Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 40

Revista Literária Adelaide

annual CBC Radio writing competition. Al- her hair, put on makeup, and decided to
lison urged him to leave, saying she was visit the largest social event of the year, the
going to be sick from the canned pork and volunteer fire department’s social at the
beans in molasses sauce and the bacon hockey arena, in search of that elusive man
slices they cooked over the campfire. Nick who would rescue her from her miseries
beat a quick retreat, clutching his boxer and her father.
shorts and his fire fighter gear, to cover his
frontal nudity, as he stumbled, unzipping An older man in the local uniform, a
the flaps of the tent. plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans, and steel
toe boots, approached Allison at a table,
She looked around for her ballpoint pen while she read her cerebral pocketbook,
and notepaper, and hurtled the semen The Name of the Rose, and sipped her Diet
laden pink translucent condom, which Coke. George recognized her and was about
he peeled off and thoughtlessly and care- to tell her he was her father’s high school
lessly dropped, into the bushes, beyond the classmate and Nick’s father, but looked like
cooler filled with water from ice cubes, in she could use some company and humoring
which floated pine needles, and juice boxes so he asked why she was reading and wasn’t
and canned soft drinks. She turned on her dancing.
flashlight and lay down on her sleeping bag.
With her writing pad and ballpoint firmly Allison said she wasn’t dancing because
gripped, her brow knit, Allison intently nobody asked. So, he asked her if she
wrote the gist of the story idea that entered wanted to dance, but she replied she didn’t
her brain. feel like dancing with him.

Nick returned to the tent for his can of Nick’s father bought her a drink, a rum-
Coke. When he saw Allison writing furiously and-Coke, her favorite drink, when she
in her notebook, as she lay on her stomach drank alcoholic beverages, which wasn’t
on the sleeping bag, he asked her if every- often, and as long as the cola was Diet Coke.
thing was all right. Then he asked her why she smelled like
burnt wood and smoke. Despite the fact she
“You’re not going to tell on me, are you?” showered, bathed, shampooed, primped,
and groomed, before she left the house for
“Why would I say anything? So, I could the social at the arena, her jeans and halter
get us both fired?” top smelled like woodsmoke. Angry, she un-
leashed a torrent of verbiage, as she ranted:
Allision didn’t tell him she believed she she smelled like smoke because her father
had been a virgin up until then, but she insisted on burning wood at home. He said
thought the experience with him was the he burned wood to protect the environment,
most anticlimactic moment in her life, es- but she knew the reason he heated the
pecially since he kept going limp when she house with firewood: he drank and drinking
was most receptive. beer and hard liquor took priority over sta-
ples and essentials and ordinary household
Allison remembered how she managed expenses, including paying the heating oil
to land a job as a forest fire fighter. On the bill, and burning wood was the cheapest
summer after she graduated from high form of energy in Northwestern Ontario.
school, on a Saturday of the long weekend, Her father also chain-smoked cigarettes,
the night of the firefighter’s social, during
the blueberry festival, she showered, styled

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

despite the fact he had a lung condition, and told her if she needed a job and wanted to
burning wood often filled the house with work as a wildland firefighter to call him.
smoke, which permeated the entire house- He told her the fire season was winding
hold, ceilings, walls, windows, food, clothes, down since it was the middle of summer
and provoked more spasms of breathless- and currently he had enough crew, but, if
ness and coughing. Then she went on a rant the dry weather continued, as the meteo-
against wood burning stoves, saying they rologists forecasted, he expected a surge in
were dirty and smokey. She couldn’t com- fire activity, and no fire fighters would be
prehend how environmentalists could favor idly mowing the lawn around the base, or
wood as a source of energy over oil or nat- winding hose or maintaining pumps in the
ural gas when she saw through personal ex- warehouse, and he would be shorthanded.
perience how much pollution, smoke, smog,
ash, and floating debris, wood burning pro- He preferred hiring locals’ residents
duced. She didn’t know how many times over college and university students from
she woke up in the middle of the night or the city, who sometimes came unprepared
morning to the house filled with smoke from for small town life and bush living. Once she
the wood burning stove. handed in her resume, she was hired. When
she discovered the wages she would earn,
“But you’re not afraid of fire?” Nick’s fa- he quit his job shelving books at the munic-
ther asked. ipal public library.

“Absolutely not,” she practically shouted, In the morning, when they woke to
realizing the third rum was starting to take smoke clouding the tent and the camp-
effect, making her loud, gregarious. site, drifting from the forest fire, she was
not alarmed. She managed to stay calm, as
“And you know how to start a fire?” Nick’s flames licked the fringe of trees that sur-
father queried. rounded the encampment.

“I’m an expert fire starter. Give me some Nick panicked and could not resist the
discarded newspaper and dry kindling, and urge to flee. He forgot his fire fighter training,
I can start a fire in fifteen seconds flat. Heck, as a wall of flames raged at the fringes, the
I don’t even need the paper; birch bark will stand of trees around their campground.
do fine.” Nick waded into the lake, dressed in his
orange fire gear, while Allison crouched in
“And you know how to put out a fire?” her bikini on a huge flat rock on the shore-
George asked, leaning forward. She could line and read her thick Norton anthology of
see in rich detail the cavities and fillings in modern prose, with onionskin pages, which
his teeth and the foam on his walrus mus- she took care to keep dry.
tache and smell the beer on his breath.
While the forest around the encamp-
“Yes, I used my summer job savings—I ment burned, Nick finally managed to calm
work at the library—to buy not one, but down. He tried to warn her she would be
two, fire extinguishers. I read the operator fired for not wearing her safety gear and
manuals on the toilet.” work clothes.

Allison didn’t know he was a fire warden, “More likely somebody at the district of-
a supervisor for the Ministry of Natural Re- fice will be fired for leaving a few novice fire
sources. Giving her his business card, he

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fighters abandoned—stranded so close to their dangerous proximity to the fire. The
a fire.” plane flew them across the lake and sur-
rounding forests, stricken by fire, shrouded
“The plane was overloaded.” by flames and various hues of smoke, until
the skies turned blue and the forest green
“I get it now: You’re apologizing for man- again.
agement because your father works in the
upper echelons. Oops, I better watch what The pilot banked steeply, causing Nick to
I say.” exclaim, as he feared the plane would lose
control and plummet into the lake and
“Yeah, watch what you say. He made the crash, but the landing on Abram Lake be-
mistake of hiring you.” side the Ministry of Natural Resources fire
base in Beaverbrook went smoothly, as the
As the clouds of smoke grew thick and pontoons skimmed the cool water and the
dark, billowing, pluming, they covered their floatplane cruised towards the weathered
mouths with cloth they wrapped as masks timber docks. Staring across the passenger
around their mouths and noses, they finally seats at Nick, his head tucked between his
managed to establish radio communication knees, she realized his fear of the plane
through their walkie with another fire crew. crashing, and of innumerable other unfor-
Landing dramatically, steeply descending tunate circumstances, happenstances, per-
below the tree line on shore, a chartered sons, and situations, was not only unreal-
bush plane from the floatplane base on istic but genuine.
Pelican Lake arrived to evacuate them from

About the Author

Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants
from the Azores. Having graduated from arts and science at Humber College and journalism

at Centennial College, he recently earned a Specialized
Honors BA in English Literature from York University. His
short fiction has been featured in many media outlets,
including community radio and newspapers, as well as print
and online journals and magazines in the US, Canada, and
overseas. Following a long fascination with economics, he
obtained certification in the Canadian Securities Course. His
many passions include journalism, literature, photography,
writing, and coffee, and he enjoys hiking and cycling.

51

DOJOJI

by David Massey

I am pacing, like a wild animal in a cage, to tell the abbot about the bell. The abbot
waiting for Mr. Mason. He will be carrying a comes and berates the guard roundly before
gun, and I expect to die and my whole fam- telling him the story behind the woman’s ha-
ily, too. And not one soul can save us. tred. She was a woman scorned by a priest
of this temple. She had believed from child-
You know how all this started, Shannon. hood that she was destined to be his wife
Last fall during study hall we staged a noh and was bitter when he turned her away. The
play. I was meant to carry the play, but I let abbot fears the woman’s shade has come for
Dr. Silver down, I failed, I was horrible. He revenge. The abbot and the guard examine
told me I would not be perfect as the shite— the bell and it is hot; when they have the
no one without a lifetime of study for noh bell raised, I, the serpent, attack them. They
drama could be, he said. The shite is the say fervent prayers until I am driven at length
main actor, so the play spun itself around from the stage. That, in brief, is the play. It is
my acting and dancing. I was a female spirit short and sweet, but all noh plays are.
seeking revenge and taking the form of a
serpent, and there were no props to help The day of the performance, Dr. Silver
me: I had to figure a serpent for the audi- told the student body noh drama is the
ence by the way I moved. There was a great world’s oldest continuously performed the-
bell suspended over the stage, newly ded- ater, very stylized, strange to Western eyes,
icated to the temple, which the audience and difficult—so do not expect our young
had to imagine since there was no temple actors to be perfect. Give them some slack,
staging at all; and I had to come onto the he said. He urged me in rehearsals, “When
stage pretending to be a dancer on a pil- you feel a ten in your heart, Hailey, play
grimage to see the bell, do a dance for the a seven.” This will give the play the most
guards of the bell to put them to sleep, then power, he said. Think of Hemingway’s short
leap up into the bell and cause it to come stories, he told me. But I found it impossible
crashing to the stage. It was pure terror to to do what Dr. Silver said, Shannon, and I
leap into the bell and crash back to the stage, danced so poorly and did serpent move-
I thought I would die in front of everybody. ments like a fool. Some people tittered
Well, anyway, I didn’t die, and when the bell and others booed loudly when I was trying
falls, the guards wake up. They argue over to be a serpent. There was light applause
which one will tell the abbot until one of when the play ended, but I did not deserve
them runs away. The one left behind has it. I ruined Dojoji. “Nõ” in Japanese means

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accomplishment. I accomplished nada, play the role, but Dr. Silver convinced him
nothing at all, zilch. I was in tears. Dr. Silver that nobody else in our class could do it as
took me in his arms and held me and told well, and I told him no one who knew him
me not to feel so bad; I did as well as any would ever think that about him anyway. In
young person not raised on noh could do, the end, he agreed to take the role. He’s still
he said. It did not help. I still feel very bad our best actor after me, and he knows how
about last fall. I did not do well in Dojoji. My to sink himself in his racist persona.
confidence was hurt, really hurt. I hoped to
redeem myself this spring: I played the part You’ve met Horatio, Shannon. He is a guy
of a young white girl in love with an Afri- anybody should like. He is a majime; that is
can-American boy, and he with me. They Japanese for an earnest, reliable person.
provoke hatred and violence from some But some people despise him for that very
vile white boys. We have too many of those reason, especially Simon and his gang. They
boys and girls in our school. You have some do not like to see ability in a black person—
like that in your school, too, so you know. and they think Horatio is stuck on himself.
They’re wrong, he’s not conceited; he’s just
* sure of himself, and quiet. Simon hates that
about him and seems offended by Horatio at
I think you know the reason I’m still at Bram- some deep place in his soul. Simon and his
well Middle School. I’m a grade ahead in cours- two closest friends, Billy Tolliver and Jeremy
es like English, sociology, history, psychology, Tucker, engaged in a relentless campaign of
and philosophy, and I could have moved on to spite and intimidation against Horatio and
the academy this year even though I don’t ex- me. I just hoped they would not hurt Horatio,
cel in mathematics and chemistry and phys- Shannon. He could fight any one of them by
ics, but I wanted another year in Dr. Silver’s himself, but if they ganged up on him—
drama class, so I stayed at Bramwell. After my
performance in Dojoji, I questioned my deci- I hated to think what might happen.
sion to stay. I was anxious in rehearsals, hope-
ful of doing better this time around. And Mr. Mason is always on my mind. He
taught Simon to be so hateful—and he is
Judging by our audience, I failed. We coming for me. He is stoking his rage with
thought we did a great job, but the student liquor, and he is coming as sure as there is
body felt just the opposite. cane in a canebrake.

Horatio Simms, who last year played the *
role of Morris in The Agonists, did the part of
my lover. Horatio is the most improved actor I should have told you about all this earli-
in our troupe, Dr. Silver said, and I agree, and er. I just didn’t want to seem like a whiner.
I think Horatio proved it in our play. Let me tell you about a real scary Tuesday
morning, a rehearsal morning. Horatio and
Richard Boyd, who played the racist kid I were at our lockers when Simon and Bil-
who caused all the trouble in The Agonists, ly came up and both shoved Horatio. Billy
this time played the leader of a gang of boys tried to trip him up, but Horatio was too
who threaten and attack Horatio and me. quick and strong and agile. Billy gave him
Poor Richard keeps having to play a violent a hateful look and said, “You won’t be so
racist, and you know, he’s not like that at tough when I take the brass knuckles to
all. This year he bridled. He didn’t want to you, nigger.” Then Simon hit him in the face

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

with his forearm. I ran at Simon and tried to I went together. I worried about him all the
push him away, crying out something like, way to my yard, though. And now that I was
“Leave him alone, you big bully. If it was just home, I thought about something I saw that
you and him, he’d beat the tar out of you!” morning when I went outside. My next-door
neighbor’s cat was tearing up a chipmunk. I
Simon shoved me hard up against the was too late to save the little creature, so I
lockers and slapped me like the big brute let the mean cat kill. I thought how cruel cats
that he is, with more than a dozen people are. But a cat is a carnivore. At least it is act-
watching. “Do you really think so, Hailey?” ing according to nature. The only law of na-
he said. “I think your perceptions are get- ture the haters of black people are following
ting a little warped from being around this is that of meanness, hardness of heart, and
African so much.” And then he used the cruelty. I thought of a day when I was seven
n-word twice, asking me if I was an n-lover. and was under Simon’s house with Simon
and Billy Tolliver, playing doodle bug, doodle
“You sure aren’t, Simon,” I said, though bug. Simon stirred the doodle bug’s house
I could hardly see from that horrid slap. with a stick, saying “Doodle bug, doodle bug,
“You’re as hateful as you ever were.” come out your house.” He dislodged the bug
from its hiding place in the ground—then
I went to rehearsal so mad—I can’t suddenly raised his stick to crush the bug.
even tell you how mad, Shannon, and with “Don’t kill it!” I screamed. But Simon brought
my head ringing and more scared than I his stick down and ground the bug to death.
had been since coming to Bramwell. I told It took only a second. I broke into tears and
Dr. Silver what happened, and he said he said, “I’m not playing anymore,” and began
would report them to the principal’s office. crawling out from under the house as fast as
He didn’t have to: Peggy Harris and Oliver my hands and knees would carry me. “Little
Gant had already told. Oliver had talked baby,” he called after me.
Peggy into seconding him. I was sum-
moned to the principal’s office and found I did not speak to Simon for a whole two
Horatio, Peggy, Oliver, and Simon already months after that, until one day he came
there. Billy was on his way. After we all up to me and said, “Want to play with June
told what Simon and Billy did, they were bugs in the back yard? I promise I won’t kill
suspended from school for a week. But I them.” I’m kind of a tomboy, you know, and
knew Horatio and I had not seen the last I liked games like that, so I played with him
of their meanness. They had even picked and he behaved himself. But I was sure he
on my little brother the day before because was just as cruel as ever when he was not
he has African blood, and they don’t like around me. And that is how the haters are.
my mother, either, because she married They hold their tongues when it is politic to
a black man. Those boys are just horrible, play nice. But around people who think the
ignorant, and dangerous. And I couldn’t way they do they show the nasty spirit that
figure why Simon was singling me out as is in them. And they don’t care how miser-
an “n-lover”; he has known me all his life able they make everybody feel. Sometimes
and knows my family as well as anybody. I almost hate them, you know?

* And boy, at times I truly hate Simon. He
led a vendetta against Horatio and me. His
We did not meet Simon and his gang on our
way home—or at least, as far as Horatio and

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father applauded, I know, because he stood universal hostility. There is no one to re-
on his front porch as I passed one day and strain the boys who persecute us.
yelled at me that I was a white nigger. Why
wouldn’t I be, with my father and brother? At least there were restraints placed
I was anxious every hour about where this upon Simon and his gang.
was going. Simon hated us for playing lovers
in Small-Town Hate. Like the racist gang in But as I was hurrying down the hall one
the play, he and the boys who follow him Tuesday after drama class, I passed Ella La-
just can’t stand interracial romance. It would nier going in the opposite direction. As we
do no good to appeal to Simon’s family. Not passed one another, she kneed me between
only was his daddy behind him a hundred my legs, hissing, “Take that, you shit.” It was
percent, but I am pretty sure his mother a horrid blow, it would have been a lot worse
was, too. And they live just two doors down if I were a boy, but she left me breathless
from me, a few long, fast strides away. and dizzy, and I went down on my knees. I
looked around to see if anyone was looking
* when she kneed me, but no one was. Some
people were wondering why I was on my
You know how big Simon is, and you know knees, but they had seen nothing. She had
he likes to wear tight jeans and a tight shirt struck me with impunity and hurried away
so he can leave several buttons undone at before I could say one single word to her.
the top and show off his big chest. I don’t This is a witch who has hated me from the
have any doubt he would give Horatio a first time she saw me. She calls me snooty
hard fight if it came to that. Billy Tolliver, his and dopey. One day she called me a little
closest friend, is clumsy, and I don’t think prick. Just because I speak good English!
in a fair fight he would be any trouble for She believes I think I am better than she is.
Horatio—although he is tough. I saw him And I do, and it’s true—I am better than that
let Donald Hudson hit him over and over evil hag.
in the stomach, and Billy just stood there
grinning at him as if he didn’t even feel it. I reported to English troubled. Ella would
My point is that these two guys are danger- tell Billy and Simon what she did, and they
ous. They are tough and they are danger- would think they could get away with any-
ous. And the gang that follows them is dan- thing. Everything was going to get worse
gerous because it is emboldened by Simon now.
and Billy, and this includes that slutty Ella
Lanier. (I despise her. She is the worst racist *
of them all, and bitter and snippy toward
any person with some class. She’s Billy’s I told Mother about the trouble Horatio
woman.) and I were having with Simon and his gang.
Mother attributes such behavior as Simon’s
Our drama is set in the 1970s when in- to ignorance, and she says it is hard to hate
terracial romance was not so common and someone for ignorance. “No, Mother,” I told
many people’s reactions to it were virulent, her. “It’s not just their ignorance. They have
you know—and some violent. Moreover, a will toward hatred and violence. This stuff
the setting is a small South Georgia town has been in Simon since he was a kid. And
where feelings were strong. Horatio and he’s not ignorant. He does well in school.”
I, as lovers in the play, must face almost
Mother looked at me with obvious con-
cern, but I couldn’t tell at first whether it

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

was for my situation or my attitude. “But cents worth. Mr. Mason came to give Mr.
you know, Hailey, his daddy is like that. But Downey an earful about suspending his son,
don’t keep anything from me. If those boys and according to Jeremy, he got too forceful.
get violent, I’ll report them to the authori-
ties—the principal and the police. You said “He had every call to bitch,” Jeremy said.
Mr. Mason is behind this, too?” “Mr. Downey was defending that nigger.
Ain’t no principal in this town who’s got a
I told her yes, he was. And I did not feel right to do what that fool did.”
comforted by Mom, even a little.
“He has every right, and Horatio’s Af-
* rican-American, not what you call him,”
Richard Boyd said. “You guys are so wrong
I am nagged by guilt. Maybe I brought this on you can’t see the way the wind is blowing.”
myself. I was haunted by how poorly I per-
formed in Dojoji, and I threw myself fervent- Jeremy used the n-word again. “So you’re
ly, fervently into Small-Town Hate. I wanted an n-lover, too,” he said. “And the wind ain’t
to erase the memory of that failure, which blowing where you think it is, sucker. Just look
ate at me all the time. Some rehearsal days at what’s happening all around the country.
I would see Simon at the back of the audito- Listen to our President! He won’t condemn
rium, watching me and feeding his hatred. I White Supremacy, no way. He’s on our side,
believe I goaded him into some of what he with me and my gang. You’re going to get
did. And Mr. Mason would not be a constant caught with your nose in the wrong place.”
shadow on my life if I had not plunged so
fervently into a play about a racist gang of Richard gave him a scornful look and
the likes of Simon and his followers. headed to geometry class. I joined him,
more worried than ever. What would Simon
* do now? Jeremy and Ella would tell him his
dad had been arrested. He might be waiting
As I left Mrs. Shaw’s history class one day, for Horatio and me.
I was confused for a moment by a ruckus:
Mr. Mason was in handcuffs, being escorted *
to the door by three police officers. One of
them was the color of dark chocolate can- Dr. Silver offered to drive Horatio and me
dy, and Mr. Mason was screaming, “Ain’t home, and I thought that was an awfully
no black bastard go’ touch me! Make that good idea. Horatio didn’t want to do it—his
black son-a-bitch get his hands off me!” He manhood was challenged—but I used all
struggled violently until one of the white my powers of persuasion to convince him
cops lost all patience and used a Taser gun that this was advisable. He finally gave in,
on him. Everybody in the hall just gaped as and Dr. Silver took me home, then left to
the cops dragged Mr. Mason toward the deposit Horatio at his door, too.
door and out to a squad car. Then every-
body gabbled: “They’re going to lock him I thought I was home free. Wrong, so
up. He’s going to jail. I wonder what he did?” wrong. I went into the back yard to let
Some students pretended to know. It was Ebony do his thing, feeling cozy and safe,
all anybody talked about for the next two when Simon came up from behind and
periods until Jeremy Tucker put in his two snatched me off my feet! He wheeled and
hurled me through the air to Billy, who flung
me to Jeremy. They were throwing me hard

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Revista Literária Adelaide

from one to the other, with terrifying force, I drove fast to Horatio’s even though I
and it hurt, I thought they were going to don’t have a learner’s permit, and Mother
snap my neck in two, Shannon. I was crying had the police on the way already. But
and trying to scream, but they had knocked when we got there, Simon’s whole gang
the wind out of me, and I couldn’t get my had dragged Horatio from his house to a
breath. I heard Ebony barking. Then I saw neighboring lot and were beating him like
Simon kick him. Ebony yelped and ran to wild hoodlums. Billy was wearing brass
the back door and started barking like five knuckles, and his blows looked awful. Ella
dogs. The three boys kept throwing me, as was lashing Horatio with a belt, buckle first.
if I were nothing to them but a rag doll; I I started screaming. Simon looked at me
could hardly see anything as cohesive, I and then Mother and said, “I warned you,
could not draw a breath, and I swooned lady—”
into hysteria. The back door opened—and
Mother came out to see why all the ruckus Mother turned and ran, but he outran
from Ebony. When she saw what was hap- her easily. She screamed and I screamed,
pening, she screamed. Simon called a halt but just at that moment, two police officers
to their hotshot round-robin and pointed a appeared in the yard. They had guns drawn.
finger at Mother and said, “You breathe one
word about this, lady, and I know where to “All right, you men, get on your knees
find you.” Mother had her hands on her with your hands behind your heads,” one
chest—frightened half to death! And me, of the cops shouted. “Down! Do it!”
too—I was in pain and so awful scared.
Simon and his gang were astounded; I
Simon turned his eyes to me; he gripped was, too. All of the boys got to their knees
me tightly by my shoulders and said, “You’d with their hands behind their heads, but
better end this little drama about small- Ella stayed on her feet and yelled at me,
town haters right now.” His voice was a “You bitch, you damn fucking bitch! You
snarl. He shoved me hard onto the ground. called the cops. I’ll kill you!”
“I’m disappointed in you, Hailey. I thought
you knew better.” The leader of the two cops looked at Ella
and said, “You, too. On your knees.”
As soon as they let me go, I ran to the
door, where Mother stood frozen. “Inside, “And what if I don’t? You going to shoot
Mother,” I said. “Get inside.” I slammed the me?”
door and locked it after us.
The other cop fired a warning shot at
Once inside, Mother recovered enough her feet and Ella jumped and turned chalk
to say, “He threatened me! He threatened white (I think I turned white, too, or I felt
me!” She stood quivering, even her face like it, and I had my head clapped tight in
shaking. I took her by her shoulders. my hands). She went to her knees and put
her hands behind her head like the boys.
“Hurry, Mother, we’ve no time to waste. The cop who fired the shot called for backup.
I think—I know—they’re going to Horatio’s
now. Call 911. Tell them a middle school Three more squad cars showed up, and
student is being assaulted and beaten. And Simon and his entire gang were taken to jail.
let’s go to Horatio’s. We’ve got to warn Meantime, Mother and I tried to take care
him—if we’re not too late!” of Horatio, who looked awful, his face all
swollen and bruised and cut to bits.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

As you know, Shannon, that whole gang to reformatory, and I thought: What will he
was sent to reformatory for a year. I feel do? What’s going to happen? Yesterday at
sorry for them because Mother is right, it is twilight I got my answer. He stood in our
in some sense ignorance that propels them. front yard yelling, “Hailey, Hailey Godwin.
The only one I feel no compassion for is Ella; Come out here and face me! You’re the
she is beyond pity; but Mother says I am reason my son is in jail. I’m going to make
wrong, Ella is to be compassionated, too. you pay, you little snitch—you little bitch!”

Horatio was healed from his wounds Daddy called 911 and reported him while
in time for dress rehearsal, and I had been he was still beating on the door screaming
feeling better and better about my role in at me, they came and arrested him, and he
this play. But Shannon, the night of the play has been charged with trespass and making
was a bitter disappointment! I didn’t know terroristic threats. He is in jail waiting to be
there were so many racists at our school. bonded out. What will he do when he walks
They drowned out the applause with their out of jail? He has always hated Daddy, and
booing and foul words. The week following he despises my little brother and has never
the play was miserable; it seemed two-thirds let him play in his yard. Now he hates us all.
of the student body gave us vicious looks. He owns Lugers, a .38 revolver, a shotgun,
automatic rifles, even a machine gun, Simon
Now the friends of Simon’s gang are em- showed it to me!
boldened by Simon’s dad and by their num-
bers; they know that man has it in for us, And he’s just two doors down. Stay on
and is drinking, building to a fury, and there the phone, please, please Shannon, don’t
are too many of them, and they have gone hang up. I’m afraid to go to sleep. We don’t
beyond hateful looks to making horrible re- have a single gun in the house, Daddy
marks. They may yet cause trouble if I don’t doesn’t believe in it! The moon shines full
die first, but I think I’m going to die. with a fatal light, and my heart is sinking
under prophecy. He is going to kill me, I
Oh, Shannon, every time I walk past the know he is, and my mom and dad and little
Mason house, I feel terror in my bones. Mr. brother, too. There’s not one thing in the
Mason was charged with aggravated assault world that can stop him. Pray, Shannon—
and resisting arrest, but Mr. Downey did not pray to God he won’t come, that his evil
even press charges. So, Mason was at home, heart will turn over and change.
and had been drinking since Simon was sent

About the Author

David Massey has a Master’s Degree in English Literature After 1660 from The University
of South Carolina and while there took creative writing classes under George Garrett and
James Dickey. He turned belatedly to an earnest engagement with the art of fiction but has
made progress of late, having had several short stories and essays on the craft of fiction
published in the past two-plus years. Before he began writing fiction, he had a long career in
journalism. He lives in Atlanta with his wife of 49 years and three of his four daughters. He
has a son who lives in North Augusta, S.C., and a daughter in New Jersey.

58

MALCOLM AT
MIDLIFE

by Kevin Taylor

It had been two months, which was longer dirty hands and their squalling cries at all
than usual. She was prettier than some of hours of the night. Children with their play
the others, more interesting. Cassandra. dates and trips to the beach where they
Even her name was interesting. It was more would get sunburned or eat sand or, god
than that, though–she demanded less from forbid, be washed out to sea. He would not
Malcolm. resign himself to soccer vans and piles of
endless laundry and fast-food restaurants
Malcolm’s wife Helen was plain. Her with their ball pits that smelled faintly of
name was plain. Good ol’ dependable urine. He would not argue about it with
Helen. The type of girl you marry because Helen; when she got an idea stuck in her
she is kind and predictable. A real stand-by- head, it would not be easily dislodged.
your-man type. But Helen was exhausting.
She always needed something. When they So he got a vasectomy. He was in and out
first started dating, she needed to see him of the doctor’s office in an hour. He would
every day, needed to hear his voice on the tell Helen about it…eventually. For now, he
phone, needed him physically. When they would continue to play his role in the game.
got married, she needed the house in the He would avoid hot baths, he would bulk
suburbs with the white picket fence and order ovulation test strips, and he would
the rolling lawn. Now, tormented by the have frequent intercourse with Helen. Inter-
ticking of her biological clock, she had de- course, not sex, because it had become a
cided that she needed children, a boy and a mostly mechanical act, undertaken only for
girl. That was all he had heard for months: a its intended biological outcome: offspring.
boy and a girl, a boy and a girl, a boy and a He hated the way Helen would cross her
girl… Malcolm stewed in silent fury–he had legs and prop them up on the wall after in-
never wanted children and had told Helen tercourse “to increase the chance of fertil-
that before they married. ization.” She appeared to Malcolm like an in-
verted Buddha, which made the whole thing
Children–the thought made him shudder. seem even more unnatural and ungodly. A
Children with their red faces and their tiny boy and a girl! Like ordering bookends from

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a home shopping channel. Want a boy? If would never have a friend or an easy rap-
you order in the next half hour, we’ll throw port with anyone. He would never be a Will
in a girl at no extra charge! or Bill or Billy but was destined to remain a
William–quiet, odd, friendless William.
Malcolm smoothed down an errant hair
and reached for the bouquet of flowers on “Are these for me?” Cassandra asked,
the passenger’s seat. He walked up to the reaching for the flowers.
bungalow and then suddenly remembered.
He turned off his cell phone and then re- No, you stupid woman, I bought them for
moved his wedding ring, slipping it into his William. The thought bubbled forward, but
pants pocket. Cassandra wouldn’t like that. Malcolm suppressed it with a smile.
Perhaps she suspected that Malcolm was
married, but it would be a little on the nose, “How lovely!” Cassandra clutched the
a little gauche, to rub it in her face. bouquet and inhaled deeply. “They smell
amazing,” she cooed. “You shouldn’t have!”
We all have our assigned roles, Malcolm
thought to himself. Today I am playing the Malcolm smiled again. He knew the
gentleman caller, not the cheating husband. flowers smelled like nothing at all. The bou-
quet had hydrangeas, ranunculus, snap-
He rang the doorbell and waited. He dragons, and tulips–all flowers with no
rang it again. A small boy with dark eyes scent–because of Helen’s allergies. He had
and horn-rimmed glasses opened the door. given her the bouquet two days ago as an
Her son! Malcolm had almost managed to early anniversary present. When he thought
forget about him. What was his name? of it now, the flowers were a perfect visual
representation of their marriage–initially
Cassandra appeared and placed her striking but without essence or zest. The
hands supportively on her son’s shoulders. flowers had played their part in the analogy
“William, you remember Malcolm, don’t and had begun to droop and wilt prema-
you?” turely. Helen had asked him to throw them
out, but he knew that Cassandra would ap-
The boy shrugged. preciate them.

“That’s okay, William,” Malcolm gushed, Cassandra threw her arms around Mal-
“I couldn’t forget you!” colm and kissed his cheek with a theatrical
“Mwah!” He could feel the warmth of her,
Malcolm was terrible with children, her soft feminine curves. He suddenly had
which was part of the reason he never an urgent desire for her.
wanted any. He could never tell what age
they were supposed to be–four or six or “Down, boy,” she chided with a playful
eight–so he never knew whether to pinch smile. “Can I get you boys something to
their cheeks or ruffle their hair or give them drink? William likes milk, but I’m sure you’d
a high five. Malcolm smiled at William. Wil- prefer something stronger, Malcolm?”
liam stared back at him like a myopic owl. He
didn’t look like a child at all but like an adult– “I could always do with a stiff drink, Cas-
an austere and humorless adult who worked sandra,” Malcolm replied.
as an almond grader or tollbooth operator
and had somehow become trapped in a She laughed as she headed to the kitchen.
child’s body. Malcolm just knew the child It was that part of the courtship. The part
with the double entendres and knowing

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winks and sex that came frequently and with “Well, William, your mother is making
an urgency and passion that would never be love to me while I’m fucking her!” Malcolm
matched. laughed.

Malcolm smiled dreamily to himself. He “Good to hear you boys are getting along,”
noticed William sitting on the sofa staring at Cassandra said as she entered the room.
him. “Hello, William.” She set down a cup of milk next to William
and handed Malcolm a tumbler of amber
William said nothing. His eyes blinked liquid, the glass tinkling with ice. “How’s
once. Twice. that?” she asked Malcolm.

“You don’t talk much, do you? It’s better He took a sip. It tasted like banana bread
that way. You get yourself into less trouble.” and bourbon barrels, rising smoke and
honey. “That’s delicious. What is it?”
William’s tiny hand opened and closed.
It looked like a squid swimming. Cassandra brushed a hair from Mal-
colm’s face. “Stick around long enough and
“What have you got there, sport?” I might tell you.”

William opened his palm, and in the She probably imagined that it was a
center of it was a pearlescent blue marble. harmless remark, but Malcolm recognized
the desperation in it. The fear of being for-
Malcolm picked up the marble, turned it gotten, left behind, supplanted by someone
over in his hand, and gave it back to the boy. new. He knew their relationship would have
“Very nice, William. Is that the only one you to end soon. These things ran a natural
have? Did you lose the rest? Did you lose course. But they still had today, they still
your marbles?” Malcolm smiled at his own had this afternoon, they still had…William.
cleverness and rested a hand on the boy’s
knee. “I don’t think you like me very much, “Do you want to put some shows on for
William, but that’s okay. I’m not going to be the kid so we can go to your room and”–
coming around much anymore.” Malcolm grinned–“talk?”

Malcolm could see the faintest flutter at Cassandra nodded. “Hmmm…talk…yeah.
William’s nostrils­, the slightest suggestion When have we ever just talked?”
of life. Otherwise, he might as well have
been talking to a doll. Never. The answer was never. They did
talk, but only afterwards. When they were
“Maybe you wonder why I come here at slick with sweat and buzzing with post-co-
all? Well, I’ll tell you. I come here to fuck ital endorphins. Talked about fast food and
your mother.” high school and animals they liked and ac-
tors they didn’t and heaven and hell and ev-
Malcolm fancied that the boy’s eyes erything and nothing. The rambling, inane,
grew a fraction larger. inconsequential stream-of-consciousness
dialogue between two completely loved-up
“Oh, I’m sorry, William. I didn’t mean to people. Fat on love, fat as Piccadilly pigeons.
offend your delicate sensibilities. I come
here to make love to your mother.” Malcolm “William, honey, do you want to watch
smiled at the boy. “Do you want to know some cartoons?” Cassandra skimmed
the difference between making love and through the channels. “SpongeBob? You
fucking?”

The boy said nothing.

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like SpongeBob. Okay, honey? Mommy and “I’d love to, but I can’t.”
Malcolm are going to go talk for a bit. We’ll
be right back.” “You’ll call me?”

She kissed William’s head and led Mal- “Of course.”
colm to the bedroom, closing the door be-
hind her. Now they were stumbling, falling “When?”
over one another. Two creatures joined at
the mouth, fumbling at each other’s clothes. “Soon.”
Cassandra fell backward onto the bed. Mal-
colm threw his shirt on the floor. His pants “Tonight?”
were halfway down, and he fell on top of
her. Cassandra laughed, and the afternoon “Soon.”
was theirs.
Men and women really are from dif-
Malcolm woke to the smell of frying on- ferent planets, Malcolm thought bitterly as
ions and garlic. He climbed woozily out of he drove home. Men want flings and dal-
bed. Sleeping at any time other than night liances and adventures, and women want
always made him feel this way–punch drunk, relationships, bonds, and commitments.
with a head full of fog. He put on his shirt, They will tell you otherwise in the beginning.
then his pants, one unsteady leg at a time. They will tell you how they just got out of a
He followed the smell to the kitchen. Cas- relationship and how they want something
sandra was there in a thin t-shirt and gym casual. No strings attached. But the strings
shorts. Cassandra–messy, casual, and per- attach. They fasten with every date, every
fect–so different from Helen. When Helen glass of wine, and every roll in the hay. Until
cooked, she always tied her hair back and you are suspended in space by strings, held
wore an apron like some hausfrau from a up like a puppet with no will of your own.
fifties catalog. No, thank you!

“Hi, sleepyhead,” Cassandra chirped. It always ended up this way. It had been
like this with Katherine. Katherine with a K.
“What time is it?” She wore librarian glasses, and she drank
gin and tonics. Her family was rich; her fa-
Cassandra looked at her phone. “Quarter ther traded opals. She always cried after sex.
after six.” “Not because I’m sad. Because I’m happy,”
she had assured him. He had never quite
“Shit. Shit…” believed her.

“What’s wrong?” It had happened this way with Gemma.
Gemma with her ribald sense of humor and
“Listen, Cassandra, I have to go.” tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil above her
left breast. Malcolm had imagined that sex
“You’re not going to stay for dinner? I’m with her would be the best ever. But she
fixing meatloaf–it’s William’s favorite.” had simply lain beneath him inert and si-
lent.
“I can’t. I have a deadline at work. So
much to do. I’m under enormous pressure.” There had been other women. So many
over the years, but he could barely re-
Cassandra put on a face like an orphan, member them now, only the smallest de-
complete with trembling lip. tails. He was almost home. He turned on

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his cell phone. Plink. A new message. Plink. delighted in the ring, its golden color and
Plink. Plink. Plink. the shiny surface where he could just make
out the smudge of his own reflection.
“Shit!” Malcolm muttered. Five new
messages, all of them from Helen. Had he Helen was sitting at the kitchen table,
slipped up? Was it the ol’ lipstick on the her head lowered, staring at something.
collar? Had he been spotted in the wild by She trembled with not-quite-noiseless sobs.
one of Helen’s jealous, insufferable friends?
Maybe he had carried Cassandra home with “Honey?”
him once–the smell of her–on his lips, on his
fingertips, and Helen had finally decided to She lifted her head. Her face was puffy
confront him about it. His heart thumped in and red. Her cheeks glistened with the
his chest. He pulled into the drive, straight- tracks of dry tears.
ened his shirt, and popped a mint into his
mouth. As he reached into his pocket to re- “Oh, honey…” Malcolm began.
trieve his wedding ring, his practiced smile
twisted into a perplexed grimace. It wasn’t Helen held up an object. Malcolm’s first
the ring. It was a pearlescent blue marble. thought was that she had discovered some
incriminating evidence, but as he looked
The boy held the ring in his hand. It sur- more closely, he saw what it was: a home
prised him how heavy it was for its size. He pregnancy test. The two telltale strips of
knew that the ring was important, because a positive result sent a shudder down his
the man had kept it hidden. William had body.
watched from the window–how the man
had slid the ring off of his finger and put Helen sobbed, “Oh, Mal, I’m so happy!
it in his pocket. William had taken the ring I’d almost given up hope.”
while the man was sleeping. He knew that
stealing was wrong, so he had left his fa- “How…” Malcolm stammered, “how
vorite blue marble in its place as a trade. He wonderful.”

We all have our assigned roles, Malcolm
thought to himself. Today I am playing the
expectant father, not the cuckolded husband.

About the Author

Born and raised in South Africa, K.P. Taylor traveled to the US
at 29 to work at an amusement park for the summer and never
left. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Hobart,
Gargoyle, Ginosko, The Blue Nib, Running Wild Anthology of
Stories, and others.

63

CONJURED

by Mary Daurio

Jamie shivered, and pulled the covers clos- him. The only shoes he now had were worn
er around himself. He escaped into his book down at the heel with holes in the toes.
and illuminated every word with a flash-
light. The sounds in the rest of the house Keith wouldn’t let his mom leave the
became a distant backdrop. On Aladdin’s house and brought what groceries they
magic carpet, he rode far away from the
fray. got home himself. There were always
more brown bottles in the fridge than any-
He hid his flashlight and books in the thing else. It sounded like one just smashed
third drawer down on his dresser. Three against the wall. Jamie trembled. Not with
was his number. He was born the third day fright but with the desire to run to his
of the third month in the year two thousand mother.
and nine. Nine was lucky, being a multiple of
three. The third drawer was his enchanted The next morning, his mom wore sun-
spot, and nothing he hid there had ever glasses again. No sun in sight, at least not at
been found out. the kitchen sink where she stood hunched
over wiping her dried blood off the counter.
He heard Keith smash his mom against She turned away, but he still saw.
the wall. After a loud thud, she screamed.
Last time he tried to help and ended in the “Don’t worry, Jamie. I’ll figure something
hospital for a week. out.”

His mom said to stay put from now on. He doubted it.

“The hospital won’t believe you fell down He felt helpless and insignificant. He
the stairs again. Keith stops hitting me be- took a bag of empty bottles to turn in for
fore he does any real damage, but I think he lunch money. Passing a shop, he had never
would kill you if you interfere again.” seen before. He stopped to look at the
books in the window. A wizened ancient
Jamie knew Keith would seriously harm man beckoned him in. The man’s face was
him, but he found it hard to leave her deeply tanned and wrinkled like Jamie’s fin-
dealing with that monster alone. Life was gers when he stayed in the tub too long.
so much better before Keith came to
“You like books, boy?” The man smiled at
live with them. His mom worked at the him and opened his arms in a gesture to the
hair salon and could afford new trainers for shelves of books behind him. A sleek black

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cat was lapping milk from a saucer at his “I have no way to pay you. Mister?”
feet. When it meowed, Jamie thought he
heard, ‘hello.’ “Jamie, my name is of no consequence.”

“That’s just Jasmine giving her nod of He knows my name. A Conjurer for sure.
approval,” the old man said.
The man that he now thought of as
Jamie forgot the cat when his eyes spied a conjurer motioned to Jamie’s bottles.
the counter covered with colourful rocks, “Leave those here in payment and take
shiny metals and small glass jars filled with these books away in their place.”
spices or maybe magic potions. There was
a large glass orb that swirled with different The conjurer continued, “One book to
shapes inside. It undulated and moved with take you off on an adventure. The other
the beat of his heart and danced just slightly book you must write in and make your
above the counter. story powerful as it has every possibility of
coming true. I have said this before but re-
Awesome! Was this man a conjurer? peat as it is of utmost importance.”

“Yes, I like books,” he said. No bookstore From the folds of his kimono, he
Jamie had ever seen was like this one. Not presented Jamie with a bookmark. It had
that he had been in many. ‹999’ embossed in gold. “Three things are
powerful indeed, and this page keeper will
“You have the look of a scholar. Adven- remind you we met on the ninth hour of the
ture for a boy like you, I think.” The man ninth day of the ninth month. He has my
smiled, observing Jamie’s fascination with numbers. There are lots of three’s in that
the orb. “Interesting, isn’t it? Go on, boy. number. My numbers!
You can touch it.”
Jamie left the store, feeling the cover on
Jamie tentatively touched the swirling the book for writing in. It felt like dragon
crystal globe. Gently the oldster covered skin. Not that he had ever felt dragon skin,
Jamie’s smooth hand with his wrinkled one. but he read a lot. The other book was about
Two distinct beats pulsed in their hands and Sinbad. Jamie eagerly awaited that adven-
gradually the rhythm merged. Jamie wasn’t ture.
afraid. He lived with a monster and knew
this man was not one of those. He turned back to the storefront. A
sign now hung on the door. ‘Beauty Parlor
He probably wasn’t a conjuror either— Opening in October.’ Jamie went right up to
just a funny old-timer. Or was he? the window and peered in, but all he could
see was the sign for the Beauty business
The man withdrew his hand from the orb and large letters, HIRING SOON. Strange. It
and disappeared to the back of the store. wasn’t a daydream. I have books. Conjurer!
He returned with two books, the cat twining
and purring around his legs. Thin air for lunch today was nothing new.

“The orb picked these for you. One is to Not scared, but feeling exhilarated,
read and one to write your stories. Stories Jamie, ditched school and went to the park
have a way of coming true if written prop- instead. He was hungry but sat on the bench
erly in the correct book. The orb knows you writing in his new book, as his stomach rum-
have need.” bled. The breadcrumbs people threw to the

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ducks started to look good. Still, he stayed Jamie wrote furiously in his book fin-
there until school was over, happy with the ishing the finale, hot tears spilling on the
story he wrote. If it could come true, he was parchment-like paper. Getting the dialogue
going to make it a good one. just right, when as he planned it in his story,
Keith burst through the door.
His mom had snuck out to the food bank,
so Jamie ate a peanut butter sandwich be- “There’s the little pussy with his head in
fore he rewrote some of the beginning of a book as usual. Let me see what you’re
his story. The situation had changed a bit. reading, pansy.”

Keith came home, and Jamie listened Keith grabbed the book from Jamie’s
to the happenings in the other room as he hand, and it opened to the climax as if pre-
read the words of his story aloud. ordained. A fiery breath escaped the pages
burning the carpet and annihilating Keith
“You’ve been out, getting food for the where he stood, gap-mouthed, his bottle of
brat. What’d I tell you? I bring home the beer smashing on the floor. A mighty roar
bacon. You stay put, or I’ll put you….” emanated from the book before it fell to the
ground, snapping closed with a thunderous
Jamie could hear him smack her. She clap. All that remained of the monster was
didn’t cry, and that made Keith mad. Jamie a pile of ash.
screamed. “Leave my Mom alone.”

About the Author

Mary Daurio is a grandmother who likes to fiddle with
words when she isn’t playing her flute, walking the dog
or spending time with family and friends. Her work has
appeared in The Pelham Voice, Grey Borders Magazine,
Friday Flash Fiction, Cafelit and on Medium. Her short
story, “Bleeding Hearts,” was by published by fictionalcafe.
com. A poem, “Do We Ever,” was published in pureslush.
com’s collection, Beautifullest. Another poem, “Fallen
Companion,” was recently published in pureslush.com’s
anthology, Verdant. Her short story, “He’d Smile “will be published in Months to Years this
summer, and “Besting Big City,” will be published by Harrowsmith Magazine in fall 2020.

66

TEX MOSTLY

by Raymond Tatten

It was August, and it was hot. Mom moved edge of our property. Despite riding during
my older brother Hank and me from a Low- visits, Zink’s farm was still a mystery, without
ell triple-decker apartment to our father’s an end—separate places strung together
farm hidden deep in the New England like knots on a winding, endless rope.
woods. With my fourth-grade city friends
left behind, I just had Hank and my pony We didn’t usually see the cows right
Tex—but mostly Tex. away. If the wind was blowing just right, I’d
smell them—their mustiness—unlike the
“Come on, Willie,” Hank barked, “let’s sweet smell of horse—stronger—unmis-
ride over to Zink’s.” I didn’t need coaxing. takable—uncomfortable cow. Other times
After living in a cramped city for years, trav- I’d hear a tiny clink from a cowbell Charlie
eling to our only neighbor’s farm felt like had hung on a heifer’s neck to help him
going far and being free. But Dad had a find the herd. In the mornings, they were
warning. usually grazing, heads down, spread out
evenly in a section of pasture, but when
“Charlie Zink is letting Ahab roam this the afternoon sun baked the air, they’d find
summer so be careful. The bull will prob- a favorite shade tree. They huddled, some
ably make his way down near us. Keep your lying, under a sprawling apple or maple tree,
eyes peeled. He almost killed Charlie once. the ground underneath pounded grassless
When I was your age, I saw a man at the to dark brown dirt churned and softened by
stockyards get gored. I’ll never forget it. sharp hooves.
Blood was gushing out of his leg like a fire
hose.” I worried a little, but it was a good We soon spotted the young black and
day for a ride. white Holsteins sprinkled on the slope up
near the edge of the woods.
We couldn’t leave without Dad’s dogs
tagging along, eager for an adventure, “I wonder if Ahab’s with them,” said Hank.
swirling out in wide circles around us, trot- He sat up straighter in his saddle looking,
ting and sniffing in the low bushes on the leaning slightly over the neck of Mickey, his
edges of the pastures. They galloped out red and white painted pony. I looked hard
ahead, watching us, following from in front too and answered with slow, careful words.
before finally tiring and peeling off for the
trot home. We started through a long-ne- “I don’t know; maybe he’s not out.” Since
glected apple orchard that ran along one Ahab was wide and low, he mixed with the
cows and was difficult to spot. Hank rode

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ahead twisting in the saddle to talk back- was still thick, raising soapy sweat under
ward to me as we moved along. the reins where they rubbed Tex’s neck.

“On the way home, let’s follow the brook “Let’s go see if Charlie’s home.” Hank
back. It’s really high, and I wanna… look! was moving again; he never stopped for
There he is, Willie!” See ‘im? Over near that long. Since he was a little older, he had
tree!” to be the boss. Bold and sure, he was the
family favorite—all the things I hoped to be
Ahab glowered, watching us with his someday. It was still good because at the
head lowered. He aimed his wide horns farm he taught me things like how to fish
as he advanced with a plodding, confident and build a campfire and shoot his new .22
strut. The silver ring that pinched through rifle.
his nose glinted like a pirate’s earing, spar-
kling in the sunlight. “No, come on, Hank. Look at those
clouds. It’s gonna pour. Let’s head back.” On
“Watch this!” whispered Hank. “I’m the ride home, Tex liked it when I snapped
gonna rile him up!” Then he booted Mickey a leafy branch to brush the cloud of horse
toward the scowling bull. flies that pestered his ears. And I squashed
a few on his neck too.
“Cut it out, Hank, will ya! Let’s get out
a here!” But Hank wasn’t listening and al- We passed a thin, worn path that sliced
ready had Ahab’s attention by galloping his into a thick stand of poplars. Animals used
pony closer. the trail as a shortcut to the barn, and the
cows liked the crowded hideaway late in
“Hey, Ahab!” Hank hollered. “Come get the day. Tight leafy branches provided cool
us!” His excited pony sprinted down the cover and some relief from the flies. We
hill with Ahab lumbering behind, snort and reached the next pasture gate where Hank
white saliva slobbering from his face. “He’s waited for me to drop the bars, then he
mad now, Willie! Run for it!” kicked Mickey to run through the opening.

Tex didn’t need much urging. With a “Yee-haw, Geronimo!” he yelled, flapping
gallop, we left Ahab and caught Hank on the his arms like a cowboy heading for a saloon.
crest of a hill where we rested the ponies—
and laughed hard. Ranks of apple trees lined I turned Tex a few steps, positioning to
the slope with branches hanging low with try swinging into the saddle like Hank could
August apples. We rode for what seemed do. Before I could move, I caught the whiff
hours following cart paths and trails into and then heard a muffled “clink” in the
the woods, through gates between high- shrubs up ahead. Cows. Out of the bushes
grass pastures and old orchards divided by charged Ahab, with head down and front
Charlie’s birch rail gates that sagged and legs lifting off the ground. The devil must
stretched across the openings, like dirty have been watching, waiting to burst from
white smiles. the thickness as Hank passed the opening.
The bull’s back legs powered lunges toward
We stopped to drink at a brook that Hank. Mickey sidestepped, avoiding the
slipped from the woods, splaying out clear slashing horns, but with the pony’s sudden
and shallow across a gravel bed. Black shift, Hank slipped partially off. Only years
clouds had inched from the horizon, but of horseback play had taught him to stay on
despite a darkening sky, the afternoon air

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somehow as his pony panicked and thun- my fingers touched a broken branch, I
dered under low apple tree limbs. squeezed it and swung it wildly in front of
my face. “Yaaaaaahhh!” I yelled. When Ahab
Branches snapped across Hank’s head, took a step forward, I froze with a pointed
showering apples. He raised his arms to arm, holding my crooked weapon. A leaf
cover his face, but one branch was lower hung from the end of the twisted stick like
and caught the side of his head. The blow a green drop of blood from a broken sword.
swept him backward, and he fell over Mick-
ey’s rump in a twisted tumble, landing with When I heard hoofbeats close behind
a thud in a crumpled heap. me, Tex brushed past with ears back and
teeth barred, like an angry dog racing to
“Augh,” he groaned. I had never heard a stranger in the yard. He reached to bite
Hank cry or even show pain. Now he was the bull’s flank startling Ahab who spun,
still. lowering his head to accept the pony’s at-
tack. As Ahab wheeled, he jerked his head,
“You all right, Hank?” I yelled. No answer. catching Tex behind the saddle near his ab-
domen. Then Ahab shook his head, like a
“Hank! I screamed louder. “You alright?” stunned boxer. When he moved a few steps.
I tugged at Hank to help him crawl a few
“Yeah!” he groaned. “I donno. What hap- feet to huddle behind the tree.
pened?”
A sudden wind fingered the tops of the
Ahab looked satisfied as Mickey Pony ran trees, as lowering clouds darkened more
for home with stirrups on the empty saddle sky, smothering the light. The wind mus-
flapping like birds’ wings. Seven young cled through the branches spitting random
heifers appeared, oozing from the bushes drops of rain. A lone shaft of sunlight spiked
with mild interest, like schoolgirls on the through a high thunderhead above the
playground, content to stand near the edge woods near the end of the pasture. The
of the fracas, close enough to watch the first steady drops of soft rain broke the mo-
show. ment. Ahab turned his head, looking toward
the young heifers who had assembled and
“OOOhh,” Hank moaned as he rolled moved together up the slope, then followed,
from his back to his side, his head swaying. lumbering away in a labored trot.

“Crawl, Hank,” I hollered. “Get to the “Where’d he go?” Hank moaned, strug-
tree!” Ahab stepped toward Hank who gling to his knees.
looked unaware of the bull’s approach.
“He’s gone. You all right? Where’s it hurt?”
“Move, Hank!” While I watched Ahab, I
edged closer. I looked for an apple to throw “Huh? Where’s Ahab?” Hank groaned.
while wrapping myself in my father’s best “Ooh, my head. What happened, Willie?” I
swear words for power. stood, ignoring the light rain that fell with a
gentle pat against my face and neck.
“You bastard!” I screamed as I threw an
apple. “Get outa here!” Ahab lowered his “Come on, Hank, let’s go.”
head and stared at me—his saliva caught
hanging from his silver nose ring in an ugly “Nooo, I’m stayin’ here. My ankle hurts
drip. He tossed his head and pawed the bad. Look at it. It’s point’n funny.” I pulled
ground. We locked eyes while I felt the
ground for something else to throw. When

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Hank’s pant leg up enough to uncover a for the chance to run for the barn. They
swollen lump near the top of his sock. stamped nervous feet, crowding in the
corner where the gate would open. Black
“I think it’s busted, Hank.” rivulets of water streaked their hindquar-
ters, and I smelled the stink of wet horse-
“Go get Dad!” he hollered over the in- hair. I pushed Mickey’s rump and when he
creasing sound of rain. “I’ll stay by the tree moved aside, I noticed a patch of smudged
‘case Ahab comes back. Go on, hurry up, will red on Tex’s rear flank. Before I dropped the
yah?” gate poles, I leaned on the bars to catch my
breath and rest. Hank was quiet and heavy,
“No!” I hollered. “You’re comin’ too. Come his wet face white like ashes. It wasn’t far
on, Hank. Get up!” to the house now. I reached to find the
strength to lift my brother a few more times.
“Where’s the ponies?” He was a little Through clenched teeth, I spent more pre-
more focused now, taking charge, but still cious breath.
confused. The rain splashed his face while
he studied me as if thinking what to say “Come on, Hank,” I wheezed. “Almost
next. Then he faltered as he looked around. home.” If I could just get to the big rock, I
could stop one last time to fill my empty
“What happened?” The question hung, lungs. And then, with all the air I could muster,
and he asked again, “Really, Willie, what I’d yell over the splash of the rain that ham-
did you do?” I wiped my wet eyes with each mered the gravel yard. Dad had to be close.
shirtsleeve and felt my voice rise a little.
“Come on, Hank!” I pleaded. “You can do
“Come on, Hank. You’re hurt bad. I think it.
you hit your head.” When leaves that had
shielded us from some of the rain began to Dad came from the barn, took one look
drop water on our heads, I reached under at my brother’s leg and it was off to the hos-
Hank’s arm, lifting as hard as I could. pital. Hank had a concussion and a cast, but I
was more worried about Tex when my pony
“Get up, Hank. You’re not stayin’ here.” started acting sick the next day. Dad called
While the rain soaked us in a heavier down- the Vet who said Tex must have internal in-
pour, Hank’s hands gripped my bony shoul- juries and there was nothing he could do.
ders as we struggled to stand. Lightening The next afternoon, while Hank rested in his
cracked on the right followed by an angry room, I scuffed my boots across the gravel
bark of thunder. Rain came in black sheets yard, hoping another day had made every-
as we rocked together in small steps down thing all right. The barn door was open the
the pasture. My shoulders burned as Hank quarter way it always was. It never closed
gripped and leaned heavily. He hopped, all the way. I pushed, letting what was left
squeezing pained grunts near my ear. I bent of late sunshine spill in over my shoulders,
like an old man under his weight, studying awakening the barn’s insides.
the uneven ground, timing my steps with
my brother’s hops. As rainwater made pud- “Tex?”
dles of old cow tracks in the mud, I slipped
and then rested before moving a few more The sudden sunlight stirred the flies to
steps, fighting tightening in my lungs. But I scatter through the sunbeams, crisscrossing,
knew I shouldn’t stop for long. looking for stillness. My eyes struggled

Like children, the ponies were waiting at
the gate at the end of the pasture, eager

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with the light, but I heard the whinny and The cool night air finally broke the spell
caught the form in the shadow. Tex tried to like a fever, I felt the ache in my legs. I should
rise but slumped back to the floor, his head probably go in or maybe just move around
pounding the dirt with a dull thud. He had some. I stretched and stood straight to look
been waiting. down at the shape. A fly jittered across the
black muzzle, while white teeth grinned a
I rushed to scoop his head. Loose hay, snarling smile. The black tail lay stretched
swept by thrashing legs, lay in a pattern behind like a flattened, frayed rope.
around him like snow angels on the barn
floor. His legs had tried running, and the I moved with legs stinging with return
hair was scraped blood red, his bottom eye of blood and almost turned to look back
caked closed from rubbing the dirt floor. but let the door swing wide behind me as
I stepped into the yard. A cloud of mosqui-
“Come on Tex,” I begged. “You gotta get toes slapped my face, but I didn’t rush to
up!” I pulled his halter, but his body was brush them away.
tired. I lowered his heavy head, accepting
it into my lap. “Tex, you’ll be all right,” I lied. I walked a little, stopped, and moved
“You just gotta rest here for a while to get again, up the slope toward the house, be-
your strength back. You got to get better. fore turning to gaze at the stone-still barn.
We got a lot of rides to do!” But Tex wasn’t But the mosquitoes were worse now, and
listening. Film clouded his eye in the dream all that was left was to go inside.
he had left, a contest he was losing.
The next morning I tried to forget, but
I never really noticed the size of a pony’s my mind gave me only dreams of revenge. I
head. In my lap it was heavy, like a small rested the barrel of the rifle on the middle
child, the whole pony in my hands. I mus- bar of the split-rail gate to steady my aim.
tered tenderness, crafting my touches along The wooden handle of the .22 was warm
Tex’s cheek while the dogs moved in and against my neck, and the afternoon sun
out, sniffing close to my face and then Tex’s, cooked my back through my thin t-shirt as
saying goodbyes. I knelt, leaning against the wooden cross-
bars. The cows hadn’t noticed my bushy
Late afternoon slipped to evening and black hair bouncing near the top edge of
then to night. Tex’s legs thrashed, and he the stone wall as I crawled up to the pasture
jerked, running or sneaking under the fence gate. I knew I had to keep still. I’d only get
at his favorite spot. I hoped I was a comfort, one shot, and I wanted it to be true.
talking low, telling him out loud how I loved
him—and remembering. How he usually let “Move…you….bastard,” I muttered, just
me catch him when I came with the bridle. like Dad would say if he were angry. “Move!”
Thanking him. For never getting grumpy
from too many rides when the city kids A black head rose from among the
came and letting the children pat him all cows—pointed black horns first, then the
they wanted. I told him about the rides we ears and an ugly head that shook under a
would do. How we’d find the Indian mounds swarm of flies. Ahab’s head dropped again
and get a quick jump to beat Mickey Pony between the heifers to eat, and I waited.
the next time we raced to the pine trees. It
was no use to cry. When I’d turned nine, Hank had shown
me how to line up the spot of iron on the

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tip of the rifle between the V that spread “You just gonna just let ‘im get away with
halfway down the gun barrel. The bullets of it, Dad?” I didn’t wait for the answer but
Hank’s .22 were small, so I would have to yelled louder. “We gotta do somethin’! That
aim for Ahab’s eye. bastard killed Tex!”

My knees stung from kneeling, but I held “I told you it wasn’t his fault, Willie,” Dad
my breath, waiting for the next time the said with a patient tone. He’s just a bull… an
target raised his head; then I would squeeze. animal. They don’t know any better.”

Pow! The gun slapped against my cheek, “Yes, he did,” I screeched, my voice rising
and I smelled a sweet whiff of gunpowder. I to the high pitch I hated. “I saw ‘im, Dad.
lifted my face from the gun and watched the He did it on purpose.” I thought my words
animal stagger and fall in the high meadow were having an effect, so I tried my best to
grass. The fat bull’s legs flailed as he tried move my father. “He’s mean. You even said
to get up but fell back again, his enormous so when you told us how Ahab almost killed
weight collapsing his body. Charlie. We should kill ‘im, before he does
somethin’ else. You kill pigs, don’t you?”
I struggled to squeeze through the rails
of the gate, screaming in delight as I began “That’s different,” Dad spoke carefully,
to run toward the herd. I yanked up on the stretching out each word and shaking his
belt on my loose jeans as they slipped low head a tiny bit in what was surely an at-
on my hips and raised my other arm with tempt to soothe me. “We’re raising the pigs
the rifle high in celebration. The cows scat- to eat.” He looked at me, while his words
tered as I got closer but stopped to look came more slowly. “Look, Willie,” my father
back as I stood over Ahab to watch the ugly continued as he started shoveling feed onto
bull suffer and die. the heads of the waiting pigs. “That’s Char-
lie’s bull, and Charlie’s your friend, isn’t he?
I’d lean the gun back in the hall corner so He needs Ahab for his cows.”
Hank wouldn’t know, then get away before
anyone found Ahab’s rotting body. Maybe I My father hollered louder over the
could stay with one of my friends in Lowell. screeching of the pigs.
One thing was certain, I had to get back to
the city. “I know it’s hard to understand when
you’re young, Willie, but you just have to
“Hey, Willie, you’re spilling it!” Dad forget it.”
shouted close to my ear, draping his arm
over my shoulder as we stood close in the I pulled my t-shirt up from the bottom
barn doorway. “That water trough will near the buckle, pretending to wipe the
never get any fuller!” he laughed. “What’s sweat from my face but hiding tears while I
the matter, you countin’ your money?” fought not to cry.
Dad’s words brought my thoughts back to
the pigs—squealing—anxious for their feed. “Yeah, well he’s not gettin’ away with it!”
I felt the sogginess where water had run I shouted, but my words were swallowed
down the hose and dripped onto my jeans. by the noise of the pigs. “I’ll show you!” I
I pulled the hose away from the water that spun away from the door. While I walked
spilled over the edge of the tub and shouted toward the house, I felt my father’s eyes
over the squealing pigs. on my back. I didn’t care if he had heard or
not. Charlie’s bull wasn’t getting away with
it. The bastard was gonna pay.

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I knew Hank would understand so I “I’m gonna kill that bastard,” I pushed
headed upstairs to his room. Hank’s room out through clenched teeth in slow, sepa-
remained organized with crutches snuggled rate words. “He killed Tex!” Hank lay back
behind the headboard, and like a hospital against his pillows and flipped to the first
room, the table near the bed now held page of another comic.
medicines, half-full glasses, tissues and
this morning’s empty cereal bowl. Piles of “He’s just a bull, for cryin’ out loud.” He
comic books had grown higher, separated in gritted with his eyes moving on his book.
neat piles within reach from the bed: WWII “Ahab didn’t mean it.”
Combat, The Lone Ranger, and his favorite,
Uncle Scrooge McDuck. I sat in what had “What do ya mean he didn’t mean it? He
become the visitor’s chair Dad had brought charged Tex and gored him, didn’t he?” I
from downstairs, but Hank didn’t look up pleaded as my voice tightened. But I qui-
from the one he was reading. Batman. His eted myself and then continued. “I don’t
face was delighted as his eyes darted from care, Hank, I’m gonna do it.”
frame to frame in the book. Hank wasn’t
reading Batman, he was Batman, and I Hank put his book down, leaned up on
knew I had to wait. his elbow, and tried to hide a sudden pain
that must have shot from his leg.
“What?” Hank asked finally, without
looking up from the book. “Look, Willie, you can’t do nothin.” I
thought some wisdom must have told
“How’s your leg?” I asked. Hank what he said was important because
he stretched his neck and head toward me
“Good,” Hank answered, as he leaned to emphasize his words. He spoke not as a
with a tiny grimace to reach for the next parent, or friend even, but from a better
book. I waited again. place, as a big brother, making what he said
the truth.
“I brought you some more juice.”
“Didn’t I tell you we have to be careful
“Thanks,” Hank said. But this was im- with animals? They’re afraid of everything.
portant, and Hank would have to stop If you don’t watch it, you get hurt. That’s
reading. My eyes burned on Hank’s face. Fi- what animals do. Ahab was scared; he was
nally, he dropped the magazine against his just protecting his territory. Tex should have
chest and spun his head to look at me. He stayed away from him.” Hank allowed his
didn’t speak, just looked, absorbing me the words to trail away as he dropped back to
way he always did, reading me like one of the pillows and lifted his book. I waited
his books. through more silence until he continued
this time without looking at me. “Dad will
“Can I borrow your .22?” I asked. Hank get you another horse. He already said so.
still didn’t speak but lay back and waited Besides, you need a bigger one anyway.
for the rest. I had the lies ready—how I was Mickey’s too small for me too. We gotta get
bored and wanted to target practice, and some hosses.”
after all, Dad said I could have a gun of my
own because I was careful and old enough Hank’s words marched over me, and
now. But Hank knew. I waited for the rest. Finally, still without
looking up from the page, Hank finished,
And I knew he knew.

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like he had closed the cover of one of his I wondered if my brother noticed when
books. I left the room, dropping one stair at a time,
leaving parts of Tex’s memory on each step,
“Tex is gone now, Willie. You gotta move slowly, as if I knew when I got to the bottom
on.” Hank was right again—about the and walked out through the kitchen to the
horses, at least, but not about everything. barnyard, it was finished, and all of Tex
His words were too cruel, but he said it be- would be gone.
cause he could.

About the Author

E. Raymond Tatten is a life-long Yankee living in the beautiful
apple country of Central Massachusetts. His essays and articles
have appeared in local publications, including The Worcester
Telegram, The Harvard Post, The Bolton Independent, The
Landmark and Sterling Meetinghouse News, along with
MUSED Bella Online Literary Review and Adelaide Literary
Magazine. Some of his selected works can be heard on his
YouTube channel, Edward Tatten. In this his first collection,
AND ANOTHER THING, Just Saying…, E. Raymond Tatten offers
thirty-five essays, short bursts in response to bubbled up memories and current events.
Tatten’s work in progress includes an historical fiction account of a sixteen-year-old’s capture
by Indians in 1705 along with his own narrative as a nine-year-old living on a remote farm.
Tatten shares a home on Rowley Hill, Sterling, Massachusetts with his wife Linda, daughter
KT and a three-pound female Yorkie named Dani.

74

THE BEGINNING
OF AN END

by Max Johansson

After returning the pamphlet to where it A woman’s voice filled his mind: ‘You
had lain, Johan shouldered on his jacket, know we can’t, Johan. We just cannot af-
slumped down onto the porch and pulled ford another one, we can’t risk it.’
on his leather shoes – tying the final knot,
muddied water wrung out onto the tongue. Johan turned, facing the sun. In the pale
‘What does it mean by ‘verdant’?’ He light the bags beneath Johan’s eyes could
thought. be seen, each bag indicative of mortgage
repayments he’d been late paying. He con-
Johan looked out onto his land, where tinued lifting and striking, walking several
his red, rotten wheat stood, spoiled by the paces, lifting and striking, steam now rising
year’s heavy rains. The low light picked up off his shoulders like cold water on hot
this red hue and painted the rest of the stone. “Verdant fields,” he said. “…an ocean
homestead a similarly dismal colour. He passage away.”
hated this shade of red.
Johan pulled up the heavy pole and
Johan grabbed his digging pole and walked a few paces, slower than he had ini-
stepped off the porch. In all directions tially. He thrust the pole into the dirt and it
mounds of stone stuck out of the land; the abruptly stopped. He had struck a large im-
soil, too, was riddled with stones. Walking movable rock; a reverberating shock jolted
through the spoiled wheat, onto the rest through his arm and a piercing crack rung in
of his acreage, he thrust the pole into the his ears – the pole fell heavily to the ground.
ground with each third or fourth step. The
sound of iron striking rock rung out – four “Does God have no mercy for us who till
steps later, ringing out again. The land stone country!” He squatted, holding his
was poor for growing crops. It seemed as hand which throbbed with a smarting pain,
if every season Johan tilled the land more waiting for composure. It took a while be-
rocks would avail themselves – this hard fore he continued.
truth in constant reminder by the harsh din
of iron meeting stone. After the ringing receded, his father’s
voice entered his mind: ‘Son, we must have

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faith that God will raise crops as they once He returned his shocked, sticky hand to the
were, and even greater. We must believe.’ digging pole and finished the round. ‘Acres of
verdant fields, just an ocean passage away.’
‘Believe! If belief is all it takes, we should
have crops from the door to the horizon. Johan walked back onto the porch, re-
Faith,’ – this word he remembered with dis- lieving himself of his digging pole and drag-
dain – ‘faith is not the issue here.” gled shoes. Beyond the acreage he turned
his back on, knolls of tussock reached for
His father had picked up their strewn the heavens and low, mossy swamp lands
copy of A Prayer for the Fruit of the Earth and brought them down; swathes of sandy soil,
placed it back on the table. ‘Do not lose sight strewn with juniper and pine root, stretched
son, the Lord is almighty, we shall harvest across the land and spruce woods and ma-
and sow and till as He pleases. No man, how- ples trees dotted it – the rest was cursed
ever cocksure he may be, will challenge that.’ with stone. Johan took off his jacket and
didn’t look back, his day was done.
The wind changed direction and the
musty smell of the farm passed over Johan. Inside, the fireplace sent billows of
Again, he raised the pole and struck the smoke up the chimney – embers crackled
ground. ‘Maybe it means fruitful,’ the on the hearth. Kids’ laughter could be heard
motion of lifting and striking straining his from the other room.
thoughts as it would were he speaking
aloud. He walked past the byre, considered Infront of him lay a worn pamphlet un-
selling his remaining cattle and, as he always derneath the prayer book; his wife stood by
did, reserved the decision until tomorrow. the table, her hand pulling away furtively
from the literature, her winsome face
Johan turned around, back toward the smiling at him. Johan kissed her full, child-
homestead, for the final round of striking. like cheeks and they held one another. His
wife could not help noticing Johan’s strong
Parallel to his line were his potato crops. body and the effect it had on her.
Rot had blighted the patch – every second
potato had to be tossed – it was hardly good Johan’s eyes were fixed, burning a hole
enough for animal fodder. Johan bent down into the worn pamphlet that lay on the
to pick out a rancid stalk; the black stalk was table.
slimy to the touch, lingering on his fingers.

About the Author

Max Johansson was born in London and raised in New Zealand. He gained an English
scholarship out of school, attended the University of Auckland, and has since worked many
jobs, from construction and bar tending to tennis coaching and running a landscaping
business. He now travels in a bohemian fashion, writing, reading, gathering experience and
stretching each dollar until he must find work to fill up the coffers. Published in Adelaide
Literary Magazine, Birmingham Arts Journal, Scars’ CC&R Magazine, The Courtship of the
Winds, Hypophora Magazine, Backchannels Journal, Canyon Voices Literary Magazine, Free
Lit Magazine, Brasilia Review, the Contemporary Literary Review India and Pif Magazine.

76

THE WELFARE
CHECK

by Tara Flaherty Guy

Joe Harkness stamped his feet outside of ized, baked-in, irrefutable. Thanks, Ma, he
his squad car, trying to knock as much of thought with fond exasperation. Maybe if
the grey slush from his boots as he could Pop hadn’t died so early, Joe thought, if
before sliding in. It was a futile, silly bat- he’d had a little masculine buffer, he might
tle to fight all winter long, but he hated a have been a little more immune to those
salty, gravelly mess on the floormats, so he maternal incantations. As the only child
stamped. Fussy as an old maid, he thought of the young widow there had been few
as he radioed back into service. Jesus, spaces in their togetherness when he was
he’d hated to write the old guy a ticket on a kid. He loved his mom dearly but had
Christmas Eve, but he’d totally blown the jumped at the chance for his own tiny
red light, narrowly missing the green Toyo- place at 19, relishing the privacy and the
ta and a sure vehicular homicide, given his blessed option of clicking Vanna off in
speed. Joe had been assigned the rookie mid-spin. Long legs and split-to-the-hip
hours, a split Christmas Eve and Christmas evening gowns notwithstanding, Vanna
Day shift, a detested schedule that thor- had grown wearisome too, as the flagship
oughly screwed up hope of any kind of in his mom’s rigid evening lineup. Ma, he
holiday. Settling into his seat Joe shifted to thought with rueful fondness. She’d been
adjust the position of his gun belt between disappointed that he’d had to work both
his ass cheek and the seat to go easy on his Christmas Eve and Day but reassured him
sciatic nerve. Still a rookie at ten months, that she understood. “Somebody has to
he’d already seen a couple old guys go protect and serve, even on Christmas,”
out on a disability with sciatica, and al- she had said, smiling at him, “I’m proud
ways took care to shift pressure away from of you, Joey.” He realized with a twinge
the nerve. Jesus, I AM a mama’s boy, he of unease that he hadn’t stopped to see
thought suddenly. “A place for everything, her now for…could it be a month? Longer?
and everything in its place,” his mom had Yes. Good Christ, I gotta somehow get over
always recited, one of the many isms he there later, Joe thought. It was Christmas
had grown to adulthood with, internal- Eve, after all.

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* many times a day, with a little ache of loneli-
ness around her heart. It won’t be long now,
Louise rose at dawn on Christmas Eve dear, she thought bleakly, feeling every one
day to give the house a final going over in of her 81 years this cold Christmas Eve day.
preparation for visitors that evening. She She took her feather duster to make a final
wasn’t precisely sure who would stop by round of her Hummel figurines and framed
since her daughter Kate’s family was far photos. She tenderly ran the duster over
away in Colorado, and her son Chad had the faded old pictures of Chad and Kate in
declined the Christmas Eve invitation, but grade school, he with front teeth missing,
she thought there might be a visitor or two. she with pigtails, and then newer ones of
Chad’s family had a whole constellation of her grandchildren Tiffany and CJ. They were
other in-laws to visit, which complicated last year’s school photos; she hadn’t gotten
their holidays. Louise understood. Modern this year’s pictures yet though they’d been
families were very busy, she knew. Fran- taken last September. Finally, rubbing her
tic busy-ness she privately thought; work, stiff and swollen finger joints, she broke out
school, playdates, T-ball, ballet, piano les- the silver compound and began polishing,
sons. At least this time they’d advised up
front that they wouldn’t make it, rather *
than cancelling at the last minute, as had
happened more and more often in recent As promised by the department’s old timers,
years. She thought of last Easter, when she Joe’s Christmas Eve afternoon devolved into
had to go around by herself to find all of the a master class in cop chaos. A cornucopia of
pastel Easter eggs she’d hidden for the kids. crap. Distracted drivers with fender benders,
A silly waste. She hated waste. She’d never sad shoplifters with no funds, drunk drivers
eat another egg-salad sandwich again. topped off with Christmas cheer, and rou-
tine domestic calls turned dangerous; the
The Durkins next door often looked in last daddy had been taken up to Regions
on her on holidays, as the neighborhood Hospital 8th floor for a 72-hour protective
widow with the neglectful family. Likely Fa- hold. Merry Christmas kiddos. Ah well…a
ther Pat too, who rounded merrily amongst rookie’s Christmas festivities, he reckoned
his favorite parishioners on Christmas Eve to himself, resigned. The radio crackled
with an empty highball glass. Louise had al- to life again and he took the incoming call
ways obliged with a generous knock or two from dispatch. A hit and run, with injuries.
of her famous creamy eggnog. She hadn’t Shit, he thought, toggling on the lights and
made any this Christmas, though. A Maker’s siren and executing a slushy, slippery U-turn.
Mark would have to do.
*
Always a fanatical housekeeper, she
hadn’t left much to be done, but she set Polishing the last serving piece, Louise
out to spit polish everything to a high shine, looked up, hearing the odd little squeak
right down to her good silver. Harry used that issued whenever Dickie yawned. Wak-
to say she attacked dust and dirt like Ike ing from his nap, the little dog looked
attacked Omaha Beach, but in truth he’d around immediately for Louise; seeing her
always been proud of the spotless house he gave a tail thump, lowered his head onto
she kept. He’d been gone for more than his paws and regarded her contentedly.
ten years now, but Louise thought of him

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Thank goodness for Dickie these last with the bills stamped and ready for mailing.
years, Louise thought fondly. She glanced She looked around, finally satisfied, and
over at him again in his little red corduroy went to get her robe and draw a hot bath
bed in the corner of the dining room and for herself.
smiled. He was a furry little dust-mop of a
dog; an undistinguished mutt of indetermi- She added a generous measure of
nate breed. He had nevertheless been the sparkling bath salts to the running water,
heart of her heart, since Harry died. He had watching the bubbles foam and breathing in
unruly tufts of fur around his face into which the sweet scent of lavender. Her signature
Louise clipped little hair-bows, the colors scent, the salts had been a birthday present
dependent upon the season. Despite his the last time Kate had visited, three years
cataracts, his eyes still shone with love and ago. It was a luxury Louise indulged in
devotion for her. Dickie no longer bounced sparingly, but she would treat herself on
along at her heels wherever she went; only this special day. She clung to the grab bar
his dimming gaze followed her worshipfully she’d finally had a handyman install, after
now. It was both the cataracts and arthritis Chad had failed to do so after repeated
that left him a little unsteady, moving uncer- promises. Stepping gingerly over the edge
tainly around the house. But no matter, she of the tub, she lowered herself carefully
thought briskly, she had gone online at the into the fragrant steam, warm relief seeping
library, like her granddaughter had taught into her aching knees and back.
her – what a marvelous thing the internet
was – and had found a simple do-it-yourself *
remedy to ease their suffering. She dried
her hands on a dish towel, and went over As the ambulance driver flipped on lights
to gently pick Dickie up, being careful not and siren and aggressively nosed his way
to hurt his joints. into the steady rush hour traffic, Joe radi-
oed the city’s impound lot for a tow. The in-
“I’ve got to put your Christmas bows in jured driver’s smashed up Hyundai Elantra
today, don’t I?” she said to him, stroking his had hit a patch of black ice, rolled twice, ac-
fur mane. “We want to be in our best bib cording to witnesses, and was lying on its
and tucker tonight, it’s Christmas Eve!” He crushed roof in the shallow highway ditch.
thumped his tail against her belly and his Its chrome sparkled dimly in the weird, el-
little pink tongue darted out for a quick kiss dritch light as Joe finished giving the tow
on her hand. truck driver the location. He glanced over
his shoulder to the east and saw the huge
“Right after my bath,” she said, “I’ll primp full moon rising, bathing the landscape in
first, and then you.” But first she wrote out cold, pure light. A full moon and Christmas
checks for the light bill, the trash service, Eve. Bonus, he thought. No wonder it’s
and the last little balance on her JC Penney fuckin’ nuts. He sat back in his seat to relish
bill. She paused then, her pen poised over a couple of quiet minutes, write his report,
a sheet of her lavender notepaper. After and wait for his tow.
a long moment, she carefully penned two
lines, then folded the sheet over. Leaving *
it unsealed, she propped it against the
Waterford vase on the dining room table, Clean, dry, and wrapped in her robe, Louise
noted the winter twilight deepening out-

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side, and a lovely Christmas moon, a full Louise went to the living room and
one, just rising over the trees. It was 5:00 switched on the Christmas tree lights, dis-
p.m., the time her son and family would pelling the dusky shadows. She slowly circled
have arrived, had they been coming. As if the tree, performing her customary fond in-
on cue, the phone rang, and she hurried ventory of the beloved old ornaments, as
into her bedroom to answer it. In the din- she did every Christmas. She stroked the
ing room Dickie struggled up from his bed decades-old decorations the kids had made:
and padded down the hall and into her the beat up, glitter-painted pinecones, the
bedroom, to sit at her feet looking up at her. tiny ballet toe-shoes on a faded pink ribbon,
the battered little firetruck hanging from
“Yes dear, Merry Christmas to you too, its red cord, the sparkly angel with chipped
dear.... I’m fine...yes, yes......give them wing and missing left foot. Chad had given
both a hug and a kiss, and tell them their her three boxes of expensive blown glass
presents are here, whenever you can come. ornaments a few years ago as a strong hint,
Yes, I’m sure Kate will call from Colorado but she couldn’t bear to part with the tacky
tonight…Yes, yes, I’ll be fine. Love you all, old relics of her happiest years. She touched
too.” She gently placed the receiver back them all with a soft forefinger, until they
in the cradle. Dickie reached up one soft brightened and sparkled through a prism
paw to her knee, with a soft, throaty whine. of tears, which she wiped away. Finally, she
Smiling down at him, she smoothed his wild turned and went to the kitchen.
fur saying, “Well there we go, the obligatory
phone call, checked off his list.” She had Dickie paced along with her, claws
heard Tiffany squealing with delight in the clicking on the kitchen tile, seeming unusu-
background, maybe unwrapping the Barbie ally reluctant to leave her side this solitary
playset she had begged for. “We’ll just go Christmas Eve. He’d always been so intuitive,
ahead with our evening, won’t we, Dickie?” she thought, perhaps he was picking up her
aching loneliness tonight. Reaching into the
Straightening up, she rose from the bed cupboard, she took down a small amber
and reached into her sachet-scented bu- bottle, twisted the cap off the vial and
reau. She pulled out her silk petticoat to shook tiny pills into her palm. She ran water
slip over her head. Then she took out of the into a tumbler and swiftly downed the pills,
closet her best black velvet dress with the draining the glass. Then she looked down
lace collar and zipped herself into it using at him and said, “Do you want a hotdog?
a long-handled zipper-pull, a trick she had Do you want your treat?” Dickie yipped and
perfected in the years since Harry died. Sit- pawed the air, anticipating the toss of his
ting at her vanity table, she powdered her favorite treat through the air. Breaking off a
face with her old-fashioned rice powder, chunk of a hot dog that she took from the
and put up her hair with her best tortoise- refrigerator, Louise flipped it to him, gaily
shell combs. Taking Dickie into her lap, she as always. He snapped it out of the air, gob-
brushed his fur smooth until it gleamed in bling madly.
the lamplight. She opened her jewelry case,
pulled out two tiny plaid bows, and clipped “Good catch!” she praised, and then
them at saucy angles into his mane of hair. asked, “Are you ready? Go for a ride?” He
“There you go, pretty boy,” she said, setting yipped again, and executing a little twirl
him down. “We’re all beautified now!” of doggy excitement, raced to the kitchen

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door that gave on to the garage. With a last back and thanked her, tucking it inside his
glance around at the gleaming table and leather jacket. Radioing back into service,
countertops, she joined him at the kitchen he decided he’d pick up the cherries at Wal-
door, saying, “Yes, yes, it’s time...let’s go, green’s later, on his way.
sweetheart.” Together they went out into
the dark garage. *

* Dickie seemed momentarily confused when
Louise got in the driver’s seat and started
Joe radioed in for his dinner break around the Buick without letting him in, but when
18:30 and turned into the parking lot at she got out and slid into the backseat, he
Tierney’s Liquors. Leaving his squad run- jumped in happily, seeming spry as a pup.
ning he entered under the garish, blinking She unfolded the hand-tufted quilt and
shamrock sign over the glass door that tin- plumped the small pillow she had plucked
kled merrily as he pushed through. off her bed, easing herself down. Settled
into her makeshift nest, she lifted the blan-
“Officer Joe, Merry Christmas, man!” ket, and held her arms out to the little dog.
called Bảo from his busy front counter. Dickie jumped up on the seat and nestled
Leaving the cash register to his wife Kim, into her embrace, so close she could feel
Bảo came over to Joe, and embraced him his quick little heartbeat against her own
in a hard bro hug. Ever since the night Joe slow one. Louise kissed his forehead, and
had broken up a robbery in progress after whispered words of love to him, thinking
responding to the silent alarm Bảo had how beautiful the cold blue moonlight was,
pushed, the couple had been devoted to pouring through the garage window. Soon
him. they were fast asleep, no longer mindful
of the quietly purring engine of Harry’s big
“Need a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20,” said Buick. The air thickened and the last of the
Joe with a grin, “I’m heading over to see my oxygen burned away, as their breath stilled
mom later tonight, gotta bring her the an- and the Christmas moon rose high in the
nual Christmas bottle of cough syrup…she’ll sky.
add a spoonful of sugar, and use it to wash
down the chocolate covered cherries,” he *
finished with a shudder.
Joe took the welfare-check call from dis-
“Leave your cruiser running maybe, for patch at 21:43 and headed for the north
a sugar-coma run later on,” said Bảo with side to check on an old lady who lived alone
his singular baritone chuckle. It had taken out on Azalea Avenue. The woman’s daugh-
Joe longer to get used to the deep voice ter had called from Colorado with Christmas
without a trace of an accent emanating wishes, and became increasingly alarmed
from the diminutive Asian, than to the in- as the evening wore on and she was unable
congruity of a Vietnamese bottle shop lit to reach her 81-year-old mother.
up with glowing shamrocks. Moments later
Kim slipped a gaily wrapped pint of Jack He arrived ten minutes later at the ad-
Daniels into his pocket with a big hug, then dress, a pretty little brick rambler with a
handed him his mom’s Mogen David tied beribboned wreath on the front door. The
up with a sparkling ribbon. He hugged her house was neat as a pin, but dark except

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for the twinkling Christmas tree in the front tree. His eyes grew moist as he wondered
window. He rang the doorbell but got no re- where this old lady’s family was. Maybe
sponse. After a brief wait, finding the front they were working too.
door unlocked, he entered and called out
to the old lady. The old lady’s son arrived shortly
after the coroner, looking grey-faced and
“Officer Harkness, St. Paul Police, is shocked, smelling of brandy and vanilla.
anyone home?” When there was no answer Joe wondered where he’d been and why
Joe began a quick search of the premises, Grandma hadn’t been invited on Christmas
hoping to find the old lady napping, but Eve. He very nearly asked him but thought
expecting to find her fallen, perhaps with better of it. The son wandered the house,
a broken hip, probably in shock. Worst case, rubbing his face, holding his mother’s note
Joe thought, turning on lights and moving between two fingers, as though it were a
from room to room, he might find her dead. bomb that might detonate. His sister, he
He was still rookie enough to find corpses advised Joe dully, was boarding the red-eye
unsettling. in Boulder and would arrive after midnight.
When the coroner finally left, Joe cleared
Opening the garage door, he flipped the scene and returned to the PD to write
on the light and there found the old lady the report.
and her little companion in the still-run-
ning car. Her cheeks were cherry-pink from *
the carbon monoxide, reminding Joe of his
mom, when she used to wear too much Shifting the bag that held the bottle of Mo-
rouge; an odd gut-punch. Like a merry rev- gen David and Walgreen’s finest Queen
eler now spent, the old lady was the picture Anne Cordial Cherries, Joe let himself
of peaceful slumber with her little dog’s through the high-rise’s security entrance
head tucked under her chin. He keyed his with the keycard he had for the building. It
radio and called it in to dispatch, with a re- was almost midnight. On the eighth floor,
quest for the coroner, then ran trembling he knocked on his mother’s door, startling
hands through his hair. Shaken, he donned her awake from her nap in front of the TV
disposable gloves in order to preserve avail- where It’s a Wonderful Life was concluding
able prints and turned off the engine. Fol- with a tinkling bell and Clarence getting
lowing protocol, he set about securing the his wings. After peering out the peephole
scene while waiting for the M.E., ostensibly in her door, she threw the door open wide
looking for signs of intrusion, but knowing, and stood in her fuzzy pink robe, beam-
of course, that this was not foul play. This ing with surprise and joy at her son on the
fact was confirmed when he found the threshold. She hadn’t expected a Christmas
short note leaning against the crystal vase Eve visit.
on the dining room table.
Joe went to his mom and wordlessly en-
“We’re just tired, and ready to go. Don’t folded her in an embrace. Drawing back, he
worry, all will be well now. Love, Mom.” looked at her for a long minute as though
trying to memorize her face. Then he took
Waiting for the coroner, his thoughts her hand and drew her into the apartment
turned to Ma, alone this night in her small for a long overdue visit and a glass of sweet
apartment, with her little fake Christmas Christmas wine.

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About the Author

Tara Flaherty Guy is a recovering career zoning enforcement official, recently retired. She
has a BA in Creative Writing from Metropolitan State University in St. Paul, MN and currently
works as a contributing writer at St. Paul Publishing Company. Most recently her prose and
poetry was featured in Yellow Arrow Journal, Minnesota Voices and Ariel Chart. Her newest
work is forthcoming in the St. Paul Almanac and Talking Stick Literary Journal. Guy lives in
Minnesota with her husband and three self-absorbed, cheeky cats.

83

LIES

by William Torphy

Docento was a master on the pandeiro, the She thanked God that Eduardo was
Brazilian tambourine, and was considered working and kept out of trouble. But as the
the best percussionist in Santa Teresa, one oldest of her children, he was the man of
of Rio’s many crowded hillside neighbor- the house and she often sought his advice.
hoods where music could always be heard
echoing from bodegas, streets and shan- “Docento wants Gabriel to perform at
ties. Thirteen-year old Gabriel Santos was Carnaval and would like him to stay over-
Docento’s most promising student, some- night on Saturday to practice. He has even
times performing with his teacher at the offered to pay for his school expenses. What
bailes, those popular and raucous dance do you think?”
parties that erupted spontaneously in the
city’s favelas. Eduardo clenched his fists. “I don’t trust
that old man!”
One day in January Docento paid a visit
to Carmela, Gabriel’s mother. Carmela was surprised by her son’s
angry response. “What do you mean— you
“Your son is progressing well,” he re- don’t trust him?”
ported. “We would like him to play with us
at Carnaval this year, but he needs to prac- “There”— he seemed to be searching for
tice more. I’m asking your permission to let the right words—“there have been stories.”
him stay overnight on Saturdays. I’ll make
sure he returns on Sunday to help you at “What sort of stories.”
home.”
Eduardo hesitated. “People say that he
The pandeiro master’s praise for her son enjoys his young students too much.”
pleased Carmela. Her husband had disap-
peared years ago. With four mouths to feed, Carmela shook her head, not under-
she found work cleaning at tourist hotels standing. Eduardo raised his eyebrows, giving
near Ipanema beach. Eduardo, now eigh- her a significant look, his meaning slowly
teen, had left school early to help support dawning on her.
the family. She prayed that Gabriel would
not have to do the same. He loved making “Surely that’s not true. I’ve not heard any
music above all else, and one day might such rumors.”
earn an income from it.
“Gabriel spends too much time with Do-
cento already!” he shouted. “I won’t allow
him to live with the man.”

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“It’s one night only.” Unprepared for this encounter, she
nodded distractedly. “It’s the little ones.
Eduardo simmered with resentment, They’ve been ill with bronchitis. Gabriel has
believing his younger brother was being been taking care of them.”
treated with more favor, being given a free
ride. It was also a matter of pride. The favela “He hasn’t been going to school?”
was filled with gossips and Eduardo imag-
ined the whispers: “I’ve heard the Santos’ “Yes, he’s in school. Our neighbor Leticia
oldest boy is having trouble providing for takes care of the children during the day.”
the family. That’s why Docento takes his
brother in.” “Is there anything I can do?”

Even though her son’s accusation was She looked away, flustered. “No. We
based on gossip, he had planted a seed of don’t need any help.”
doubt, and so Carmela devised a pretext to
keep Gabriel at home. She told him the little “Well, I hope the children get better
ones, Armanda and Matheus, had to be soon. Please tell Gabriel I miss our practice
watched after school since their neighbor together.”
Leticia could no longer do so.
“I will.” And with that, she rushed off.
“But Carnaval is almost here!” Gabriel
objected. “I need to practice.” Docento peered at her retreating figure.
Carmela’s abruptness troubled him. She was
“I need you more.” normally so gracious. “Things must be very
difficult for her,” he thought. “She works so
“But—” hard and now her children are sick.”

“It will only be for a while.” Two days later, black and white posters
appeared on walls throughout Santa Teresa:
Gabriel had little choice but to obey
his mother’s request. He entertained his FREE CONCERT
brother and sister with his pandeiro. He
swept the front steps and picked up the litter YOUNG MUSICIANS
from the tiny dirt yard. He sorted cans and
bottles and took Armanda and Matheus to From Bloomington, Indiana, USA
the groceria for ice cream. But after a week,
he grew anxious and bored. PLAZA de SANTA CRUZ

Docento, concerned about his student’s Saturday, 18 January, 6PM.
absence, decided to speak with Carmela
one evening after work. He passed crum- No one had heard of this place, Bloom-
bling walls covered with graffiti, the favela’s ington, Indiana. Surely, children from the
talent on display. He managed to intercept USA would not be visiting the favela. It must
Carmela as she trudged up the last steep be a joke.
stairway home. The wall behind her cele-
brated a local drug dealer, huge blue letters Neighbors gathered around Docento as
boldly proclaiming: “Fama e.Deus” he made a call from the groceria to a prom-
inent acquaintance in the city below. Yes,
“Hello, Carmela. I haven’t seen Gabriel in came the answer: a delegation of young
the last few days. Is he okay?”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

violinists from the School of Performing rounds. If he wasn’t home the next morning,
Arts in that American town were making Carmela assumed he had spent the night
a goodwill tour to Sao Paulo and Rio. They with the Rocha girl.
would be performing here the following
Saturday. The news spread instantly and In the favelas, even the most private
everyone intended to be there. Gabriel, conversations don’t remain secret for long.
frustrated about being imprisoned in the Insinuating rumors about Docento’s be-
house, resolved he would not miss this per- havior with his students had spread. The
formance for anything and vowed to sneak old musician couldn’t help but notice subtle
away if he had to. shifts in how he was treated: the grocer a
bit less friendly, a usually chatty neighbor
Eduardo had different concerns. He had reluctant to talk with him. Most troubling
been laid off from his construction job and of all, two more of his students were pulled
was ashamed to tell his mother. Desperate, from their lessons.
he went to Ernesto Fama, the biggest dealer
in the favelas. Fama began his career as a Normally an expansive, affable man, Do-
mule for one of the city’s original dealers. cento grew introspective. Something was
Practical and ruthless, he quickly rose to the not right. People had considered him a local
top and now directed his own network of hero, Santa Theresa’s musical ambassador
mules. to the city. Now he wasn’t sure. What was
happening and when had this all begun?
The drug boss recognized something
of himself in Eduardo, whose eyes shone He made his way around the hill. Winded
hard with ambition. Within weeks, his new after climbing several sets of stairs, he
recruit was captain of a dozen runners in caught his breath only yards away from the
nearby Atocha. Eduardo reported to Fama’s Santos’ house. Staring through the glass-
headquarters in the afternoon, picking up less windows and open front door, Docento
the packages and distributing them among heard sounds of a Samba rhythm: tap-
the little foot soldiers who dispersed ping and subtle brushings alternated with
through the tangle of streets and narrow percussive pounding on the pandeiro. He
alleyways, climbing vertiginous staircases smiled, hearing his student play. But when
to deliver the goods. he approached the doorway, he hesitated,
shook his head, and then turned away.
Eduardo was soon pocketing more
money than he ever imagined and he If he had shown himself, Gabriel would
yearned to display his new affluence. He have hugged him. He missed his teacher. “I
bought jewelry for his girlfriend Mariana, need to start practicing again,” he told his
and for himself a pair of expensive running mother.
shoes— black and white with bright aqua
soles and toes. Attempting to conceal his Carmela, trapped in a lie, fabricated an-
new profession from his mother, he brought other: “Docento is ill.”
only modest gifts home: a colorful scarf for
Carmela, sweet treats and simple toys for “He’s sick? I should go visit him.”
Armanda and Matheus. He nearly always
managed to make his customary appear- “He can’t see anyone right now.”
ance for dinner and then left to finish his
Gabriel felt the future suddenly falling
away. What if he couldn’t perform at Car-
naval? He began to skip school, spending

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the day smoking joints with other boys not been ill at all? If so, why had his mother
hanging out at the video arcade. One of lied to him?
them happened to be a runner for Fama. He
bragged about all the money he collected When Carmela arrived home, Gabriel
from customers and the reales he earned— handed her the note.
paid to him by Gabriel’s brother.
“You told me he was sick.”
“So—Eduardo’s been pretending he has
a job, a fucking liar all this time!” Gabriel, She sighed and sat down.
knowing how much it would disturb his
mother and fearing retribution from his “You lied to me?”
brother, kept this to himself.
“No, not exactly. I could not tell you what
He purchased a piece of paper and bor- I had heard, so I invented a story—
rowed a pen from the arcade manager and
painstakingly printed a note: only to protect you.”

Docento, “What did you hear?” Gabriel crossed his
Mother tells me you are sick and I should arms over his chest.
not bother you I am sorry. I miss my lessons
and hope to begin when you are better “There— there have been stories about
please Docento.”
let me know.
Gabriel “What kind of stories?”

Gabriel asked the runner to deliver the “I can’t say.”
message on his rounds. Docento was mys-
tified. It made no sense. He intercepted the “Tell me!” he demanded.
runner on his return, handing him a note
of his own: His mother looked deflated. “That he has
been acting improperly with his students.”
My Good Gabriel,
I am in excellent health so you must not Gabriel glared at her.“‘Improperly?’ What
worry. I am only sad that you cannot play does that mean?” She hesitated, afraid that
music with me. her son’s response might somehow verify
Your Friend, Docento the rumors. “That he’s been taking advan-
tage of them.”
Gabriel folded the note and put it in his
pocket. Was his teacher better now? Had he “That’s not true! He never— who told
you this?”

“Your brother.”

Gabriel turned away and stomped an-
grily into the curtained-off space where he
slept. He returned carrying his backpack
and his pandeiro.

“Eduardo is a liar and a drug-dealer. And
you’re a liar too. You ruined everything!” He
strung the backpack around his shoulder,
the pandeiro banging against the doorway.

“Please, don’t go!” wept Carmela.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Amanda and Matheus peeked at him But the night before, one of Eduardo’s
from the corner as he raced down the stairs, runners had failed to report back after
sprinting along the narrow street and disap- making a delivery. Either he had run off with
pearing around the corner. the cash or been murdered for it. Captains
were responsible for their mules. If any little
Eduardo returned the next morning, sur- fucker failed to deliver, Fama demanded
prised to find his mother at home. payment in full. Eduardo would have to for-
feit his commissions, every real, until the
“Why aren’t you working today?” debt was paid back. His family depended on
him and Eduardo devised a plan of his own.
She shook her head.
*
“What’s wrong?”
He brandished the gun, a black stocking
“Your brother. He’s gone. You lied to me cap with eye-holes pulled down over his
about Docento.” face. The runner raised his hands, pee dark-
ening his trouser legs and trickling onto the
“That’s not true. I swear—“ ground. Thin rivulets ran irregularly toward
the gunman, who moved his feet aside to
Carmela put her hand up. “I don’t want avoid them. The boy kept his head down,
to hear it. You must find him.” staring at his assailant’s shoes: bright aqua
toes and soles against the brown dirt, as
Eduardo nodded and hurried out the distinctive as a tattoo or a piece of jewel-
door. His lies and need for secrecy filled ry. He would later describe them to Fama.
him with shame. Instead of searching for Soon every boy in Santa Teresa would be
Gabriel he went to see his girlfriend instead, out looking for him, the drug dealer’s lieu-
returning later that evening toclaim Gabriel tenants in pursuit. There was one last thing
was nowhere to be found. he needed to do.

“Did you go to Docento’s house? Has he He fled past businesses with dropping
had seen him?” rooftops, their hand-lettered signs ad-
vertising everything from haircuts to cell
“He hasn’t.” phones, and followed a tangle of alleyways
crammed with shanties whose rooftops
“Mi Dios! Where could he have gone?’ leaned precariously against one another. He
Carmela imagined the worse—Gabriel raced by a community center, abandoned
already far from the favela, begging for midway during construction, arms of bent
change at the beach or stealing food rebar silhouetted like angry figures against
and taking shelter with criminals. That the sky.
night she had a horrible nightmare: her
son murdered on the streets, his body Leaning against a ruined wall to catch
tossed into the ocean. Grotesque car- his breath, he peered suspiciously into the
nival faces appeared in the dream, with shadows. Voices in the distance, agitated and
painted mouths and dark, menacing eyes, intent. They were already looking for him.
laughing at her.
In the Plaza de Santa Cruz, the young mu-
She remained at home, sick with worry. sicians from Bloomington played a Mozart
Eduardo assured her that everything would
be all right. He was the man of the family.
He was making good money now and would
take care of them all.

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violin sonata and ended their concert with a night air. He watched Docento pounding on
string chamber piece by Villa-Lobos in honor ebony drums with his massive hands. Ga-
of their Brazilian hosts. Later, local bands briel stood next to his teacher, beaming as
played for their guests: Samba, bossa nova, he tapped the head of his pandeiro.
tropicalia, a rap group. Music boomed from
the plaza, attracting curious favelados from Eduardo felt for the bulge of cash in
other hills. The party continued well into his pocket. He jumped hearing two cats
the night long after the young Americans growling and scuffling behind him. Before
had returned to their hotel. disappearing, he told his mother that Ga-
briel was safe and confess that he had in-
Eduardo observed everything from the vented the story about Docento. He would
rocks above. Bright lights shone on the leave most of the money in the cupboard
cheering, gyrating crowd, Samba beats for her, on the top shelf where she kept
rising up from the stage, resonating in the change for the market.

About the Author

William Torphy’s fiction has appeared in Bryant Literary Review, The Fictional Café,
ImageOutWrite, Sun Star Quarterly, Burningword Literary Journal, Chelsea Café, Arlington
Literary Journal, The Meta Worker, and HOME:An Anthology, by Flexible Press. His political
opinion pieces have been featured in blogs, including Solstice Literary Review and OpEdge.
He is a host and frequent reader at LitCrawl in San Francisco where he works as an exhibition
curator.

89

SCHOLARSHIP

by Maria Tsirona

Here she is, then – sitting across him. In the The first time he sees what’s happening,
armchair, in front of his desk. Panos feels that something is drying his
throat, making it difficult for him to breathe,
Efstathia. like if he has filled his mouth with soil that
he is trying to swallow. He stops, in the
And exactly what he was afraid of, is middle of his phrase – he’s looking for the
happening. Because, right now, as the day- glass of water that Stavroula, his secretary,
light collects its last ribbons from the sky, its puts in front of him every time before the
colors, like through a prism, are refracted class begins.
everywhere in the room, like a disco ball
scattering flashes, stars and light on the Fourteen students attend his class; stu-
walls. dents somewhat neglect this field of law be-
cause its courses are very theoretical - in all
Efstathia Papadimitriou. other areas of postgraduate school, classes
consist of twenty-two students.
It’s always the light, since the first time,
of course. Because at that time, at half-past He isn’t sure he will be able to speak
four in the afternoon, the sunlight enters with what he feels in his throat.
sideways the large windows of the room
and reaches the large oval table around And the silence that’s gathering in the
which sit the students who attend his space begins to become deafening. And an-
course, History of Law, in the first year of noying.
postgraduate studies.
The second time, the same color, that
She arranges her bag, and now she’s of liquid copper, is more intense than any-
looking at him. thing else in the room. Its intensity, heavy,
reaches him almost in a dramatic way. There
Well, it’s not only the light to blame. It is is a scene at the end of the science fiction
also the color of her hair –a bright bronze movie Avengers Infinity War when Titan
color, the color of liquid copper–that when Thanos takes all the gems. Because of this,
touched by the sun catches fire, and be- half of the protagonists disappear along
comes almost dazzling. Strangely, the color with half the galaxy’s inhabitants – they
disappears everything else in the room. don’t die, they just go wonderfully, they
turn to ashes or butterflies, and get lost
Panos pretends he’s looking at his pa- in the air. In that way, her color gradually
pers.

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disappears everything else in the room, Panos is looking at her. Fortunately, the
leaving him alone with her. And that sur- afternoon has gathered its colors, and the
prises him – it scares him. He tries not to dizzying projection of them is not reflected
look at her, he tries to make his gaze the on the walls any more. Besides, today, she
same gaze he shares with any student, but has her hair tied back in a loose bun.
that’s impossible. When he speaks to her,
he feels like time is moving in another speed, There is only her face, clean, naked, al-
infuriatingly slow, and words are becoming most exposed to him.
something different from what they usually
are: extremely twisted and complicated. Panos takes in hand the questionnaire
with her name on it and he’s looking at the
And now she is there, so close to him, in questions. He’s looking at them for long,
front of him, with all her color, with all her carefully, one by one.
power. It doesn’t matter; she has no idea
about that power – Then he quietly leaves the paper aside.

and she’s waiting for him. End of time, he reflects. There is no need
to resist anymore. The game is lost, he realizes.
There is a scholarship for the University
of Paris, for one of his students. For this He wishes he could hide his face in his
reason, this morning, Panos meets his stu- hands.
dents personally, to decide who is entitled to
it. Stavroula arranges the interviews, makes “Have you been to Paris?” he asks her.
the questionnaire, prepares the individual
surveys that Panos now has in front of him The darkness spreads silently in the cor-
and completes them with the answers and ners of his desk. Panos knows that he has
the overall picture of each one student so to get up and turn on the lights in the room,
that he can then study them later. but at the same time, he knows that it’s im-
possible to do such a thing.
By noon he has met half the class, and
in the afternoon he has begun to meet the He just raises his hand and turns on the
other half. And now, it’s almost evening, light on his desk – it paints a bright circle
and they are out of schedule – they are around them. That is not enough, of course,
late. The first appointments aren’t on time, Panos reflects. Behind and beyond them, all
so they’re all running late. around, inside him, the amount of darkness
is growing.
Her name is the last on his list.
She nods. “Yes, I’ve been to Paris”, she
Panos tries to clear his throat. He feels says.
the soil gradually spreading everywhere
and making it difficult for him to breathe. Panos feels the darkness touching him
And Stavroula, in the afternoon, is not here threateningly on the back - unlike the other
- there is no glass of water in front of him. fellow teachers on the same floor. He has
his back turned to the large window so he
“I apologize for the delay,” he says in a can concentrate on his work. It is the first
smooth voice. “We started too late in the time that this position makes it difficult for
afternoon…” him. He would like to be able to look out-
side now, to be able to take a deep breath.
“I understand,” she tells him quietly. He feels somewhat trapped between her,
inside, and at night, out.

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“Could you live there for a year?” No his desk, almost sits upon it. He reflects that
other student has asked such questions. all he wants at the moment is to open his
arms and make her disappear her into them
“I could live anywhere,” she comments - the thought exhausts him.
calmly. “And for as long as it takes.”
“Of course I believe the same about
She stops talking for a moment – she people,” he says slowly, looking at her. But
doesn’t stop looking at him though, and the outline of her face is so impressive,
Panos, tired suddenly, feels that all the bal- he notes. And so simple, like a children’s
ance between them is gradually changing. painting. And so quiet. Again, he’s won-
dering about its taste.
“Paris is just a place,” she adds slowly.
“Obviously, for you, we all are just human
A few seconds pass and then – beings,” he tells her with an almost as bitter
smile as hers. “No difference between us.”
“And you?” she reciprocates the question.
And then Panos realizes that it’s too late, that She nods in agreement. “That’s true,”
all the lights have been turned off for a long she mutters.
now, as in the movie La La land, where the
darkness disappears everything except the “That is, according to your way of thinking,
protagonists. And that now he can admit that I should draw lots for the scholarship, not
all he wants, all he wants all this time, since interviewing students all day long.”
the first time he sees her, is to touch her.
She’s just looking at him, now. And
He gets up from his anatomic armchair there’s something in her gaze that destroys
and nervously walks to the large window to and shatters everything – and leaves ev-
get the thought out of his mind. He puts his erything so damaged, like after a big earth-
hands in the pockets of his pants to immo- quake or a catastrophe.
bilize them, and he’s looking outside. Since
the moment he admits it, his thought flut- “Since there’s no difference between
ters inside him like a free, happy butterfly. us…” Panos ends his sentence with great
Uncontrollable. difficulty.

“I… No, I couldn’t live anywhere,” he says Then Efstathia gets up from her seat
slowly, thoughtfully and quietly. “For me, and stands next to him in the same way he
each place is unique.” Then she turns to her stands, almost sitting upon his desk. It’s not
side. “Nothing is just a place…” her that touches him – it’s only her aura.

She smiles softly at him. From this dis- The distance between them is so short,
tance, under this poor light, her smile looks Panos can smell her scent – the smell of
strange – somehow bitter, a little dispar- her body, the smell of her cologne. Once
aging. Panos is looking at the end of her again, the taste of soil comes to his throat
lips and wonders if he would taste this bit- and dries it. And if he tries to look around,
terness if he licked them. in the familiar objects of his desk to hold
himself from the familiarity of his everyday
“Do you believe the same about people?” reality, he will not find anything. Everything
she asks him. has disappeared, for some time now.

Panos approaches her, stands just two He turns to her side.
steps away from her, and then he leans on

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“However, what is it that makes you, “Mrs Efstathia Papadimitriou is the one
you?” he whispers in her ear. who will study in Paris for a year,” he an-
nounces in the next class. He is late and en-
And then she touches him - her whole ters the room hurriedly; they are all sitting
side rests on his own. She is close to him in their seats, her seat is empty. Fortunately,
now, and there is only her and nothing Panos reflects, he is not sure that he could
else. And there’s not much else that he can breathe normally having her in the same
do because he’s not sure if he’s the only room.
one approaching her lips, and not her lips
coming close to his, or if it’s only his fault “Effie dropped out of graduate studies,”
that his arms are suddenly wrapped around says one of his students. “She told me she
her, and not hers around him, and then the was terminating her studies”, says someone
moment fades out and is lost in the vortex else, “she won’t come again”.
that swallows them as the one enters the
other, and disappears them, as well as ev- And then everyone, one by one, says the
erything else that exists in the space. same thing and then Panos turns to Stav-
roula questionably; “yes, she informed me
When, later at night, Panos locks the door this morning” she says, “I didn’t have time
of his office as he leaves, he knows very well to tell you, I am just preparing the related
what makes her different – he can smell it, paperwork now …
taste it and recall it because it’s all over him.

About the Author

Maria Tsirona is a Greek author, storyteller, teacher of
creative writing, and text editor. Before becoming a
full-time author, she worked as a lawyer for many years.
She has published four novels –the fifth is about to be
published in October 2020–, a novella and several short
stories, most of them awarded. Her stories have a touch
of romance, blue colors of the sea, bright sunlight and
strong feelings. She lives in Thessaloniki, Greece, with her
husband and two kids. You can find more about her and
her books at mariatsirona.com

93



NONFICTION



SHORT CIRCUIT

by Robert Burns

The light extinguished, yet the kinetic shock A simple task. A demonstration. My foot
surged to my feet. The amplitude waxed, remained flat; I could not lift up. Heavy.
like whipped rope, each stronger than the Scuffed the floor. Then while walking my
last. I rubbed my feet against the sheet, dogs I had tripped on a level sidewalk,
back and forth, distracting my brain, know- pitching forward in free flight. The dots con-
ing it will continue until I fall asleep hours nected while my nerves disconnected.
later. The throb was rhythmic, like a metro-
nome on a concert piano. At the neurologist’s office that day my
bare leg extended past the sheet, like a
The sensations had started several weeks corpse on a gurney. The technician joked
earlier; a neuropathic pain. Each night with about no one liking her as she strapped the
the shorting circuits, I compared them to electrode to my big toe. She apologized and
the night before, assessing for a change. threw the switch, sending a spark through
the skin into the damaged nerve. The pain
I saw a neurologist. He asked when was quick, the muscle spasmed and then
it started. I had known him for years, we relaxed. Sorry. She said. Did it again.
worked together as residents, our paths
crossing, early in the morning, late at night. Abnormal blood test. The neurologist re-
Tall, thin, with a British accent, he used my ferred me to an oncologist. We’d interacted
name in every third sentence, the last letter over the years. Intense with a soft mono-
with a lilt that lifted it higher. I told him the tone voice, he tried to engage, missed his
sequence: an allergic reaction to naproxen mark.
three months earlier. Required a visit to the
emergency department. Forced to share a Said he was sorry this happened to me.
room there with a sick, coughing man for
five hours. Developed the flu three days later. He probably meant it.

Numbness. Became tingling. Became It missed its mark too.
weakness.
The story was repeated: dates, times,
A week earlier, the weakness became symptoms, progression. I was worse. In just
apparent when I was in my own office. I’m several days.
a geriatrician. I was testing an older woman
after she had fallen. I had asked my patient He ordered a scan. The technician
to walk on her toes. I showed her what to do. warned of a warm feeling. He left the room.
Threw the switch. A wave of molten heat

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washed through my body and passed like a He wished me luck.
wave at the beach sinking into the sand and
left no trace. A cancer surgeon looked at my scan.
Shook his head. “I can cut it out.” But he
Two day wait. The oncologist called. didn’t think it caused my symptoms.

There is a mass in your spleen is all he Two months later, the wheelchairs at the
said entrance to the Mayo Clinic were lined up
like the crutches on the wall of St. Anne’s
The Greeks thought the spleen was the in Quebec. Both serve as a place of solace
source of bad temper. The Talmud refer- and hope for diseases which have no ex-
ences it as the organ of laughter. planation. My grandmother travelled to
St. Anne’s in 1932 with a crippling arthritis.
Two days later I fell on a curb. Damaged She left cured. At my appointment with
my knee. Broke my leg. I vented my spleen the Italian neurologist, she shrugged her
with every obscene word I knew. I thanked shoulders when asked about the mass. She
the Greeks. I screamed with laughter to wanted more data and my entire body was
stop crying. I thought of the Talmud. People exposed to a sparking probe. Another physi-
near me removed their children. cian did not warn me when she sent current.
Muscles tensed anticipating the next jolt.
Another scan. The next day, I pretzeled my body on a thin
mattress as the nurse inserted a needle into
The gowned technician entered the clos- my spinal canal to remove fluid. I never told
et-sized room and injected the radioactive her it was the procedure I hated performing
liquid. The tracer sluiced through my veins. on patients when I was an intern

Sunspots danced in my eyes. The Italian neurologist diagnosed chronic
inflammatory demyelinating polyneurop-
I asked for the results. athy (CIDP) and sent me home. An autoim-
mune disease. Triggered by the flu. Gotten
Minutes later, in the reading room, from the coughing man. In the emergency
the radiologist did not use my name, and department. After an allergic reaction. To
brushed my hand with his. He commanded naproxen.
the console like an officer from Star Trek,
eyes darting from screen to screen. He re- Three weeks later I sank into the dirty
cited his internal monologue as I watched lounge chair at the infusion center. I saw
my images appear. A pixelated body pirou- Don, a volunteer. I took care of his partner
etted on the largest monitor, a slow-motion years earlier. He served comfort to patients.
dance that went nowhere, and I expected The veneer cracked when he saw me. De-
it to vaporize and teleport to a galaxy far, spair on his face. I received infusions of
far away. My numb, weak leg kept me there. gamma globulin at the cancer center. Each
The spleen laughed at me, and the mass week I saw the same people. Tethered to
pulsated as the marker filled it a brilliant bags infusing poison through their veins.
red like an exploding star.
I dreaded going.
The crew cut captain picked up the
phone. Dictated. I started to feel better.

Images. Infusion. CT scan. Spleen. Mass. I knew the others would not improve.
Lymphoma.

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