Adelaide Literary Magazine No.49, June 2021

Revista Literária Adelaide

defeated giant upon whose back he climbed he’d just hide amongst the rushes until they
barefoot like an anthropoid ape or a pirate left and he’d return to his magical aerie. But
into a crosstree over the sweeping tidal most certainly it was the dogs he feared
flow of the river. Then, once in the heights the most. The feral packs that rooted in the
of the Willow, he propped himself squarely reeds and harbingered the city streets by
in a fork to scan the horizon for all intruders, night. For them he always carried the ice
and once satisfied that he was truly alone, pick in his pack; his sword, his special pro-
he pulled his sketchbook journal from his tection against monsters.
backpack and began recording the bright
lines at the edge of the horizon. Peter would look out upon the light
dazzled waters of the Bay and imagine war-
Once little black boys from the bridge ships breaking the sound; its sun-speckled
ventured down as he watched their ap- distance a sheet of fireworks; the oil tankers
proach keenly from his nest. Inevitably they and their cross-trees became triremes and
saw his parked bike and broke into a scram- ancient sails; the far shores filled with tee-
bling felonious run, not seeing his crouched pees and warriors dancing in the sun. All
shape in the overhanging branches, till he these he drew in his sketchbook and turned
dropped silently amongst them and they the afternoon into yesterday; no day; the
fell back disjointed and scrambled upon the never-ending march of imagined people all
ground. filled with the potency of his power.

But most days, he was alone and safe Then inevitably he’s look back towards
in his tree to sketch the chocolate-colored the city in the distance; past the boys har-
boys while they stripped to their skins and rowing the highway from the bridge; past
jumped flailing like windmills into the em- the Puerto Rican girls dancing by the duck
erald waters swirling though the submerged house; through the frenzied crowds of
branches. Some would crab from the trunk soccer players and eventually he came to
out over the river using bare Popsicle sticks the Duncan Garden Projects where he lived
as bait. Every few minutes they’d pull a with his latest foster parents. The tops of
beautiful Blue Crab from the water and the high-rise brick towers in the distance
drop it in a basket pulled from the mud- rose above the swaying rushes like a totem
flat. Slowly, they’d fill it with bubbling fury, of his bad luck; the red buildings filled with
twenty or thirty crackling crustaceans, their the swirling thunderstruck welfare mothers,
eyestalks so devoid of feeling, just following sons selling crack, fathers pushing guns and
the shadows like snake-whips dreaming. sisters walking in red dresses till dawn.

Once in a while a curious muskrat would “Maybe next time he would get a good
creep to the marsh’s edge and peer out one,” he thought!
scowl-faced at the noisy intruders then with
an animal shrug would slowly turn and dis- And then he would slowly lift from his
appear into the yellow weeds. perch; ride into the afternoon sky like a
harrier hawk on the wind; rising, rising
Kids didn’t frighten Peter-by-the-Bay! till the reclining willow diminished with
But he was careful to avoid the adults when height; its sleeping tendrils swimming in
he saw them coming. He had a secret way the river’s slow mouth; rinsing the land’s
out through the swamps where he’d walk breath into the tides sweet sweat; the rif-
his bike through ankle deep mud or else, fles of water raising a shallow humming that

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

only Peter could hear as he floated by like a Christ upon the Cross with arms out-
leaf, wraith-like above the boys washing in stretched; the swift stream no more than a
the flood, pulling in their harvest of crabs; watery carpet rippling against his bare feet
throwing stones upon the water; and he as he called to the boys on the shore who
knew in that awful knowledge that only the turned startled and looked at Peter sus-
true warrior can know; that he was leaving pended in the air and heard him cry, “Come
never to return. on boys, fly with me and we’ll go to Never
Never Land!”
He willed himself lower and then lower
again to hang upon the water’s surface like

About the Author

Thomas Belton is an author with extensive publications
in fiction, poetry, non-fiction, magazine feature
writing, science writing, and journalism. His first book
and professional memoir, “Protecting New Jersey’s
Environment: From Cancer Alley to the New Garden State
(Rutgers University Press)” was an Honor Book awarded by
the New Jersey Council for the Humanities. His short story,
“The Play’s the Thing,” the first chapter in his unpublished
novel, “Stage Fright,” will be published on 2/22/21 by the Adelaide Literary Magazine and
was also a prize winner for the Writer’s Digest’s Popular Fiction Awards in 2017. His short
story “Seneca Village Arises,” the first chapter in his yet unpublished novel, “The Bargeman’s
Daughter,” recently won “Best First Chapter Contest” for the literary journal, “Meet Me @
19th” an imprint of Arch Street Press (12/28/20) for a novel dealing with racial inequality.
His mystery short story, “The Murderous Wood,” featuring T.S. Eliot, Sir James George Frazer,
and Robert Graves as sleuths was published in “Mystery Weekly Magazine” in 2019. He has
also published short stories in the Young Adult literary magazine Cicada, “The Bargeman’s
Daughter” and Arts News, “Atelier.” In non-fiction he has many publications including a
recent essay in Superstition Review, the literary magazine of Arizona State University on
climate change titled “Sea Level Rise and the Two Cultures.” He is also a frequent Op-Ed
writer for the New York Times, The Baltimore Sun, and The Philadelphia Inquirer and a
marine biologist with many peer-reviewed scientific publications.

50

NOT A BAD BOY

by Cheryl Sim

Cooper’s not a bad boy. According to his is on the sidewalk, watching her watermel-
dad, Cooper’s the living manifestation of on-shaped dog pee on some flowers. Dylan
the motto: Live free or die trying! That’s stops, but something—not fear because
not how the neighbors see Cooper and he’s never afraid—makes him cut the en-
his big brother Dylan. They gossip that the gine.
Christiansen brothers are hellions; the po-
lice no longer even ask for the Christiansen A driveway is behind him. He could es-
house’s street address. cape by coasting on it to the street. Only,
the dirt-bike won’t budge with the engine
Nobody’s outside today. “It’s wickedly off. Trying to force it backwards with just the
hot. Even Satan would be sweating,” Coo- tips of his toes isn’t working. His legs are too
per’s mom says. She promises to take short for both feet to be flat on the ground,
Cooper and Dylan to the pool when she’s so he tilts the bike to the side, pawing at the
back from the store. sidewalk with one foot, burning his big toe.
Maybe the sidewalk is as hot as Hell.
She warns Cooper to behave while she’s
out, but fun needs freedom. That means Sounds come out of the witch-lady’s
pestering Dylan to let Cooper ride the dirt- mouth, probably the same stuff she always
bike. On most days, Cooper drives it so fast shouts. Once, when Cooper zipped past
that it splits the air, scattering the goody- her, she hollered, “You’re a bad boy.” He
goody girls off their chalk-drawn hopscotch laughed then because she was standing in
and forcing dog walkers onto other people’s one of the neighbor’s yards while her dog
lawns. It’s the old ones who yell they’ll call pooped. Cooper’s not the bad one; she is
the police. Most of the time, they don’t. for letting her dog do its business wherever
it wants.
With Satan sweating furiously, Cooper
races the dirt-bike on empty sidewalks. She marches toward him, yanking her
Finally, a chance to see how fast he can waddling tub, who, up close, looks more like
take the corners and then brag to Dylan. the fake-fur white pillows on Cooper’s par-
Anticipation grows as he rounds the first. ents’ bed than a dog. “What’s your name?
Cooper lets up on the throttle, leans left, Where do you live?”
his knee inches above the cement. Instead
of speeding up out of the curve, he brakes, “Cooper. I live on Russell Street.” He
hard. The number one neighborhood witch should’ve answered “Dylan.” If she’s mean,
Cooper will tell her off: “It’s not nice that

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

your dog pisses on people’s flowers.” That’s She hands Cooper a biscuit to give to Yeti.
a good plan—and he’ll really say pisses. His Yeti snatches and gobbles it like he’s starving.
dad will be proud that Cooper stood up to
her. Witch-lady’s nicer now; she hands
Cooper another biscuit. “Pet him on his back,
“You know better than to be on the not his head.” Cooper moves his hand over
sidewalk. You could hurt someone.” She’s Yeti’s side. When Cooper stops, Yeti waves
closer. Her mouth hangs open, but instead his paw, begging for more. “Yeti and I need
of shouting, her brown-dotted face melts to go home; he’s too hot.” She prods Yeti
from crinkled-up angry to normal wrinkly, with her foot until he stands. “Good-bye,
like his grandma’s. “How old are you?” Cooper. Stay off the sidewalks. Be sure to
tell your parents about our little chat.”
“Eight.” Her eyes open from saggy slits
to giant circles. Cooper probably should’ve Yeti looks back as he and the lady leave.
said “ten,” but his parents—well, his mom— Fooled her! Cooper straddles the bike seat.
have warned him about lying. He won’t say a word to his parents. Maybe
he’ll tell Dylan; no, Dylan always squeals.
“Isn’t that too young to be riding that Cooper will think about it on the way home.
thing?” She looks him over from the top
of his helmet to his toes. She studies his He presses the kick-start, revs the
flip-flops. If his mom learns he was riding throttle, and jets down the nearest driveway
without shoes, they might not go to the onto the street. Only Cooper forgets to look
pool. None of this is his fault. Dylan told him to his right. A delivery van’s horn almost
it was okay to ride the dirt-bike; he didn’t shatters his eardrum. Good thing his expert
say anything about wearing shoes. driving keeps him from hitting the van.

“I’m sorry. I won’t go on the sidewalk “Godammit! You little ass.” The driver’s
again.” He singsongs this like the girls in his head is out the window. That’s probably
class do when they fake being sorry. An- what the guy barked.
other idea. When the neighbor girls see
people with their dogs, they always ask to Cooper veers left to shoot up the next
pet them. No harm trying. “What kind of driveway onto the sidewalk where the lady
dog is that? What’s its name? Can I pet it?” and Yeti are shuffling back to wherever they
live. The lady grabs Yeti and picks him up
When the woman nods, Cooper presses seconds before Cooper swerves around
the kickstand down and gets off. He uses them.
the curb like it’s a balance beam to reach
the dog, who’s rolling in the grass. “You’re a bad boy, Cooper!” That’s what
he thinks she howled.
“His name’s Yeti; he’s a Westie/Pekingese
mix.” “I’m not a bad boy; I’m free, godammit.”
The air pushes his words into his mouth. He
Cooper’s never heard of those, but he gags on them because even he knows nei-
moves his head up and down, pretending. ther is true.

52

THE TRICKERY OF A
MASKED DEMON

by Ren Nightshade

I married a masked demon. That’s the only love me, obviously. I mean,” I stammered
way to explain how I married such a man. with a chuckle. “You’re sleeping with an-
There’s absolutely no other way. If I’m being other woman. You even had the gall to move
honest, I should have seen through his mask her into our condo on Valentine’s Day!”
in the beginning. All the signs were there. He
was a stain, and I was bleach. I’m a Taurus and He stepped back, surprised by my accu-
he’s an Aquarius. His name literally means sation. As he did, his mistress pranced down
“be cautious.” And yet, somehow, I still fell in the glass stairs, her red-bottom heels clinking
love with him. I should have known better. like the champagne glasses at our wedding
reception. The makeup she spent hours
“I want a divorce,” I said. My hand notice- slathering across her face was as thick as the
ably trembling as I readjusted my grip on my icing on our wedding cake. And her perfume
empty suitcase. was a perfect replica of the fragrance Aco-
nite bought me on our 4th anniversary.
Aconite slammed his fist into the hard-
wood of the mahogany coffee table, adding A wave of nausea washed over me as the
another bruise to its gallery of hills and val- scent smothered the room.
leys. It was the sole survivor of our eight-
year-old wedding gifts, a sign of good luck What did he see in her? He always told
for our marriage, or at least it should have me I was his only one, and that I deserved
been. Now it served better as the punching only the best—I suppose that was just an-
bag for every one of his tantrums. other one of his lies. He used me up, and
now I have nothing left for him to steal. I
“Why?” he said, throwing the crystal that should have known the moment my grand-
rested on the table to the floor. father passed away, leaving me his com-
pany and riches, and the moment Aconite
The glass shattered—a perfect semblance stopped acting like he loved me would be
to our marriage. one and the same.

I sighed. “Aconite, look, there’s nothing “Hey babe, we should get going, the res-
between the two of us anymore. You don’t ervation at that 5-star sushi place is in ten

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

minutes. We’ll be late,” his mistress said, “So, what’s the problem? If I have your
holding the door open for him. heart, why are you leaving?” he said, trying
to reason with me.
Her very presence felt like drowning in
a swimming pool. Lowering my gaze to my “You stole my heart and broke it. But that
empty suitcase, I gripped its handle anx- all ends today!” I marched towards him
iously. not stopping until we stood face to face. “I
want a divorce,” I said, shoving him with all
Maybe I should just let him go. I don’t the force I could manage. “Oh, and I’m not
need to divorce him. He still treats me well leaving my house, you’re leaving!”
enough...
He stumbled back through the threshold
Aconite growled from behind his mask, of the door. His perfect mask disintegrated,
his gaze turning into a cold knife to sharpen revealing the demon he’d shown me many
on his mistress, then his watch. times over the eight years of marriage we
shared. His mendacious warm smile dis-
“Look, babe, we can talk this all out when solved into a gruesome scowl, his cold gray
I get back. For now, I’ve got to go.” He then eyes narrowed into a bone-chilling glare, and
readjusted his suit and turned, taking extra his hands gathered into fully capable fists.
care not to scuff his new pair of Louis Vuit-
ton’s. He walked to the door, stopping in the He ground his teeth, repositioning him-
threshold to taint me with more of his de- self before me. “You’re going to regret this.”
monic whispers. “You know, I still love you,
and I need you. So just wait for me, okay?” Lifting my hand, I caressed the door. It
used to be so heavy, but now, it felt light as
Lifting my hazel eyes to his deceitful gray a feather.
ones, my pulse quickened with every deaf-
ening tick of the clock. My hand stuck to I suppose I’m ready for this after all.
the handle as I took a deep inhale, building Smiling, I tilted my head. “No, I don’t think
courage. I’ll ever regret anything as much as the eight
years I’ve wasted on you, Aconite. Goodbye,”
I’m not his tool anymore. He’s already I said, slamming the door in his face.
taken everything, now it’s my turn.
In the time that followed, I heard his fists
“No,” I said, shaking my head. beating at the door and thrashing the knob,
but the auto-lock he had installed ensured
“What?” he growled, the wood crying as my safety. He even threw his body against
his hand grasped the doorframe. the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He was the
one who insisted we have it specially made
“I don’t love you, and I don’t need you.” to withstand potential robbers, all to pro-
The words freed me, and in much the same tect the money he loved so much.
way, they shackled me. There was no turning
back now. I dropped my suitcase, squared “Let me in, now! You can’t do this,” he
my shoulders, and stood a bit straighter. “I hissed, cursing my name and pleading.
don’t love you, and I don’t need you, Aco-
nite. You are leaving whether you agree to Collapsing into my leather love seat, I
it or not. I’ve had enough of you taking ev- took up a glass of champagne and toasted
erything from me. You took my name, my to myself, letting its cushions swallow me
money, and more than anything, you stole whole. “Sorry, but I have no time for masked
my heart.” demons anymore.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Tivona McAllister (Ren Nightshade) studies creative writing at Full Sail University. She lives
in Ohio with her family. In her spare time, she enjoys reading books of various mediums,
watching anime, and crocheting.

55

THE ELEVATOR

by Rory Rimel

“Stop pressing all the god damn buttons, to think about even if we don’t get back to-
that’s not going to get us out of here any gether, we will be tied together for life now.”
sooner.” said Richard.
Just as they were getting used to their
“I can’t help it; you know I hate enclosed situation the power went out in the elevator.
spaces.” said Jamie. I wish we could have A short time later it got very cold in the el-
taken the stairs. And stop cursing you know evator, so cold in fact that they could see
I hate that.” their breath. “Good thing I always keep this
blanket that my great-grandmother made in
“You hate everything that’s why we broke my bag.” … “This blanket is big enough for
up and that’s why we’re here at counseling two I wouldn’t want the father of my un-
that I don’t think will work.” And now look born children to freeze.”
at us we’re stuck in this elevator together,
you know neither of us could have taken the “We will have you out of this wretched
stairs, we’re both in wheelchairs. So, taking convoluted box as soon as possible and I’m
the stairs is just wishful thinking on your part.” really sorry about this I know the elevator
needs to be fixed.” “And I’ll send down lots
“Why aren’t you doing anything to help, of food.”” (The repair man said.
that was the problem in our relationship
you never did anything to help fix my prob- “And Jamie, I know you’re scared of the
lems, and you’re not doing anything to help dark, this can’t be easy for you right now
me out of this one, I can’t believe this hap- remember your breathing exercises from
pened to me again in my life. Man, I hate your meditation.” Dr. Fox spoke through the
elevators.” Jamie said. elevator door.

“They will get us out of the tin box when The repair man made a hole in the ele-
they can. Nothing I do will make them go vator wall on the next floor to pass things
any faster.” Richard said. down to them like food because it was
going to be a long time before they could
“Pick up the phone and tell the operator get them out. They didn’t like that news
I’m hungry.” they had already been in there in hour. The
last time this box trapped people in it, it
“You’re always hungry these days.” took them five hours to get them out and
he feared that this time was going to take
“Well, I am eating for multiples.” And
counseling must work, we have our family

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Revista Literária Adelaide

longer because of the extenuating circum- “You are the mother of my children and
stances for both. if you’re willing to turn over a new leaf, I
can try to.”
“Pass me the chicken fingers and spare-
ribs, you know how much I love them.” “See if you can get me something to
Jamie said. throw up in from one of the staff members
and get rid of this food is making me sicker
“Yeah, they are about the only thing you because now, I have a headache.” Have they
love.” Richard said. Him figured out how to get us out of here yet I’m
getting really claustrophobic?”
“That’s not true it’s just there is a short list
of my likes, but I want to turn over new leaf “I want to move into your apartment and
before these babies come that’s why I wanted help you get ready for the babies, it’s the
to go to counseling with you.” Jamie said. only way I think counseling will work if were
both willing to try.” “I think the stress you’ve
“I thought you wanted to get back together.” been dealing with lately is too much, and
Richard said. that’s why you been saying you hate every-
thing. I need to take on more responsibility
“I do, but I doubt that’s going to happen, now.” “I think the really close to formulating
you said you didn’t think counseling was a plan on how to get us out of here.”
going to work.” It’s probably all those extra
hormones anyway that make me want to “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do since
change my mind.” we’re coming up on the five-hour mark,
and the elevator is not to be fixed because
“Man, all this food is good let’s divide it I need a part that I don’t have here. We’ll
up and take it to our respective houses for get the fire department involved and see if
dinner.” there’s a way we can take you out of your
chairs, bring you up first and your chairs up
“I don’t feel good and I don’t know why.” second.” The repair man said.

“Is it the babies, you know you don’t feel A few minutes later two fire trucks and
good after you since you been pregnant.” two ambulances came to the building to
help with the situation.
“I’m past the first trimester, maybe it’s
the food pick up the phone and ask how “We’ll just put them on structures and
old it is.” bring them up that way through the hole
you already made.” The chief said.
A few minutes later he said, “They said it
was a week old, but it was the only thing they A few minutes later, three firefighters
had in the fridge in the secretary’s office.” got down into the elevator shaft and made
tresses with bungee cords to pull the people
“I can’t believe this; they gave a pregnant up to the next floor. Then some more fire-
lady and her ex-week-old Chinese food and fighters brought up the empty chairs. The
now I got food poisoning on top of being firefighters took them to the hospital to-
stuck in this stupid elevator.” Jamie said. gether.

“What can I do to help you,” Richard said.

“Oh, so now you willing to help me.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Aurora Rimel studies creative writing at Full Sail University. In her spare time, she enjoys
spending time with her cats.

58

HAPPY
ANNIVERSARY

by Trinity Summitt

The Smiths sat across the small, iron-legged Marilyn extended her arm, and her fin-
table from one another, and Marilyn’s eyes gers brushed the crimson petals of a rose in
were heavily focused on the smudged glass the vase on the glass table. She pulled it out
topper. She turned her gazed to the partial- of the vase and pulled it close to her face,
ly open sliding door that led to their hotel inhaling the scent. “I splurged a bit for the
room. Inside the room, between two twin anniversary bundle. We have champagne
beds with matching soft striped quilts and arriving in a few hours. Chocolate covered
stark white pillows, a large, metallic pink, strawberries as well.”
heart-shaped balloon floated. Happy Anni-
versary, it read. Silence filled the air between them.

Victor snapped his fingers in front of her “Mare... please listen to me. I am so, so
face, snapping her back to reality. “Are you sorry it happened like this. I wanted to tell
listening to me?” you sooner, but it never felt like the wrong
time and you were so excited about this trip.
Marilyn turned her head back toward I couldn’t take it anymore. I just felt so-”
him. Her striking green eyes met his deep,
chocolate brown ones and she smiled. “Of “Guilty?” She chuckled and started
course I am, darling.” She closed her eyes plucking the petals from the rose. One by one
and took in a deep breath, letting the they fell to the brick under their feet.
pleasant spring air fill her lungs before ex-
haling. Her eyes opened and her attention “Well... yes.”
went back to the balloon.
“Why?”
A look of confusion crossed Victor’s face.
“Are you alright, Mare?” “You’re my wife. It is our fifteenth an-
niversary and here I am telling you I have
“Splendid,” she replied, her voice was been cheating on you for the last two years.
dreamy and nonchalant. Did you not hear what I was saying?”

“Are you going to say anything about this?” Marilyn remained quiet until the last
petal fell. One lone rose remained in the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

vase. She stood and dusted the front of her backward to make you love me more. I
skirt, knocking two petals loose that slowly honestly don’t even know if I like you as a
drifted to the rose graveyard next to her person! You’re arrogant, selfish, clearly a
chair. She gave her husband one last look moron if you think I didn’t know you have
and walked through the sliding glass door. been sneaking around with your assistant
for the last three years- and yes, I know it
Victor hopped to his feet and followed has been three years, not two- and... and
close behind her. “Marilyn? Why are you look at this ridiculous room! I spent extra for
acting so weird?” this bullshit. I mean, I know there is a hot
tub in the other room but come on. Totally
Marilyn walked around the room, her not worth it!”
hand brushing every surface. First, the pol-
ished walnut dresser with intricate gold de- Victor moved toward Marilyn and she
tailing around the knobs. Second, the beige threw up her hand to stop him. “I’m sorry,
walls that held a texture much like the silk Marilyn. Truly.”
crepe blouse she had worn this day. Finally,
circling back toward the sliding door where “No Victor, I’m sorry. I should have left
Victor stood, she brushed her fingers over you seven years ago. The first time I realized
the royal blue and tan striped quilts that our marriage was dead.”
adorned the two beds.
Victor swallowed hard and looked down
Victor huffed in annoyance and ap- at the plush brown carpet. He reached for
proached his wife. He grabbed her upper his suitcase and pulled it from the bed. He
arm and shook her slightly to snap her moved across the room with his head down
out of her trance. Her eyes met his and he until he arrived at the door. Hand on the
dropped his hand back to his side. They knob, he turned back toward his wife. “I
stared at each other in silence, neither will leave my credit card on file downstairs.
quite sure what to say. Order anything you want. And Marilyn, I re-
ally am sorry.”
A full minute passed before Marilyn
burst into laughter. She collapsed onto the Marilyn stood from the bed she had
bed in hysterics and covered her face as planted herself on and sauntered back
her laugh turned to much more of a cackle. outside to the table they had been sitting
Victor stood at the foot of the second bed, together just ten minutes before. She re-
eyes wide and mouth agape at the scene in trieved the last rose from the vase and went
front of him. back inside the room, stroking the petals as
she moved.
“I... can’t... believe,” Marilyn barked out
between breaths. She continued laughing She hopped back onto the bed and
and her face turned a brilliant shade of red. pulled a sheet of paper from her bedside
“I can’t believe this is happening!” table. She lifted the receiver of the phone
next to her bed and held it to her ear.
“I...” Victor was at a loss for words.
“Hello, room service? Yes, what is your
Marilyn sat up on the bed and took a most expensive wine and most expensive
minute to compose herself. She cleared meal?” A grin formed on her face as she
her throat and shook her head. “I can’t be- listened to the response. “Great. I will take
lieve I spent the last fifteen years bending two of each. Billed to Victor Smith, please.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide
Marilyn twirled the rose in her fingers
and looked at the balloon beside her. She
smiled to herself and pressed a thorn from
the rose into the balloon, which emitted
a loud pop and its carcass drifted to the
carpet.

About the Author
Trinity Summitt is currently a student with Full Sail University,
majoring in Creative Writing. She previously graduated from
Ball State University in 2015 with two bachelor degrees in
Criminal Justice and Sociology.

61

MOZART’S SONATA
IN D MAJOR

by Bo Kearns

Drawn by the prospect of publication, writ- said. At the break, she came over and sat
ers gathered at the conference in Malibu. beside Norman. She had pale gray eyes, a
A bespectacled woman, her gray hair uni- mane of dark hair and scant make up. Prob-
formly curled under at the edges, stood ably in her late forties though looks younger,
and read from her work. “The mother left Norman surmised. Her badge read ‘Greta.’
her children on the beach and went for a
swim. She got caught up in the rip tide.” “Tell me about your writing,” she said.
Her accent reminded him of Ingrid Bergman
When she finished, the workshop in- in Casablanca. Flattered by her interest, he
structor asked for comments. told her about his book.

A man in the back of room raised his “Fascinating,” she remarked. She sounded
hand. “The protagonist is careless and ir- sincere.
responsible. No one wants to read a story
about a character like that.” “Have you been to this conference be-
fore?” Norman asked.
A young woman spoke up. “She has
every right to go for a swim. She can keep “Once, many years ago. I grew up nearby.”
an eye on the kids from the water.” She looked wistful. They chatted for a while
until she stood and he watched her walk away.
Norman Hobson agreed with the man
about the character’s irresponsibility. *
Others in the workshop took sides and he
joined the fray. “Isn’t this interesting,” he Norman signed up for a ten-minute pitch
said. “The men think she’s irresponsible, session with an editor of a respected New
and the women say she should be able to York publisher and now he sat across from
do whatever she wants.” her. Her gaze penetrated. He gave his pitch,
and waited. “What’s the conflict resolu-
Everyone laughed— except for the tion?” she asked.
woman in the front row. She turned and
glared at him. “Not all the women,” she From writing classes he’d attended over
the years, he remembered conflict as man

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against man, man against nature, man concert pianist, and writing awards. Attrac-
against society or man battling himself. He tive, a powerhouse, and she’s sitting at my
struggled to fit his story into a category. The table, he thought.
woman shook her head at his futile attempt.
“Nice,” he said.
“Why should I care about your protago-
nist?” came the follow-on. Later Norman attended a networking
event. Circular tables scattered around
Norman thought that was obvious. “Her the room displayed place cards indicating
marriage is in shambles. She suspects her writing genres: Dark fantasy, sci-fi, YA, etc.
husband of having an affair.” He wasn’t sure where his book fit. His pro-
tagonist was a woman, so he headed for the
The editor shrugged, and Norman slunk table labeled ‘woman’s fiction.’ The woman
away. beside him introduced herself as Prudence,
editor of romance novels.
Later, as he sat alone in the hotel café
having lunch, Greta walked in. She waved Eager to have his book published,
and came over to his table. Norman wondered if perhaps there might
be a match.
“May I join you?”
“Does your book have a happy ending?”
Norman smiled and nodded. After his ses- Prudence asked.
sion with the editor he welcomed a friendly
face. The waiter brought a menu and Greta “Not really,” Norman said.
ordered.
“Is there a lot of kissing?”
“How’s it going?” she asked.
Norman pondered that. “There’s sex. Does
“Not good.” He told her about the editor. that count?”

She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. The woman leaned back, her eyebrows
“Don’t be discouraged. It’s an editor’s job raised. “Erotica?”
to be tough. Think about what she said. It
might help.” Norman shook his head. “Just the regular.”

Norman knew she was right. “What do Prudence laughed. “I think you might be
you write?” he asked. at the wrong table.”

“Mysteries.” She pulled a book from her That evening at the welcoming recep-
bag and placed it on the table. Murder at tion out by the pool, Norman mingled. He
Midnight read the title. The glossy cover listened in on conversations about the dif-
showed moonlight illuminating a bloodied ficulties of getting published. Discouraged,
body on a forest floor. he wandered to the bar, got a glass of wine
and stood alone to observe.
“A plastic surgeon at Mount Sinai Hos-
pital is murdered,” she said. “They find his He spotted Greta wending her way
body in the Berkshires.” through the crowd, headed his way. “We
meet again,” she said. He felt flattered. It had
The photograph on the back of the book been a long time since an attractive woman
jacket pictured a younger Greta. Norman had sought him out.
perused her credentials: PhD, scientist,

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“You’re a writer and a concert pianist. Im- Greta took him by the hand. “Let’s go say
pressive,” he said. hello to my friend Wanda,” she said. She led
him to a group standing by the pool. Greta
“The piano is my passion. I’m learning chatted with her friend, while Norman con-
to play Mozart’s Sonata No. 18 in D Major. versed with others. When he turned around,
There are many difficult movements in the Greta was gone. Damn, he thought, though
piece.” She closed her eyes and a breeze blew at the same time he was relieved.
strands of her hair across her face. She raised
her hands; her nimble fingers glided across The following day at the workshop,
an imaginary keyboard. Fascinated, Norman Norman read an excerpt from his novel.
watched until he, too, heard the music. The teacher and others complimented him.
They found his work compelling. Afterwards,
At the end of her virtual performance, elated and with his head high, he strolled to
Greta said, “Next time I fall in love, I hope the lobby where he saw Greta.
he will share my passion for the piano and
classical music.” “So how did your reading go?” she asked.

Norman winced at her mention of ‘love.’ “Seems everyone liked it.”
He was married.
“I knew they would,” she said. “We should
“I can play Ode to Joy on the harmonica,” celebrate. How about dinner this evening?”
he ventured.
“Sounds good,” he said without hesitation.
Greta laughed at the effort.
They drove to a restaurant by the sea and
The teacher from the morning work- sat at a table with a view of the setting sun.
shop wandered by. “Shipboard romance?” “So beautiful,” Greta said. They ordered wine
he asked, his words slurred. The comment and dinner.
caught Norman off guard. Though he should
have been annoyed, he wasn’t. “Wanda said an odd thing to me last night,”
Greta began. “She said there were no men
The teacher moved on and Norman in this town.”
raised his empty glass. “Care to join me for
another?” Norman thought the comment strange,
too.
The couple stood at the bar talking, obliv-
ious to the crowd around them. “I’m en- Greta held out her hand and rubbed her
joying the evening,” Greta said. “I’m having bare ring finger. “I’m married, though not
fun.” emotionally.”

Norman was enjoying the evening too, Their eyes met. Norman was used to
but fun wasn’t the emotion he had begun being in control. Greta had taken the lead.
to experience.
They sat in silence watching the sun sink
“I’m thinking I should move back to Cal- below the horizon in a final burst of red.
ifornia,” Greta said. “There’s nothing tying Shadows fell across the room.
me to New York anymore.”
“Family?” Norman asked.
“Sounds like a good plan,” Norman said.
Listen to yourself. You don’t even know her “My son is at Occidental College,” Greta
and you’re advising on where to live. said. “I know all the pianos on campus.

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Whenever I see a piano I stop and play. I can’t The following morning he attended an-
help myself. It’s an obsession. Shopping malls, other workshop. He hoped Greta would be
hotel lobbies, schools, it doesn’t matter.” there. She wasn’t. Afterwards he searched
and found her sitting in the lounge con-
Norman grinned. “I’m going to write a versing with another man. He walked over
story about you,” he said. “I’ll call it The and touched her on the shoulder. She startled.
Piano Stalker.” He regretted his word choice,
and the implication. “I’ve been looking for you.” He ignored her
companion.
The waiter brought the check and Greta
offered to pay. Norman waved her off. She reached into her purse and pulled
“You’re a cheap date,’ he said. Again he had out his manuscript. “I love your writing. I
regrets. She wasn’t cheap, and he wasn’t on want an autographed copy of your book
a date. when its’ published.”

“Why don’t we go for a walk on the pier,” The man across from them stood and
Greta said taking his arm. “It’s such a beau- left. Norman sat down beside her. They
tiful evening. I’ll tell you about my husband.” talked for a while until he said, “I’m leaving
in a few minutes. I’m going home.”
Outside the wind had picked up. Norman
pulled up his shirt collar and stuffed his Greta’s eyes widened. “But the confer-
hands in his pockets. ence doesn’t end until tomorrow.”

“My husband’s a Wall Street lawyer,” she “I can’t handle another workshop,” he
said. “His career is his life. My father was said with a forced laugh. In reality, he didn’t
like that. I married my father.” She dropped trust himself to stay the night.
her head, and slowed her pace.
Greta glanced off. Norman didn’t say
Norman shared her pain with a pain of anything. They embraced and mumbled
his own. “My wife suffers from depression.” words about keeping in touch. When
They strolled for a while, the only sound Norman walked out into the glare of day,
coming from the cry of gulls overhead and he knew they would never see each other
the lap of waves against the breakwater. again.
Greta glanced at her watch. “We should be
heading back.” Norman had lost track of *
time. He would have walked with her to the
end of the pier and over the edge. Years later Norman’s novel was published.
He remembered Greta wanted for a signed
They returned to the conference and sat copy. He had no idea where she might be.
together listening to the evening’s speaker. He wondered if she’d moved back to Cali-
Afterwards, Greta said she would like to fornia. The memories of their time togeth-
read some of his manuscript. He took the er lingered. Whenever he saw a piano, he
first chapter from his conference tote bag thought of Greta. He could picture her with
and handed it to her. They said good night. her eyes closed, her hair stirred by the
wind, her fingers moving across that imagi-
Norman couldn’t sleep. He tossed, nary keyboard. And if he stood long enough,
flailed and fluffed the pillow. He replayed he could hear Mozart’s Sonata in D Major—
the walk on the pier with Greta over and and imagine what might have been.
over in his mind.

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About the Author

Bo Kearns is a journalist and writer of fiction. His debut novel Ashes in a Coconut received
the 2020 Finalist Eric Hoffer Book Award. Several of his short stories have won awards and
been published. He’s a feature writer with the Sonoma Index-Tribune newspaper and the
NorthBay biz magazine. He’s a beekeeper, avid hiker and active supporter of conservation
causes. Bo resides in Northern California with his wife and rescue dog Jake.

66

AN ANGELS LAST
GIFT

by Matthew Fontenault

There was only one option; I had to save my It had been a difficult five years for John. Af-
platoon. I screamed with everything I had, ter leaving the service, he had no idea what
“Grenade, everybody down!” Looking back to do with his life. He worked, yeah, but he
at my best friend Johnny Boy, I tossed him was on a downhill routine. Drinking and
my dog chain and dove toward the grenade. pills seemed to gain control of his future. I
Was this the wrong move? Could I have never wanted this for my best friend. This
saved them all and still survived? The bat- is not why I sacrificed myself. My work is
tlefield covered in bodies, and the day had not complete. He still needs an angel. “God,
turned into night. Scorching heat, gunpow- lend me a hand here,” I said aloud.
der filling the air, low on supplies, the men
were worn out. If they survive, I consider *
that a mission accomplished.
“John, where did you go?” called Courtney.
John, aka Sergeant Strong, clasped his “John? Are you alright?” she continued ask-
hands tightly on the dog tags, and with his ing. Courtney searched, frantically, through
thumb, rubbed the engraved name. “You the house for her husband. Nowhere to
fool,” cried John. “There had to have been be found, she looked in the garage be-
another way. It should have been me. Fuck! cause some nights he would be working
God no! Fuck!” he screamed. There is in- on his Mustang 64 ½. She knew he loved
deed no telling what could have happened. his car but often wondered what kept
Everything happened in an instant. I went him up these hours. By curiosity, Court-
with my gut reaction. And so, my squad, my ney switched her backyard lights on and
brothers, can live. stepped out onto her balcony. From the
railing, in the distance, all she saw was the
* shadow of a man hurdled oddly on the
ground. Courtney approached him with
Five years later, my boy Johnny, a quiet, caution and lightly grasped his shoulder.
muscle-headed man who still wore a crew “John?” she exclaimed as she shook him just
cut, married a lovely blonde-hair, blue- a bit. He turned abruptly and threw his left
eyed, law school graduate named Courtney.

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arm, shoving Courtney to the ground. He to face with Dr. Anderson, he remained
screamed, “Everybody down!” silent. Dr. Anderson begins by introducing
herself. She works around him and eventu-
Shaken by what took place that night, ally asks John, “What happened the other
Courtney walked John back into the house. night?” Rather than answer the question,
“John, what was that?” Courtney asked. “I John shrugs, tapping his foot loudly, faster
cannot tell you how sorry I am. I do not and faster as his eyes glance around the
know how I am supposed to live like this,” room at all the books on the shelves and
he replied. “It has been five years and certificates framed on the wall. “When did
counting. I find myself in this realistic night- these episodes begin?” asked Dr. Anderson.
mare, and the single moment is repeated, John furiously responds, “When did my ep-
over and over in my damn head. I cannot isodes begin? You mean, when did I start
stop remembering.” “Remembering what?” seeing my best friend get fucking blown up
asked Courtney. John looks at his wife and repeatedly in my mind? There was no time
bursts into tears and says, “Babe, I am all for goodbyes. No more memories. Just the
sorts of messed up, and I have seen some constant reminder that it should have been
things that words could never explain. All me. I could have saved him.”
I want is for you to be safe, and I feel like I
keep putting you in the way of harm.” Baf- Saddened by what John was sharing, Dr.
fled by the way her husband is speaking, Anderson asks one last question before con-
Courtney quickly stops him from continuing. cluding their session, “What is your happy
As she hugs him tightly, Courtney expresses, place?” In deep thought, John reflects what
“You are not a danger to me. I could never comes to his mind first. It was not the garage
understand what you have gone through, working on his car; that was just a distrac-
but I am not so perfect myself. I have loved tion for everything else in his head. “The one
and lost as well. Some days are not always place in this world that brings me happiness
easy, but Hunny we, are going to make it is Chester’s Burgers, off Ocean Avenue,” he
through this, and anything else, together. replies. Baffled, Dr. Anderson simply says,
Just as I already promised you.” “Okay, well, tell me that story and why that is
your happy place.” He looked up at her and
The following morning John and said, “You see, ever since we were children,
Courtney started their morning as usual: my best friend James and I would get burgers
with a cup of hot coffee, breakfast, and a with root beer floats there. We went with
menthol cigarette to follow. While over- our mothers and continued the tradition
looking the yard from their balcony, they into adulthood. It did not matter how old we
sighed and together said, “So what are we were. It was all about our bond, and when
going to do?” Courtney looks at John and we lost our mothers, we carried each other
mentions, “Well, I know a woman who is through the rough. Literally, and to the very
a therapist; she may be able to help.” “I end. To top it all off, I did not return there
guess that is a start. I will try anything at until five years after he passed. I was at my
this point,” responds John. lowest of lows, and the one day I decided to
return to Chester’s Burgers, the most beau-
* tiful of women walked through the doors.”

Dr. Andrea Anderson was able to take John Time was up, but Dr. Anderson allowed
right in the next day. As John now sat face him to continue. She asked him, “Is this

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where you asked for her number?” He re- Aren’t you a little old? I’m just teasing you;
plied, “That is just it; I looked up at her from they are honestly my favorite.’ I just laughed.
a short distance with my mouth full, just awe- I had not laughed like that in a long time. I
struck; and she approached me. No, she did offered for her to join me, and now we are
not just up and give me her number. Jokingly married. I never thought I would see the day.
she said, ‘Hey umm, is that a root beer float? She must have come from the heavens.”

About the Author

Matthew Fontenault is a 28-year-old from New England
attending Full Sail University to pursue his dream of
becoming a professional writer. He is a loving father, and in
his free time, enjoys music and video games. He hates the
cold, so he currently resides in the Sunshine State.

69

MORE

by Karole Bennett

The cold metal table pressed into my back, He closed my covering and carried me
and the cork, water-stained, ceiling loomed to the side of the table, where a black brief-
over me. A lightbulb dangled from a tar- case sat open on the concrete floor. He
nished-brown chain. The dim light misted placed me inside, slapped the top closed,
through the room, emitting a faint, grey, and locked the snaps.
glow. An old clock hung on one of the
spackled walls and filled the room with its I was in complete darkness.
monotonous clicks.
The doctor picked up the briefcase. It
Footsteps dragged and slapped, growing swayed from side to side as he walked. The
louder with each footfall. The steps and the door squealed and clapped shut. As the
clock echoed each other like a mechanical briefcase swung, I slid around its dark in-
heartbeat until the feet came to a halt. terior. The doctor stopped walking, turned
the case flat on its side, and carried it with
The doorknob rattled. The rusted door both hands. He cleared his throat. “Sorry
hinges shrieked open. The walls were to keep you waiting.” His briefcase dropped
doused in a honeyed light, but I was con- with a thud.
sumed by the tall man’s shadow. He strode
into the room. The door slammed shut be- “You treat all your prized possessions
hind him. He crossed to the table and light that way?”
illuminated his face.
I’m not his.
Doctor. How nice to see you again.
“This is exactly your taste, Goose,” The
Thick glasses rested on the tip of his nose. doctor said.
He placed a large object on the floor. There
was a faint click as he opened it. He stood, Goose. That’s a new one.
reached into a box on the table, and pulled
out two latex gloves. He blew into them and “What have you got for me?” Goose said.
pulled them over his hands. The doctor slid
me an inch outside of my plastic casing. His “Take a look,” the doctor said.
fingers blotted against me. The doctor sur-
veyed his fingertips for color residue. Freedom.

“Today is our lucky day, Galilee,” the doctor The snaps unlocked, the lid opened, and
said. golden light wafted over me. A pair of large
tan hands plucked me out and held me in
front of a smooth face.

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“The Sea of Galilee,” the man said. No.

So, this is Goose. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Doc,” Goose
said.
Goose’s dark blue eyes dilated. They
shifted up and down my body. He lifted me “I’m sorry your offer’s too low,” the doctor
to the light and traced me with his eyes said.
from corner to corner, edge to edge. He
squinted, brought me closer to his face, and It always will be.
grazed over me with a gloved finger.
“You won’t find another buyer,” Goose
“Rembrandt is a genius,” Goose said. said.

“Yes,” the doctor said. “We’ll see,” the doctor said.

“She’s beautiful,” Goose said. “Very few of us are willing to pay for tainted
goods,” Goose said.
“One of a kind.”
Beautiful.
“That much I know.”
“Maybe,” The doctor said.
You see me.
I am beautiful.
Goose lowered me from his gaze and
placed me on the wooden tabletop next to “You’re arrogant,” Goose said.
the briefcase. “Twenty million.”
“I’m assured,” the doctor said.
“No,” the doctor said. He crossed his
arms and leaned against the table. Goose snorted.

Goose ran a hand through his silver hair. The doctor snatched the briefcase.
A scowl stretched across his chapped lips.
“I’ll be here when you change your mind,”
“That’s more than a fair price,” Goose said. Goose said.

“I’m the one selling,” the doctor said. The doctor’s footsteps quickened. The
case shuddered as he moved. With each
“And I’m the one who’s buying,” Goose footstep, I bumped around in the padded
said. He quirked his brow. Both hands slid lining of the case.
into the pockets of his tailored slacks.
A doorknob jiggled. Old door hinges
“All you had to say is that you’re not in- screamed. The doctor set the briefcase
terested, Goose,” the doctor said. He picked down, opened it, and grabbed me in a firm
me up from the table. grip. “You’re worth way more, Galilee.” the
doctor said. His hands shook as he placed
Wait. me back on the metal table facing the ceiling.
The dim lightbulb swung in small circles over
“Fine,” Goose said. He pulled out a cell me. “Way more.”
phone, “I can have thirty million wired to
your bank account right now. Just say yes.” Am I?

Please. The lightbulb flickered. The doctor
pulled his glasses off. He sighed, dragged
The doctor secured me in the briefcase, his hand down his face, and rested his dark
the golden light faded, and I was trapped
inside with a clap of the lid.

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frames back on the edge of his nose. The Will I ever be free?
doctor grabbed the briefcase, walked out of
the room, and the door slammed shut. His The lightbulb buzzed and switched from
footsteps retreated until I was left with the white to orange. With each flash, the faces
regimented clicking of the clock. of my admirers appeared like phantoms
until the lightbulb burst.

About the Author

Karole Bennett works with other artists to share stories
that tell the truth about humanity. She believes storytelling
is about connecting with people on an emotional level and
awakening feelings that call people to action, give them
hope, and stimulate their minds. Karole writes pieces that
reveal the intimate truths people experience in life. At the
Los Angeles City College Theatre Academy, Karole wrote
and performed a play called Just Breathe. The story was
about a girl who lost her father before she could mend
their estranged relationship. In this piece, Karole shines a light on what it feels like to take
family and time for granted. Audience members who saw the play told Karole that they
contacted their loved ones after the show. When Karole realized that her story resonated
with others and changed their perspective, she vowed to always connect to the people’s
hearts through her writing. Karole Bennett is a trained actress who received her certification
in acting from the Los Angeles City College Theatre Academy. She uses her training to write
through the unique emotional and psychological lens of her characters. Karole is pursuing a
bachelor’s degree in creative writing for entertainment from Full Sail University.

72

RAFFLES

by Judith Newlin

Back then we lived near the center of with us to the pool, and out of some excess
town, behind the cavernous library. Mom of fraternal affection or maybe just because
worked in the orange-carpeted children’s Mom had lectured him again, he’d sit on a
room, which meant during the summers lounger reading a Stephen King novel and
she could keep tabs on us during her break ignoring us as we played in the water.
by walking through the hedge at the end of
the parking lot and peeking over the fence But every so often, just as the languid,
into our backyard. Those summers, my heavy feeling of mid-summer boredom was
brother Jason was our reluctant babysitter. beginning to press at our temples, Jason
would appear at the back porch, sit on the
At sixteen and rising above doorways, step, clap his hands on his knees, and say,
Jason was scraggly and thin but seemed to “Let’s have an adventure.” We would light
me a giant. He was eight years older than up - a mirror to his smile - squeeze into the
me, and six years older than Jonathan. De- Geo, and drive around town until we found
spite receiving his license in February, he a park or a hiking trail we hadn’t explored
wasn’t yet allowed to drive past the town yet that summer. We would play make-be-
borders, so endless days at the beach were lieve games - elaborate Westerns acted out
out of the question. For that summer at in the same brush that Bonanza had reimag-
least, Jason was stuck babysitting us in ex- ined as the Wild West.
change for gas money for his jalopy Geo
Metro. That was where we found Raffles.

Most days, that meant hours in front of We had hiked to the ridge, eaten a picnic
his Nintendo while Jonathan and I amused of leftover pizza, and were on our way back
ourselves. In the mornings, we would stay to the car, legs itchy with dust and nails
in the backyard playing soccer (Jonathan’s crusted with dirt and sunscreen, imagining
favorite) or making up dances to Oldies ourselves Westward explorers chasing the
tunes (my favorite) until it got too hot and gold rush. Jonathan had picked up a rock for
we wanted lunch. We might walk over to us to examine, and our heads huddled to-
the ice cream shop next to the grocery store gether as we studied its shininess. Was this
for cones of mint chip, or sit in the big chairs true bounty, or fool’s gold? Jason hummed;
at the library, reading the Babysitters Club this was not the riches we sought, and when
and Goosebumps in the air conditioning. By daring Prospector Jonathan tossed it over
Friday we would wheedle Jason into coming his shoulder, the bushes began to rustle.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

For a moment, I was distracted by the backseat; this time, Jonathan folded himself
game and kept looking at the ground for in next to me, draping his stinky feet across
more stones, but Jason snapped to alert my legs, as it was impossible to climb over
and grabbed my hand. “Move, Jessie.” I the folded drivers seat any other way, much
suppose he was thinking of the bears that less to fasten a seatbelt. The big dog set-
came down from the mountains, or the tled on the front seat, rocking the car as he
coyotes that howled at night. We rushed jumped in, paws resting on the dashboard
forward; Jonathan at the front, clutching as if to say, “Giddy-up!”
our older brother’s right hand, I attached
to his left and all but running to keep up. We The trip home would have been more
reached the next crest on the trail but the straightforward if the dog had not been so
sound continued, a swish-swish of leaves enthusiastic about the ride. He alternated
and brush, and when the path curved we between sticking his head and tongue out
found ourselves face to face with a black the window, putting a fat paw on Jason’s
mutt, covered in dirt and dust. leg, narrowly avoiding knocking at the gear
shift. In one perilous moment, he saw a tan
Jason stopped, backing us away slowly. woman crossing the street with her golden
“Careful. Don’t spook it.” retriever and he pushed at the window to
bark, his swishing tail shifting the gear to
But the dog sat down on his hind legs, his neutral just as the light turned green.
tongue lolling out in a doggie smile. Woof.
The line of cars behind us braked, but
I gasped. Jonathan tugged at Jason’s hand. barely, and the dog’s bark was overshad-
owed by their honking.
“Walk carefully around,” Jason said. “We
don’t know what he’s like.” “You’re going to have to explain this to
Mom,” Jason said, voice high as he calmed
I did not turn my head as the rustling down. “This is not my responsibility.”
steps followed me, looking straight ahead
at Jason’s faded red t-shirt. But the panting “Yes.” We both nodded, though we all
steps continued plodding behind me, and as knew that Jason was equally complicit.
we neared the trailhead and slowed, I felt
the hot wet tongue of the mutt testing my It was decided that the dog - massive
hand with a Sluuuurp. and dirty and smelling not unlike a fish
market - would not be allowed into the
I jumped around, and he sat again, a house without a bath, and so after we tum-
doggie smile up at me. bled out of the car we filed into the back
yard to spend some quality time with the
“I think he wants to come with us,” I said, garden hose.
as my brothers froze.
This is where our mother found us late
Jonathan’s eyes were wide. “I don’t think in the afternoon, during her daily round of
he’ll fit in the car.” fence-peering.

The backseat of the Geo was small; at “WHAT!” She screeched.
eight years old I barely fit iwith my legs
crushed toward my chest. For most of that “Aagh!” I screamed.
summer Jonathan had proudly sat up front,
allowing me to stretch my legs across the Jonathan laughed. Jason scowled.

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“Woof!” The dog added. up, you’re responsible for feeding him and
burying his poo, and after dinner you’re all
“You stay right there!” She yelled, and we going out and putting up posters. He’s too
could hear her clogs pounding in the dirt as big; he doesn’t come inside the house.”
she ran around to the street, to come to the
gate at the side of the house. The dog walked up to her then, as if
sensing a change in the wind. Woof, he said,
She burst into the yard, skirt flapping as and gave a polite lick at her palm. To her
she ran, hair askew, the look on her face credit, Mom only scrunched up her face a
a mix of motherly rage and astonishment. little, as she left to return to work.
Three steps further and Jason’s ear was in
her grip; he was bent double to meet her “We should give him a name,” I told my
height, the hose he had been holding aban- brothers.
doned and spurting cold water at their feet.
“No,” Jason shook his head and turned off
“Where did you get that?” the hose. “You really shouldn’t.”

“We found him!” I volunteered. Jason We named him Raffles, because he was
shot me a glare, and gestured toward the lucky and unexpected. We spent the better
hose as Jonathan ran to turn it off. part of two days putting up posters, but the
weekend wore away and a new week began
“Found him where?” and still no phone call. Jonathan and I had
hauled the old pup tent out from the garage
“We went hiking,” Jason said, breathless for Raffles to sleep in, since the yard must
with pain. “It followed us. We were going to be lonely at night. I had taken to cracking
make signs. See if anyone was looking for it.” the old shade at my window when I woke
up - always the first in the house to rise -
I had planned to do no such thing, but and would see him sitting under the old oak
the look on Jason’s face as Mom loosened tree, looking straight at my window, like he
her grip on his cartilage was enough to keep was waiting.
me quiet.
The longer we waited for the phone to
“I see,” she said, her voice calming. “And ring, the more he felt like ours. While Mom
where were you going to keep him?” was at work, we began to sneak him into
the kitchen - where the linoleum was easy
“In my room!” I said, at the same moment to clean - to feed him treats. We would sit
Jason replied, “Out here, of course.” together on the yellowing floor playing Mo-
nopoly while Raffles rested his head on his
This time, Mom turned to look at me, jumbo paws and huffed. We would go for
suspicious. “Was this your idea?” long walks around the block - and around,
and around - Raffles trotting playfully and
I shook my head and pointed at the dog. happily. Jonathan found the perfect sticks
“It was his idea. He kept following us.” for fetch in the park, and they lived in a
basket on the porch.
Mom sighed. She was calculating. The
yard was already a mess - a mix of dirt and The longer we waited for the phone to
yellowed grass, discarded garden tools, a ring, the more boring Jason became. “Can
tree in the corner, good for climbing and we go to the park?” We’d ask. “Sure, take
shade but also a habitat for vermin - adding
a dog to the mix couldn’t make things
much worse. “Alright. But you clean him

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the dog,” he would say, not looking up. “We Jason had long been our disgruntled
want to go to the big one, over by the high summer babysitter, but now he had re-
school!” Driving distance. “Nah.” He’d say, linquished the position in favor of a large
and we would trudge out. If he was paying black mutt. I thought it must be a little bit
attention, he would yell “take care of your- like Peter Pan. Jonathan thought it was a bit
selves!” But more often than not, as soon as more like the Lassie.
he saw we were leaving, he headed straight
for the phone. “Maybe he has a girlfriend?” Who knew what Jason thought; he
Jonathan wondered. “Nah,” I’d say. wasn’t interested in us. He would send us
away any chance he got, groaning “Go do
The longer we waited for the phone to something. Stop wandering around the
ring, the more Mom seemed resigned to backyard like babies.” Sometimes when
his growing permanence in our lives. Of we came back he would be playing his Nin-
an evening, with the television on in the tendo in a fury, in the same position he’d
background and a box of dry saltines at been in when we left. More often, he would
her side, you might find Raffles at her feet be lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling
(“just this once! I don’t want hair all over and smiling goofily, or on the patio, sitting in
my house!”). On weekends, she would join a plastic chair, staring hazily at the old Oak
us on long walks around the neighborhood, tree.
and even contributed to the perfect fetch
stick collection. “I think he has a girlfriend.” Jonathan
would say.
She would still not allow us to take the
posters down. “Not yet, Jessie.” she said. “But he doesn’t do anything.”
“He came from somewhere; he’s too big, too
well-behaved. He wasn’t a stray. Someone “That’s why he keeps sending us away, so
is missing him.” she can come over.”

“But he’s ours now,” I protested, but Mom “But Mom would find out.”
shook her head.
“Not if he timed it right.”
“We’re just taking care of him till he goes
home.” “I don’t think he’s that smart.” But I
doubted myself even as I said it. Jason
As the summer wore on and Raffles was an inattentive babysitter, but lately he
became our constant companion, Jason hadn’t even been that.
seemed to retreat more. Relieved of the re-
sponsibility of entertaining us, he stopped For Raffles part, he took to the new re-
accompanying us to the pool, instead saying sponsibility remarkably well. He was our
the we could “take the damn dog out.” playmate, our companion, and our pro-
tector. He had a bellowing loud bark, used
“Here’s five bucks for ice cream. Get the judiciously - unlike some dogs in the neigh-
dog some too.” borhood - only when someone came to the
door or the gate, only when passing another
“Stop annoying me, can’t you see I’m animal on a walk. His preferred sounds
playing something?” were growls and small, amiable woofs. He
was nosy, poking his face into everything to
“Shut up Jessie, no one wants to hear smell - my hand, my shirt, the lawnmower,
about Raffles’ shit.” the empty paddling pool, the trash cans at

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the side of the house. He loved long walks and Grandad’s wedding. The furniture
and loved the hose after. He played fetch was those heavy oak monstrosities pop-
with the energy of a rambunctious toddler. ular when Jason was born, well-worn and
His favorite snack was bacon bits, though he scratched now. Jason and Jonathan shared
would happily eat anything offered to him; the large master bedroom, and Mom and
he was, in this way, the politest of houseg- I each slept in a the smaller rooms down
uests. the hall.

I always thought that Thousand Oaks Mom often said that we were “falling
looked like an old movie set, a remnant of all over each other” in that house, the four
Hollywood from black-and-white pictures. of us. If Jason withdrew from us, it was
The landscape was a mix of dust and brush only as he finally got what he wanted for
and trees, a desert or a forest or the wild the summer; to be left alone. With Raffles,
moors of England, as need be. It was a town we didn’t need constant supervision - one
made for the car when tired Angelenos re- growl or bark and the whole neighborhood
alized they could live out of the acrid, thick would know what we were up to. He walked
smog of the Valley and still be within an with us to the ice cream shop, and would get
easy commute. It was isolated, so it was a tub of his own cold cold ice and whipped
safe to raise kids there, on over-watered cream. He ran with us in the yard and in the
green lawns and in backyard pools, under park, playing fetch and tag and wrapping his
the thick branches of a hundred thousand makeshift leash around our legs. We would
oak trees protected by local ordinance from sit to dinner, and Mom would fill his bowl
cutting or climbing or corruption. There with kibble at the back door (still, always,
were miles of unincorporated space rolling with the illusion that he was an outdoor
to the east, and trail paths on every hill and dog), and we would commune together;
at the end of every cul-de-sac. four overheated Californians eating pizza
and one big black mutt.
Our house was small for Thousand Oaks;
built in the sixties, it was an exact replica of Raffles was boisterous and adventurous
its neighbors on three sides. You could step and our walks with him often led to Jona-
through a pretty front door with a porch than and I scrambling behind to catch up
and red swing, but we almost never did; the - up a hill; along an unmarked trail; through
front porch was a ruse, a calm and fancy life the woods. “He has the spirit of an adven-
we did not live. We came in through the side turer!” I declared at breakfast one morning.
gate or through the garage, stuffed to the
brim with Christmas decorations and bikes “Will you shut up about the damn dog?”
and old clothes and toys we cared little Jason asked, his head slumped over his
for except when it was suggested we cull bowl of cereal. “Jason!” Mom scolded. She
them. Inside, the carpet was a dingy grey liked to say that teenagers were like that.
that needed cleaning and the walls had ev-
idence of old stains from coffee mugs gone Undeterred, I had an idea. “Can we go
flying and sticky toddler handprints never hiking again? Please? We could take him out
cleaned off, underneath endless rows of to Lang Ranch this time.”
family photos - school photos and vacation
photos and even the photos from Grandma “You know he doesn’t fit in the car.”

“He does!”

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Jonathan nodded. “We’re okay squeezing.” just right. Raffles, as if sensing Jason’s mood,
never strayed out of eyesight.
Jason sighed. In front of our mother, pro-
vider of coffee, he couldn’t easily say no. By the second crest along the valley
trail it was almost as if Jason was starting
“Why don’t you take that money I gave to enjoy it. He laughed, as Raffle’s romped
you yesterday, Jason, and treat the kids to a in a pile of leaves. He challenged Jonathan
burger after?” Mom said. to a footrace. It was such a wild swing from
that morning - almost like we had our old,
Jason dropped his spoon and mumbled. sometimes-adventurous brother back.
“Idon’thaveit.”
But precisely an hour into the hike, he be-
“Speak up, these ears aren’t what they came strict again. “We have to turn around.
used to be.” We have to go back.”

“I don’t have it.” “To meet your friend?” Jonathan asked
in a sing song.
“What do you mean you don’t have it?”
She turned, hands on her hips. “I gave it to “Sure.” Jason snapped.
you yesterday morning. How did you spend
it already? Jessie said you guys didn’t do Jonathan turned to me. “Girl-friend.”
anything yesterday.”
Back at the house, we were instructed to
Jason raised his head from the bowl to go to the back yard and hose off. “And stay
eye me. I shrugged; she had asked. there!” Jason said.

“I lost it.” “Can’t we go to the kitchen? I’m hungry.”

“Well, it has to be around here some- “Eat your sandwich.” We hadn’t been out
where. Look.” on the trail long enough to stop for lunch;
our sandwiches were soggy now.
While Mom walked over to the library,
Jason made up peanut butter and jelly sand- “Fine.”
wiches. “I want a burger!” I whined.
“Chin up, Jessie,” He twisted his mouth
“Do you want to spend all day looking for into a fake smile. “Wait here, and I’ll bring
something, or do you want to go hiking?” you guys fruit popsicles.”
He asked.
Whatever friend it was that came round,
We traipsed out to the car, sandwiches they didn’t stay long. We could see shadows
and massive dog in tow. Jason grumbled that through the windows - a male voice - a curt
we had to be back to the house by lunch. discussion. After they left, Jason came to
the porch and sat against the step, holding
“Why?” I asked. out three popsicles; grape for me, cherry for
Jonathan, lemon for himself. He was relaxed,
“I have a friend coming over.” even smiling; such a wild swing again.

“Does your friend have the money?” One early morning, toward the end of
the summer, I woke up and pulled back the
Jonathan sniggered and whispered to blind to peer out; Raffles was not there. I
me, “his girlfriend!” panicked - had he gotten out of the loose

The hike was refreshing - we could run,
and walk, and climb, and the breeze blew

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slat in the fence? Had he run away? I ran to “You don’t look fine,” I said. He was pale,
the kitchen to the patio door, feet pounding sweating.
against the squeaky boards, waking the en-
tire house in the process. “Put the dog outside,” he said. “And wait
till Mom gets home.”
He was there, lying in the cool against
the door, his head slumped on his paws, no “Wait for what?”
longer asleep from the noise.
But Jason said nothing, instead sinking
“What’s going on?” Mom popped her to the couch, ignoring the discarded video
head out, eyes squinting in the dawn light. game controller.

“Nothing,” I said. I would have thought nothing of it, ex-
cept for the impending sense of trouble that
“Don’t make so much noise this early. had come over me that morning, when Raf-
Why are you up? Go back to bed.” fles had not been in his usual spot. I joined
him on the couch. “It’s too hot today.”
I did, but the pounding of my heart had
not subsided. I now knew no greater terror “It’s always too hot,” Jason mumbled.
than the loss of my dog. On the way back to
my room, I saw Jason, standing at his door, “We could go to the mall. It’s air condi-
just watching me as I passed. He was never tioned.”
up this early, not if he could help it; I had
been really loud. “We’re not going to the mall.”

As I got to my room, he raised his voice “We could play pretend.”
just a little, “You okay, Jessie?”
“You can go play pretend. Just be here
I nodded. “Yeah. I just got worried when when Mom gets home.”
I couldn’t see him.”
“Weirdo.”
Jason nodded, saluted me, and then
ducked back into his room. It was the most Jason put his arm around me, his de-
acknowledgement I’d had from him in a meanor changing, “I love you kiddo.”
week.
It was so unlike him. “Did something
The day itself was not much to shout happen?”
about; Jonathan and I made strawberry
pancakes, feeding scraps to Raffles out the “Why don’t you go with Jonathan and get
kitchen door. We walked to the park, spent some ice cream? Leave Raffles here with me.”
some time on the swings, and then when
we ran out of water walked back home. The trip to the ice cream shop took all
It was when we got home that things of an hour, because the line was long in
changed; Jason was sitting by the phone, his the late summer heat, and we had to eat it
forehead in his left hand, his right clutching there or risk caramel and praline dripping
at the countertop. down our fingers all the walk home. Jona-
than wanted to stop at the park and see if
“You okay, man?” Jonathan asked. Jason anyone was up for playing a game, but I was
looked ill. on edge. “I want to go home.”

“I’m fine.” “Fine,” he said, but kept walking with me.
It was hot, there probably wasn’t anyone
out there anyway.

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When we got home, there was an unusual hear multiple voices. Mom had brought a
car out front - a shiny, clean white BMW. I guest - it must have been a strange day. We
poked Jonathan on the arm. “Who’s that?” almost never had guests, and now there
had been two.
“I dunno. Probably Jason’s girlfriend.”
“Thanks so much for coming,” she said.
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend.” “We’d begun to despair of ever finding you.”

“You’re too little, you can’t see it. He’s in “We’re just so grateful you found him,”
loooooove. That’s why he’s been acting so said a gravelly male voice.
weird.”
My mind moved at a mile a minute, and
“I’m not little! And you’re wrong.” my feet stormed their way into the living
room, hands still dripping. In the doorway
It sped away as we approached, and the stood a middle-aged man in a suit, and a tall,
windows were darkly tinted. blonde woman in a sundress. They were
holding hands - a couple - and while he was
Inside, the house was dim and cool. smiling at Mom, telling her about the long
Jason lay on the floor in front of the couch, day, the woman was just staring at Raffles,
Raffles by his side, the fan aimed directly at who had come forward to sit at her feet, his
him, the TV dark. tongue lolling out.

“Jason?” Jonathan wandered over. “You “Mom!” I screamed.
okay?”
She turned, “Jessie.”
“Dizzy. You get ice cream, kiddo?” His
voice was croaky and slow, like he’d been “You’re giving him away? No!”
crying. Or shouting.
“Jessie,” she said. “Calm down.”
“Yes!” I enthused. “We got caramel praline.”
“No!”
“Both of you?” It seemed like he was
making such an effort to keep the conver- “He’s ours,” the man said, with the loud
sation going. confidence of men with spray tans. “We’re
here to pick him up.”
Jonathan nodded, then realizing that he
couldn’t see from that vantage point, piped “No,” I said. “You left him and he’s ours
up, “Yup yup yup!” now and… you can’t!”

He paused, as if searching for what to “Jessie!” Mom’s face was getting redder
say. “Mom’s home soon.” and redder; she was angry.

She would be, and that meant we had to I didn’t care; I rushed forward to put my
go wash our hands. It was the same reason arms around Raffles in a protective hug. Raf-
why Raffles “wasn’t allowed” in the house; fles - agitated by the noise but uncaring in
there were too many of us and it would get his general, affectionate way - happily ac-
too dirty and did we want her to have one cepted the hug, but remained at the feet of
more thing on her plate, couldn’t we make the strange pretty woman.
her job just a little bit easier?
Jason stepped forward. “Jessie, get off.”
The front door opened while we were in
the bathroom washing our hands - I could “No!”

He tried again. “Jessie...”

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“No!” “No.” Mom’s voice was weak, shaky. I fig-
ured she was as shocked as I was over the
He stepped forward to grab my arm, loss of Raffles.
pulling but missing. It was sudden, swift - as
I felt Jason’s failing grip I felt Raffles shift out “No idea who supplied it? We’re con-
of my hug, a growl in his chest. Then it hap- cerned about potency.”
pened in slow motion - Jason’s yell, Raffles’
lunge. I didn’t feel the pain at first. It was “Of course.”
that familiar wet tongue, the one that had
soaked my hand that day out on the trail, and “Any unusual behavior? Withdrawing,
something else - teeth. I could hear a gasp in perhaps?”
the background - from the strange woman or
from Mom, I couldn’t tell. The man’s voice, “He’s a sixteen year old boy. He’s moody.
commanding now, “Off, Jasper! Off!” I didn’t think…”

Jason, in his frustration pushing at the “Any new friends?”
dog but missing, mumbled “Move!” I felt a
tearing on my arm and that was when the “No. He’s watching his brother and sister
pain began. this summer.”

My arm was free but I could feel an im- “Ah,” the doctor said, knowingly, though
mense pressure behind my eyes; I desper- about what I don’t know. Apparently, they
ately needed to cry. The commotion con- were talking about Jason.
tinued. I couldn’t see, but I felt Jason draw
back. “Your idiot… bit me!” The doctor working on my arm shifted
my hand a little, and the angle pinched at
“You shouldn’t have - “ the wound. I yelped.

“My sister!” Jason managed to get out. “Oh, sweetie!” Mom came through the
curtain now. “How are you holding up? My
Jonathan, emerging from the bathroom. brave girl.”
“What’s going on?”
I didn’t feel brave. Raffles was gone. The
They separated us in the emergency thought was overwhelming.
room; Jason for an x-ray, I to have my wound
cleaned and sewn up, a tetanus shot admin- “Why is he gone?” I asked.
istered. Mom stood at the edge of the cur-
tain from where I sat. Usually, in situations Her mind was otherwise occupied.
like this - like when I had broken my arm “Jason is going to have to spend a little time
playing kickball, or when Jonathan had been away from us. But Jessie, my little Jessie-girl,
swinging on his chair and smashed his nose, I promise, everything is going to be alright.”
she would be holding our hands, telling us
to be brave, soothing us with stories. Mom put a reassuring hand on my cheek,
and I could see that her eyes were rimmed
This time, she spoke in hushed tones to with red; she had been crying. She missed
another doctor. Raffles too. Maybe she was punishing Jason
for calling those people. He deserved it for
“Listen, ma’am, I’m sorry. Do you have being weird all summer.
any idea how long he’s been using?”
“Can we get another dog?” I asked. “It
would make me feel all better.”

“Oh sweetie,” she said.

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About the Author

Judith Newlin is a Scottish-American writer and editor, raised between Scotland and California,
now residing in Queens. In 2012, she served the editor-in-chief of California Lutheran
University’s Morning Glory literary magazine.

82

O GIGANTE

by Gustavo Salvaggio

Havia um gigante encerrado entre os mur- do gigante e afirmam que é impróprio en-
os da cidade. Era a praça central onde ele carar o gigante como um fato já estabele-
cochilava, respirando, e o tráfego próximo cido e julgam sequer haver um gigante ou
a ele era interditado devido a inúmeros que esse gigante já morreu e suas correntes
acidentes automobilísticos decorrentes da que se espalham nas mais variadas direções
respiração do gigante. e em todos os cantos da cidade e servem
como esqueleto de diversas construções
Dado o seu tamanho, inúmeras correntes apenas permanecem por respeito a uma
o prendem à cidade. Em geral, as correntes história passada que definha na memória
se dispõem de forma tal a seguir o desenho dos antigos. Entretanto, quem mais admira
de artérias e veias, com uma corrente maior e aprecia o gigante são as crianças. Natu-
que termina num sem fim de menores cor- ralmente, é impossível aproximar-se do
rentes. Essas menores correntes podem ser gigante mas as crianças gostam de esperar
manejadas, e certamente já o foram por cri- pelo seu canto e diversas brincadeiras in-
anças, enquanto as maiores tiveram auxílio fantis provêm da antecipação do canto do
internacional apoiado pelas organizações gigante. As crianças gostam de imitar o gi-
aduaneiras de comércio livre… gante e muitas começaram já a cantar dos
seus sonhos as músicas sem palavras.
O gigante sempre está a dormir, e os
mais antigos não conseguem se lembrar se Sabe-se que o gigante canta somente
já o viram acordado por mesmo que seja dos seus sonhos mas não se sabe com o que
um instante mais brusco entre dois sonhos. ele sonha. Nas academias foram feitas teo-
De tempos em tempos, canta o gigante em rias discordantes entre si quanto à matéria
uma voz mansa e embala o sono da cidade e do sonho do gigante que podemos apenas
facilita o trabalho dos leiteiros e das moças- perceber pelo seu canto. Há teorias que
da-noite. Os mais antigos dizem que o gi- afirmam que o gigante irá um dia acordar e
gante foi trazido devido a sua voz que canta com ele levar toda a cidade assim apagan-
em nenhuma língua específica, mas em do-a da face da terra e arrastando seus de-
murmurejos da água do rio, dos ditames do stroços por onde passa. Outra teoria afirma
vento, da métrica da chuva. Mas o gigante que já aconteceu assim a uma outra cidade e
apenas canta enquanto sonha, e seu sonhar o gigante por motivos que são somente dele
é de períodos inconsistentes com por vezes decidiu vir dormir nesta outra cidade. Esses
longos intervalos entre eles. De fato há pes- cidadãos vivem em constante medo. Muitos
soas que dizem jamais ter ouvido o canto

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
deles têm seus filhos e os proíbem de men-
cionar o gigante e de cantar como ele.

Todos sabem por que o gigante dorme
mas ninguém sabe por que ele sonha e
nem o porquê do seu canto. Passarinhos
vêm constantemente fazer ninho nos seus
ombros e na sua cabeça e nas suas mãos
abertas. O gigante não tem nome.

[Der Riese, 1919, Sils im Engadin]

About the Author
Gustavo Salvalággio é um cara que mora em Blumenau. Gustavo Salvalaggio is a dude that
lives in Blumenau.

84

NONFICTION



SILVER SHADOW

by Rekha Valliappan

‘We swung over the hills and over the town and back again, and I saw how a man can be
master of a craft, and how a craft can be master of an element.’

—Beryl Markham

I saw the machine, a silver-sheathed air some good shots, and leave the preps to
rover, and my eyes glazed over. It looked the experts.
so small like a mechanical toy glued in
place, held together by movable parts, dol- “What’s that you have in your bag?” my
phin-shaped nose to fish-tail, right wing tip brother inquired, too casually. Putting me
to left, barely able to hold one person of av- on the spot creates more bumbling in public,
erage size, let alone two. It was a beautiful with me playing the victim, than I care to
morning in February. The outside tempera- recall. My burgundy and tan leather cross-
ture was 0 degrees. I was bundled up. We body, my absolute traveling companion, on
were at a hangar for light planes in the out- 72 hour journeys from point of departure to
skirts of Chicago, on a bright winter day liv- final destination, does tend to gain weight
ing up to its reputation as only the ruthless whenever I am overseas, on account of the
windy city of Saul Bellow can, winds gusting various bits and stuff that accumulates, some
briskly, and I was with my kid brother, not a from previous travels, others from a couple
kid any more, a seasoned pilot hosting my of decades ago, which I have not emptied.
first sample flight, gawking awkwardly at his
shining silver and white built-for-adventure The more vintage the look, the harder I
turboprop Beech Bonanza Beechcraft with cling to the scrap. One time I used to have
red trim which would heft us into the air. a large canvas carryall tote which could
bloat, then grew too heavy. He knows me
“Just don’t step on the wings when you’re too well to not give my bag serious consid-
climbing inside,” he said in that pragmatic eration. However, my assumption was he
manner he reserves for nuance. I was not had been referring to the couple of Dosto-
planning to move a foot. The bucket seat evsky’s hardbacks buried deep, which I had
looked no wider in width than a child’s car borrowed from the library for this trip. “We
seat. “I won’t,” I replied with a smile and don’t need those,” he said without further
a wave, deciding I had better stay focused ado, handing my bulky volumes to the han-
on my camera and circling the aircraft for gar-manager. Without my books to clutch I
turn into liquefied butter.

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My heart skipped a beat. The manager of SE Asia, a short joy ride over a cold shim-
of the hangar was jovially making small talk, mering lake. Lake Michigan!
issuing routine instructions for flying the
aircraft, traffic procedures, when he finally Over the years my brother and I have
caught the look on my face, or my gut ner- developed a kind of To Kill a Mockingbird
vousness registered. He switched gears as sibling rivalry-comfort-childhood-close-
smoothly as executing a perfect three-point ness that defies description, although I was
landing on the Hudson River aka ‘Sully’ Sul- the oldest in our three-angle triangle, the
lengerger, the hero-pilot whom the world reverse of Scout-Jem, not counting Dill. If
knows, and resorted instead to making me it must be examined it would delve deep
feel at ease, inquiring whether I had flown into our childhood growing up in Bombay,
in a small plane before. Of course I had having lived city-folksy, in limited crowded
not! I did not need to shout it to the world. spaces, where the toys we played were of
Images of Airport and Jet Storm flashed a kind he could easily rip apart and re-con-
through my mind in sweeping horror, to- struct out of wires and scrap metal and
gether with at least eight other terrifying air odds and ends. My first clay doll was putty
disaster movies I had seen through Netflix in his hands, broken, torn up, except for her
of every possible insidious scenario that can pretty face, setting dead limbs right. Beats
hit you once you are airborne over a sheet me how he did it, what stood him out, how
of ice. Including snakes. I gulped, letting my adept he grew, but his expertise at calibra-
brother do all the talking. Let’s be honest. tion and calculation was out of this world.
For a woman from India I was managing He should have been an engineer. When he
well. needed me, I heard, not in words, but in the
spaces between, in the instant, the rush to
I am not squeamish, never have been connect, although we’ve lived continents
deathly afraid of heights, not even when apart most of our adult lives.
I magically floated up the French Alps at
Mont Blanc in the Aiguille du Midi cable car, I understood how much he wanted to fly
gazing at icy precipices far below, which had me up that day, to capture his moment for
me re-reading James Hilton’s Lost Horizon, me, one that would never recur for the both
for its spiritual lift, but I understood speed of us, because I had three continents to
and velocity, head winds and groggy en- cross to reach my home in Malaysia where
gines, and the agency of fear which the I lived back then, and I felt like a microcosm
concerned manager was doing his best to of the skies, Homer’s planet swimming in
elaborate to alleviate my own. My brother its ken, waiting for the stars to align, and
in the meantime was reveling in the mo- incredibly, I agreed. Later I would learn that
ment, in the signals he was receiving, being had the weather been totally impossible to
the first in our family to fly a small plane, undertake the flight, or too hazardous for
a big first, his undying interest in cars only a first-timer unused to the risky rock-n-roll
outdone by his glowing pride in his latest exhilarating motion of a small aircraft, the
acquisition, a six-seater Beechcraft, and his manager would have refused the turboprop
joy at taking me up. He had flown a bunch be rolled out of the hangar. He has the final
of times to Syracuse and back, knew his ma- say. I stared at the sky. We all did. All clear!
chine, and could be relied upon to give his
bookish sister visiting from the ‘boondocks’ So, on that particular day the wind sock
was our decider. We clambered into the

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cockpit, my brother started the engine, which passed in less than the blink of an
which gave a healthy sound, and we lifted eye. Approaching Navy Pier at 2000 feet I
off. think was a true privilege, the breath-taking
lakefront playground sitting intractable
High into the whipping cold air where the below us like a giant behemoth of enticing
ridge of Chicago’s skyline marks the border entertainment, heavily peopled. I waved.
with the vast gray of the lake we climbed.
We had to stay low, under international Our little silver shadow was humming
airport O’Hare’s airspace, billed as the bus- nicely, but once over the open lake, the
iest airport in the world, with take-offs and headwinds blew so fierce I signaled I had
landings by today’s standards at one every had enough. We had flown far out. Below
ten to fifteen seconds, so as not to interfere us was a sea of gray, where the sea met the
with commercial flights frequently landing sky winking unceasingly, wobbling glassy in
and taking off in this huge city. Anyone who the sunlight, no skyline visible. We turned
has not been to Chicago and not seen this around sharply, the engine noise so unfa-
giant of a lake that mimics an open sea iced miliar at the apex of the turn I thought we
over in the winter has to marvel at the sug- were disintegrating mid-air. My brother
ared ice frosting, glinting from below under gave a thumbs up, a broad smile wreathed
a weak sun. It is an incredible sight. all over his face, and I was reassured.

We both wore aviation headsets, my The return was swift because we had a
brother maintaining a running dialogue brisk tail wind. We had started our descent
which I was encouraged to enter through and I wasn’t aware till my brother asked me
the speaker system. Later I would learn it to spot the runway for our landing. DuPage
was more of a precautionary measure to has four active runways and I tried. At first I
protect my ears against noise damage, and didn’t know where to look, left, right, centre,
to stay alert and engaged, although at the off-centre, the plane was bobbing crazily
time I thought it was to communicate with at a fair rate of speed, energized with fuel,
him. In a few short minutes the downtown giving some nasty jolts, it made location vis-
was passing beneath us, and we had gained ibility impossible to detect. There were no
sufficient altitude to bank off Chicago’s landmarks either. Reflexively, I imitated his
most famous landmark the mountainous stomach-twisting actions, pulling my arms
Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower, a name taut, gripping the control wheel shuddering
I am more familiar with) rising up high into in my grasp. I guess he had the flight path
the sky like a King Kong remake. Unreal, I and the ground rising swiftly to meet us in
yelled into my headset, pointing, we’re his sights, because he sure the hell knew
dwarfed, since our puny little silver shadow exactly where to land.
was literally flying below, and I waved excit-
edly at people I imagined or thought I saw in The wing tips swayed wildly in a final
vague silhouettes in offices above watching see-saw motion. But it was the pilot con-
us from behind the glass windows. trolling the plane. All I could see were lines
of trees. Flat open spaces. More green.
He described various switches to me,
how to read the monitors, which gauges Where did all this shrubbery spring from?
did what, info overload I would scarce re- I could scarcely recall a Chicago embedded
member. My distraction was the sights in such scrubland greenery. My brother
got a huge chuckle from the many comical

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expressions registering on my countenance, Contain my loudly beating heart. Recover
with some confident throaty noises of his my abandoned books. Bury my nose in
own. But he was all hard-boiled concen- a heavy dose of Crime and Punishment.
tration. Time for the guffaws later. It was Self-reflective as usual I would brag to Ray
a smooth landing by all accounts, and be- about the shimmer off the lake, dropping
fore I knew we were down. And my maiden out of the sky, hurled like a lightning bolt,
single-engine six-seater-small-aircraft flight down-drafting with the ghastly winds, my
was complete. Hurray! Ray, the manager brother’s astute control of the Beechcraft,
was at hand to greet us heartily. He had and my range of silver-shadow splits of my
watched us land and could not compliment guessable flight. I guess the longer he heard
my brother enough, man to man, pumping the more unstoppable I grew.
his hand like he would never let go.
Of my kid brother the photo image of
My talkativeness could not be con- him and his small plane ripples out at me
tained either, was in overdrive, suctioned from a side table. I look up at stone colored
out, where earlier I had been quiet, now skies in the depths of winter and it is of the
that I was on terra firma, my feet solidly thrum and glide of titanium internals I think.
planted on the tarmac. I could breathe. I could not be prouder.

About the Author

Rekha Valliappan’s creative nonfiction features in
Wilderness House Literary Review, The Blue Nib, Indiana
Voice Journal, and other venues, A former university lecturer
in English Literature and Law, she writes multi-genre prose
and poetry published in The Sandy River Review, Ann Arbor
Review, The Saturday Evening Post, and elsewhere.

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SAVING SOULS

by Marian Fredal

We watched the door. All fifty of us in St. as the adults knelt and prayed in front of
Sylvester School Grade 3 learned to listen the candles. Everyone could see them, and
and to watch for our teacher, a tall nun sometimes people made a big show of it.
dressed in flowing white robes with a black The money, fire, and kneeling all played a
veil whose wimple dug into her forehead. part. Maybe they prayed to help someone,
It looked like it hurt. We’d hear her, not by perhaps to cure a sick baby or maybe to pray
her footsteps, but by the soft clacking of for a baby they couldn’t have. Maybe they
the cherry sized beads hitting each other prayed for someone who’d had a bad acci-
on her wooden rosary, which hung from dent or for a debt to be forgiven. My par-
a belt and swung six inches from the floor. ents wanted a Catholic school to open in our
She could get mean if we were too noisy. neighborhood, and maybe they lit a candle.
Whatever they did, it worked! But they al-
“Good morning, Sister Ambrose!” we ways said No when I wanted to light one.
sang out as she entered the room. We all
placed a hand on our heart and recited the “This jar is part of our ‘Pagan Babies’ pro-
Pledge of Allegiance. We probably said a gram,” Sister Ambrose said. “It’s to support
prayer, too. That day, Sister Ambrose had the Catholic mission in Africa.”
a candle holder in her hands. A tall, red cyl-
inder, it looked like a jar to me. We looked around at each other. Tommy
whispered to the boy sitting behind him.
“Good morning, children! Today is a good
day!” She raised the jar up and put it down “Tommy, no talking,” Sr. Ambrose said.
again. “I want to talk to you about a new “Children, this jar used to contain a candle,
project at our school.” but now it is empty and will sit on my desk.
Please bring your coins to fill it. Then we can
We all knew about those candles. Even send the money to Africa for the baptism of
now, I like watching them flicker during Mass. a baby there,” she said. She also told us we
I watch them when I am bored with the would get to name the baby.
homily, their shadows frolicking and hopping
in the holy space. Several rows of tall candles I preferred girls’ names and I especially
line a stand where parishioners can deposit liked the name Julia. Michael was an im-
money into a slot, strike a long match, and portant name—we had five Michaels in
light a candle inside the jar. As they do it, my class. What about the baby’s mother, I
they pray for a favor. As a child, I watched thought, if there was one? Would she like
the name we gave the baby, or would she

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throw it away? Even that day, I thought Only white families and children lived in
‘naming the baby’ was odd. Why would we my neighborhood, attended my school, and
name a baby if we never saw or understood worshipped at my church. Just as I didn’t
anything about him or her and never would? know much about black babies or black
people, I didn’t know then that my town,
I didn’t know at the time that the act of Warren, Michigan, was a Sundown town.
“naming” carries much meaning. A name That in our Midwest suburb of Detroit,
connects a person to their culture, their black families could not buy a home, rent
family, their individuality. I didn’t think an apartment, or even breathe the same air
about how, when my teacher remembered as white families once the sun set.
and pronounced my name correctly, it in-
dicated respect, even affection. I didn’t What little I knew about black people, I
consider how the tone and volume of my learned from TV and the news. I saw Aunt
mother voicing my name spoke volumes Jemima on the pancake box, and I read Little
about what she was thinking and how she Black Sambo, the children’s story about a
felt about me in the moment. My mother’s boy in Africa and the lion that turned into
name was Theresa, after her mother, and butter. I wondered if those black people
none of us could have guessed that Sister needed help, too.
Ambrose once had a first name, too.
I could not have known at the time that
Sister looked at us sternly. Nobody moved. the images on the pancake box and the
book were racist and that one day—far into
“Any questions?” she asked. the future—they would finally be removed.
I also could not have known the names that
Denise raised her hand and Sister called were chosen for those characters were sig-
on her. She stood, as was the custom when nificant but not in a good way. On that day,
addressing the teacher. I could only wonder about the baby who
might be helped by the money in that jar.
“What is a pagan?” she asked and sat down. Sister said we’d name the baby, but maybe
it was an extra name like Catholics get at
“A pagan is a baby who has not been bap- confirmation, which would be a few years
tized,” she said. “They still have original sin. later for me. I decided that day that these
When they die, they will go to limbo instead things confused me because I was a kid,
of heaven. They’ll never see God. Would that the adults knew better. I could rely on
you want that to happen?” them.

We all shook our heads. All morning long, I studied the blood red
jar on Sister’s desk. When the votive candle
“These babies are probably starving. It is was new, grown-ups used it in church for
important to help the poor people and to their own needs. But now, with the candle
save their souls, too. They need us. Bring in burned out, it was just a leftover jar, good
your pennies and nickels to fill the jar and enough for Pagan babies and other children,
tell your parents.” like us, to use. In the days to come, I would
watch as the coins accumulated, wondering
Sister called on Tommy. “Are the babies how many were needed to save someone’s
black?” soul. This was urgent work.

“Of course, they are,” Sister said. “They
live in Africa, don’t they? And they really
need your help!”

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I walked home the half block for lunch like Sr. Ambrose told us to.” Judy took off
with my sister Judy, as usual. I couldn’t stop her sweater and neatly folded it.
thinking about those poor pagan babies.
We watched TV as we ate our sandwiches. “That’s a dumb idea,” she announced.

“Mom,” I said. “Sr. Ambrose said that “Why?” I asked. “Sr. Ambrose says we
we’re going to adopt a pagan baby if we can should save the babies.”
fill the jar.”
“Who cares about those babies?” she
My mother wrestled to get Beverly into said. “I would save my money for myself if
the highchair. “That’s nice.” Beverly was the I were you.”
newest baby in our house, in a seemingly
never-ending line of babies. “Well, I’m taking my dollar and I’m going
to put it in the jar,” I declared. Sr. Ambrose
“How far is Africa? How much does a liked it, and I was helping, so I wanted to do
pagan baby cost?” it. It was important work. I knew about ba-
bies. I’d lived with them my whole life and
“I don’t know, honey.” She coaxed my had two at my house at that moment. They
sister to open her mouth instead of sticking needed a lot of attention and care.
her hands in the applesauce. “Eat your
lunch so you can get back to school on time.” “Mom, can you give me some money for
school, for the Pagan Babies?” I knew it was
I didn’t ask her all the questions I had a long shot, as my parents rarely gave me
that day or any other day. What was it like in even a nickel for milk.
Africa? I wanted to know. Who was smarter,
them or us? Because the people who help “No,” she said.
are always better than the people who need
help, right? If my mom had taken the time “Please?” I might have told her that I love
to answer, I think she might have said that putting money in the jar and I love saving
no, we weren’t better than those babies, those babies. I began to feel sorry for those
and it wasn’t their fault if they needed help. poor souls; maybe they didn’t have a bap-
She may not have answered my deepest tism or food; maybe they needed a mom
questions, and perhaps she would have and dad, a house, toys, and piano lessons—
admitted that she didn’t know. In any case not to mention salvation.
it would have been nice to have her think
about it with me. “No. Don’t ask me again.”

About a week later, as the jar began to I imagine, now, the confusion I must have
fill with pennies and nickels, I made a de- felt in that moment. We were supposed to
cision. help people, but my parents didn’t seem to
care. I wanted to save those poor babies.
“Guess what I’m going to do?” I asked We were led to believe that we could. I be-
Judy. lieved they were profoundly different from
me, and they needed saving. I felt better
“What?” than them, the same way I felt about Jill, a
girl in my class who talked too much and
“I’m going to take a dollar of my own too loudly and often got into trouble. Once,
birthday money, and I’m going to put it in she even had her hands rapped with a ruler
the jar for the pagan babies at school, just as a punishment. I never got into trouble

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and felt better than her because of it. I was with shame for my church, my teacher, and
white and the pagan babies were black, and myself.
I felt better than them because of it.
As my third-grade year progressed, I
Nobody contradicted this idea, and the watched the jar slowly fill with coins until it
gap between me and any person of color became very heavy. Finally, it was full, and I
only widened as time passed. It would be don’t remember the name we picked. The
years before I would come to view the money disappeared, and we got another
memory of the jars with profound regret, jar.

About the Author
Marian Fredal is a writer and racial justice activist in Madison WI. Raised in the Detroit area,
she loves the Midwest.

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LAYERS OF
FORGIVENESS

by Laurie Gelfand

“Children begin by loving their parents; then they judge them;
sometimes they forgive them.”

—Oscar Wilde

My once tall, athletic, commanding father felt sweaty as I prepared the guest room for
hunched over a walker, his prosthetic leg him. Would I continue to walk on eggshells
clumping along awkwardly. My three small in his presence? How would I handle it if he
dogs dodged and scattered as he practical- lost his temper if I made a wrong move? I
ly ran them over on his way to the guest was fifty-five years old and still afraid of my
room in my and my husband’s home, their father.
innocent eyes looking up at me as if to say,
“Who is this reckless interloper?” He wasn’t My relationship with my father has al-
one to patiently wait for the little guys to ways been complicated. Tragedy hit two
move. “Life is difficult, especially for a one- days after my second birthday, on October
legged basketball player,” he said, with a 14, 1966. My family drove along in a small
smile. My father was not without a certain pickup truck on an old highway on the out-
amount of charm and wit. skirts of our small town in Utah. We all sat
in the front seat: my father was twenty-nine
He arrived at our home on April 16, 2020, at the time, and my mom, Sandy, was twen-
near the beginning of the COVID-19 pan- ty-five and expecting her fourth child. My
demic when lockdown became mandatory, older brother Mike was five, and my sister
and he stayed for eight weeks. He had been Shanna was three. We came to a triple set
living in his trailer in an RV park about an of train tracks. My father stopped at the
hour north of us. The thought of him living flashing lights and waited for the train to
alone, at eighty-two and with a pre-existing pass. As it did, my father proceeded across
condition of COPD, worried me. the tracks, not realizing that another train
was approaching from the opposite direc-
As soon as I suggested he come live with tion. It struck our vehicle, flinging all of us
us, and he agreed, panic set in. My palms

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into the atmosphere like confetti. The im- When I was twelve, we moved to Cokev-
pact killed my mother, brother, and sister ille, Wyoming, population 500. I discovered
instantly. My father lay unconscious with that the only thing for kids to do there was
a small break in his neck. I was told that I to catch crawdads in the “crick.” I spent most
had only a scratch on my toe and wandered of my time alone in my room, lying on my
amongst the bodies until a police officer bed, fantasizing about a life I knew I couldn’t
appeared and held me until the ambulance have—a life far away from the small towns in
arrived. Wyoming, with two loving and sober parents.

After being released from the hospital Something else was happening at the
several weeks later, my father retrieved same time: puberty. The only thing in my
me from my uncle’s house and took me room besides my bed was a full-length
to Logan, Utah, where we lived together mirror—which, as it turned out, was all I
while he attended Utah State University. needed to entertain myself. One day, while
Nine months after the accident my father getting undressed for bed, I glanced in
married my stepmother, and my two half- the mirror and saw someone I didn’t en-
brothers followed. Eventually he earned a tirely recognize. Curves and breasts were
master’s degree in special education and emerging. Mesmerized, I spent hours posing
became a schoolteacher, a job that did not in various positions, admiring my new body.
suit his temperament. I somehow knew that my life would never
be the same. Boys began to take notice, es-
Throughout my early childhood I both pecially older ones.
adored and feared my father. His alcoholism
and internal rage overshadowed everything One evening, just after my thirteenth
in our lives and made life unbearable. By the birthday, I ran into three high school boys
time I was eight years old he was drinking near the school. They were going to one of
around the clock and always had a bottle the boy’s houses while his parents were out,
of vodka underneath the driver’s seat of and they invited me to join them. I jumped
the car so he could take swigs throughout at the chance. I was bored and starved for
the day in between classes. This led to him some excitement. The chance to spend time
getting fired so often that we moved eleven with older boys who seemed interested in
times during my childhood. me drew me like water to a drain. Once at
the house, one of the boys who paid partic-
At home, my stepmother and brothers ular attention to me led me into the master
and I hopped-to at his constant orders to bedroom. We sat on the edge of the bed
get him this or that. “Get me my shoes…no, and he kissed me. I had never been with a
not those shoes, goddamnit!” He was prone boy before in this way and as we made out
to vicious, angry outbursts, like the time he my body felt things it had never felt before.
threw his plate of food at the wall. “I can’t I was transported into another dimension
eat this shit!” His favorite line was, “God- of reality as the boy pushed his tongue into
damn-son-of-a-bitch-cock-sucker!” I cow- my mouth and his hands wandered across
ered under his 6’5” frame and raised fists— my breasts. My body felt like it was on fire,
the beatings were sporadic, but the verbal my head tingled.
abuse occurred almost daily. I asked him
once why he hit me and he said, “Because Suddenly I heard a banging sound and
that’s the only language you understand!” rustling outside the door of the bedroom.

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One of the other boys knocked. “Laurie’s Terrified and confused I yelled “Why are
dad is here!” The boy and I shot up off the you doing this?”
bed and I darted out of the bedroom and
into the bathroom in the hallway. My heart They didn’t answer. I felt like I was being
was racing and the blissful feeling I felt just raped by my parents. I had no idea why this
minutes before turned into terror. I locked was happening. My newly developed body
the door, and crouched down on the floor, was completely exposed to my father. I
shaking. I hoped the boys would lie and tell cringed with shame. Once he accomplished
him I wasn’t there, but in a few seconds I his goal and had my underwear in his hands,
heard one of the boys approach the bath- he stood up and examined them. I was in
room door. His voice was shaking. “Laurie, shock, confused, mortified. Tears streamed
your dad’s here…you have to go with him.” down my face. I sat up and wrapped my
All of the boys knew my father because he arms around my legs in an attempt to cover
was a teacher and basketball coach at the myself. My stepmother stood by, waiting for
school. I could tell they were as terrified of cues from my dad.
him as I was.
“What are you doing?!”
In the car my father reached under the
seat for his pint of vodka. He pulled the My father looked up from my underwear.
bottle out and took a long swig. I sat in the “I wanted to see if you were wet—to see if
passenger seat, frozen. He started the car. you had sex with that boy.”
As we drove the couple of blocks home,
he grabbed me by my hair and banged my I had no idea what he was talking about.
head against the window. “What in the hell I wracked my brain for meaning, but all that
were you doing with those boys?” he yelled. surfaced were more questions. What does
As soon as we pulled into our driveway and being “wet” mean and what does that have
came to a stop, I jumped out of the car and to do with having sex? At thirteen, these
ran into the house. My stepmother, Kris, things were completely unknown to me. My
was in the living room and saw us through parents barely spoke to me, let alone had
the window. She could see that I was crying. discussions about sex. A look of disgust took
I ran into my bedroom and slammed the hold of my father’s face and he tossed the
door shut but within minutes Dad and Kris underwear at me—they hit my cheek, then
came in. landed on the floor beside me.

My father looked at me and saw some- “Come on, let’s go,” he said to my step-
thing on my neck—it was a hickey. His eyes mother.
widened and his mouth twisted. The rage
in his eyes terrified me. He hit me several They left my room and went upstairs,
times, knocking me to the floor. “What in leaving me in shock. I put on some fresh un-
the hell did you do?” He knelt down be- derwear and jeans, threw myself on my bed
side me, calling my stepmother to help him and cried deep, heaving cries for the rest
hold me down. She ran over to us, knelt and of the night. I hated my father and couldn’t
pinned my shoulders to the floor. My father wait to get older and get away from him. I
ripped off my pants, and then my under- would never forgive him for this. No one
wear. I thrashed, screamed, kicked. ever came back to my room to talk to me,
and it was never brought up again.

Within weeks my father was fired from
his teaching job for drinking while at work.

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This thrilled me. I had become known as the hottest club in town, and everyone wanted
“slut” of the tiny school, despite still being a to be around Darrell. I thought I had arrived.
virgin and couldn’t wait to get out of that And because I looked so much older than
fishbowl and start over somewhere new. I my age I was able to hang out with him in
hoped and prayed it would be a larger town his club and then go with him to other bars
where I could possibly blend in a little more. in town. I quickly became a regular in these
bars, surrounded by older men who were
My wish came true. We moved to Ogden, thrilled to buy drinks for a pretty, nubile girl
Utah, population 50,000. It wasn’t a large who liked to drink as much as they did and
city, but it was a far cry from puny towns was game for anything. It was exciting to
like Thermopolis, Sundance, and Cokeville, live on my own, like an adult.
Wyoming. The town actually had a boule-
vard instead of a dinky main street. I en- The next few years became a series of
rolled in junior high and quickly fell in with blackouts and one-night stands. I was rud-
the stoners. Finally, I found a place where derless, except for the fact that in these bars
I could fit in. I became a rebellious teen- I became a skilled pool player and began
ager, staying out all hours and drinking to playing for money to help support myself.
oblivion. One night I got home particularly I had no source of income at the time and
late, against my father’s orders, and was although Darrell bought me drinks and fed
met at the door by him. His rage was pal- me when I was with him, he never gave me
pable, and I braced myself. What followed money. Pool became a way for me to not
was the worst beating I ever received from only support myself, but it gave me a pur-
my father. He hit me several times and I fell pose and helped to build up my oh-so-low
to the floor. He kicked me in the stomach self-esteem. Sometimes a crowd would
as I writhed. gather around the table and I’d hear people
whisper about how good I was, as I stuffed
“You…dirty bitch,” he growled, towering my winnings into my tight jeans’ pockets.
over me. At some point my stepmother said, My days and nights became about finding
“That’s enough, Tony.” money games at the various bars around
Ogden. But occasionally I would find my-
“I hate you!” I screamed as I ran down- self in juvenile detention, for being caught
stairs to my room. Crying, I threw some shoplifting, or being drunk in public and a
clothes in a duffel bag, along with my hot runaway. I would then be assigned a social
curlers and makeup and walked out the worker and placed in several different foster
downstairs door. My stomach hurt and I felt homes. I stayed at these homes for brief pe-
sick, but a huge sense of relief came over riods because I always talked my father into
me once I rounded the corner and knew I rescuing me from them. I hated not having
was free. I was fourteen and officially a run- my freedom. Each time, I tried to live with
away. him again, but it wasn’t the rescue I needed.
My father took me into a new horror.
I found places to stay. My favorite was
with a thirty-five-year nightclub owner My stepmother left my father when I
named Darrell. He was smooth with the la- ran away the first time and took my two
dies and had a flamboyant personality. He brothers back to her hometown to be near
took me in and made me feel special. His her parents. I wondered what took her so
nightclub, called the Swamp Root, was the

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