talking in classrooms, the lavatory or grade with right cheek still glowing, I asked,
while being marched!” “Mom, are you sure nuns are girls?”

My sin was grinning at a pal as we were She’d taken off from her six-days-weekly
being marched single file like penguins along waitress job to walk me to school, and to be
a second-floor hallway toward exit stairs. there when I got home. As Dad well knew,
Mom’s Irish temper was best avoided. Be-
As Mother Captor surged from my fore returning from a weeks-long binge—
right, waist-to-knees rosary beads jangling after blowing stay-gone money at bars and
like cowboy spurs, her enflamed mug and horserace tracks—he’d call at the down-
killer-whale garb distracted me from no- town Camden restaurant where she worked
ticing a left arm cocked behind its shoulder. to gauge Mom’s ire.
She face-whacked me for that unautho-
rized smile, her leg-speed intensifying the She hit the roof on seeing my glowing
whack’s force, swiveling my gourd hard- right cheek. Immediately took me and my
left. It’d knocked me out of file, so Mother two sisters to the school’s admin office
yanked me back via my necktie. and warned Mother Captor that if she ever
touched any of us again, Mom would return
Welcome to patriarchy, bro. Enforced by and “beat your virgin ass.”
burly females, no less.
Dad was a barfly, but Mom our lioness.
An obedient son, I’d never before been
hit but didn’t cry and not from courage. I’d *
primal-sensed from Mother Captor’s taut
body lingo (fists on hips, inches away, glaring . . .No, come to think of it, I take that back.
down at me) that tears would earn me an-
other whack. Eyes lowered, I stood silent as I had thought that early-teens day with
she admired her handiwork, which tattooed Mikey Coogan was my first taste of patri-
my cherubic mug from earlobe to chin. archy. But describing it made me realize I’d
been peer-pressured even earlier, if you
Using virgin flesh as blackboard, Mother
had highlighted the day’s message: Obey or
get thumped.

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allow Dad was my peer in that we’re both Dad sees me look his way, so he adds to
male. It happened when I was in second the day’s lesson.
grade, while readying for school one
morning. More dogma implant. “Martin Luther C*,” he says, his right fist
balled and his eyes on me rather than King’s
“SHIT!” Dad said with malice. TV image, “a big [n-word].”

I was nine, standing bent at waist near My patriarch, instilling requisite hatred.
our two-bedroom flat’s front window,
sorting stuff in my schoolbag. My two sis- Of course, M.L. King wasn’t being
ters and I will soon cross Craven Avenue to scorned for being female, as would Mikey
begin our week at St. Paul’s. Coogan a few years later. Yet King and his
race were being defined as inferior to the
Mom is in the kitchen making breakfast white males who rule patriarchy, as were
and our brownbag lunches simultaneously. females of all races.
Later she’ll vacuum while doing laundry,
then bus to her waitress job in downtown As yet I didn’t know different, nor would I
Camden. Dad drives a lunch wagon to con- during eight years of grammar school, where
struction sites (when not jobless or gone on all classmates and teachers were white.
weeks-long binges). Six feet and lean, he That despite the reality that less than a mile
stands before the black-and-white TV that from school was a neighborhood known
had entered our lives the year before. as “Match Town” because, it was said, one
match would destroy all its shanties (a state-
A news station airs film of a black min- ment usually ended with guffaw).
ister being interviewed. He’d led a Sunday
march against a southern city where blacks Neighborhood grammar schools fun-
are denied service at at a downtown de- neled us to a regional high school where my
partment store’s lunch counters, restrooms, large freshman class (312) had two token
fitting rooms and drinking fountains. blacks, one of each gender. But I’d already
begun to learn otherwise. Four years of
Dad didn’t like the sound of M.L. King. Little League baseball with all white team-
mates and coaches led to three years of
“School a [n-word] and he starts spouting Babe Ruth League ball, where some teams
five-dollar words!” he says in what I recog- had at least one black player.
nize as his tavern voice. He for whom I’m
named saw daily boozing with males as All were fine athletes, good teammates
normal manly behavior, mocking the no- and, frankly, I got along better with them
tion that such would cease with marriage than whites prone to supremacist posturing
or parenthood. a la Dad; also Monsignor Fartney, our parish
VIP who advised Mom to tolerate Dad’s
That’s when I look up from my schoolbag daily boozing.
and left at Dad, silhouetted against the
morning sun entering a side window. What “Better drunk than gone,” His Nibs de-
made the day indelible was the hate in his creed when she sought counseling re Dad’s
voice. Hatred that wishes Bull Connor had desertions. . .Males defending systemic
used live ammo on nonviolent marchers male privilege (aka, patriarchy).
(most in their church clothes) rather than just
attack dogs and high-pressure water hoses. My unlearning of implanted dogma
accelerated from freshman year of high

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

school, when I got a weekend job (full time Coogan was two years younger me and
each summer) in the Housekeeping Depart- we’re both Catholic. I want to say he was
ment of a Catholic hospital. Many black co- more worldly than me but, in hindsight,
workers plus recent immigrants from Italy, I’d say the difference was he was from a
Poland and Ireland. Only two whites on the ‘normal’ male-dominant family, where I
hospital’s softball team, which I enjoyed was the only son and youngest child of a
more than years of whites-only Little League. female-dominant family.
I thrived amid the mix of people who could
laugh at themselves more noticeably than As we approached the counter to buy
did males of my race and nationality. cold juice, Mikey scoots ahead to place a
hand over the “G” lettered across the grape
* juice tank, looks back at us and grins as he
had when he’d said girls are inferior. The
In daily dogma class, nuns hardly mentioned two other buys burst out laughing.
marriage except to inform that they them-
selves were wed to Jesus. Some seemed dis- I grinned knowingly but in fact I wasn’t.
missive of lay females wed to mere males— Judging by their leering grins, “rape” had
and the carnality required to procreate. something to do with sex. That night I
They’d wince, as though sniffing limburger, looked it up in the paperback dictionary
when we rote-recited: “Thou shalt not com- Mom kept on her nightstand for when she
mit adultery.” did crossword puzzles.

Nor did I learn of carnal matters from TV, There was “rape seed” of the cabbage
which was still divorced from reality, cen- family, plus we’d been at a farmer’s market
sored and offered but three channels. when he used the word. Still, I knew that
wasn’t Mikey’s gist after I read the next defi-
So I learned from neighborhood peers. nition.

My town’s Farmers Mart was a very long, Through a dozen years of daily catechism
prefab one-story building with two aisles class, students couldn’t ask questions. Only
on either side of a center section. Visitors nuns did. Decades later, I can make myself
strolled past dozens of stalls where vendors shudder to think how a nun would’ve det-
sold farm produce, hardware and house- onated had a student raised hand to ask
wares. In the middle, between those two about rape, divorce, abortion or homosex-
aisles, vendors sold eats and cold drinks. uality.

As kids we rode our bikes everywhere, Kids were there to obey, memorize and
so five miles each way to the Mart was an repeat after implant specialist: “. . .The Sixth
adventure. On a summer day less than a Commandment is, THOU SHALT NOT KILL.”
year after Coogan’s remark about girls being
inferior, I biked along the side of Route 130 *
to the Farmers Mart with him and two other
boys. As we strolled the aisles we wanted a After a dozen weeks on Parris Island then
cold drink after the hot ride. In the center two more at Camp Geiger for infantry train-
section at a corner shop, a vendor’s counter ing, I was ordered to Camp Pendleton for
was mounted with two clear plastic vats cir- overseas processing. Rather than go Grey-
culating lemonade and grape juice. hound, I opted to hitchhike from NJ to CA,
keen to see more of the homeland I was

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Revista Literária Adelaide

being sent half way around the globe to to read the language of behavior (from a
defend. safe distance), vice relying on what people
said.
Short hair parted left and combed flat
with white sidewalls, button-down beige For example, questions were allowed
shirt tucked in, thin black necktie, belted in science class (taught by nuns), but for-
dark chinos, shined boots. I hoped my mes- bidden in catechism (ditto). Eventually (it
sage would prod drivers to ignore good would take decades), I would decide which
sense and pick up a strapping male hitcher.​ implanted ‘absolutes’ are verified, and
which delusion. Once war had extracted
TO me from the platonic cave in which I’d been
WAR born, all ‘truths’ could be questioned.
VIA LA
USMC Starting with bedrock misogyny: God the
Father and God the Son—yet no God the
Boldface caps spaced wide on thick gray Mother and God the Daughter? Does not
poster board that wouldn’t bend in wind, Genesis codify patriarchy (2:7), and gender
backed by a flat board long enough to hoist inequality (2:18-22)? Why, after 2,000 years,
sign higher than head. Legible for eyes ap- are women deemed unfit for Holy Orders?
proaching fast.
I knew better.
Days awaiting rides along roads west
afforded time aplenty to sift how I’d been Mom never missed work, putting three
schooled for what I was being sent abroad kids through parochial schools despite a
to do. I’d received straight A’s through a thieving husband and merciless clergy. Be-
dozen years of daily catechism class, be- fore welfare. Before Ms. magazine. Before
cause I found the content interesting. So Title IX. Before #MeToo. But for her, my
much so that (misreading interest as piety) sisters and I would’ve been orphaned and
classmates had voted me Most Likely to separated.
Become a Priest. No, I focused because,
whereas algebra and geometry seemed Meanwhile Dad was most at home in
cold and bloodless, religion and history dingy bars. Bitter places brought from Ire-
were live theater—analyzing people rather land for the low end of working class, where
than numbers. barflies gather to boast of how they’ve
scammed wives, employers and other op-
Yet memorizing dogma didn’t necessarily pressors. He excelled at mocking others, a
convince me. Getting face-whacked on day tavern-learned skill he’d bring home with
one at Stalag 17 held more sway. From day the stink of beer, ashtrays and urinals. A
two I deployed a survival MO: deadpan, WWII draft dodger, he’d boast, “Only dum-
eyes and ears open, avoid spotlights, use mies get drafted. And the dumbest of all
stealth, smile inwardly. Instinctively, I tried enlist.”

Age twenty and off to war, I’d yet to meet
a man the equal of Mom.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Francis Duffy: A Yank, have lived abroad for decades; NONFICTION: 3 daily newspapers, 2
mags, tech manuals, web-content work for DoD; FICTION: Amarillo Bay, Typishly, Connotation,
Eclectica, Storgy, Columbia Journal, Evocations, Pen Dust Radio (podcast)

32

FAMILY SECRETS

by Chris Morey

Baz came swinging down our street, whis- “Yeah, it’s me. Done me time and feeling
tling some last-year’s hit, out of tune. After fine.”
nine months banged up courtesy of Her Maj-
esty, he was as happy as anyone would be. “What?”

I’d been keeping an eye out for him, not “I said, ‘Done me time...’ Oh, forget it. I’ll
that I wanted him to know that. I ducked just go upstairs and sort meself out.”
into the kitchen, where his mum wheezed
and snored in the rocker like a broken-down He grabbed my wrist and hauled me
engine, well before he crashed open the from the room. I knew who was going to
front door. get sorted out.

“Tracey, where are you?” Bloody stupid He’d always been a lazy bastard when
question, like we had a big choice of rooms. he was out of work, which was most of the
time. I’d get up around nine, see if his Mum
“In the kitchen,” I called out. needed help with dressing, make a pot of
tea – when there was tea and milk and sugar
He pushed open the door, spread his in the house – and take him up a cup. That
arms, and I ran into them. was the last I’d see of him till midday, unless
the dole office wanted him. He could keep
“Good to see you, Trace,” he muttered appointments like that well enough. If I was
into my ear. working, I’d do the same, two hours earlier.

“And you,” I said. So when I found the bed empty, I as-
sumed he was in the bog. I waited. And
He dragged me to a chair, sat and pulled waited. I could hear his Mum blundering
me onto his knee, hand up my skirt before about in her room, so I threw on a dress-
you could say Jack Robinson. That stood to ing-gown and went to check up on her. Baz
reason. was nowhere around.

“Yer Mum!” I hissed. He came home around four, sober, with
an expression I couldn’t describe on his face
“Dead to the world. Surprised to see her – satisfaction, maybe?
above ground.” He tipped me off his lap.
“Hello, Mum,” he bawled. “Where you been?” I asked him. “It ain’t
like you.”
She woke with a snort. “Barry! Is it?” A
note of uncertainty.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

He rubbed his finger on the side of his “...she won’t have spare money lying
nose. around. It’ll be in a bank with some tricky
bastard watching over it. Or she’s got a vi-
“Okay, stuff you, then. Don’t do nothing cious dog, or...”
I wouldn’t do.”
“No, that ain’t it. Trev was round there
This went on for a week. With two lots fixing her gutters last month, and she of-
of dole money and his Mum’s disability pen- fered him a cup of tea, and they got chatting,
sion, we could keep our heads above water like. She was married, but they never had
even if he didn’t do any jobs, so I didn’t care. no kids and her husband’s long dead. Her
brother and sister are dead, too. Christ, she
On Sunday, he said, “Get yer coat, Trace.” didn’t half go on, he said, but he was being
paid by the hour so it was all good. And –
I followed him to the bus stop. We took wait for it – she’s had a big row with the
an 11 to the Clock Tower, then a 78 that Social Services, accused her social worker of
went all out in the wilds, places I’d never nicking her jewellery.”
been, with trees and cows.
“So?”
We got off somewhere, cut down a foot-
path and he helped me over a stile. We came “Don’t you see? She ain’t got no family.
out on a country road. He took my hand, not We could be her family. Mum could be, I
that I was used to that, and I thought maybe don’t know, her niece, and I’m her son and
he had a spot of open-air sex in mind. But you’re my – partner.”
no.
“You’d never get away with it.” Though
He pushed me half into a hedge. even as I said that, I thought, he might.

“What’s the idea...?” “It’d need planning, I’ll give you that. Get
thinking, Trace, two heads’re better than
“Quiet, Trace. See that house through one. But we could live rent-free, and if we
there?” made up some hard-luck story, she’d lend us
money. And it’d be natural for her to leave us
I pushed leaves and twigs aside so I the house when she kicks the bucket. Look,
could get a better look. Brick, three storeys, we’ll talk some more when you’ve had time
slate roof: brass door-knocker, fresh paint- to think. But we need to move quick before
work, windows sparkling. A bloody mansion. the Social gets its act together.”

“Yeah, some rich shit’s, innit?” I gave Baz credit for hard work and
common sense. What might he have done if
“That’s where you’re wrong. But let’s sit he’d paid attention at school and not arsed
down. I need to tell you something.” about all the time? Luckily, the old girl called
Trevor back for another job, and he took Baz
We found a fallen log, and he dusted it along as his mate. She opened up to Baz,
off with his hand. We sat, and he turned to and he got the whole bloody family tree.
me, his expression serious.
The important bit was, her brother’s only
“It was something me mate Trevor said, son emigrated to Australia and was killed in
him I was talking to in the pub last Friday a car crash. Then his widow – also known
week. There’s this old bint, eighty-five if
she’s a day, lives there alone. Now, if she
can afford a big house like that...”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

as Baz’s mum – came back to England when wedding band on my finger was hot, as was
her health packed up, along with her loving the zircon-and-sapphire engagement ring. It
son and his charming de facto, ha, ha. If she always helped to have criminal associates. I
noticed we didn’t have Australian accents, wouldn’t have minded the ceremony as well.
we’d been to good schools. They must have
them out there. We’d only just found out She set out to make us tea, and I went to
that our Aunt Enid was still alive, and we help. A massive kitchen, frighteningly tidy.
really wanted to get together again.
“I’m afraid I have no cake, but there are
We went over and over it, each of us biscuits in that tin. Perhaps you’d lay some
in turn playing suspicious copper or social out on one of those plates? You’re a pretty
worker, trying to shake the story. It stood girl. Roger had an eye for a pretty face, too.”
every test. As long as we could bluff her
once, the first time... That might be a problem when we passed
Baz’s Mum off as Roger’s widow. Enid didn’t
* seem to remember her name, so Sharon
could be Sharon. It’d be hopeless trying to
Baz had smartened himself up so she get her to memorize a cover story.
wouldn’t recognize the oik who helped un-
block her drains two weeks ago. He rang We sipped the tea, lemony and scented,
the bell, and we waited. And waited. I felt nibbled on biscuits.
sick. Finally, she appeared, leaning heavily
on a stick. “After Dad died, Mum’s health got worse,
and she wanted to come back to England,”
“Yes? I’m sorry, I don’t buy anything at Baz assured Enid. “She was English-born,
the door.” you see.”

“Aunt Enid, I’m Edward, Roger’s son, and “That’s funny, I was sure she was Austra-
this is my wife, Melanie. We’re back from lian. I know Roger married her out there.”
Australia and we only just found out where
you live, so naturally...” Oh, shit, stick to the story! Or you’ll drop
us both in it.
Her jaw dropped. “Well! I’d never have
thought... Roger used to send Christmas He covered well. “Her parents emigrated
cards when he was alive, but since... Of when she was eight.”
course, I’ve never seen his children. I’m so
sorry about your father, such a tragic death. “So she’s more Australian than English?”
Won’t you come in?”
“Er, I guess.”
And it went like clockwork. Baz’s plum-
in-the-mouth accent would have fooled “I never met her, of course. What’s her
smarter people than me. I never realized name?”
I had such a talented boyfriend. And we
must be kosher, who else would turn up on “Sharon,” we said together.
her doorstep knowing who was who in the
family? I was starting to enjoy this. “Rose of Sharon, so pretty. You say her
health is bad?”
Melanie. Melanie. Not Tracey. I’d better
remember who I bloody well was. The “Yes, we’re very worried about her. She
might...”

“Oh, don’t say that! English medicine is
the best in the world. I’m sure she’ll recover.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

It was dark by the time we left. While we “Oh, I’m so sorry. We have frauds like
waited – nearly an hour – for the bus, we that here, too. Ponzi schemes, they call
held a post-mortem. them. The first few people make money,
and the rest lose it. More tea? Or, it’s six
“That went bloody well, hey, Trace? Sorry, o’clock, would you like a glass of sherry? I
Mel. I should’ve been an actor.” often have one about this time.”

“Actors have to stick to the script. You Baz invented a history for himself – he
made a right berk of yourself about Sharon. sold insurance – and built up a persona with
How the fuck are we going to pass her off brushstrokes so fine I could hardly see what
as an Australian?” he was doing. I mostly kept my mouth shut.
When Enid dropped hints about when we
“No worries. She don’t make no sense in were going to start our family, he calmly
either language. Enid’s a nice old biddy, isn’t told her we were waiting till I turned twen-
she? Friendly-like. And trusting.” ty-five. As if I hadn’t totally fucked up my
body with the stuff I used to take, and two
We called on Aunt Enid – that was how abortions on top.
we’d started to think of her – every other
weekend. One time, she baked us a cake, “Ah, I don’t know quite how to put this to
stiff with dried fruit and brandy, smothered you, but I rattle around in this big old house
in marzipan and icing. like a pea in a drum. If you wouldn’t find
keeping an old woman company too boring,
“Rather a special-occasion cake, but there are masses of spare bedrooms. We
finding long-lost relatives is a special oc- could convert one for Sharon if she needs
casion, don’t you agree? I made a real nui- anything special. I’m looking forward to
sance of myself at the shop, asking for them meeting her, it’s such a shame she’s so ill.”
to get in those ingredients. Have another
slice, Melanie. I’m sure you don’t need to And that was it. Baz was becomingly
watch your weight.” modest: ‘Are you sure, Aunt Enid? That’s a
wonderful offer.’ But he allowed himself to
On our fifth visit Baz tackled the ticklish be talked round.
question. He did it smoothly, like the patho-
logical liar he was. Waiting for the bus, he lifted me by the
waist and whirled me around like I was a
“We might not be able to visit you as often five-year-old.
in future, Aunt Enid. Mum’s getting worse,
and the place we’re staying doesn’t have the “Don’t! I’ll spew up, after all Enid’s tea.”
facilities for her. We may have to move away.”
“We done it – er, Mel. Nothing can go
“Have you looked at buying a home that’s wrong now.”
suitable for Sharon? I’m sure Roger would
have left you well-provided-for.” And nothing did. We signed an agree-
ment with Sharon’s landlord to pay the
“Oh, yes, he did. But Mum isn’t good with arrears of rent, not worth the paper it was
money, and she put most of it into a scheme written on, loaded her and our stuff into a
that collapsed, and lost it. The promoters taxi, and set out for our new home.
got sent to jail, but that didn’t bring the
money back. We’re getting by, but – no, we I could see Sharon was a disappointment
can’t afford to buy a house in England.” to Enid, thirty years younger than her and a

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Revista Literária Adelaide

complete physical and mental wreck. That forge. You copy it upside down.” Where did
was what came of partying and drink and I learn that? I don’t know any forgers. “Then
drugs and six kids, and she couldn’t have we’re away.”
been strong to start with. Enid persevered
with shouted conversations until she real- Not for the first time, Baz surprised me.
ized nothing was getting through. “C’mon, Trace, how long will that keep us?
And the bank’d call in the Filth, and we’d be
“Such a pity your mother isn’t more on the run for the rest of our lives. No, sooner
compos mentis, Edward. I was reading or later the penny’ll drop and she’ll leave us
about something called early-onset Alzhei- the house in her will, and the money.”
mer’s, do you think she has that?”
And my ears burned for being a merce-
“The doctors aren’t sure, Aunt Enid. It nary, short-sighted bitch.
could be.”
Sharon was shipped off to a home, and
It was Enid who suggested hiring a carer/ she didn’t take to it because she was dead
nurse for Sharon. “If you’re short of cash, I’ll in a month. Enid was the most elegant
willingly pay for it. Maybe she hasn’t long to mourner at the funeral, black suit and
go, poor soul, and I’d like her last days to be shoes and tights and hat and veil, dainty
comfortable. She’s family, after all.” So the lace handkerchief. I looked like something
nurse called, changed the bed, organized or nothing, but I was used to that. Baz, in
the laundry, found the TV remote when black tie, spoke the eulogy, breaking down
Sharon mislaid it. convincingly in the middle.

It was she who suggested Sharon should Sharon didn’t even leave enough to pay
go into end-of-life care. her debts. We made a bonfire of her clothes
in the back garden.
“Thank you, nurse, but that’s going to be
expensive,” said Baz, pulling a long face. One thought led to another. My reviving
conscience smarted at how we were ripping
I didn’t know how it happened, but Enid off this kind, generous old lady. I started
got wind of it and offered to pay her nurs- helping her with the cleaning and the shop-
ing-home fees, too. ping. Not the cooking, microwaved ready-
meals being my limit. Baz helped as well
Enid’s eyesight wasn’t great, and she’d when he wasn’t out pretending to sell insur-
get Baz to read documents out to her, fill out ance, fixing things she’d had to call Trevor
forms to her dictation, even write cheques in to do, even gardening under Enid’s strict
for her – she hadn’t got the hang of phone supervision.
banking, let alone computers. That gave me
an idea. In time, I became almost – not quite – her
personal maid. She never demanded, but it
“You must know how much she’s got,” I was a pleasure to help her with little things.
said.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you
“Yeah, I looked through her stuff. A real two,” she told us.
dog’s breakfast, bits in this bank and that
bond and Christ-knows-what. About a hun- The doorbell rang, and I answered it to
dred and twenty thou all up.” save Enid’s legs. Tall, spiky short hair, stud in
her right nostril, no makeup.
“What!? And she lets you write cheques!
I seen her signature, it’d be dead easy to

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Good morning, I’d like to speak to Mrs Enid hobbled back into view, a broad
Enid Blackburn. Social Work Department.” smile on her face. “There.”

I felt like hiding under the carpet. They’d Then Enid gave Baz an Enduring Power
out us, sure as fate. Bloody government de- of Attorney. “You know I can’t get to the
partments, always nosing around, knowing bank, and they’re so difficult about sending
more about you than you did yourself... a clerk to take my instructions. Mr Mayhew,
the old manager, was the soul of courtesy,
“Er... Ah... I’ll get her.” but these new business-school graduates,
it’s just money, money, money, like that
I fled to the back living-room, where silly song.” She sang a phrase. “I’m not so
Enid was reading the Deaths in the Times. far behind the times, you see. I feel I know
She liked to know who she’d outlived. you so well, now. I’m sure my money’s safe
in your hands.”
“Hello, Melanie. You look hot and both-
ered, dear.” When you were given a mark of trust like
that, no way could you betray it. After that,
“There’s a social worker outside!” It came we could no more have stolen from Enid
out like, ‘There’s a ferocious dragon outside!’ than flown.

Enid hauled herself to her feet. “Is that “I reckon it might be time to start our
all? Hand me my walking-stick, please. family,” was the next thing Baz pitched at me.
Thank you. Oh, you’re shaking! I’d go and
lie down if I were you.” “Are you fucking serious? What do I want
with a brat?”
She went out. I tiptoed to the door and
listened. “C’mon, Trace, all women want kids, and
we can give it a decent home now. And
“Good morning, Mrs Blackburn. Phoebe Enid’ll be over the moon. She’s never had a
Carruthers, Social Services. I’m aware of grandchild to spoil.” He winked.
the little, er, difficulty you had with my col-
league, and I’d like to make a fresh start.” “Well, I don’t know...” But even as I raised
objections, the thought put out tendrils of
“Most kind of you, but I don’t need your something not far off longing, the maternal
services at present. My great-nephew and instinct I didn’t know I had. Maybe it was
niece have come back from Australia, and meant to happen.
they’re doing a sterling job of looking after
me. I invited them to live with me since they “Okay, I’ll go off the Pill and see.”
didn’t have a home in England. Edward, and
Melanie whom you just met, a delightful I fell into his arms and he cradled me,
couple. So thank you for your concern, but and I felt soft, and weak, and loved.
shouldn’t you be helping single mothers
and battered wives, instead of people well *
able to look after themselves?”
“Edward, I’d like to have a serious discussion
A long silence before Phoebe spoke. with you, this evening, perhaps. And Mela-
“Oh... Well... I wasn’t aware of that. I’ll need nie, too, if you don’t mind.”
to refer to my office.”
We sat in the front room among all the
“Yes, do that. Thank you again, and good antiques and curios sent back by Great
day to you.” The door closed, firmly.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Uncle Ben who helped build the Empire in a nursing home – sort-of – with a hundred
India. The sherry decanter and three glasses thousand nicker! I gripped the sides of my
sat on the table. chair, feeling faint.

Baz placed three chairs, helped Enid to Baz’s voice came from far away. “Aunt
hers – where did he learn all these man- Enid, that’s just – well, an unbelievable
ners? – and we started. offer. But I never had any proper business
training.”
“I should probably have tackled this with
you before, but one’s latter end isn’t a sub- “You sell insurance, don’t you? You could
ject one likes to dwell on,” she opened. take a business course, you’re young enough
“Now, I made a solemn promise to Geoffrey to learn new tricks. And Melanie, you might
– my late husband – that since we had no like to qualify for a carer’s certificate.”
children this house should be bequeathed
for some eleemosynary object. I mean char- She looked at us both. “Well? I think
itable, for the welfare of mankind,” she ex- that’s settled. I’ll instruct my lawyers to-
plained. morrow.” She raised her sherry glass. “Chin-
chin, as dear old Ben used to say.”
Baz nodded wisely.
Nothing changed except our expecta-
“Having you kind young people to look tions. We set about completing the edu-
after me in my old age has been a God- cation that comprehensive school hadn’t
send. My idea is this. This house has ten given us, preferring to turn out comprehen-
bedrooms. If two of them were converted sive failures. It wasn’t as hard as I thought
to bathrooms, that would leave eight. The it’d be, and when I passed the final exam, I
house would then operate as a private felt like turning cartwheels.
home for solitary, healthy, elderly people,
who would pay lower fees than nursing Two years went by, Enid growing weaker
homes charge. A doctor and nurse would be and frailer. Then she too was moved into
on-call. I think this is what’s called Sheltered care. We rattled around our domain like
Living, and I gather it’s become fashionable.” two peas – soon to be three, I was finally
expecting. I hoped Enid would see the baby
She paused. My heart sank, seeing our before she died.
hopes wrecked. Kicked out into the street,
our future turned into a bloody old people’s But then she was taken to a hospice, and
home! I was ready to weep. we knew what that meant. One or both of
us visited her daily. “Real children wouldn’t
But Enid hadn’t finished. “The home be half so dutiful,” she told us.
would need a legal structure, and I saw
you as trustees, along with a lawyer and an It was a Sunday, and we were there to-
accountant. But more important, I’d very gether. Enid was dozing when we arrived,
much like you to manage the home. In re- but perked up when the aide offered her a
turn, I’d leave you a substantial legacy in cup of tea. “A little milk, no sugar, please.
cash and negotiable securities.” But you know that, don’t you, dear?”

I’d never been happy with business She took a sip, smiled at us. “Now I’m
jargon, but I got the gist. When Enid on my last lap – I hate the expression ‘last
popped off, Baz and I would be in charge of legs’, don’t you? – I feel there’s something
we need to tidy up. Wait till the girl’s gone.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Baz pushed the door shut and took his me that you’d been sent for a purpose. I
seat again. dreaded living on alone in that house – I
might have died in agony, and no one would
“I don’t want to go out of life living a lie, have known – and dreaded even more being
I want to speak the truth. Edward, I know shut up in an old people’s home. So it suited
you’re not Roger’s son. Your name may me to pretend you were my family just as
not even be Edward.” She cocked her head much as it suited you to pretend I was your
questioningly. aunt. And my plan worked like a charm. I’ve
so enjoyed having your company, I’m sure
“It’s Barry,” he muttered. it’s kept me younger.”

“Barry, and...?” She stretched out an arm to me and I
squeezed her hand, fighting back tears.
“Tracey,” I got out through numb lips.
“So we’ve deceived each other for years,”
“Well, Barry and Tracey, you were pretty she went on. “Perhaps that’s a sin, but I’d
convincing. But you had local accents, not like to think honours are even. Come here,
Australian, and there were other clues. children, give me a hug and a kiss.”
Then when you kept coming back, it struck

About the Author

Chris Morey was born at Cowes, Isle of Wight, England and
educated at University College London. He has done a wide
range of jobs – many in the IT industry – and community
projects. He had widely-traveled, and enjoy performance
art and reading.

40

LIGHT

by Sandra M. Perez

She couldn’t remember the last time she Light pools that once bathed her now be-
stood in the light. “Always look for the longed to other women. His manufactured
light,” he told her. “The pool of light is here, light no longer revealed her path, now
where you dance your solo.” His eyes re- covered with vines and stones. Her move-
flected magic that wedged into her heart. ments were strangled.
Lightness was her mission. Delicately she
floated over, under, in, and out of the fan- Where is he so late? It is so dark now, she
tasy he had designed only for her. He had wondered watching the June bugs alight.
made her beautiful. The magic light of a firefly is only seen in the
dark of its surroundings. Their light turns to
He was different from other men she nothingness in the bright white of day, like
had known, unique, alternative, untrust- him. She hugged herself tight to infuse hope.
worthy some would say. It was too late to
listen. The light had stolen her heart and *
she opened wide to let it shine through. She
made a promise to him. They manifested a Dreams unfolded into daylight, fireflies gone.
being of light. The morning light meandered through the
white lace curtains of her bedroom danc-
* ing delicately as she once did. Dappled light
created dark tunnels in the air. She, alone,
The theatre was empty the day the lights maneuvered gracefully, in and out, under
went dark except for two souls cuddling at and through looking for the light of life.
the height of its view. She was not one of
them. He was, the returning light revealed. Then it found her, calling her name,
“Mommy?”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Professor Emerita Sandra M. Perez, Towson University Department of Dance began studying
creative writing after retiring from a lifelong career as a professional dancer, and arts educator.
Sandra’s writing reflects her perspectives as a human, child, woman, mother, artist, educator,
and mystic. She lives in Maryland among nature with her cat Phoebe where she continues
to teach Wellness through Dance, study tarot, and to pursue her lifelong passion of telling
stories through movement and words. Her story “Wilderness” was recently published in the
International literary magazine “Adelaide.”

42

DROWNING IN
SILVERFISH

by Lauren Colwell Steinke

I met myself the day before the Fourth of and showed us how to dive direct from a
July. I was sitting in a nondescript coffee boat. We were still in really shallow waters,
shop in my hometown, they’d torn down though. It was a warm day, and there was
the deli I used to go to with my father every something heady in the humidity, the intox-
Saturday to build it. I took a small, sour de- icating feeling of controlled danger.
light in ordering the cheapest coffee they
served and sitting there, taking up prime I’d gotten into a fight with my roommate
table space in front of the open window, for that day over something silly, so I was ig-
hours on end. noring her, and probably swam out fur-
ther than I should have. I don’t remember.
No one bothered me, normally, as it I just wanted to be by myself. So there I
wasn’t necessarily popular, but then one was, down under the water, not too far
day someone did. They pulled out a chair, away from the boat, but far enough that
sitting down diagonal from me, and when I could make believe that I was all alone.
I next looked up from my phone, I saw her. Scuba diving is mostly a solitary experience,
She had my freckled skin, pockmarked from anyway, and we were all connected to the
teenage acne and sun damaged from years boat by tethers regardless. I closed my eyes,
on the ocean. When she moved to pull her, and just listened to the rasp of my equip-
my, dark hair behind her ear, she had my ment.
mother’s ring on her finger that my boy-
friend had just used to propose to me. But In… out… in… out...
beyond that, when I saw her…
Then, I felt something move. Obviously,
I went scuba diving a couple times when I’ve had close experiences with various ma-
I was in college. My then roommate and I rine wildlife. I dive, it happens, so I know
had decided to take scuba diving as a way to enough to know when something big is
meet guys, not a terrible idea but we were coming. But when I opened my eyes, the
terrible at it, and in one of the later classes, big was all around me. I saw thousands of
the instructor took us out along the coast eyes, painted on an ever moving surface. it
was so bright and so dark all at once and all

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I could focus on was my heart pounding in again, it was as blessedly dark as the open
my ears, and the feeling of something tight- ocean.
ening around me and sliding past me, over
me, seeing me, watching me, knowing me... The next time I woke up I was in the
hospital, and in so much pain I couldn’t
Then it was gone. And I was alone. I even think about her. I couldn’t think about
swam immediately back to the boat, and anything. My mom was there, and she told
when I got back the instructor informed me me, in pieces over many days, that a drunk
that a school of fish had been chased into driver had crashed into the coffee shop and
the shallow waters we were diving in. sped off. They never found the driver.

When I saw this woman, I felt those fish. When I broached the topic of whether
I saw those thousands of eyes, and felt the there were any other victims in the accident,
intense pressure of being known so fully my mom informed me that there had been
that it feels like who you are is being pushed a few other people in the accident.
out, and whatever’s left is nothing but the
husk that is you. I can tell you this woman “What about any unidentified people?
was me the same way that I can tell you the Women, specifically,” I asked. My mom sat
sky is blue and the worst food to eat when next to me in the hospital room, her hands
you’re hungover is leftover sushi. braiding her hair over and over again. It was
a nervous tick, I knew, and in the silence that
Then she noticed me, and turned her followed my question she began to speed up.
body to face me. I was so aware of her, of
every move she made, she put her hands “I don’t know,” she answered, her eyes
on the table, crossed them over each other. not meeting mine, instead looking past me
One had the ring, the other had a bandage at some point on the wall.
with some ugly princess cartoon I’d never
seen before. Her nails were so clean. I felt “Are you sure?” I felt that strange tight-
the blood rushing through my head, my skin ening again, that pressure that made my
felt so tight. body feel like a container of rotting food. A
spoiled, bloated thing, ready to burst.
Then she smiled at me, and leaned in,
staring at me from the eyes that I’d never But my mom just nodded, and ran her
seen really were slightly uneven and she fingers through her hair. I was a bit worried
said, and I never realized just how much I if I pushed too hard, that her hair would fall
sound like my mother but, she said, “you out, so I let the question drop. She was a
will survive this.” rather delicate person, and I figured that if I
had a secret twin that had died in the acci-
I leaned back to say something, any- dent, she would tell me.
thing, who are you, what are you, what is
this, what the-- I began to feel as if maybe I had simply
lost my mind in the accident, or before it.
Then the world went dark for a moment, It wouldn’t be so strange, I thought. I had
and then it was too bright. I heard a scream been in a coma for the last week or so, and
that I think was mine, or at least came from had sustained spinal injury that caused me
my mouth, and my legs were in the wrong to lose all feeling from my pelvis down.
place, and there was smoke, and then, once
It took me a week to cry. I guess I just
couldn’t get my emotions to sort themselves

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Revista Literária Adelaide

out, and instead they just built up inside The first day I stood up under my own
me, so when I cried for the first time I wept. power, legs shaking and lungs heaving, I
Huge heaving sobs that tore at my stitches. thought about her words and felt strong.

I thought of myself, then. The one in the After my boyfriend left, I had to get a
coffee shop. I couldn’t remember much new apartment, and I decided to move back
from that day, or that week, but I thought home to be close to my family. My room
about her words. was open but mom had sold all of my furni-
ture, and I had to buy a new bed. I went for
“You will survive this.” the cheapest option, an old wrought metal
sort of thing that a childhood friend was
There was something comforting in what trying to get rid of, and this morning I cut
she told me. I think, looking back on it now, my hand wide open.
that maybe that she was just my subcon-
scious, possibly constructed by my desire I cursed, loudly, and after my mom be-
to live. Her words were so important to grudgingly scolded me, and informed me
me in the days following my accident. They that we only had cartoon band-aids from
pushed me through my physical therapy, the last time my nieces stayed with her. The
pushed me through having to let my mother face of the big eyed princess stares up at me,
help me go to the bathroom, pushed me now, and I’m really in the mood for some
through my fiance dumping me because coffee. They recently reopened that coffee
he couldn’t handle having a girlfriend who place from my accident, and I’d like to prove
couldn’t walk. I kept the ring when he left, something to myself by going.
though, and sometimes I still wear it.

About the Author

Lauren is a former English teacher who used to live in Japan
before recently moving to Chicago. She graduated with a
degree in English from Kalamazoo College in Michigan. She
loves camping and thinking about swimming in the ocean.

45

CLOSURE

by Jonathan L. Shaffer

The elevator door opened. It was thorough- “Of course.” She looked up and rolled her
ly unremarkable, as many apartment eleva- eyes.
tors would be.
He rushed to the console, pushed past
A red pleather jacket over a gray hoodie her, frantically he pressed buttons, pleading
entered, eyes glued to his phone. “Can you with the chamber to continue its journey.
push two for me?” he said.
“It’s stalled, mashing away isn’t going to
The other person leaned forward and do anything,” she said.
pressed the button.
“Well, what should I do then? Just wait?
“Thanks.” Be stuck here? With you?”

“Yup,” spoke a soft, familiar voice. “Oh, we can’t have that now can we…”

He turned towards the source. “You know what I mean, you don’t want
to be trapped in here either.”
“Oh no,” he said.
“I could certainly think of better com-
A tan canvas jacket over a comfortable pany.”
dress that wore a particularly rough scowl.
“Great, we agree.”
He hurried past her, panicked he pressed
the “door open” button. “That’s a change.”

But the elevator had already began to They glanced at each other, then quickly
move. looked away.

He took a step back, resigned to his fate, “Isn’t there normally a call button or
at least this would only take a few moments something?” she said as she moved to the
before he could escape. other side.

The two stood there, staring at the walls He searched the console, his face lit up at
that confined them, they had scuffed fea- its discovery. He pushed the button. “Come
tures, likely from a tenant moving furniture. on God, please someone be there. Hello?”
They waited for their imprisonment to pass.
They waited, only silence on the other
Then the cliché, with a jerk the elevator end.
seized.
“Well, now what?” he said.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“I guess we wait.” hands cupped he motioned them towards
her.
“That is not an option. I have somewhere
I have to be.” “What’s this?”

“Oh yeah? Where is that?” “We need to get out of here, so let’s go.”

“Anywhere that is not here with you—” “Okay…” She stumbled as she slid off her
heels. She approached, placed her arms on
“Nice.” Her eyes wandered around the el- his shoulders and right foot in his hands.
evator, she spotted the hatch above them.
“Should we try that?” She pointed to it. In one motion he heaved, her familiar
scent filled his nostrils at such proximity. He
He tracked her finger to its target. His ex- paused, then he lifted her up.
pression shifted from hopeful to annoyed.
“You learn how to fly recently?” She pushed against the hatch, undid
the latch and opened the small door. Then
“No, you’ll have to give me a boost.” pulled herself halfway through the opening.
Outside the cell she could see that they
“No thanks.” He turned away. were stuck evenly between two floors.

“Really?” He looked up, scanned up her legs, then
quickly, he turned away. “Ahem, well?” he
“Yup, I’ll wait.” He inspected the door as said.
if it were the most interesting thing in the
room, really, he was just ignoring her. “We’re in the middle.” As she called down
to him, her arm strength gave, and back
“Don’t you have some place to be?” through the opening she fell.

“It’s fine.” A sudden weight crashed down on his
back and dropped him down to the floor.
“Well, I do.” She motioned to her suitcase.
The impact shook the chamber.
“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
Frantic, she hurried off him. “I am so
“This is both our problem. We are trapped sorry.”
together in an elevator.”
“It’s fine.” He stood up and dusted him-
A chuckle escaped his lips as he turns to- self off before turning his attention to her.
wards her. “Oh, are we? I hadn’t noticed. I “Are you hurt?”
thought this was the beach.”
“I’m alright,” she replied and checked
“Why are you always like this?” herself to confirm. “Well, that didn’t exactly
work out the way I had hoped.”
“Always? How would you even know
what I am always like? That would require “Honestly, you watch too much TV if you
you to be around, ever.” thought that would work.”

A sudden and cold silence filled the “I guess you’re right.”
chamber.
Silence.
“I—”
“Listen, I—”
“Save it.” He stepped toward the center
of the chamber and crouched down, his

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Don’t. I know. It’s fine... I’ve been meaning “You were cold, you never just talked to
to call.” me, and you bottled it up until you popped.
And here we are. So be mad at me, blame
“Why?” me for how I wronged you, but at least own
your share.”
“Well—”
He took a moment, surprised this conver-
“I feel like the last time we saw each other, sation was actually happening. He wanted
there wasn’t much left to add,” his tone be- to argue, he wanted to come up with some
came sharp. counter. But there was nothing. “You’re
right.”
“I, don’t like how it all went down.”
She took a step back in disbelief.
“Well, I’m sorry? Break ups aren’t usually
a great time.” “I added my fair share to our troubles. I
never opened up. I took everything as a per-
“I know that, obviously.” sonal offense and never stopped to consider
how that affected you. I couldn’t see past
“I don’t have anything to say about it. You my hurt. I couldn’t see you,” he continued.
already know where I stand.”
Dirty blonde hair framed the freckles
“Yup, I do.” on her face he knew so well, looked back
at him.
“Good. Then there’s nothing left to say.” He
approached the console again and pushed Then, with a jolt, the elevator started
the emergency call button. “Someone has to moving again.
be there! Hello! Anyone?”
Finally, it stopped at the 2nd floor, the
“They probably got a maintenance call.” parking garage. The door slid open.

“Or he’s sleeping, the dude sucks.” “I guess this is me,” he said.

“Okay, enough of this.” “I guess so.”

“Enough of what exactly?” He moved towards the entryway. “Hey…
Thanks. I’m glad you said something.”
“We are both stuck here, this must be the
universe saying something.” “Me too.”

“That the maintenance in our building is He waved, then walked through the door,
awful?” which closed behind him.

She stepped closer to him and stared She put back her heels back on. While
him directly in the eye. “I am sorry.” waiting she looked around the elevator, the
scuffs dings and scratches weren’t there,
He just stared back. His blue eyes met maybe it was a trick of the eye. She was dis-
her hazel. tracted earlier after all.

“I didn’t prioritize us, work always came The door opened to the first floor.
first. They’d call and I’d run.”
She stepped out into the hallway.
“Okay.”
The elevator door closed behind her.
“But you were awful too.”

“I—”

48