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Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and established authors reach a wider literary audience.

A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta. (http://adelaidemagazine.org)

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Published by ADELAIDE BOOKS, 2019-12-11 12:36:55

Adelaide Literary Magazine no.30, November 2019

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and established authors reach a wider literary audience.

A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta. (http://adelaidemagazine.org)

Keywords: fiction,nonfiction,poetry

Revista Literária Adelaide

pick these eastern colleges for their names. was ready. Jack might have been a smart
The French trappers used the descrip ve ass back home, but here all of a sudden he
Grand Tetons to name a couple of moun- was Isaac Newtown, a hell of an instant pro-
tains in Wyoming. Now, that made sense mo on. Anyway, the burger and fries were
even if it was a bit risqué. Jack thought tasty, and the milkshake even be er.
Colorado was perhaps the second most
beau ful state. He held an innate prejudice On his final day, Jack went for the Num-
in favor of Utah’s stone bridges. He got to bers, a 3 to 4 class rapids. This was a tricky
Buena Vista before dinner me, and it was sec on of the Arkansas River that harbored
a longer drive than he expected. a few nasty surprises. Many of these ad-
venturers were groups of either young men
That evening Jack drove off west into the or families. Of course, there were couples.
hills where they had hot springs. When he Jack no ced his assigned boat had a stocky,
got there, a woman behind the desk eyed elderly woman who was by herself. And
him with mild suspicion. why an older woman would go on some-
thing like this by herself? Jack had to breach
“You here for a soak?” privacy on this point.

“Yep,” Jack answered, having learned the “I see you’re by yourself. How come?” he
term from his B&B host earlier. ventured.

“Twelve dollars, since you’re coming in “My husband and I used to do this every
a er nine.” spring.” He passed away some me ago.”

One hot spring was actually hot, two It only reminded Jack of how extremely
were warm, one a bit more than the other, unathle c his wife was.
and one was slightly cool. Jack felt like he
was being fi ed into new skin on entering “So what’s your name?” he asked.
these pools, especially the cool one which
was last. He met an elderly couple, where “Athena.”
the husband was originally from Hun ng-
ton, Long Island. Every former Long Island- “That’s a pre y name. Unusual though.”
er seemed to be from a bou que town like
Hun ngton, Garden City, or Great Neck. Or She laughed and added, “Well, everyone
at least that’s what they claimed. calls me by my middle name. Maria.”

On the second day, Jack had decided to Jack nodded, then said, “Oh, that’s pret-
take it easy and do Brown’s Canyon. This ty too.
river sec on with class 2 to 3 rapids was
a nice tension break for him a er several She smiled at Jack and said, as if lectur-
hours of the rough waters on Golden Gorge. ing a child, “In Greece, we have a million
Marias. All of them beau ful. You should
In Buena Vista, he made a point of ea ng visit some me, I could introduce you some
at a local landmark burger shack that was of them.”
also known for its milkshakes, where your
order cket had a famous name instead of “You live in Greece?”
a number. So you had to pay a en on when
they called out the customer whose order “No, no. I haven’t been back in many years.”

“So, where do you live now?” He didn’t
know how to follow up on her confession.

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“I live in Dillon with my daughter. She The crew responded with robo c effi-
manages a bar-restaurant there.” ciency and handled the first twisty rapid
with ease. The guide thankfully never got
“Oh, why haven’t you gone back?” back to this conversa on. One of the ra ers
interrupted to ask how long the ride would
She gave a piteous shrug, “It’s poor and take from that point. The ra ers handily
dirty, except for the islands—you know, went through a bunch of dip and zigzag rap-
Mykonos, Santorini. But they are expensive, ids. Of course, they also played that oblig-
for tourists really.” atory game, you could call it “Let’s Splash
the Leader,” with the boat ahead of them.
The group was finally all suited up and
gathered. Several vans took them A er ge ng most of the way through
the rapids, Jack found his a en on waning.
to a star ng point on The Numbers. Then he heard guide shout, “High side,” but
They dragged three inflatable boats into didn’t hear which side. At that point a large
the slow-moving waters. Jack was on the rock face came up on his side, causing him
same boat with Maria and four other raf- to bend low and into the boat. But the boat
ters, plus a young male guide. Jack took the seemed already to be approaching upright
front le posi on while Maria took a seat in a sideways lt toward the right. Jack felt
on the right rear, just in front of the guide. himself falling into and against the big fel-
low, who was the right front paddler. It felt
The Numbers started out quietly enough, almost pleasant, as this right front guy also
but a er a while, showed some real juice.
The weather had turned cloudy, this always lted obligingly to the right. Before Jack
being an ominous sign for Jack. The young knew it, they had all capsized the boat.
guide started working for his ps in trying
to forge camaraderie with is crew, but Jack Just a er surfacing, Jack could hear
didn’t believe he was going to massage this snatches of speech, “Hey where’s Jill? Tom’s
bunch into a well-oiled machine. Not this over on the other side. Catch Diane. You see
bunch of spoiled sounding young women him?” Then he felt himself heading down
who were complaining about their mosqui- river all alone. He made sure to keep his
to bites and guys who couldn’t wait to get legs in a horizontal float near to the surface
back to their beers. as possible. His main sensa on was one of
incredible loneliness and fear, as if heading
When the guide called out to Jack, he into a place he’d never been before. A er
asked, “So where are you from?” a few seconds or minutes, me being very
uncertain in his situa on, he saw one of the
“Long Island, near New York,” Jack an- boats bearing down on him and grabbed the
swered. rope around the outside of the gunnels. One
of the older ra ers in the boat tried pulling
“Hey. I hear there’s a lot going on back him up and in by Jack’s life vest, but didn’t
there.” This was one of those conversa on have the leverage. Jack knew one thing: he
openers that were supposed to lead any- wasn’t le ng go of the gunnel rope.
where when you didn’t know where you
were going. Off to the side, he no ced somebody
seemed to be sliding past him. It was Ma-
“I suppose so,” Jack responded reluctantly. ria. He reached out with one hand but only
caught her hand. He felt her fingers scratch
Before this dialogue got anywhere, the the palm of his hand. The boat then jerked
guide held up his hand and yelled, “Le ,
high side.”

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and he lost touch with her. She floated fur- “Shh. Don’t worry.”
ther down river and he could not see her,
the boat now blocking his view as it moved Jack told the office he was worried about
over to shore, a rock embankment. Mariah. Someone came out and looked at
her le ankle briefly. They didn’t take her
Jack and several other ra ers were de- wet shoe off. They called an ambulance. Jack
posited on the le bank among the rocks and and the other ra ers changed in the mean-
sat there recovering for a while. He heard
they had found Maria further down and that me. A few minutes later, an ambulance ar-
she was all right. They all rested for about rived. The EMT guys took a close look and
fi een minutes. Miraculously, the paddles felt Mariah’s ankle. They concluded it was
were all retrieved, and the crew was able to probably broken and told the office and
set out a er being reassured by the guide Jack before taking her to the hospital.
that the worst was over. Maria said she was
fine, except her le foot felt numb. The following morning he would leave
for Denver airport. Meanwhile, he would
The rest of the ride was uneven ul, and drive back to his bed and breakfast. He
everyone seemed grateful for that. There couldn’t help wondering what Maria must
were several vans wai ng for the ra ers to have looked like in her younger days. As he
take them back to the ou i er’s facility to drove he so ly sang,
change back into their clothes.
“Oye Marie, oye Marie,
Jack no ced Mariah seemed to be hob-
bling coming off the van. He felt he had to quanta suonno ca perdo pe’ é!...”
approach her.
In the early hours of next morning as
“I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on.” sleep wore off, he would s ll feel as if he
were pushing out to sea, from the Bay of
“It’s okay. You tried. You helped. Without Naples onto the Mediterranean that await-
you, it would have been worse.” ed him as he went out farther and farther on
a peaceful blue-green expanse. And that sea
“You sure you’re alright?” She seemed to held a million Marias, all of them beau ful.
be wincing in pain.

About the Author

Gene Goldfarb lives on Long Island in New York. He writes
mostly poetry, does volunteer work and loves to travel. His
poetry has appeared in Black Fox, SLANT, Quiddity, COG,
Sheila Na-Gig, Green Briar Review and elsewhere. His short
fic on and stories have appeared in Bull &Cross, Twenty-
Two Twenty-Eight, and Fur ve Dalliance.

101

LAVE

by Todd Dodson

It’s gentle at first. You are five and she sets ***
you in the tub s ll filling with water. Even
on her knees she looms over you, already You are forty-five, and Anton is leaving. You
ge ng to work with the yellow plas c met twenty years ago at the old limestone
pail she got you that me at the beach for quarry, friend of a friend. His face was sewn
making sand castles, which she now uses with freckles, and when he finally took off
to run water over your head, down you his shirt, they were all over — his skin a
back. At the beach, she took you into the seamless cut from a bolt of rare Milanese
ocean and held you on her hip and the two cloth, not like you, incondite quilt of red,
of you floated out un l there was nothing white, and brown, your piecemeal of arms,
between you and the horizon, the clouds legs, back — and he moved down to the
above piled unto a kingdom, and you water lapping the edge of the quarry, loose
bobbed there, pressed against the seal skin in the hips, like some exo c spo ed animal.
of her bathing suit, tempering the cold of How readily we want to love and create
the water and the heat of the sun, and you love. On a whim, on a freckle. When the
felt a part of her and everything was con- day had passed and your car wouldn’t start,
nected, even Daddy s ll on the shore. he stayed with you un l the fireflies came
out and the tow truck arrived, and he gave
But the water is too hot. The tub keeps you a ride even though it was the wrong di-
filling, and she doesn’t let the sea sponge rec on home.
soak to get so before star ng on your
back. The sponge is raw and you hunch and At first he was gentle. And you went
you try to pull away but she has you firm to Italy and got married, drove down the
by the shoulder. The skin is bright red now coast, west through Sicily and rented a
and the hot water keeps pouring in and you co age near the tonarra of Scopello. Each
hold it as long as you can before you tell her, noon the padrone’s son, having cleaned
“It hurts.” But mother is somewhere else the day’s catch, would load the guts onto a
now and she con nues to lave your back, flatbed truck and drive it out to a field be-
saying, “We go a get you clean.” And the hind the house. The cats came from all over,
dirt and flecks of dead skin, now floa ng on their tails vibra ng in the air with an cipa-
the grey water as you hear Daddy call from
down stairs, he’s going out, and the front on, the caterwaul some otherworldly cho-
door closes too loudly. rus echoing across the meadow, un l the
son, s ll in his waders, leapt up onto the

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truck bed and discharged the mess with wore down together, un l all that was le
a snow shovel. Later, Anton found the kit- was the lave. At first he was gentle and
ten, some abandoned, ostracized runt of a then he takes you from behind, grabs you
tom. Its belly was bloated with worms, but by the throat and holds you down like a
he took care of it through the summer and dog, your head pressed to floor, tongue out,
kept him safe from the feral clowder, nam- teeth bared. “I can’t stand you no more,”
ing him Pommodori, as he was orange like he says. And so, there in the early morning
tomatoes. light, you look about the room he has le ,
the unmade bed, the dresser drawer hang-
And who’s to say what happened in ing open and the clothes strewn about the
those interim years? He wore at you, you carpet, all the things that are le .

About the Author

Todd Dodson has published work in Ninth Le er, The American Literary Review, The Florida
Review, Saint Ann’s Review, The Evansville Review, Upstreet, Flash, and The Columbia Review.
He currently teaches at Kutztown University.

103

THURSDAY MORNING

by Taylor Morrison

I knew something wasn’t right the moment normally tanned complexion looked pasty
I walked into Mrs. Knickerbocker’s class on white and the dark bags under her eyes
Thursday morning. We called her Mrs. N. told the story of a long night without sleep.
because of the silent K in her name. She She stayed at her desk but didn’t stand;
felt it unnecessary to acknowledge its exis- her hands fidgeted under the desk as if she
tence and made sure we didn’t. were playing with something.

Mrs. N taught our 10th-grade history class The principle’s morning announcements
and challenged us to the point of stressed in- boomed over the loudspeaker and Mrs. N
duced screaming, but despite how difficult con nued to gaze around the classroom
the class was, I enjoyed her as a teacher. not looking at any one person in par cular.
The principle said something about home-
Any other day she would be found sit- coming then clicked the machine signaling
ng up straight at her desk, a smile on her that announcements were over. Almost on
face, makeup done perfectly and her brown cue, Mrs. N stood up. Shaking a li le, she
hair in a ght bun. But today, she slumped walked over to the door and closed it be-
over. Her hair lay limp and dead in a messy hind her. I could have sworn I heard the
thrown together bun, ny pieces of hair echo of a locked door, but it seemed no one
poked out in different direc ons. else no ced.

I sat down at my seat in the back, keep- Our teacher looked weak as she made
ing my gaze on Mrs. N. her way back over to the dry erase board to
write our daily journal entry on the board.
“You think someone died?” asked Roxanne, Goosebumps raised on my arms. I turned to
my best friend since Pre-k, as she chewed her Roxanne to ask her if we should tell anyone
pencil. about Mrs. N’s condi on but her pencil scrib-
bled in her journal. I pulled out my journal
“I don’t know, maybe. Wouldn’t she take from my backpack to start the assignment
the day off?” a er Mrs. N sat back down at her desk again.
She fidgeted with something under the desk
When the bell rang, everyone fell silent. again. The hairs on the back of my next shot
They didn’t want to be caught by Mrs. N up, sending shivers down my spine.
ac ng out during class. They all stood slow-
ly and faced forward to gawk at our teach- A er ten minutes of silence, she spoke.
er as she li ed her head from the desk to
join them for the pledge of allegiance. Her

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“How many of you know what causes “Do any of you know how long you’ll
fear?” Her voice dry and shaken. live?” Mrs. N asked, her hands moved be-
hind her desk again. I saw her hand reach
Samantha, a blonde girl in the front of inside a drawer, pulling something out and
the class, raised her hand. se ng it on her lap. “Someone answer the
ques on,” She said “Anybody?”
The kids didn’t like her for being the
teacher’s pet, or maybe they just thought Sam, once again, spoke up first.
she could be annoying. Either way, she
wasn’t a class favorite. “Um…Mrs. Knickerbocker? I don’t think
any of us truly know how long we’ll live for.
“Yes…dear?” Mrs. N said forcibly as if ‘dear’ It’s just not possible unless you have some
stuck on her tongue. kind of disease or a doctor tells you, but
even then, it’s just an es mate.” Sam’s eyes
“Fear is caused when you see or hear fell to the floor, along with the corners of
something you’re afraid of,” She said, with a her mouth.
big, dumb smile on her face. I hadn’t liked her
since she beat me in the spelling bee in the “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to say you’re
first grade. Everyone knew how smart she wrong. Even Samantha Ryder can be wrong.
was then and she wasn’t afraid to show off. Oh so wrong.”

“Yes, but no.” Mrs. N scoo ng forward Mrs. N pulled a gun out from her lap and
in her chair. “Fear itself isn’t just caused by pointed it straight at Sam’s head.
seeing the thing you’re afraid of, it’s much
deeper than that,” She said as she slowly The en re class screamed in ter-
looked around the room. “Fear is a chain ror, knocked their desks over and ran for
reac on in the brain that starts under the the door. Benjamin tried the knob but it
stressful s mulus and ends with the brain wouldn’t twist, it was locked from the out-
giving off a chemical, making your heart- side. My heart pounded in my chest as Rox-
beat increase, which energizes muscles, anne ran to me and pulled me to the back
and gives that feeling we all call fear. This of the room. Sam, on the other hand, s ll
is the fight or flight response.” She paused had the gun pointed at her head and wasn’t
and looked around the room with a slight moving. She didn’t blink or make sound
smirk on her face. “Most people believe and her whole skin faded to a pale yellow.
that you wouldn’t be afraid of many things The en re class spread out against the back
if you knew you weren’t going to live long,” wall, as far away from Mrs. N as possible.

Abbey raised her hand. “Mrs. N, are you “Alright now,” Mrs. N said, “I know you
feeling ok?” have them. Everybody, take out your cell
phones and throw them into the corner.”
Finally, someone no ced. She grabbed Sam’s shoulder and pointed
the gun at the class.
“Yes,” she spat “Perfectly fine.” She opened
the drawer. We all reached into our pockets and
threw our cell phones as instructed.
I stared at my teacher as my hands grew
sweaty. The tension in the room grew too “Now do you understand?” She said col-
uncomfortable levels. It hung in the air lec ng the cell phones and placing them
around us. on the desk. “That pounding in your chest

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is the adrenaline; that chemical I spoke Nobody answered her ques on; they all
about.” She pointed the gun back at Sam’s just stood there.
head “I bet Sam’s heart is bea ng faster
than all of yours. She’s so scared she can “It’s being a fucking coward, that’s what
barely breathe. What would you call that it is!” She pointed the gun at the back wall
class, fight or flight?” She looked back at us; and fired.
all our classmates hugged friends or cried
out their pain and fear. I had Roxanne, and Benny Kita grabbed his leg in agony as
I wasn’t le ng her go. the bullet passed through and embedded
itself into the wall behind him. His friend
“Well?” She yelled at us. At the same Andy ran to his side and helped him apply
me, she pulled the hammer back on the pressure to the leg.
gun. Sam’s whole body jumped. “There’s
no need to raise your hands, just call it out.” Why hasn’t anybody heard this yet? I
Everyone watching could tell she wanted to had an idea but I wasn’t posi ve. I turned to
pull the trigger. Roxanne and nudged her with my arm. She
looked at me with bloodshot, tear-filled eyes.
Zack Evans, a small black boy, stepped I wanted to hold her but it wasn’t the me.
forward. Ashley Cruz, a ny red-head at-
tempted to pull him back by the hand “Was this room the old band prac ce
but missed. “I-I think it-its…um...the, um… room?” I asked, dreading the answer.
flight response,” He said then quickly made
his way back over to Ashley, who burst into Unable to speak, she nodded.
tears. I didn’t blame her.
I was right; the room was soundproof,
“Very good, Zack,” She smiled, “Ok, next and that’s why nobody on the outside
ques on.” heard anything. I looked out from under
the table again; Mrs. N. s ll held the gun
She lowered the gun and pulled the to Sam’s jaw. Her face matched the color
trigger. Someone screamed. Sam dropped of the crimson puddle on the floor. Sam’s
to the floor. Roxanne and I ran to the proj- body swayed and her eyelids drooped. Ben-
ect tables and threw ourselves underneath ny’s leg s ll gushed blood but it didn’t look
them. I peeked out at Mrs. N from under deadly.
the table; she had bent down and picked
up Sam; blood poured from Sam’s open “Tick, tock, ck, tock, Sammy’s looking
wound, and she pointed the gun at her bad,” Tears streamed down Mrs. N’s face as
again. Most of the class screamed and tried she jammed the gun harder under Sam’s chin.
to find a way out, while the other half stood
petrified. My heart almost froze in mid-beat when
I saw a foot in front of me, Gabriel’s cell
“Next ques on,” She said to the fran c phone a ached to the side of his backpack.
class. “You fall in love with someone, but Edging myself slowly toward his phone, I
you’re married, they threaten to tell your tried not to make any sudden movements.
husband, is that fight or flight?” she asked
holding the gun right under Sam’s chin, “What are you doing?” Roxanne asked;
who whimpered and held her stomach. her voice hit a new high octave from the
fright in her throat.

“Shhh,” I hissed back.

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I crawled out from under the table on the last report on my cold skin. I couldn’t
my stomach, my fingers inching closer to- breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.
ward the phone; I could almost feel its cold Roxanne flooded my mind. My pulse be-
plas c against my skin. gan to quicken but my breathing slowly de-
creased. I knew any minute my life would
“Well, what do we have here?” Mrs. N be over.
said staring right at me.
Mrs. N. pulled the hammer back on the
I tried to get back under the table but gun slowly, she did this, I believe, because
she took the gun away from Sam and point- she thought the sound would be scary. It
ed it at me. I could feel my fingers, toes, and was terrifying. The barrel of the gun point-
bo om lip go numb, I could barely move. ed directly at my face. I could see the black
hole where the bullet would appear to
“Come on Isaac, get off the floor, it’s dirty,” make contact with my forehead. I could see
she said with another one of her laughs. I the notches and imperfec ons in the gun
had to stand up or get my head blown off. clearer than anyone. I could see the jagged
I stood up slowly, making sure to maintain edges of Mrs. Ns fingernails. I could see I
my eye contact. Mrs. N didn’t blink once as was about to die.
she followed my eyes with hers.
I wanted to think of Roxanne. Her smile.
“Over here, Isaac. I have a few things I Her laugh. Her scent. Everything mixed with
would like to say to you.” She said when I got a huge coa ng of memories, fear, panic and
on my feet. her. I closed my eyes and remembered her
face one last me. I wanted her face to be
I walked over to Mrs. N and got as close the last thing I thought of.
to her as possible without touching her. It
wasn’t by choice, she pulled on my shirt. I I closed my eyes as if to sleep and let
could smell her perfume, mixed with the whatever happened happen, but nothing
scent of Sam’s blood. did. I stood there for several moments be-
fore opening my eyes to see Mrs. N s ll
In the me it took me to walk the few holding the gun, s ll standing with it point-
steps over to her, Sam had passed out. Mrs. ed at my face. I stared at her, and for a long
N stared at me with her intense watery while she stared back.
eyes. She smiled slightly and dropped Sam
to the floor, landing her in a puddle of her “What’s the ma er with you?” Mrs. N fi-
blood with a splat. nally asked staring at me with fearful eyes.

“So Isaac, what were you doing under “What?”
my tables while I’m trying to teach? Were
you making out with your girlfriend?” She “Why aren’t you frightened?” she asked
laughed and lted her head to get a bet- pushing the gun into my forehead. “Why
ter look under the table. I flinched and a aren’t you crying?”
squeak escaped my throat. She looked up
at me again. She took her gun and forced me into the
back of the room, where all the other stu-
“You know, it’s not nice to ignore the dents were. Many of the other kids whim-
teacher in the middle of the lesson,” she pered and ran in the other direc on. She
said in a baby-talk voice; my skin crawled. stopped walking a er my face pressed up
against the wall.
She li ed her gun and pointed it at my
forehead. I could feel the warmth from

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Her hands shook hard. The gun pressed “Mrs. N?” I asked quietly, turning my
to the back of my head wiggled in differ- head a li le to see her. This must have been
ent direc ons. My stomach ed itself up the bravest thing I’ve ever done. “Why are
and nausea climbed inside me. I turned my you doing this?”
head slightly. Her hands s ll shook but she
didn’t speak or do anything. I had to stop Mrs. Ns eyes grew wide and her mouth
myself from gasping. Roxanne crawled out hung open slightly. Maybe because I could
from under the tables. I stared at her un l s ll form sentences with a gun pointed at
she mouthed the words “Turn around” As my head. I never knew.
soon as I understood her; I turned my head
back to face the wall. “For love.”

“You all know that none of you are going The gun fired, people screamed, and
to make it out of here.” Mrs. N said to the darkness engulfed me. At that moment, I
class, her hands and voice shook more. would have bet my life I was dead.

About the Author

Taylor Morrison is a non-binary writer, blogger and podcaster specializing in wri ng about
the art of wri ng. They are ac ve in the LGBT+ communi es and have an interest in working
with mental health ac vism. Taylor has been wri ng for most of their adult life and previously
was the host of the “Mr. Write” podcast - a podcast about wri ng for fic on writers. They
are currently wri ng pieces for Medium on wri ng cra and advice, wri ng apps, and
NaNoWriMo prep strategies. Taylor is a skilled writer of mul ple formats and styles. Currently,
they are working on crea ng blog posts, fic on stories, novels, audio books, and more. If you
want to support Taylor in their crea ve pursuits you can become their patron on Patreon at
their page patreon.com/TaylorMorrisonWriter. You can also follow all of Taylor’s new blog
posts and content at medium.com/@taylormorrisonwriter.

108

THE STORY OF THE
OLD MAN ON THE
BENCH IN THE PARK

by Harvey James

I’ve go a start from the beginning and so I me in China for the rest of his life just for
say to him, I’ve go a explain my dad. Well the fun of it. He’s like that, you know.
a few months ago, he comes over from Chi-
na and we go for lunch. We meet at London That’s when it occurs to me I need to
Bridge sta on and I see his blond hair like leave the restaurant. He absolutely would
straw, greasy and scraped back. That is the abduct me. And an eerily perfect restaurant
head of my father. His head swivelling and in Mayfair is just the sort of place it would
scanning everyone in the crowd, but s ll kind happen. They probably offer a premium
of bored looking. I keep my eyes fixed on him service for it. Keep a parking bay free in the
and remember how much I hate him. He sees basement at all mes. That sort of vibe. So
me. No hugs, kissing and love, it’s ‘we’re late.’ I jump out the bathroom window into their
food waste bin. The stench of fish, the to-
I tell him uni is going well and that I’ve mato stains and the slivers of onion stuck
made some good friends, that the teachers to my thigh got me some weird looks on
are fun and London is great. I don’t tell him the tube. I got home and smashed up my
I’m not at uni, I’ve made some reprobate phone with a hammer lying around in the
friends, London is tough and everyone is an kitchen. He hasn’t contacted me yet.
asshole. That would give him too much sat-
isfac on. He can’t know he made me the So two weeks later and I’m pre y down,
husk of a human I currently live in. It’s two but now my usual sort of down, having just
years since his wave le me at the door of about got over my dad’s visit. I’m in a pub
my first flat in London. Two years of relief, and I’m drinking, right. I turn round and say,
punctuated with the fear of him returning. ‘What the fuck, did you just say?’ My irses all
He would search me out and incarcerate burning into this man sat on the bench next
to me. He said to me ‘typical Asian’, implying

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I can’t handle my booze. My eyes flu er all from Johnnie’s like I have done for the three
incredulous like, and I say, ‘The cheek of it… weeks previous. Every week there’s an old
you want to make a pariah out of me, in my dude sat on this bench, so this me I walked
own temple? I’ll drink you under this ves - over and sat down next to him. He asks
bule any day of the week sunshine. Why don’t ‘who are you?’ so I tell him. Anyway, at the
you wind your neck in and get back to bicker- end of my story, he turns around to me, all
ing with the lads.’ I turn round to my group confused like and says ‘good luck with your
with a wry smile and hear him say ‘stupid dad’ and he slowly walks off, looking like
chink’, so I turn back around and say, ‘Are you he’s made of ash and he might just blow off
fucking kidding me?’ and this me breathing into the ether, but with this great big cheery
right into his pasty, sallow skin, grab him by smile on his face and it made think, fuck, I
the shirt and crunch a pint glass into his head, don’t know if he listened to a single word.
just for effect mind. Some mes I think, yeah,
it was a li le strong, but I’d do it again. The guy had a kind of aura, I’ll give him
that, like the present for him was just a
Anyway, just two days a er that, we’re all repe on. So I waltz off to the newsagents
out in Dalston, you know Visions and Dalston to get a pack of smokes and a magazine,
Superstore and all that shit, when a group of thinking, see you next week old man, see
dickhead lads walk past and start yabbing. you next week. Next week comes, but the
You know, Mar n all dressed up as Mar na old man is nowhere to be seen. I get home
StormQueen and Lola all wearing wild and and there is dad, on my fucking doorstep.
colourful garms, and they think. Here’s a
target. So we say fuck you and Lola sort of About the Author
walks up with her arms flailing, giving it all
that. They laugh and walk off. Then, turn Harvey James is an English Literature and
around charge at us from behind and proper Language BA Graduate of King’s College
like lay into us. Fist a er fist a er fist. I see London. He is currently a freelance writer
Lola’s head hit the floor and she disappears. based in South East London.

Next me I see her she’s is in the hos-
pital and she’s just woken up. A week had
passed and we were all on the ji ery edge.
But some girl in a sailor hat behind the bar
that night said ‘hey, my friend’s a therapist,
go down and get some sessions some me.’
My friends like the idea and so we try it out,
separately. And just like that I’m in therapy.
The one place I’ve successfully avoided these
last 20 years of my life. Where self-indulgent
twats cry into their worthless twenty pound
notes like ssues then blow them away. Poof.
Just like that, I’m one of them. But it’s been
alright you know. I feel kinda be er for it.

I’d just finished a session and was walk-
ing through the park with my sauerkraut
and pastrami sandwich on brown bread

110

VICKI LOUISE

by Margaret Rowan

Cres ng the dune, I looked out across the thermal, swoop up, then dip low over the
sand to the Atlan c, its foaming edge out- waves breaking on shore.
lining the rocky shore of Phillips Beach.
Aside from a few scavenging seagulls, I A few inches from my hand, lay my cam-
had the en re beach to myself. Be er yet, era. I propped myself onto my elbows to
a week remained before tourists infested watch a lobster boat returning home. The
Chateau Island. I breathed in the salty air sun was receding behind the boat and the
then charged down the other side of the silhoue e would be the perfect shot for
dune like a wild mustang, the warm sand the cover of my next novel, Vicki Louise.
engulfing my shins as my feet plunged in.
Vicki was a woman I’d met while having
At the bo om of the dune I found a strip a cocktail at a restaurant bar. I was wai ng
of sand nestled between the rocky beach for a table to free up so I could have dinner.
and the ridge behind me. I’d chosen this I loved scallops and had been daydreaming
rock-strewn sec on because not many peo- about them on my drive up from New York
ple migrated to it. I’d waited weeks for this to Darby Cove. The following day I would
day to arrive. My life at home and at work ferry across to Chateau Island.
was devouring me. My mind, barren of my
own ideas, was now crowded with other ***
people’s thoughts.
Looking to sit down, I spo ed two stools
I spread out my blanket that I stow in jammed beside a pole at the far end of the
the trunk of my car for beach visits and an- bar. A woman occupied one of them. She
chored it with my tote bag and three large appeared quite at home, si ng alone with
rocks. The rocks were beau es. Polished by a drink and reading her newspaper. Mov-
years of sea water lapping away their rough ing closer to the stool nearest the pole, I
edges, they’d become smooth as glass. sucked in deeply as you do when trying to
Kneeling down, I let my body collapse into make yourself…slimmer; then tried edg-
the coolness of the sand beneath the blan- ing-up onto the seat without disturbing her.
ket. As I lay there, listening to the syncopat- She turned and looked over her shoulder
ed rhythm of a buoy bell off in the distance, at me, then wiggle-inched her stool to the
my body began disintegra ng into sleep side, allowing me more space to slip in. Set-
mode. But I wasn’t here for sleep. I raised tling back, she side-glanced me a smile. “Hi,
my head and marveled at a gull catch a my name is Vicki Louise.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Oh?” I smiled. “I’m, Laura.” I hiked my conversa on. “So you do live in Darby Cove.
bu up and sat down. “Thanks for le ng Nice. I thought maybe you ferried in from one
me scrunch in. I wasn’t too eager to sit near of the islands. That’s a long ride to work every
that party of fishermen down there.” She day. It makes my forty minute jaunt into New
turned and looked at them, then back at York City look like a pleasure trip.”
the drink in front of her.
“I work for the Boston Gaze e.”
My guess was that she was a frequent
flyer here. I recalled an ar cle I’d researched O-kay—this could turn out to be a good
on people that sit alone at bars. They’re day a er all. I’ve stumbled across ‘a Vicki
either lonely with a thirst for the benign Louise’ who, like me, has printers’ ink flood-
conversa on you find in a glass—or looking ing her veins. “Are you a journalist?”
to meet someone. Ideally the sympathe c
type you might find seated at an adjacent “I read.”
barstool. Well, my table isn’t ready yet.
Let’s see if I can offer some comfort to Ms. What the hell does that mean? I read?
Vicki. “Do you live in Darby Cove?” “Like a proofreader?”

“I work in Boston…why?” “I read books.”

O-kay, so I don’t want to know where “Oh, you cri que them.”
she lives, got it. “I just drove through Bos-
ton to get here. It’s quite a ride.” I mo oned The bartender brought our drinks. I nod-
for the bartender. ded “Thanks,” and slid him a dollar.

“Ninety minutes to Boston,” she said. “Mm…,” Vicki murmured, finishing off
her earlier drink.
He walked over, stretched out his arms
and gripped the edge of the bar. “What’ll I took that as a yes and although Vicki
it be?” had said she worked for the Gaze e, I was a
bit skep cal. “That can be somewhat tricky,
I gave a half-cringe, half-smile, “Could I appraising other people’s ideas without of-
see your wine list?” Many years ago, I learned fending them.”
to ask for the wine list before ordering. One
vaca on I got hit with a $22.00 check for a Vicki gulped her fresh Bloody Mary. In
glass of Turning Leaf! Can you imagine? I seconds her manner changed. She put the
quickly scanned the list and saw I wouldn’t celery stalk to her forehead. “I’m ge ng bad
have that problem in this place. “I’ll have a vibes from you. Something is very wrong.”
glass of chardonnay. The Perkins is fine.”
An eerie feeling broadcast through my
The bartender nodded towards Vicki. flesh as I contemplated this stranger with her
“And you?” nearly translucent skin, long, wildly curled
red hair, and tou ng maxi, purple-plas c
“I’ll have a Bloody Mary.” eyeglasses. “What do you mean—some-
thing is wrong? Why would you think that?
Really, Jack? What are you thinking? She’s
not finished the one in front of her and by the “I don’t want to say.”
look of that mangled newspaper—she’s been
here a while. Conversa on, Laura, she needs She doesn’t want to say. Then, why say
it—and leave me dangling? I pushed my
wine glass to the side. I don’t need this
nonsense. Where’s that bartender?

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Vicki turned and looked behind her, ster with hot sauce. At first she seemed sweet,
then back at me. She crooked her head to maybe a li le airy, but she quickly turned acid.
the side, “You’re here for a reason.” Her words as drained as the glass now tee-
tering in front of her. She looked somewhat
Of course I’m here for a reason. Who downtrodden…a bit artsy too, dressed in a
drives four hours just to ferry over to an is- rag-knit sweater, faux purple leather bomber
land without a reason? She’s making me un- jacket, holey jeans and cream colored cowgirl
comfortable. I thought about the ferry ride boots. I liked the boots.
tomorrow and all the mari me tragedies of
late. I was not keen on traveling by myself, Vicki pretended to gulp down what was
let alone on a ferry. You know—when we le in the bo om of the empty glass, and
fear our me is coming soon? Like if I step slid it towards the bartender. She looked at
onto that ferry in the morning…it will crash me as if expec ng a reac on. “My husband
and sink. Well, that’s how I’d been feeling is coming here. He’s working on his boat to-
before the trip—about to crash. Plus my day. There used to be four, you know. I came
mammogram came back no ng a suspi- down to wait. He’s picking me up soon.”
cious spot. Now odd-looking Vicki is ge ng
vibes. What is she, clairvoyant? Time to “Well, that’s good.” Sooner would be bet-
ditch this Vicki Louise and get my table. I ter, I thought.
looked around for the waitress then turned
and answered Vicki’s ques on. “What’s that?” she slurred.

“I am here for a reason. I’m on vaca on,” “Your husband is picking you up.”
I said, annoyed with myself that I’d sat here
this long entertaining a stranger that had Vicki leaned closer to me. “You have beau-
gone from being friendly, to analyzing me. ful eyes.”
“I’m mee ng my husband on Chateau Is-
land.” I lied. Actually I was a ending a writ- “Thank you.” What else could I say? She’d
ing workshop for the week, hoping to find already trespassed into my space by a foot.
the inspira on to write again. Who knew where this was heading. I really
should leave.
Vicki disregarded my answer and toyed
with her glass, turning it around and around “That must be it…”
un l a Bloody Mary wave crested the rim
and spilled onto the bar. “What must be it, Vicki?” For gosh sake,
where’s that waitress. As comfor ng as I
The bartender mopped it up before it thought I could be for Vicki, I’d about had
reached the newspaper. enough. I wanted my table.

Ooh, this is not good. Let’s try another “Eric is repairing one of his boats today,
approach, Laura. I saw she wore a band on but you know that already.”
her finger but asked anyway. “Are you mar-
ried, Vicki?” “Eric? Is he your husband?”

Silence— “Yes, we ate steamers before, and drank
a few beers. I read the paper while he’s at
Well, this conversa on is heading for the the marina. You’re jealous.”
dumpster. Talking to Vicki was like ea ng lob-
Vicki’s accusa on startled me, but I
sensed that she had downed more than just a
few beers since she’d been at the bar reading

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

the Boston Gaze e. Le ng the remark pass, “Ah, no, he’s coming to give you a ride home.
I eyed the newspaper that lay in front of her. I’m going to have dinner and then head back
How long had she been here? The damned to my hotel for the night. Tomorrow I take the
thing was the size of the Sunday News back ferry over to Chateau where I meet up with
home and was stained with red spots and my husband, Sco . Remember?”
oily crumbs. “You read the whole paper?”
Vicki looked at me in a pathe c way;
At first she seemed anxious to engage got up from her stool and slid behind mine.
in another conversa on. Maybe about What is she up to now? She was standing
what she’d read, but her eyes took on a near the pole to my side and slightly hidden
profound look. She fidgeted with the lime from the crowd that had now wandered in
colored boa wrapped around her neck and off the ferry looking for a place to eat.
shoulders, twining it between her fingers
then flipping it aside. Above her eyeglasses, “We have to stay quiet.” She looked around
Vicki’s brow knit together. “Yes, that’s what as if she was searching for someone in par c-
I do.” Shi ing on her barstool, she never ular. “I can’t tell you this. You won’t like me.”
took her eyes from mine. “You don’t be-
lieve me.” She turned her head to one side, “I like you, Vicki.”
then back at me, and glared.
“Well, no one else likes me…” She climbed
I felt as though the devil himself had back onto the barstool, “…I don’t have any
bored through me. I took a sip of wine from friends. I went to Winslow you know.”
my glass and set it on the bar. Maybe I’ll just
call it a day. Go back to my room. I’ll order in. My heart welled with empathy for this
young woman. A Winslow graduate, the
“He’s coming to get you…isn’t he?” most pres gious women’s school in the
northeast. How did she end up on a bar-
Who the hell is she talking about, the stool in a place like this? I began to speak.
devil? “Who’s coming to get me?”
She put her finger to her lips. “Shhh, they’ll
“Eric…” hear us.” Shielding her face, she mouthed be-
neath her elbow, “They didn’t see me, did
“—Eric who?” they?”

Vicki anchored her hands on her hips “No.”
and struck a pouty pose, you know the de-
fiant kind that queries a person’s honesty. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

It was then I observed the real Vicki. She “Told me what?” Crap, she’s got me whis-
was not just a woman who’d had too much pering now.
to drink one day, but a troubled one with
serious problems. Sadly, I recognized in her “It’s bad to tell. Are they gone?”
a misery that only exists in someone who’s
lived through way too many bad experienc- “Yes. They’re gone. Who were you looking
es and is trying to survive the heartbreaks for?”
of life. Although at the moment, she was
on a roll, spewing vile allega ons. Vicki straightened up and sipped her drink.

“You know who Eric is, my husband. And “Are you on medica on, Vicki?” That
I know he’s coming to get you.” would explain the swings between friend-
ship, mistrust and withdrawal.

“Maybe…”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

I gently touched her arm, “You know “Come on, Pam. Laura le on the ferry.
meds plus alcohol don’t mix…right?” Let’s go now before…”

“Who—are you? I don’t know about you. “But Eric is coming to get you soon. You
What’s your story? I’m ge ng vibes again.” want to be here when he arrives, don’t
you?” I looked for the bartender to get my
Not again! I really need to find that wait- check, but he was gone.
ress.
“Somewhere Beyond the Sea” blared
Vicki picked up her wallet from the bar from Vicki’s leather jacket she’d hung on
and slid a credit card from her checkbook the back of her barstool. The song was a
towards the bartender. I thought she was real oldie, recorded in the ‘60s by Bobby
leaving. “I want to buy…” she turned to me. Darin. She must have an old soul. “Is that
“What’s your name? Pam…yes, I want to your phone? It might be Eric…”
buy Pam, a drink…”
Vicki shot me an angry look. She picked
“No, Vicki. My name is Laura, and I’m not up her glass and drank the Bloody Mary
having another drink…but thank you.” down like it was iced tea. “I know. He just
le . He’s coming to get you.” She dropped
“You want me to leave, don’t you?” the glass on the bar. I watched it bounce to
the floor and smash into pieces. Her face
Leave? God no, you’re in no condi on took on an acrid color. “My sister fell off a
to leave now, I wanted to say. “Uh, well… horse,” she said nas ly. “There’s something
not really,” but before I could finish, Vicki wrong with her head…”
scooped up her credit card and clutch purse,
leaving her checkbook on the counter. She I was speechless.
turned on her barstool as if to go.
Vicki gave me a side-wards glance as if
“Come home with me, Pam. I like Pam wai ng for my response, then slid off the
be er. She’s more fun. I have a pool table! barstool and staggered out through the
It’ll be cool…and you can stay.” front door, leaving behind her purse, check-
book and jacket.
Stay? Oh, Vicki, how o en do you invite
strangers home? I could be the Bonnie in I watched through the mullioned win-
Clyde. “I’m sorry, Vicki, I can’t...I’m ge ng dows as she weaved her way through hang-
on the ferry tomorrow.” ing buoys, nets and shells that flanked the
sandy court yard entrance. Quickly I mo-
Vicki ignored me. Then she swung back
around and ordered another Bloody Mary— oned to the bartender who’d returned
without the celery stalk, she told the bar- through the swinging door between the
tender, saying she was full. kitchen and the bar.

I frowned at the bartender and mimed, “You want your bar bill…give me a sec.”
“Are you crazy?” But he mixed Vicki another
drink. “No! The woman I was talking to just
le the building. You do know she had too
She turned to me. She looked desperate. much to drink, right?”
“Don’t go on the ferry. I’ll be alone again.
Come with me.” He nodded and without a word came
out from behind the bar and went a er her.
“I can’t.” I watched in fear as Vicki crawled up the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

embankment that led to the roadway above, rocks, where she hit her head. Darby was
nearly being hit by a car as she stepped into coming to take her home from the hospital
the street. I went over to the hostess at the on Chateau Island when the boa ng acci-
service desk near the front door. “Excuse dent happened. Every day she sits wai ng
me. The woman I was si ng with le her for him to come pick her up.”
jacket and purse on the barstool.”
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the
“We know her. The bartender will take waitress. She had a table for me, but I
care of it.” didn’t think I could choke down one morsel
this evening.
“The bartender…you mean the dumb ass
who’s been feeding her Bloody Marys’ and ***
celery s cks all day? You’d have thought
he’d have taken care of…IT…sooner!” Vicki’s memory haunted me as I drove onto
the ferry the next day. I parked and got out
The hostess gave me ‘the look’ and of my car and watched Darby Cove shrink
shook her head. “He’s married to Vicki’s out of sight, leaving only the image of a
twin sister, Louise, who works in Boston at grieving woman dragging along in the spray
the Gaze e and is gone most of the day.” behind the ferry.

“So…he lets her drink the me away?” She was adri , just the way I’d believed
Oh-my-gosh, she’s a twin? I was before walking into that bar. I was
amazed at the kinship I felt towards her;
The hostess curled her upper lip. “A year our circumstances were so different. Her
ago, Vicki lost her husband, Eric Darby, in thoughts shot to hell by tragedy, drink and
a boa ng accident. His boat crashed and drugs—and then there was Laura, with a
sank a er running into the ferry on a foggy secure life wai ng for her back home.
morning. He’s s ll out there.”
***
A shudder careened through my body.
“How tragic, I didn’t know.” At the bo om of my beach bag, I found my
pencil. I turned on my side and propped
“A few days before Darby’s death, she my head with my hand. “Good-bye barren
and her sister went horseback riding. Vicki mind,” I whispered to the sea gull pecking
took a dive off a horse on one of the ridge at the laces on my sneakers.
trails and tumbled down the dune to some

About the Author

Margaret Rowan was a legal secretary, a produc on ar st
and proofreader for the Patent Trader newspaper. Today, she
owns and operates an an ques business with her husband
and writes lively descrip ons of their inventory. When
not at home wri ng fic on, she is traveling around the
country, where her crea vity is sparked by the ‘characters’
she encounters and the places visited in her hunt for the
an quated. Margaret belongs to the Mahopac Library
Writers’ Workshop, headed by author and historian, Vincent
T. Dacquino, whom she credits for his years of encouragement.

116

CREATIVE
DESTRUCTION

by Mark Halpern

… is the essen al fact …
– Joseph Schumpeter, economist

The 1980s were all boom, boom, boom. Before li le Ed Jr. popped into being,
Even at the foreign companies, me raced the family shi ed to Ramstein-Miesenbach,
along its money-greased track. And their where he soaked up German. They moved
guys on the scene—those sent from home onward again and again, Ed reaching twelve
office and the Japanese guys at local affil- before realizing that Dad’s “no fixed address”
iates—did boomingly well. They reveled was a joke. So when Ed flashed away to a
in extravagance and thought this fully de- junior year in Lyon and to summer jobs all
served. That’s what happens with money, over, he wasn’t a er glamour. “I was made
money, money. for movement,” he told his Cornell class-
mates. “And you can just take me as I am.”
When the economy burst, the foreign
companies survived—their eggs weren’t As the scenes whizzed by, Ed stayed calm.
all in one bursted basket. And their guys on Others mistook this for serenity, but it was
the scene—those who remained and those merely detachment. He stood distant, but
who arrived—for them it was s ll about the not distracted. And his solidity was a uni-
money. At least for most of them. form he never shed during his own eight
years roaming within the air force, engaged
Edward Waylan Jr. landed at Narita Air- with his tasks, but no thought of commit-
port in 1992 speaking a delicate Japanese, ment. Upon discharge, he joined Sedgeway,
learned from his mother, that contrasted “leading purveyor of fine fi ngs for taverns,”
his tall Yankee confidence. On the outside and, soon, its overseas sales office in Lon-
he resembled Edward Sr. (Lt. Col., retd.), don. From there, Ed hopped about the con-
who, while posted at Yokota, had married
his local sweetheart. On the inside he re- nents, posh bar to posh bar, lounging in
sembled nobody in par cular. a world of customers. “A dream job,” said
others, who mostly drank harder than Ed.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

In those bars he would levitate, and Santoku would, said Hank, keep exclusiv-
watch from above, and the customers were ity, but only for Tokyo, and only for Sedge-
at ease. Ed always appeared as he should. way High Line. Tomiyama-san would also be
When the others talked poli cs, he’d be Red- invited onto the board of Sedgeway Japan, a
neck Ed, or Le ward Edward, or anywhere in new subsidiary that would push Tavern De-
between. Bragging about women? “Call me Lux and Tankards Away, the cheaper lines.
Always Ready Eddie.” He was Well-read Ed,
Farmstead Ed, athle c Bobsled Ed or strategi- “Sooner or later, Santoku will die a nat-
cally-aggressive Beachhead Ed. It was Steady ural death or Tommy will put it out of its
Eddie who poured drinks, but Unsteady Eddie misery. Then we’ll make him President of
remained on vigilant standby. And wherever whatever’s le standing.”
it was in Europe or Africa or Asia that Edward
Waylan Jr. sojourned, the par culars of each Ed, meanwhile, longed to race further
par cular Ed—his words, manners, style— up the ladder of life—perhaps at Sedgeway,
would translate to the country at hand. perhaps elsewhere—for otherwise, what
was the point of it all? But age thirty-sev-
Japan, however, took care of itself. en was surely the me to chart a stable di-
There, the legendary Tommy Tomiyama, rec on. Less jumping around, less drinking,
owner of Santoku Furnishings K.K., brought maybe a tender-hearted wife to comfort
Sedgeway’s immensely-profitable top-end him. Maybe even reading children’s books
line not only to fine hotels, but also to the in five languages to a li le Ed III. And he
conference centres and civic ins tu ons could take the li le guy bobsledding—or
sprou ng countrywide like weeds and, do whatever people did wherever it was
above all, to the Ginza bars that catered to they’d be living. But upward Ed must go.
corporate entertainment, exis ng to im-
press. By 1991, thanks to Tomiyama-san, Ja- The CEO’s comprehending eye had tak-
pan accounted for 28% of worldwide profit. en in Ed’s ambi on and his energy. When
Everyone agreed: “He’s our Japan Man.” he was summoned to Atlanta, Ed’s Japa-
nese background was almost a coincidence.
When the bubble popped, Japanese
companies crashed and wining-and-dining “Just call me Hank. Everyone does.”
starved. Another fancy bar—who needed
it? Santoku was hollowed and bleeding. Plans were laid out. If Ed accepted, the
Though Sedgeway remained flush overall, two would fly to Tokyo and break the news
Japan demanded ac on. to Tomiyama-san. Ed would stay on to study
the market and help get Sedgeway Japan off
CEO Hank Dunlop pondered and pon- the ground. All going well, within two years
dered. They could terminate Tomiya- he’d return to London as a Senior VP, with a
ma-san’s exclusivity, slice him out, and ser- “fully appropriate” compensa on package.
vice the humbled market with a small rep
office. But you shouldn’t give up easily on a “Eddie, my boy, you have a rare talent to
force like Tomiyama-san, nor on Japan. adapt and achieve. There’s no limit for you
at Sedgeway. None at all.”
The market research was depressing.
“But,” said Hank, “I’m going with my gut feel- Ed set his teeth. “Tell me what you need
ing.” He pointed at his midsec on. “A er all, and I’ll get it done. My bags are as good as
look at the size of my gut.” Everyone laughed. packed.” He’d move with the speed of the
events. “I’ll give Sedgeway everything I’ve
got to give.”

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Days later they checked into the Imperi- a pause, they spoke in Japanese. Of family
al Hotel and took a so -lighted elevator up- and love, of Japan. Ed wondered how Tomi-
ward, though only to the mezzanine. There yama-san could keep from speaking of the
Tomiyama-san waited in plushness at the weight he bore. He was partaking in the de-
Old Imperial Bar, smoke curling from his struc on of a business he’d built from nothing.
Havana as he stood to greet Hank with a This business stood, even now, under the lives
flat-handed slap across the back. Then his of its last employees, whose faith remained
eyes pierced through Ed, on whom he be- strong. Ed acknowledged this in his heart, si-
stowed a handshake in the Japanese man- lently, but with no inten on of concealment.
ner, conveying not power, but gen lity and By the end of the business day a dra Memo-
propriety. Ed bowed, involuntarily. randum of Understanding emerged.

Hank understood that so abrupt a visit Hank would consider the MOU’s terms
must trigger the worst of fears. and Tomiyama-san would think them
through again overnight. But first Tomiya-
“Look, Tommy,” he said, “Sedgeway—me, ma-san led Ed onward to mark the achieve-
everyone—thinks the world of you.” He put ment—Ed couldn’t think it a celebra on.
down his glass and said the hard things he The elegance of a high-class ryōtei; a thin
had to say, but con nued: “We’re commit- silk cushion interposed between Ed and
ted to finding a way forward. Our biggest the tatami; kimono-a red women hover-
hope is that you’ll play a leading role.” ing about; a delicate kaiseki meal. Before
reaching the gate to be greeted with deep
“I understand.” bows and led through the bamboo gar-
den, Tomiyama-san carefully straightened
Beyond those two words Tomiyama-san his neck e and Ed followed his lead. Both
showed nothing. He peered at the cigar found comfort in a formality that was ap-
locked into fingers. His thoughts might have propriate to the me and place.
been on the hint of mizunara oak lingering
from his single malt. Hot sake flowed. One by one, exqui-
sitely-cra ed li le dishes appeared before
Ed watched. In the taxi he’d been told, them. With each dish Tomiyama-san drew
“for tonight, just sit quietly and learn.” He out more of Ed’s roving memories: a chic
saw Tomiyama-san receive a refill with too Paris bar, a swanky hotel in Singapore, pri-
much politeness. He saw him light a match vate clubs in Lagos and Beirut. Places Ed
with too much harshness. He saw him rise had made himself fit in. The further Ed trav-
too slowly when they parted for the evening. eled, the less he resisted.

He was to keep watching, but the next Evening led them on to a tradi onal
morning Hank was laid up with stomach flu. izakaya, where, in a cloud of alcohol, Ed’s
“Eddie, I’m coun ng on you to pick up the many personas made cameo appearances.
ball and run it to the end zone.” Just stepping onto the stage and cha ng
about people he’d met some place or other
Did Ed hold his own with Tomiyama-san? and how he’d gained their trust, and then
Maybe their progress was merely the rec- vanishing. Tomiyama-san listened. At two
ogni on of Sedgeway’s commercial logic a.m. they reached his favourite cheap ra-
and of Santoku’s weakness. It was not a men shop. Nothing much remained of Ed
except his sincerity.
me to think of self.

The documenta on was in English and so
were nego a ons. But when the two reached

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Ties and crumpled jackets were off, “But the MOU …”
sleeves rolled up. Tomiyama-san switched to
English—it was me for clarity. “Sedgeway will need my remaining em-
ployees, and I give them to you, whoever
“As a child, I learned to hate Americans. wants to join—I will take care of the rest.
During the occupa on, I learned to love Then Hank and the boys in Atlanta can do
Americans. Finally, I learned to love Japan. whatever they want. With my full coopera-
I learned to love life.”
on. Sedgeway has treated me well; I need
Ed watched him li his bowl with two nothing. But, Waylan-san, I want you to ask
hands and sip the miso broth. yourself a ques on.”

“Waylan-san, you are like the quiet en- Tomiyama-san swiveled his counter stool
gine of a big Cadillac that’s been shi ed to face Ed.
into neutral. You can put yourself into gear
and go any direc on you like.” “I’m already fi y-seven, but I can s ll
create something new. I have energy. Ideas.
Ed s lled himself. He let the older man Ideas that can help Japan. My country …
con nue. What about you?”

“And when I look at you, I feel I too have “I too have energy, and ideas. And great
some power le … I know I do.” prospects at Sedgeway.”

“Tomiyama-san, nobody doubts you’ll Tomiyama-san swiveled back toward
build Sedgeway Japan into a great business.” the counter.

“I wish Sedgeway every success.” Tomi- “And?”
yama-san’s voice was suddenly loud. “But
for me, the new company would be the “And?”
ghost of a dead lover.”
“And a home, Waylan-san. A home.” Tomi-
He slurped up some ramen. “Sedgeway yama-san slurped up more ramen and then
can have the Japanese market.” Quietly now. looked straight at Ed. “Won’t you come home
“They don’t need me.” to Japan and build something new with me?”

About the Author

Mark Halpern has lived since 1993 in Tokyo, where he runs
his own law firm and writes stories about foreigners in
Japan. He was born in America, grew up mostly in Canada,
and has also spent much me in the UK and France. As for
Japan, Mark has, like some of his stories’ characters, found
a way to be both an outsider and an insider.

120

PINK MOON

by Neil McDonald

Junior tried to encourage Leo to join in with background figure wearing an old pair of
the party. He found himself saying things white jeans for some ridiculous reason (“In-
like ‘Ooh, look at that!’ a li le too loudly, teres ng choice,” Leanne had said to him
poin ng at garish toys, and all but shoving that morning), and standing beside a four-
his son at a bunch of kids he didn’t know. foot tall cutout of Pink Moon, an Asian car-
toon character with whom he was unfamiliar.
The other parents snapped pictures on
their phones and Junior retreated to the Any picture from today that did happen
wall as Leo tenta vely hovered around a to include his head, however, would cap-
plate with three cookies le on it. ture a man standing in front of some closet
doors, looking perfectly cheerful at being in
Grab one! Junior thought. Or they’ll be a endance at the three-hour birthday par-
all gone! ty of a five-year-old girl whose mother he
happened to work with.
“It’s OK,” Junior said, in a voice meant for
a much younger child, gesturing to Leo that Around the third me Kendra retreated
he could have one of the cookies. The boy to Kourtnee’s room with the birthday girl
remained unconvinced, though he soon for another meout – “She’s just over-ex-
grabbed one and ran back to his father’s cited,” a few of the parents were agreeing
legs a er he no ced a few other kids be- while trying not to hold eye contact with
ginning to inch toward the plate. each other for too long – this dad whose
kid Grayden had put on Kourtnee’s princess
Meanwhile, the pictures con nued to
accumulate, imprin ng themselves on each ara and clowned around a bit (something
smartphone’s memory, bound at best for a that had caused Leo to laugh and Kourt-
Facebook post or the screensaver of mum- nee to retaliate by kicking Grayden in the
my’s work computer. It struck Junior that shin, thus earning her this latest meout),
one day there would be no more physical picked Grayden up and started giving him
snapshots and likely few candid photos of a piggy-back ride around the room, much
he and his son together. Certainly none from to the kid’s delight. And this Grayden kid’s
today, for who would take them? Junior was dad – Dale or Dave, maybe? – got down on
not one for selfies, especially in public. his knees with his son s ll on his back and
walked up to the other kids and said, ‘Hello,
If he appeared in any images from today how are you’ in an overly serious voice just
at all, he would probably just be a headless

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

to get them to laugh. Even Leo managed a “They’re white, you know,” replied Junior.
smile before he turned away shyly. This guy
– Dave or Dale – this jovial, goateed man, Leanne went back to their bedroom and
was the hit of the party. Junior went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer
and went to the basement to watch TV.
Junior laughed along with all the other
parents, one part relieved at the distrac on An hour, maybe, and another beer lat-
and two parts destroyed by his own inade- er, Junior heard the footsteps of what he
quacy as a father. He and Leo didn’t do things thought was one of the cats on the base-
like that at home, even when there was no- ment stairs. The sight of his child appearing
body around, never mind when surrounded unexpectedly in the room gave him a kind
by a group of tense, impa ent adults and of shocked chill, and he sat upright on the
their sugar-stuffed children. He had never chair.
carried Leo on his shoulders. He had never
said, ‘Hello, how are you’ in a mock-serious “Hey buddy, what’s up?” he asked, recov-
voice just to crack other kids up. ering.

Furthermore, Junior got the impression “Daddy, I can’t sleep,” said Leo.
this was not the only arrow in Dave-Dale’s
comedic quiver. He could probably have Junior looked at his son, s ll in his clothes
gone on all day, inven ng things Junior had from the party.
never done or thought of doing, if it weren’t
for Kourtnee’s sulky re-entry amid Kendra’s “Come on buddy, let’s get you into your
insistence that she apologize to everybody PJs,” said Junior and mo oned for Leo to
in a endance. Again. So everyone can hear. come and be li ed up. Carrying his son
back upstairs, Junior said: “Hey, you want
By the me they got home a er the par- to see something?”
ty, Leo was asleep. He didn’t wake up when
Junior li ed him out of the car, or when he “What?”
laid him down on his big boy bed.
“Outside.”
“How was it?” Leanne asked, whispering,
as Junior le Leo’s room. She was standing “Outside?” asked Leo, happily surprised.
outside their bedroom, had come out to
ask about the party. “Yeah, I don’t think you’ve seen these guys
before.”
“Oh, you know. Cake, tears, too many
presents.” “What guys?” asked Leo, as Junior opened
the pa o doors and stepped onto the two-
“How was Leo?” inch high deck and then down onto the grass.
“Daddy, what guys?”
“Good,” Junior said in a high voice. “He
was shy at first, you know what he’s like. He “These guys up here,” said Junior, and he
had a good me, though. On the way home, laid Leo gently down, and pointed up.
he said that on his birthday we have to in-
vite Kourtnee to his party.” “Stars,” said Leo.

Leanne smiled. She looked red. “Nice “Can you see them all?” asked Junior,
jeans.” lowering himself down to stretch out on the
grass. “How many do you think there are?”

“Maybe free hundred,” said Leo excited-
ly. “Hey, look at that one!”

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Revista Literária Adelaide
They lay there for a few minutes. Junior
had not shown his son the stars before.
This was something Dale-Dave had proba-
bly done before with all of his kids, Junior
was willing to bet. Probably something they
do every night before their evening magic
show or whatever, Junior thought.
“Daddy?” said Leo eventually.
“Yes, li le man?”
“I have to go bathroom.”
“OK, buddy,” Junior said. “Let’s go inside,”
and he slowly got to his feet, his knees
cracking, then stooped to pick up his son
and carried him back into the house, over-
whelmed suddenly by an aching and un-
knowable guilt.

About the Author

Neil McDonald lives with his wife and son in Waterloo, Ontario, surrounded by an assortment
of black and white cats. His work has appeared or is scheduled to appear in So Cartel, X-R-
A-Y Literary Magazine, The Potato Soup Journal, The Flash Fic on Press, and the Story Shack.

123



NONFICTION



THE CAT WHO ADOPTED
ME SORT OF

by Adelaide Shaw

I saw him slinking through the neighborhood, eat tuna even with chocolate sprinkles. Ac-
foraging in trash cans, sleeping under cars. tually, neither would I.
Black as a jungle panther but lacking the he
and fierceness of his ancestors, he kept his There was no spo ng of Panther. A er
distance and ran into the shadows with the an hour, I le the tuna and went inside to
slightest movement, be it from a person, a do a li le purring with my husband.
dog or a blowing leaf. He was totally feral.
In the morning I found the empty tuna
My days were full, caring for three chil- bowl by my neighbor’s stoop. I never did
dren, ages five, four and two and trying to find the water bowl, just a small puddle of
keep our two-bedroom apartment from water. Maybe Panther ate the tuna or an-
turning into an Unsafe To Enter Zone. I other cat, dog or racoon, or a rather hungry
didn’t have me to spend taming a feral cat. child who liked tuna ate it.
A feral ki en may be tamed and adopted,
but rarely an adult cat. So why was I, when That day I bought more tuna for my fa-
the children were asleep and dinner dish- mous casserole, several cans of cat food
es needing to be washed and acquiring a and a bag of cat kibble. I stashed the kib-
cement like crust, si ng on the back stoop ble where curious children couldn’t find it
wai ng for Panther? Because I love cats. I and think it was a new variety of the cereal
love their cute faces, their so ness and they liked. I didn’t think the kibble would
purring motor they turn on when pe ed. harm them, but they could like it. Then,
Cats, contrary to the non-cat lovers’ bible, what would I do with the supersize box of
are affec onate and show it with head bu - crunchy munchies shaped like animals?
ing, body rubbing and snuggling. I love that.
The next night I repeated my rou ne
I didn’t know if Panther was anywhere with the bowls of food and water, with one
near my stoop, but I placed two metals addi on. I sprinkled a line of kibble from
bowls about five feet away, one with wa- my neighbor’s stoop to the bowls. I waited
ter and the other with tuna, meant for the longer for Panther to appear. He did, nib-
next day’s tuna casserole. Was I taking food bling his way to the bowls. He looked at me.
away from my children? No! They wouldn’t I looked at him. Two statues. Hunger gave
sway to fear.

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Each night I placed the bowls a li le I, he was, while I insulted my intelligence
closer to me. By the end of the week he with silly sitcoms. At one point, my hus-
was close enough for me to reach out and band appeared asking for coffee, but seeing
touch him. He checked me out between me with Panther managed, without much
each bite. A look of fear and wariness. He of a grumble, to get it himself and one for
was s ll feral. me, as well. Panther was oblivious to ev-
erything but the pe ng. Even a change of
My husband during my nocturnal ren- touch, from mine to my husband’s didn’t
dezvouses with this short, dark and myste- spook him.
rious stranger was with his own lover of the
night—his doctoral disserta on. Both of us A er an hour of snuggling, Panther was
on a mission. off and at the door, meowing to get out.
It was as if some internal alarm went off.
I began to speak to Panther, so ly with- Time to go. Places to visit. Things to do. Zip!
out moving. He stopped checking me out And he was off.
a er each bite, licked the bowl clean and
hurried away. Some mes my husband joined the love
session. Panther’s trust encompassed both
I narrowed the distance. Closer, closer. of us. Dinner and a cuddle. Thanks and adi-
The bowl was by my side, not in front of os. Where Panther went at night and during
me, and I raised my hand slightly, hovering, the day only he knew. Maybe he prowled
then stroked his back. Just one stroke. And, the cat brothels or the restaurant dump-
another. Then, he was gone. His trust in me sters a few blocks’ away. Maybe he had a
was tenuous, but it was progress. bolt hole he trusted more than the carton I
placed under the stairs.
My intent was not to make him a house
cat, just to temper his fearfulness, to pro- This nightly scene con nued for near-
vide some place of comfort, a steady source ly a year. When Panther didn’t appear for
of food, and refuge, a sturdy carton with a three nights I made inquiries in the neigh-
blanket under the outside steps which led borhood.
to the second-floor apartment. I never ex-
pected him to venture inside, but he did. “That cat was killed by a car and taken
away,” an older man from three buildings
One evening I interrupted my pe ng ses- away said.
sion and went to answer the telephone, leav-
ing the door open. Did Panther want more I stood there, a sudden moisture coa ng
pe ng or was he just curious? Maybe both. my eyes.
I walked slowly to the couch, sat and made
p p t p t noises to call him. He jumped “Did he belong to you?” he asked.
on my lap, turned around a few mes, check-
ing the comfort or lack thereof, lowered his I didn’t know how to answer. Panther, in
sleek body, curled into a mound and turned spite of his trust in me, had remained a fe-
on his motor. Contentment for both of us. ral cat, living on his own terms, never to be
fully domes cated. I didn’t know if Panther
I dared to turn on the television which belonged to me or I belonged to him. Either
Panther ignored. More discerning than way, we had a brief and loving affair.

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About the Author

Adelaide B. Shaw lives in Somers, NY. She has three children and six grandchildren. Her
stories and essays have been published in By-Line, American Literary Review, The MacGuffin,
The Griffin, The Toronto Star, The New Haven Register, The Somers Record and others.
Adelaide also writes children’s fic on, haiku and Japanese poe c forms. She has published
two collec ons of haiku, An Unknown Road, available on Kindle, and The Distance I’ve Come,
available on Cyberwit and Amazon.

129

MEMORIES OF
BASEBALL

by Daniel Bailey

I: Why Am I Telling You This? you insist, then I admit it: I was afraid of the
ball. But pulling my front foot didn’t mean
All right, everybody get this straight. This is I couldn’t make good contact if the pitch
a sensi ve topic for me. was on the inside of the plate. My last year
in Li le League I had the second-most hits
I was 14. It was the summer of 1965, on our team. Forget that we were piss-poor
my second year of Pony League. I’m talking hi ers and only successful thanks to our
about offense now. You know? Don’t sit great coach. The point is, I ba ed more or
there pretending you don’t. All right, if less okay. In Li le League.
you’re going to be that way, let’s make it
simple: ba ng. You know. Me? A bat? Me Got that? I was okay.
holding a bat? At the plate? Got it?
At 13, I missed a lot of my first Pony
I don’t even know why I’m telling you League season with arm trouble. Doctor’s
this. I reserve the right to call this off any orders. Then appendici s.
moment.
At 14 I played all year. So far, you know
Sorry. I can see I’m a li le edgy here. It’s absolutely nothing about my hi ng in Pony
just—I mean—well, it’s been embarrassing. League, right?
Like for the past 54 years.
If you do, who told you? Just curious.
So don’t rush me!
What a glorious start to my 14th sum-
There was no foretelling it, I swear. Oh mer! Everyone should have such an en-
sure, I stepped in the bucket a lot back in chanted passage in their lives. When what
Li le League, who didn’t? All right you say you want to do you simply do, without hes-
many boys didn’t, but many boys did. And I ita on, and the results are grand. You hold
was one. You’re a right-handed hi er facing a girl’s hand and tell her how you feel about
mostly right-handed pitchers. So the ball, her. You tell a math teacher a er school
especially a curveball, looks like it might hit you’re completely lost, and she straightens
you. So you step away, right? Okay fine, if you out in 10 minutes so you stop feeling

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Revista Literária Adelaide

like an idiot instead of not taking any more Did I say you could ask me why? No, I
math classes for the rest of your life. You didn’t. So just can that!
tell your parents that your football shoes
from the school’s supply bin on the first My bad habit from Li le League came
day of prac ce hurt your short wide feet back with a vengeance. Step in the bucket?
so badly you couldn’t run, and they take Now I was stepping into the next county.
you to a store and buy you the shoes you Suddenly I was half-terrified of being hit
need so you don’t skulk around for the next by a pitch. Though I’d never been plunked!
three weeks pretending to them you’re A er Weza the Spider, all pitches had me
going to prac ce when you’re not. You do backing far away from the plate the mo-
these things if you’re a boy who confronts ment they le the pitcher’s hand. There
his shame and fear. But even if you’re not near the outside edge of the ba er’s box,
such a boy, maybe you too s ll can have a some mes I’d double over at the last mo-
hi ng streak like the one I had. ment trying to contact the faraway ball by
stretching out my bat with one hand. That
Nothing was simpler. “He throws it, I hit didn’t work too well.
it, what’s the big deal?” is how I put it to
myself. And I did hit it, squarely, me a er You wanted to know all this, right? Oh,
you say you didn’t? Then why I am telling
me. I was so confident I swung at one pitch you? Then why are you reading this? I must
over my head because I knew I’d smack it be nuts, and you must be too.
anyway, and hard: which I did, straight up
very high for an out. I began the season 8 I was the lead-off hi er at the beginning
for 12 with three doubles and a triple. I was of the season. Which made sense: I was
“the talk of the league” as a friend on anoth- ge ng on base and I was speedy. As me
er team later told me. passed and my slump deepened, I slipped
down the ba ng order all the way to ninth.
Don’t forget all that.
That’s dead last for you non-baseball
Then a Moses Lake squad came to Wal- people. But even if you’re one of those—
la Walla for an exhibi on game. Its pitcher how could you not know such a basic fact
was named Weza. Oh fatal day. of Americana?

Weza was a tall thin boy with long arms. Did I prac ce between games? Try bun-
His wind-up was a complicated affair of ng? Switch-hit even once? Ask someone
spindly legs maneuvering in odd ways and for help? No. Just showed up for games
arms likewise folding and unfolding bizarre- hoping things would be different. They nev-
ly, and in general all four of his limbs were er were.
doing things in a sort of circular mo on out
there on the mound that made me think of Meanwhile, the mighty Lions were de-
a big spider. But nobody else on the fero- vouring the league. It helped conceal my
cious Lions—we were undefeated all year— ba ng thing. People politely didn’t ask me
felt that way. Everyone else got at least one about it, and I sure as hell didn’t want to
hit off Weza. I struck out three mes. talk about it.

Then I couldn’t hit for the rest of the So what’s wrong with me now?
season. Which, you know, was—nearly all
of it. Wilbur Boschker kept each of his players’
offensive stats neatly recorded game by

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

game. At season’s end he presented us all at the start—I say ba ed, over the course
with our numbers on individualized hard- of that en re season—.067. That is correct.
ened sheets. Many years later, my brother- .067. Or maybe not. Maybe it was .063.
in-law happened to come across mine deep
in the back of a shelf in the closet of my So. Are you happy now?
boyhood bedroom. He’s a quiet and cour-
teous guy, but a er he’d looked at my stats I think I got exactly one more hit the rest
a couple moments he couldn’t help himself. of the year a er Weza the Spider. There’s a
“Whoa! Look at that! Hey Dan, is this for hazy memory of doubling over and lunging
real?” out with one hand one more me, and by
some miracle blocking a pitch into fair ter-
Can’t wait to find out what he saw, can ritory. Then running like hell to beat out a
you, you vultures? pre y good accidental bunt.

Here’s a li le context. Derek Jeeter re- The main thing, of course, is: How can
red a er 20 years with the New York Yan- anyone, man or boy, professional or am-
kees with a career ba ng average of .309. ateur, normal or not, over the course of
That’s quite good for a given year, let alone an en re season, beginning with a hi ng
a whole career. streak, bat .067?

During the 2019 season, the 30 Major Ladies and Gentlemen: reviewing all this,
League teams ba ed a cumula ve .252. I see I’ve been more than a li le rude. As I
That’s as average as you can get. men oned at the outset, I’m s ll sensi ve
about this. But a grown man should be over
If someone is ba ng say .220, he makes such a thing by now. I sincerely apologize.
up for it with extra-base hits and runs bat-
ted in or he’ll be expected to bring that Unless it was .063.
average up. If he’s not a power hi er, his
defense and speed on the base paths had Just shut up already!
be er be good.
II: Wounded in Ac on
Once in a very great while, you see a guy
come to the plate in a major league game I played organized baseball in my home
ba ng something like .160. This is a sorry town from age 10 to 14. My Li le League
if fascina ng spectacle. The wheels have team was Newberry’s, a five-and-dime
completely come off this guy. He’s almost that went belly-up many decades ago but
surely headed to the minors on a bus with- will live eternally in memory for its round
in 48 hours. rota ng soda fountain stools and its oily,
profoundly yellow popcorn in tall red-and-
Come to think of it, if you bussed out of white paper bags that had nearly disinte-
here right now, I’d be fine with that. grated into mush by the me you’d got to
the bo om. The contents were to die for.
What my brother-in-law saw on Coach’s It was Newberry’s that paid for my team’s
stat sheet was one of two numbers. I will caps, le ered uniforms, and knee socks.
never remember which. The sheet re- The first and last of these, plus the le er-
vealed that I—in the summer of 1965, play- ing, were fire-engine red set off against uni-
ing Pony League ball on the magnificent forms of Antarc c white. A er a game, the
Lions—ba ed—despite my 8-for-12 streak

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elas c bands that held up my knee socks Me—pitch? An astonishing summons. I
always made impressive indenta ons in took the mound. Actually it was a slight de-
my flesh just below the knees, and I would pression with a thin rut in the middle run-
finger these proudly. It was like being ning towards home plate, but we’re talking
wounded in ac on. The second great thing baseball here, so it was a mound. There
about these knee socks was the ovals just was no catcher, just a distant backstop. I
above the shoe—lower in front, higher in started throwing as Coach looked on.
back—that permi ed my high-riser white
socks to peep drama cally through. May It wasn’t so easy. There was the boy
I ask: What is with the big-leaguers today with the bat, there was the plate, smudgy
who wear their pants all the way down to with a dirt-obscured edge or two, and then
their ankles? How boring is that? No bright there was—nothing. No target. S ll I man-
calf-hugging knee socks, gentlemen? No aged to throw a fair percentage of strikes.
ovals? What are you thinking? The next me Coach tapped me to throw
ba ng prac ce there was a catcher up
Our coach was a slightly stooped mid- close with a big orange mi to aim at. This,
dle-aged man with a thin upper lip and gray a er pitching into the void, was a piece of
eyes named Ardell McBride. He was said to cake. Coach approved. When Li le League
have once played in the Philadelphia Phil- season opened I was in Newberry’s star ng
lies organiza on. It was clear just from look- rota on though only, perhaps, because I
ing at him in any ballpark that he took his was a southpaw. We had no other.
baseball seriously. Ba ng for the amateur
Walla Walla Bears in Borleske Stadium one I had exactly two pitches. One was a de-
warm summer night under the floodlights cep vely effec ve fastball because it was
(20% of which were burned out, because so slow. I put my smallish 12-year-old body
20% were always burned out), he homered through a big full windup, taking care to tap
all the way into the shallow end of Memo- the back of my neck with my glove and le
rial Swimming Pool. The shallow end. Mul - hand just like I’d seen someone do on tv. I
tudes of my li le peers and I used to spend looked for all the world like I was fixing to
our summer vaca ons broiling ourselves release some real heat. Then I’d rear back
brown as nuts in and beside that pool, so and fire hard. As hard as I could, anyway.
I knew within a few yards where that ball Which was—maybe I lacked that last drop
had landed. And was dumbfounded. That of coordina on which had already singled
he could achieve such a feat was put down out the pre-teens in our town who’d be-
to the fact he was a le -handed hi er and come our next set of outstanding athletes.
had really go en around on the pitch. The Or maybe I was not strong enough some-
pool lay perpendicular to the right field where in my body. Whatever it was, my
fence (actually trees, if you must know), fastball was a football field from fast. But a
and the shallow end was the more distant whole lot of boys grimaced and braced and
end. His tanic homer was also credited to swung and missed, whiffing in front of the
his having been in the Philadelphia Phillies ball, which most of them never figured out.
organiza on—did I men on that? On the
first day of prac ce of my 12-year-old and fi- The other pitch was my specialty. “Bai-
nal year, Coach McBride said, “Bailey, you’re ley throws his change-up as a curveball,”
le -handed; pitch some ba ng prac ce.” Coach McBride resignedly explained to
someone a er he’d given up all hope I

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would ever throw a proper change-up. This enough to re re a shortstop’s den st), the
second one got a twist over the top from stands were full. Okay, there was only one
very high just before release, like Sandy Ko- stand—beside the first-base line. That was
ufax. It was a world slower even than the full. Coach McBride had given me the nod.
non-fast fastball. Amid the throng of fans (some 25 to 30 par-
ents) sat no less than three—three!—cool
Nowadays across the country and the girls from my sixth-grade class. “Now warm
world, many warn against Li le Leaguers up thoroughly, Bailey,” Coach McBride in-
throwing breaking balls for the good of structed me before the game. “Arm trou-
their s ll-so bones. ble comes from not warming up enough.”
I went out on the grass beside deep right
This second pitch was so slow, gravity with another boy who took along a catch-
had a chance to do some serious work on er’s mi , as if he needed the extra padding.
it. The spin augmented this effect, at the
same me drawing the ball le to right It was odd, but the more I warmed up
across one edge of the plate to the other. (and up and up, as per instruc ons), the
If I threw it waist-high, it was in the dirt more my elbow bothered me. First it was just
before it reached the catcher. Boys bit and a smidgeon of the pain I’d recently known.
missed and died like flies, swinging over it, Then more. Why was this happening? Coach
which most of them never figured out. had said what he’d said, and he’d been in the
Philadelphia Phillies organiza on, and hit a
Though as I’ve stated—and truthfully homer into the shallow end of Memorial
too, I might add—that I had only two pitch- Swimming Pool. So I kept throwing.
es, the fact is my control gave me, in effect,
two or three more. O en as not I could Show me! Bo om of the first. I took
jam a ba er who was crowding the plate. the mound, a real one. There was a breeze.
I could ckle the outside corner if he was Fleecy white clouds raced over the eastern
standing far away, like Roberto Clemente. higher end of town. Soon out that way if you
I could miss anywhere on purpose. Why keep going, s ll today you’ll pass through
throw a fat one down the middle when an tender rolling hills covered in wheat green
overeager kid was willing to lean over and in June, gold in July. The other team was
tap out weakly off the end of his bat? I was none other than the storied Holsum squad
a two-pitch junkballer who couldn’t over- which had beaten us the previous season in
power a nine-year-old, but I was effec ve. a playoff game for the pennant. There was
cheering from the stands.
Well, some mes.
By the way: I have decided to say stands,
*** because this is baseball. And baseball has
stands, not a lame stand, dammit. If you
It was the back end of a twin bill, and it want a stand, there was a snow cone stand
looked to be a fantas c opportunity for on the other side of the “stands” where
me. I was just coming off the Disabled List. both the winners and the losers were treat-
Having exhibited all the signs of classic Lit- ed to the flavor of each boy’s choice a er
tle League Elbow, the family doctor had the teams had shouted in honor of the oth-
ordered me benched for two weeks. But er three mes “Hip hip, hurray!”. Congress
now at this Sunday double-header at our should try that.
Na onal League field (with an infield rocky

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In the stands, then, I no ced that the “I think so.”
three cool girls were si ng side by side in
the middle near the front. My fire-engine red Long ago, the man standing over me had
knee socks were securely in place, held up by taken a journey out the east end of town
their elas c bands. What could be be er? through all those tender rolling hills first
green then gold, even so far as the shore
I faced the first ba er. Strike One. Ow. of another great ocean. And there, day by
My elbow. day with the Phillies, hopes had vaulted
in those gray eyes—hopes of a big-league
Strike Two. Ow! career. But by the summer of 1963 he was
back where he’d begun in a southeastern
Strike Three. Got him. Loud cheering Washington town. The hopes unrealized,
from the stands. My arm hurt big me. the career not to be, the eyes had turned
solemn. At mes bi er. The voice of this
The next kid digs into the ba er’s box. I man now said over me scary-low, “You—
lean in for the catcher’s sign, nod yes, take think—so?”
my big wind-up. Strike one.
I looked down at my feet. They were
Four in a row! Now the crowd is aroused. near the rubber. The rubber had its usual
I look at it. People are wearing colorful li le in-season depression in front of it, but
shirts, yellow, orange, green. Behind and today it wasn’t deep enough to interfere
above them, lapis blue and virgin white, with my delivery. I could feel Coach’s eyes
vaults a sky scoured clean by the pris ne boring a hole in my neck.
breeze of boyhood.
“Bailey. I want to get this straight. Are
Again I face Holsum’s second ba er. you telling me—look at me—that you can’t
Strike Two! My elbow is freaking on fire. pitch?” Mixed with anger, I heard alarm.

Stee-rike Three! The stands explode. All I understood him.
my stuff is working—the non-fast fastball,
the lemming-like sinker, the teasing outside This was not a prac ce game, this was
come-and-get-me pitch. But the last throw a league game. Against our great rival Hol-
hurts like I’ve stabbed myself in the elbow sum. With whom we were topping the
with my fishing knife. standings once again neck-and-neck. I was
crapping out against Holsum in the first in-
I mo on for Coach to come out from ning, for crying out loud? He wanted this
the first-base dugout, the one the fans are game bad.
si ng on. They hush. I mo on again. They
fall silent. He’d done his part to get it.

“I can’t pitch,” I tell him. “My elbow hurts.” He’d taught us the correct way to round
a base. How to back up a fielder making
Ardell McBride, who played in the Phil- a catch. How when a base runner tries to
adelphia Phillies organiza on and homered steal second the catcher rifles his throw
into the shallow end of Memorial Swimming low so the pitcher snags it and picks off
Pool, was clearly not happy to hear this. the leaning man on third. He taught us to
block grounders on one knee for safety
“What?” in the ou ield, to judge flyballs and catch

“I can’t pitch because of my elbow.”

“Did you warm up properly?”

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them with two hands, and to hit the cut-off Today I’d come off the DL. Go en the
man. He taught us to protect the plate with nod. Struck out the first two ba ers on six
two strikes just ge ng a piece of the ball. pitches.
To choke up and back up against the good
fastball, how to lay down a bunt moving the Demanded to be taken out of the game.
bat from high to low and how to hook-slide. Against our arch-rival Holsum. In front of a
To execute the run-down with three men, lot of people including three cool girls.
running behind the man you’ve thrown to
while forcing the base runner in the pickle I felt like a complete idiot.
back near the original bag to make the tag
or hold him there in case you don’t get him. Had I warmed up enough?
He kept strict a endance at prac ces and
had us shag scores of flies, turn scores of III: Darkness on the Edge of Town
double plays. He taught us when to draw
the infield in and when to issue the inten- I threw my fi h pitch at Freddy Campbell’s
head. He was from the only black family I
onal walk. knew of in town.

In short, he taught us baseball. Why at 14 I was pitching for—or even
on— a Pony League team as good as the
Did winning ma er? You bet it ma ered. Lions s ll baffles me. Coach Boschker’s son
Because hard work and success ma er, Dave was one of our catchers. Our line-up
though the wait be long and bi er. was a product of father and son pu ng
their heads together. Dave told his dad
I respected him with all that was in me who the good athletes in town were, and
and wanted to help our team. But I knew I the other coaches figured that he would.
was done. Wilbur figured they would figure that Dave
would. So the night the men gathered to
I li ed my eyes to his. “I want to. But I bid their equal allotments of points for new
can’t!” players, Wilbur made feints towards boys
not on his son’s list. Bidding wars among
Silence on that mound over half a cen- the other coaches broke out while Wilbur
tury ago. Coach Ardell McBride looked kept his powder dry for Dave’s recommen-
into a 12-year-old boy’s eyes and saw de- da ons. When the night was done, Wilbur
sire and hurt and frustra on. Like a young had assembled an All-Star team before a
man’s once beside a far ocean. pitch had been thrown. Despite my incredi-
bly feeble bat, we went 17-0 with one game
He understood me too. We were both of called on account of darkness which we
us wounded. were about to win too.

“Then we’ll get a fresh arm in here, son.” Before facing Freddy, I’d made a throw-
ing error which loaded the bases. My first
*** pitch was a fastball down the middle. Bat-

The fans were murmuring as we walked ng le , Freddy creamed a vicious drive up
side by side to the dugout. I concealed my the right-field line. It hooked foul by an inch.
eyes from the three girls under my red cap
pulled down low. Man! He’s not gonna see that pitch again!

On the bench, as my replacement warmed
up, I took stock.

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True, our infield had my back, I knew. proverbial bucket like all le -handed hi ers
During one two-inning stretch in another did in that situa on. My pitch con nued on
game, all four players behind me made jew- track. But as intended, and like the previ-
el-like plays. The other team’s parents had ous one, it too broke down and right arcing
shaken their heads in disgust seeing their earthwards like a wounded quail on course
sons make such good contact ge ng so li le to cross the middle of the plate thigh-high
for it. Today though, I felt it was mostly on for an ump-proof strike.
me to get hard-hi ng Freddy Campbell out.
But Freddy didn’t step in the bucket. He
Having just crushed a ball, maybe he’d didn’t straighten up. He didn’t even flinch.
be eager to swing again. I threw outside. A He just crouched, poised in his ba er’s coil,
weak grounder off the end of his bat would eyeing my looping pitch all the way into his
end the inning stranding three. wheelhouse. Then he ripped another hook-
ing shot up the right-field line iden cal to
One and one. the first. Except this one fell fair by an inch.

Okay, you laid off once. Let’s see you do Stand-up triple. Three runs in.
it again. Same offer.
What can I say? I threw the pitches I
Two and one. wanted to throw. He beat me.

So. Time for my best pitch. Nobody takes ***
this one. I threw Freddy my sinker waist-
high to the inside corner. A more en cing The only other experience I ever had with a
ball sashaying its way up to home plate is black person in my home town was during
hard to imagine. At two-thirds the way in, my senior year in high school. He was our
though, it cut sharply down and right cross- assistant teacher-in-training for Seminar
ing Freddy’s shins in the middle to find in Economic and Poli cal Systems. A er
the dirt in front of Dave’s glove. This was class one day at the end of term some of
my bread-and-bu er pitch. It had whiff or the students up front got to talking with
harmless grounder wri en all over it. him about his life, and some of us in the
back moved up to hear. We learned he was
Three and one. about to finish his college educa on major
but that our regular teacher hadn’t liked
I can’t believe that! Nobody takes that his performance with us and was going to
pitch! But Freddy Campbell just had. write a nega ve report. “What are you go-
ing to do?” a girl asked him. “I don’t know,”
Now what? The hurt he’d put on my first he said. “But it won’t be teaching.”
pitch s ll had me thoroughly scared. No
more fastballs for him. The conversa on con nued. We learned
something else. One late a ernoon while
Ball four, of course, would force in a run. walking alone through empty Memorial
Walking up the mound to the rubber, my Park, a gunshot whizzed past his ear.
back to home plate, I considered.
***
There was only one thing le to do.
In addi on to his triple and three RBI’s,
Throw it at his head. Freddy Campbell made another contribu-

The ball le my hand on line. Freddy
would step out with his front foot into the

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on to his team’s cause that Pony League ***
game in 1965. A play was going to be close
at second. Freddy, the base runner, came Everything grows near my home town, from
in standing up and knocked the ball loose. so white wheat through barley and peas
The hard collision sent our second base- to sweet yellow onions and strawberries
man tumbling. He needed a minute or two red as blood. Nowadays there are vineyards
to recover. too, over 200 and coun ng. Their wine is
quite good.
It was a hard-nosed play usually seen at
home plate, but it makes as much sense on Playing the na onal pas me in my home
the base paths. And it had just been per- town was a wonderful American experience.
fectly executed. I’m sure it s ll is. For white boys like me.

But the crowd was not happy. It wasn’t quite so wonderful for Freddy
Campbell and his family.
Some of us on the Lions heard much lat-
er that the night following this game, a man Over the half-century since I pitched to
called the Campbell home. He reviled Fred- him, the community has grown a li le. But
dy and spewed racial epithets at the whole has its heart? That’s tougher to know.
family. Amid threats of violence. It was our
assistant coach. Like the chance of a black man ge ng shot
in a large and lonely park in my home town.

About the Author

Originally from Walla Walla, Washington, Dan Bailey is a semi-re red English teacher who’s
spent half his life in Europe, Polynesia, Japan, and La n America. He´s worked on a tramper
in Bristol Bay, packed Christmas trees outside Missoula, Montana and taught at a university
inside a gathering Venezuelan dictatorship. He´s a past chess magazine editor. As a player,
he´s good enough to know how bad he is.

138

REVOLUTION

by Kaitlin Cadamore

My beauty, my beast harden, together we fit, together we learn
to love,
The mouth of a sailor. The s ng of a bee.
Honey-ro en blood seeping through cracks Love both parts of myself; the beauty
of gold, constantly howling, and the beast.

The singing, head thrown back like a Revolu on
hallelujah. It’s more than just a songbird,
it’s the rhythm. The thump-thump-thump, The breathless and sunburnt Lilith with dirt
the chorus and the refraining of pu ng my beneath her nails strikes me hard across
own hands around your throat. The love the face –
me tender, the love me holy, the love me
love me love me, please I’m begging, Why am I bruising my knees on marble
floor rather than packed earth?
The crash of the lamp hi ng the wall.
The crackle of the white light behind closed It may be cool and smooth but it’s
eyes. Closed eyes, squeezed shut because crushing my nerves, and the garden path
God knows if I saw the look on your face, may be studded with gravel but it toughens
the fire on your lips and the shadow on the skin be er than ice ever will.
your cheeks, I’d sha er too,
Why do I gaze at the crown of thorns
I couldn’t afford to. Take what’s le but placed just so atop a dead man’s head while
don’t abuse what’s already broken. Take one of my own ghtens around my s ll-liv-
and take. Take a deep breath. It’s me, he ing neck, pricking and scraping, drawing life
says, I’m here honey, by the minute?

And suddenly I remember, I shudder, I Five loaves and two fish are filling but do
snap back, and my heart, like a wounded nothing to fill the knowledge-hungry thirst
dove, chirps for the missing pieces, that our souls entwined when we pick the
forbidden apple.
I hold my hands out, wait for him to take
my broken pieces and slice open his skin, “nourish this soil, for it is my body”, she
but instead he takes them as his own, molds says, “and dance in the rain, for it is my
them, fires them up inside kiln-set eyes and blood. Bite the hand that feeds you. Be wary
I melt, poured into the place where his bro- of the medicines of a man who poisoned it
ken pieces are missing, and together we all from the beginning.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“now go,” she says, “doom the men, eat My appe te goes beyond me, it thirsts
the damned apple and then devour them for things it can never have, it buries itself
too, with all the mercy that they show to in my bones un l they ache,
those who dare learn. Go. Go. And bring
your spade. I have no handle on things, I have no
point, yet I cut to the edge, I cut down the
For god created mean middle, juice flows between my fingers and
god I wish it was blood, god I wish it were you,
But woman created revolu on.
We are s ll tornadoes, on the very of un-
We are s ll tornadoes done, one already destroying valleys of flesh,
the other destroying herself, a name brand
Some mes I think of my crime, some mes that stayed even when she scrubbed it off,
I think of my punishment, and then I think
that they’re one in the same. This perfume was never something I
asked for, the scent of what you’d done to
Murder was never seen as holy but sac- me, the curling of my stomach while I fin-
rifice was, and isn’t that just what I wanted? ished you off, warmth seeping between my
lips, my thighs, something no ma er how
There was never any blood on my hands, many mes I shower something I feel.
just a mess of cherry pulp I s ll scrape from
under my nails. We are s ll tornadoes and I am s ll a drag.

140

LIFE WITHOUT A
SPATULA

by Lisa Reily

My mother lay on her side in bed, dying, our home in Sydney to buy a new beachside
and rummaging as best she could through cabin—a kind of mobile home—up north in
her bo om bedside drawer. It was full of Coffs Harbour.
cards from my brothers and I, family and
friends. When I asked her what she was do- To make the move from Sydney to Coffs,
ing, she said she didn’t want us kids to have we had to rid ourselves of many things. Our
to go through all her things when she was small cabin would not allow for our furniture,
gone. That image stuck with me. so most of it had to go. My work suits with
their matching shoes and handbags would
Mum wasn’t a hoarder. Although she not fit into our new miniscule wardrobe (and
did keep a lot, everything was shipshape I hoped I would never need them again any-
and she would never waste a thing. She re- way). Our garage, full of odds and sods, could
paired, organised and donated. Clearing her not be accommodated in a cabin carport.
bedside drawer was the last ‘mess’ of her
life she hadn’t died. But even though Mum We got to it. Most of our furnishings we
was an orderly person, sor ng through included in the sale of our Sydney property.
those cards, and the accumula on of her We took several car loads to local chari es.
whole life a er she was gone, was not easy. I even held a mini garage sale in our drive-
She had not wanted to leave that burden way. I remember selling a box full of old
to me, and I learned from her that I did not casse es to a lady for about twenty cents.
want that for anyone else in the future. She was ecsta c and so was I! By the end
of the day, I gave all remaining items away
*** for free; like my mother, I wanted nothing
to go to waste. The money I raised, almost
Not long before my mother fell ill, my part- one hundred dollars, I donated to a dog
ner, Ion, and I had downsized our lives. I fin- sanctuary. It was thrilling and scary to let
ished my contract as a literacy consultant in things go. But I had lived in the same home
Sydney, Australia, and Ion retrained to work for fi een years, four of these with Ion; we
as a massage therapist. We decided to sell were both ready for a change.

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Once we se led into our new home in do with the fresh chicken Mum cooked him
Coffs Harbour, I immediately got work as daily. And his new name, King Henry, en -
a subs tute teacher and Ion set up a mas- tled him to snacks worthy of a king! With
sage therapy room in town. Work was slow- Henry and Mum happy, we were free to go.
er, so we o en had days free to just take
in our surroundings. Our cabin was located ***
right on the coast, only separated from the
beach by a small strip of bushland. A min- Ion and I headed off on a three-month trip
ute’s walk on a sandy path and life opened to Greece. When our plane le Australia, I
up to a stretch of white sand, an emerald leaned back into my seat and a sense of ut-
sea and the green velvet cake of Split Soli- ter relief came over me. I felt a bit teary, but
tary Island. Beau ful. it was a good, releasing kind of feeling. Ion
held my hand and we dri ed across the sky.
Living by the sea, we found ourselves at I missed Henry already, but I knew he’d be
home most of the me. We’d sit on our ve- okay with Mum. And by the me we had
randah, sipping cups of Earl Grey tea and landed in Greece, I had no me to worry.
listening to the waves. Our li le dog, Henry,
loved sniffing about the beach—something In Greece, there was something new
he had never experienced before in all his around every corner—mostly food-related!
fi een years. We had no desire to go out Olives, figs, grapes, lemons and rosemary
anywhere special, so we managed to save grew in the garden where we first stayed.
quite a bit. We le city life behind easily. We ate fresh eggs with yolks so yellow, they
were orange. People took me to prepare
With the money we saved, and the free- food. I remember when one taverna own-
dom of not working full- me, Ion and I had er refused to serve us the tzatziki on his
something we’d never had before: me. menu, insis ng that the garlic in it needed
And that meant me available to travel. to permeate overnight. We did as we were
There was no more wai ng around for an- told and came back the following night for
nual leave, or having to book during expen- a meal instead.
sive school holiday periods. We’d only been
overseas together once before, to Bali. Sud- We learned to wait for things. On one
denly our dream to go to Greece became occasion, Ion ran to the bakery for our usual
a real possibility. Our only issue was Hen- tsoureki, a sweet bready cake made for Eas-
ry. He was ge ng old and we did not want ter, only to return empty-handed. In Greece,
to leave him. Lucky for us, Mum offered to things were baked fresh; some mes you
help. missed out. Not everything was ready and
wai ng for you at the supermarket either.
Henry was used to visi ng Mum, so we Fruit came in seasons here and you could
trialled him on several overnighters and see the fruit on the trees, right before your
weekends. Somewhat embarrassingly, we eyes. I realised how li le I knew about how
learned that Henry could not have cared things grew, or when.
less that we weren’t around! In fact, he
seemed to prefer Mum’s place with its king- There was a rawness to Greece that I
sized bed complete with warm human and had never experienced back home. Plump
fellow dog. (Henry was never allowed on chickens roamed and scratched under ol-
our bed!) I think it also had something to ive trees. Goats chased and played in the
evening, and later hung bloodied in the

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butchers’ windows. Everything was right ***
there in view, not dily hidden away. Peo-
ple greeted us and strangers gave us food. A few months a er we returned from Greece,
On a walk along a village road in Zacharo, I got a call from my aunt informing me that
an old man caught us eyeing the oranges Mum was sick. I got into my car, Henry by
on his trees. Next thing we knew, he was my side, and drove crying into the night to
running towards us, arms overflowing with see her. I did not know what was happening.
his gi of oranges. Greece was full of life, Only that Mum had stomach pains and had
and I felt happy and at home like I had not taken herself to hospital.
felt anywhere before.
The next day, when I arrived in Sydney,
Ion and I stayed in low-budget accom- Mum was si ng up in bed, in a cancer
moda on all over Greece: in Athens, the ward, entertaining her ‘guests’ with her ha-
Peloponnese, and the islands of Naxos, bitual over-the-top cheer. She wore a black
Paros, Santorini and Crete. But it was a singlet top and colourful leggings, large
steep learning curve. Back then, about ten sunglasses hiding her pain. When her vis-
years ago now, Greece’s budget rooms had itors le , half of whom I barely knew, she
a kind of unspoken rule I call the ‘random became pale and drawn.
plate act’. Rarely would you find a matching
set of plates—o en no plates at all! Cut- “What the fuck are you doing?” I scolded.
lery was o en an odd combina on—three
spoons, two forks and one knife, for exam- We both laughed.
ple. As for cooking utensils, let’s just say Ion
spent a lot of me flipping fried eggs with “I’m scared,” she whispered.
a fork. A spatula was unheard of. A bread
knife was a luxury. “I know,” I replied, and I held her hand as
she slept.
Budget travel really changed us. We
got used to doing without. It felt crazy to Mum had lost a lot of weight over the
return home to meet up with friends, to past two years, something we had argued
spend exorbitant amounts on dining, wear- about. Ion and I thought she had an ea ng
ing clothes we did not need in places we disorder as she had no interest in food and
did not care about. We wanted to see our was making protein shakes to get by. The
friends, but we didn’t care where. We nev- stupid thing was that most people congrat-
er really did. And the more me we spent ulated her on her diminishing physique,
away from home, the more convinced we something that always irked me.
were that having ‘things’ didn’t ma er.
***
We took great care to keep our spend-
ing to a minimum during our trip. We calcu- Mum had only three precious weeks be-
lated that we had literally saved hundreds tween her diagnosis of cancer and her to-
of dollars just by packing a small ke le and tally unexpected, painful passing. She was
making our own coffee, instead of buying too slim for chemotherapy; the doctor said
it from fancy cafés. We kept this thinking she would not handle it. The cancer was
going once we returned home. We needed everywhere, so there was no hope for her
less and less money to live on. anyway.

I did not return to Coffs or work and just
stayed with Mum un l she died. She was

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able to return to her home for most of her want us to spend our lives worrying about
three weeks and when she did, she made it. We walked the empty beach at our home
jokes about her new, fancy toilet seat and in Coffs and spoke to the sea where Hen-
the plas c chair in her shower. It was as ry’s ashes now dri ed. Barely a day passed
if it was going to be fun. My brothers and where I did not cry. I missed them both.
I made charts for her daily medica on. I Some mes at night, an ache came over me
bought her some comfy clothes for bed and I felt like I was drowning. There was no
and all her favorite foods. But reality struck escape. I knew I had to do something.
the day Mum could not eat even one tasty
black olive; she just gave up and spat it into All Ion and I needed was our suitcases
my hand like a li le girl ea ng broccoli for and two small backpacks. We let go of ev-
the first me. She spent her last two nights erything else. We sold our cabin partly fur-
in hospital. nished. We donated and gave things away.
A few days before we stepped onto a plane
My mother’s death hit me hard. It made with one-way ckets to Bali and a vague
me see how brief and unpredictable life i nerary, a friend came over with a van and
could be. Life is short. People say this like took everything we had le . It was a relief. In
it’s a catchphrase from a mo va onal post- the end, the most difficult thing about leav-
er. For me, it was a bolt of lightening. I felt ing was having to explain to airport customs
like Ion and I were already on the right track. why our ckets did not have a return date.
We had downsized and le the rat race be-
hind. If we hadn’t, I would not have been It was daun ng to leave everything be-
able to spend the last three weeks of my hind. I felt my mother’s absence like a hun-
mother’s life with her. If I had been working ger. I wanted to tell her about our possibly
in Sydney, I would not have been able to amazing, stupid plans. I missed her. And
drop everything to look a er her. I was so Henry, too; I could s ll feel his furry li le
grateful I’d le my career behind; this gave chest under my hand. But I knew I had to
me me, to spend with her. The last me I go. Greece was calling me back to life.
would ever see my mother.
***
But death stops for no one and it did not
stop for us. Just a few months a er Mum Now, we’re travelling full- me. We’ve been
passed away, our beau ful Henry died too. gone over four years now, returning to Aus-
He had been surviving well on arthri s shots tralia only to visit family and friends. We
and medica on, but finally a ck bite took began our travels in Greece, but now we’ve
its toll. He had been bi en a few months also visited North Macedonia, Bulgaria, Al-
earlier and we thought he’d escaped its con- bania, England, Wales, Italy, Indonesia, Ma-
sequences. It was all I could take. I sat alone laysia, Thailand and India. We have been to
on our verandah and let my grief roll over poetry fes vals in the UK and trekked the
me. I had had enough of death; I needed life. jungles of Borneo. We’ve spoken many lan-
guages (badly), tried many different foods,
*** and experienced the kindness of strangers
everywhere we’ve travelled. And I have
Ion and I visited the big red gum tree in come to love this life of temporary rooms,
Sydney, where we’d sca ered Mum’s ash- unknown des na ons, and mismatched
es; she had not wanted a grave and did not cutlery.

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I cannot say it’s been easy, especially as now, we have to carry them. Literally. So we
we are low-budget travellers. Some mes part with things easily.
I miss the nice es of having a ‘real home’.
Occasionally I fancy new clothes. But when There are plenty of mo va onal phras-
I think of my life now—even with its incon- es around these days: Life is short. Simplify
veniences—I feel free. I s ll think of Mum Your Life. Keep Calm and Carry On. These
and Henry and I am grateful for the me are great, but it’s not enough to just frame
I had with them. But when I think back to them on your kitchen wall, post them on-
my mother dying in her bed, trying to sort line, or say them. You have to mean what
the cards in her bedside drawer, I am glad you say. You have to decide, and act. Take a
that Ion and I have lightened our load. We risk to really live. Let life in. Life is not about
do not want to leave a burden for anyone things.
when we are gone. And if we hoard things
Life is short.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and
teacher from Australia. Her poetry and stories have been
published in several journals, such as Panoply, Amaryllis,
Riggwelter, River Teeth Journal (Beau ful Things), and
Magma. Lisa is currently a full- me budget traveller and her
wri ng is o en inspired by her journey. You can find out
more about Lisa at lisareily.wordpress.com

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THE APOLOGY OF
MASLOW

by Nate Tulay

“esteem” comes to love and friendship and under-
standing and compassion and honesty and
“self-actualiza on” fairness and tolerant though their unique
skill sets and interest are different than
“belonging” yours??

“safety,” And if everyone had all of the former
things, wouldn’t you all be capable of
“physiological,” achieving and becoming what you all want
to be by pursuing your inner talents and
Friends, if you had food, water, shelter and gi s and crea vity? Don’t they tell us that
warmth, i.e., physiological, and you and doing the things we love make us feel ful-
your neighbors came together and created filled?? And if your gi s and talents are val-
a community, i.e. a city, i.e. a mini na on ued and appreciated as much as the highest
state to give everyone within the commu- gi s valued on earth today, wouldn’t you
nity freedom from fear and security from feel fulfilled from doing what you love to
an outside invasion and stability through- do?? And if my gi s are valued and appre-
out the community which allowed you and ciated as much as your gi s and the high-
others to be confident in finding a spouse est gi s valued on earth, wouldn’t I also
and building a family because you all don’t feel fulfilled from pursing my inner talent
have to worry about any scam or fake love and gi s and crea vity and doing what I
since there aren’t any need for others to be love to do too?? And wouldn’t pursing the
jealous or envious or hateful or nega ve, things we love to do in an environment like
wouldn’t that turn you into a lover even if the environment in this argument help us
you weren’t a natural lover?? And wouldn’t to master our cra s and gi s and talents??
becoming a lover make you open minded And friends, don’t people, i.e., humans, i.e.,
and more willing to make friends because all of us respect and recognize people who
you are aware that the people within your have mastered their own unique cra and
community are also similar to you when it gi s and talents?? Don’t we all respect Mi-

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

chael Jordan, Michael Jackson, Ali, Montana and understanding and compassionate and
etc etc?? And so wouldn’t mastering our tolerant and kind and honest and fair family
cra and gi s and talents and ge ng recog- and society??
nized within our community and na on for
achieving it make us feel a sense of self-es- And can we really make any ra onal ar-
teem?? And even if we all don’t master our guments about not being happy and sa s-
cra and gi s and talents in our current life- fied if we were to live a single life within a
universe or world of society built like the
me, wouldn’t we s ll be happy as well as environment painted in this essay?? And so
lovers and friends and at peace because we isn’t it True that this living pyramid should
were able to pursue your unique inner tal- be one humans should strive to materialize
ents and gi s and do what make us happy as in all humanly reality??
well as be members of a loving and friendly

About the Author

A wise man once said, “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.” – Nietzsche That
quote can explain who I’m at this very moment. My name is Nate Tulay and I am an aspiring
Liberian-American poet. I would love to tell you all more about my story but I can’t because
I do have the words to thoroughly explain it as of hitherto; however, I will foreshadow the
exposi on of my future poetry book by telling you all I was born in a third world country
during a civil war with two major birth defects and also experienced another Civil War
when I was four and lost my en re childhood to it. My experiences, and struggles made
me a philosopher sooner rather than later in life and they are my mo va ons to strive for
greatness.

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