Adelaide Literary Magazine No.13, May 2018

Revista Literária Adelaide

He calls me from the car. “I told her Texas is About the Author:
out of the quesƟon,” he says.
Barbara BoƩner has authored over forty-five
“Thank you. Does this have something to do books for children, some NYTimes Bestsellers,
with Boom?” including YA novels. She has wriƩen for the LA
Weekly, The Miami Herald, reviews for the
“I’m not really sure. Maybe.” Pause. “Probably. NYTimes, LATimes Book review, published
Yeah. Of course!” Long silence. “I guess want to short stories in COSMOPOLITAN, PLAYGIRL as
be generous and affable. I want to be loved as well as acted with LA Mama in NY and Europe.
much as he was.” Her animated shorts won "Best Film For TV" in
the Annecy AnimaƟon FesƟval, Other won CINE
Once more Ɵme, our dog saves us. Golden Eagles. She has had pieces performed
by the Jewish Women's Theater and also does
I promise to make Dan pizza from scratch. Spoken Word in LA

Home. For hours, I think I see my dog every-
where. Shadows, movement, flashes of his ten-
der, rheumy brown eyes.

49

THE DAY THE
RICHEST POLE DIED

by Ewa Mazierska

The Rs. lived in the last house on our road, in in a wooden house, which previously belonged
central, yet rural and god-forsaken Poland. One to Franka’s parents unƟl R. built a small house
hundred metres north from them was a statue from a more durable material, which looked
of the Holy Mary, which marked the end of our like pieces of concrete blocks, used in the
village. Furthermore there were fields for two 1970s for building high-rise estates. I guess he
or three kilometres, then a railway line and liŌed them from the construcƟon sites on
then another village began. During communist which he was employed. The house seemed to
Ɵmes there was always compeƟƟon between be unfinished, with more windows planned
ours and the other village, because the other than built, yet was also covered with scars and
village had a railway staƟon, while we had a had aged prematurely, with walls falling apart
church. When I was a child, the statue marked before they were fully erected. This was de-
for me the end of a familiar, safe world. Be- spite the fact that the R. (not unlike another
yond there were ‘the others’: people whom I builder on our street, the father of my best
knew nothing of and who felt like a threat. I friend) was spending every weekend on im-
saw the Rs. as the guardians of our small world proving his house. AŌer R.’s death the house
and they adopted such a role, informing the became surrounded by extensions. They grew
neighbours about the developments on the like cancer on, by comparison, a healthy body
other side. But they were never gossipy or ma- of the main house, being made of poorer mate-
licious, perhaps because they were the poorest rials, with few, very small, windows. For a rea-
in the neighbourhood and all their energies son unknown to me the extended parts were
were invested in surviving the daily hardship. dangerously close to the road, although the
owners had plenty of space on the other side.
The old R., whose ChrisƟan name I did not Maybe because of having too few windows or
know had a small plot of land behind his house, to avoid falling into the ditch, the Rs. kept the
three hectares or so, and worked as a bricklay- doors always open, which allowed the passers-
er in a construcƟon firm in Włocławek, the by to (over)hear their conversaƟons. Such a
closest large town. He thus belonged to the habit was acceptable then, when the right to
category of peasant-workers, who had low privacy was curtailed by the state, but aŌer the
status because for the peasants they were not fall of the old system, when people’s class po-
sufficiently rural, and for the workers they siƟon could be easily guessed from the height
were not working class. But most likely he did of their gates and the length of their fences,
not care about his status; maybe he was not people like the Rs. started to be seen as a
even fully aware of it. His wife, Franka, as long ‘problem’ waiƟng to be solved.
as I remember, was working the fields; their
own plot of land and those of more affluent By the Ɵme R. had finished the first version of
farmers. She was known for being very good in his house, the Rs. had one daughter, Maria,
this work, parƟcularly harvesƟng potatoes and and twin sons, Marek and Maciek. R. died
onions. She was two to three Ɵmes faster than when Franka was pregnant with their fourth
an average worker, therefore in summer her child, Basia, who was born about fiŌeen years
service was in high demand. The Rs. lived first aŌer their first child. At primary school I was in

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Revista Literária Adelaide

the same class as Maria. With her dark-blue, searching for their favours. Eventually Vanessa
velvety eyes and dark hair, common among moved with her father to a nearby town and I
Mediterranean women, but excepƟonally rare stopped seeing her. Franka said that she went
in central Poland, she was the preƫest girl in to university. Apparently she occasionally visit-
our year. However, she was a very poor pupil. ed her grandma and kept in touch with her old
Barely able to read, write and count, she was friends.
always on the verge of being sent off to the
class for children with learning disabiliƟes. She Basia was described by the people in our vil-
has repeated some years and finished her edu- lage as the one who ‘did not know her father’.
caƟon aŌer primary school. Before she First I took it merely as a statement of the fact,
reached twenty, she was married to the son of resulƟng from his premature death. But then I
a local peasant, who was also the most un- realised there was something more to it: Basia
pleasant character in our class. AŌer her wed- did not know the Freudian ‘name of the fa-
ding Maria disappeared from my radar and ther’: patriarchal authority. Maybe because of
indeed she was no longer seen on our road. that, from an early age she was keen on boys,
When I asked Franka what happened to her which inevitably led to gossip. I saw Basia as a
daughter she replied that she gave birth to a transitory figure. In many ways she was a child
disabled child who was bed-ridden. Conse- of Eastern European communism. Although
quently, Maria was also, more or less, bed- apparently smarter than her older sister, she
ridden, taking full responsibility for caring for neglected school and saw no value in educa-
her offspring. Franka did not hide the fact that Ɵon. As with Maria, it never occurred to her
Maria’s husband mistreated her daughter, ac- that she could do something with her life: get a
cusing her of producing a substandard child. job or a stall in a market. Unlike her older sis-
Franka shed a tear when she menƟoned it. It ter, however, who suffered in silence, she
was around this Ɵme that Franka started to wanted something beƩer from life and ac-
drink, to calm her heart. What she drank she quired some bourgeois habits. She changed the
labelled ‘liƩle cherry’ (wisienka). It was the colour of her hair, from super-black to straw-
common name for cheap, fruity wine, regarded berry blond, which did not suit her, painted her
by heavier drinkers as extremely unhealthy, toenails and confessed to me that she could
although probably much less so than vodka. not get out of bed without drinking two cups of
strong coffee. Basia also did not like to get
Franka’s twin sons disappeared from our vil- drunk on ‘cherry’, preferring vodka mixed with
lage soon aŌer they reached adulthood. One Coca-Cola. Moreover, unlike her mother or
joined the army; the other went to work in a sister, Basia did not want just to get married.
coalmine in the South of Poland. The profes- Her greatest dream was to marry the richest
sional soldier fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, man in Poland. This angered her mother, who
got medals for bravery and eventually seƩled used to repeat that all rich men are arseholes:
in the South of Poland. He broke Ɵes with his they get rich by taking from the poor.
family, apparently on the request of his wife.
For his mother, he was a traitor. The miner In our village there was no match for Basia.
returned, although iniƟally he did not move People there did not have much money and for
back to the village, only brought his daughter, those beƩer off than the Rs., despite her beau-
Vanessa, to be looked aŌer temporarily by her ty, Basia had liƩle value, which was further
grandma, when he was going through a di- lowered by her being ‘easy’. To fulfil her
vorce. The girl stayed with the Rs. for two dream, she had to look further afar. The man
years. As with her aunt, she was an excepƟonal whom she found turned out to be a short,
beauty, with dark eyes, dark hair, large soŌ lips plump man with coarse features, but he exud-
and glasses which afforded her an intellectual ed an aura of self-confidence, which some peo-
look. She was also gentle, intelligent and dis- ple took for charisma. When he stood at the
creet. One could talk with her for hours, but do Rs.’ courtyard with his legs spread and arms on
not learn anything about her family or housing his hips, he reminded me of Henry VIII from the
situaƟon. Later I noƟced that she was friends famous portrait by Hans Holbein. One
with the girls from the best houses, without could assume that the whole estate was his.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Therefore he did not want to work on it; he mind, tesƟfied to her elevated social status. For
only requested various changes so that he Franka they only showed that Basia did not
would not be ashamed to seƩle there. It did know her place. She polonised them, calling
not take Franka much Ɵme to figure out that one Benek, and the other Bronek. The older
he was a gangster. He turned out to be one of boy was like his father: short and plump and
the lowest order. For some years he was rob- with blondish hair, and he adopted the posture
bing provincial shops before being promoted to of Henry VIII. The younger had Basia’s Mediter-
managing a flock of Romanian prosƟtutes walk- ranean appearance and came across as soŌ
ing the road near the forest surrounding and shy. The older used to call his mother ‘You
Włocławek. Whether Basia was aware of that stupid whore’; the younger cuddled to her and
before she Ɵed the knot with him, nobody cried when his brother insulted her.
knew, but most likely it would have made no
difference. What counted was that he brought The father brought his sons computer games
her the luxuries she yearned for: a VHS player, and flashy clothes and took them for rides in
a mobile phone and a car. Well, he did not give his car, in the same way he did earlier with
her the car, he merely took her for rides and their mother. AŌer performing this ritual he
then brought her home. Franka suspected that disappeared, to return aŌer weeks or months
all these goods were stolen and warned Basia in increasingly baƩered vehicles, with some
that if their origin was discovered she might flashy gadgets which, aŌer some Ɵme, stopped
get into trouble, but Basia only told her mother impressing his sons, as their school mates
to shut up. For her a stolen TV was beƩer than pointed to their cheapness and obsolescence.
no TV. The stream of gadgets stopped when he went
to prison. Franka hoped that it would put an
Where Basia’s husband’s permanent address end to her daughter’s ungraceful liaison, but
was or even what part of Poland he came from, she was proved wrong. Basia remained loyal to
nobody knew. When asked about his wherea- her husband and kept visiƟng him every month
bouts, Basia replied that he travelled a lot for or so, as oŌen really as she could afford, given
business. Later she menƟoned that he was that he lived now over two hundred kilometres
building for them a large house near Warsaw, from her. She even occasionally engaged in
but she was unable to name the suburb where remuneraƟve acƟvity, such as child minding or
this mansion was to be erected. For the Ɵme cleaning, to afford train Ɵckets and presents for
being, Basia was thus stuck in her old family her man, so that she did not feel inferior to the
adobe. Franka alleged that her son in law had a wives of other prisoners. Basia got no support
house, but he used it as a training ground for from her husband’s gangster pals, proving to
his foreign ‘whores’. This situaƟon, in Franka’s Franka that not only was he scum, but the low-
view, was doubly demeaning for Basia, because est sort, commanding no respect even from his
she had no access to his house and was below own ilk. Franka got so exasperated by the situ-
his female employees, who knew more about aƟon that she started to smoke, which, by her
his life than his family. Franka hated her son in own account, burned her lungs and made her
law from the first Ɵme she saw him and her weak. SƟll, despite now being in her sevenƟes,
loathing grew the more she learnt about him. she worked the fields as before because paying
She never menƟoned his name and called him for the basics such as food and electricity, was
‘This Pimp’, ‘This Bastard’ or ‘This Motherfuck- more difficult than ever. As if the situaƟon was
er’, the last name because, as she put it, he not bad enough, during the year of heavy rains
was the type who would fuck his own mother if their house was flooded. Water destroyed the
it would bring him profit. She also lost heart for floors, the meagre furniture and most of the
her daughter for being greedy, naïve and a luxuries Basia got from her husband. A neigh-
burden to her. bour visiƟng them aŌer this tragedy saw a Nin-
tendo PlaystaƟon floaƟng in a pool of dirty
Soon aŌer meeƟng her future husband, Basia water, as if it was a ship. They got no insurance
became pregnant and gave birth to a boy, money as their house was, obviously, not in-
whom she called Bernard. Two years later Brad sured. Moreover, the flooding revealed that
was born. Such foreign-sounding names, in her

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Revista Literária Adelaide

the damaged extensions were built without Jan. He died on the spot. Why the baby was
permission. Franka got a leƩer asking her to targeted, rather than Basia or her older sons?
demolish their remains and pay a heŌy fine, The answers to these quesƟons were sought by
but it was waived by the local council clerk, the neighbours in the months to come. The
proving that people are not heartless or that prevailing hypothesis was that his death had a
Polish clerks sƟll enjoy some autonomy. Thanks symbolic value – it was a sign to Basia to stay
to the pressure from the neighbours they also away from the turf wars in which her husband
got some financial help from the council to was engaged.
repair their house and one neighbour arranged
a collecƟon of money and other goods to give The murder of Basia’s son took place the same
to Franka. Normally we would not do it, know- day the richest Pole died, in a hospital in Vien-
ing that she would refuse any help, but this na, where he was undergoing some revoluƟon-
accumulaƟon of misfortune stripped her of ary treatment, which, however, failed. Judging
some of her pride and she accepted. It also by its reporƟng in the news, a saint had passed
stripped her of her faith in God. ‘God died with away. His right to sainthood was ensured by his
communism or he is as much of a motherfuck- wealth and his philanthropy. The unspoken
er as my son in law,’ she said. assumpƟon of almost everybody publicly com-
memoraƟng his life, including some high-
AŌer the flooding social services got interested ranking priests, was that the more wealth, the
in the welfare of Basia’s sons, which added to more charity. For some people in our village
Franka’s stress. Despite loathing her daughter the death of the Polish tycoon was, on the oth-
and her son in law, she did not want to lose the er hand, some consolaƟon – a proof that liƩle
boys. Around this Ɵme Basia got pregnant Jan was somewhat equal to the wealthiest of
again. Her third child was conceived in prison, the world. But others drew aƩenƟon to their
shortly aŌer the authoriƟes introduced conju- difference: one violent and commiƩed in a
gal visits. Nine months aŌer such a visit Basia’s household lacking basic ameniƟes; the other in
youngest son was born. For Franka it was a sign a comfortable and hygienic environment, in a
of hope. She loved the boy more than Bernard foreign locaƟon, underlining the billionaire’s
and Brad because ‘he did not know his father.’ cosmopolitan outlook; one happening before
She herself chose a name for him, Jan, which conscious life properly started; the other when
turned out to be the name of her late husband. the man had achieved pracƟcally everything
However, the new child made things even there was to achieve and had reached reƟre-
more difficult than before. Almost every week ment age. For them it was a sign there was no
now Franka and Basia received visits from high- jusƟce in death as there was no jusƟce in life.
heeled women, who smirked at their poverty But the effect of the coincidence of these two
and the alleged low standard of hygiene, and deaths was that the demise of the rich man
warned them that if they did not prove them- made the neighbours remember the day the
selves worthy of their children, they would lose boy died. AŌer that whenever anyone asked
them. Franka recounted the visits with the when liƩle Jan died, the answer was that ‘it
highest indignaƟon. If not for the children, she was the day the richest Pole died.’
would have punched these women, who she
perceived as geƫng money from the state In the next three months or so the house of Rs.
which they should have been receiving. Basia was empƟed. Basia was taken to stand trial for
was less worried about these visits, having oth- abeƫng her husband’s crimes. Bernard and
er issues on her mind. These were to do with Brad were sent to foster families. Franka
her husband. While before he kept his family suffered a stroke and was taken to the hospital,
away from his criminal operaƟons, now, being where she died without regaining conscious-
constrained, he wanted her to act as his proxy. ness. The house and the farm were put up for
What exactly Basia did for him, nobody knew, sale and several months later bought by the
but her acƟviƟes upset some people. It was richest farmer in the neighbouring village. He
proven one night when two men with their demolished the Rs’ shack and built there a two-
faces covered entered their house and shot storey house for his daughter. Unlike the Rs.’

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

house, which was almost touching the road About the Author:
and revealed its guts to everybody who wanted
to look at it, this one was built at a large dis-
tance from the road and was best protected of
all the houses on our street, with a high fence
and three dogs guarding it. Some neighbours
showed the house to their visitors saying with
biƩerness: ‘this is our future.’

Ewa Mazierska is a historian of film and popu-
lar music, working at the University of Central
Lancashire. She writes short stories in her
spare Ɵme. Her stories were published in sev-
eral literary magazines and shortlisted in com-
peƟƟons.

54

FLICKERS OF

LIGHT

by Hina Ahmed

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inade- displays of art. She walked with her austere,
quate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful marble colored glasses and sharp new hair cut
beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that accentuated the delicacy of her jaw line,
that most frightens us.” --MaryAnne William- and the fragility of the femininity of her fea-
son tures, marked by the subtle, silver gem that
rested on the leŌ side of her nose; a sculpted
April 2014: School face, made by none other than the conscien-
Ɵous hands of her generous Creator; the mod-
“Where is the boy Ms. Zareena Khan?” Where esty of her beauty served to magnify it in all
is he? The principal of the school asked her like the ways that invoked the green laced envy
the badgering of a woodpecker on a dead tree. that grew like tangled vines on chalked faces
Zareena stood looking before the parking lot, that Zareena sought to briskly walk past on her
bustling and alive with children, but Zayan was way to the classroom.
nowhere to be seen.
“Hi Michael!” Zareena exclaimed upon first
How could she? How could she lose a child? meeƟng him. “Hello,” he responded jovially,
wearing a t-shirt of giant cheeseburgers and
October 2015: Zareena’s bedroom flying spagheƫ monsters, with his protruding
liƩle belly, and short, spiky strands of blonde
“I just wanted to let you know that I delivered hair that rested on the top of his head like a
a healthy baby boy last night!” The text mes- freshly mowed lawn. Michael: the epitome of a
sage flashed on Zareena’s cell phone screen. lovable, huggable boy, with his perfectly round
face that glistened like snow in the dark, and
“That is great! I am very happy for you!” Za- eyes that radiated with the dancing charm of
reena exclaimed, relieved that text messages both the curiosity and mischief of an unyielding
were able to hide the yearnings of the heart. youth. Michael: The perfect American boy.

September 2016: School “Make sure he takes walking breaks every thir-
ty minutes, and make sure that he goes to the
“You have been assigned to work with a special bathroom exactly when he needs to, or he gets
needs second grade boy named Michael. This is restless, and he has to sit in his wooden chair
temporary maƩer unƟl we find a full-Ɵme while on the floor, or he just won’t pay aƩen-
placement,” the secretary stated as Zareena Ɵon…and he also needs gum, at several inter-
entered the main office of the school. vals throughout the day…” the lead classroom
teacher instructed franƟcally as ‘orders from
All eyes were on her as she made her way into his mother,’ as she ran from one end of the
what reminded her of the cold, fluorescently classroom to the other in last minute prepara-
lighted chambers of an internaƟonal airport, Ɵons for the first day of school.
with its wide hallways, and grandiose, hanging
Things started to take shape within the first
week of student acclimaƟon.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“You can’t be giving that much aƩenƟon to The following morning Zareena and the lead
Dayshawn. He is way behind grade-level. Don’t teacher approached the principal.
waste your Ɵme with him. You need to sƟck
with Michael,” the lead teacher prompted. “Zareena would like to come back and work
with Michael, you know she was just so good
September 2016: Zareena’s home with him and I would really love to have her
back,” the lead teacher said in a state of des-
“Let’s make America great again!” Roared a peraƟon. Zareena stood silently beside her
voice over the evening television screen, as with a look of passive compliance.
Zareena’s father Omar looked on with the
alertness that is invoked from an internal dis- “If Zareena goes to the district office and
turbance. Omar scoffed at the implicaƟons of changes her posiƟon from a subsƟtute teacher
the man’s remarks, as Zareena viewed the tele- to that of a 1:1 teacher we will be able to hire
vision screen with her father in a state of equal her for the posiƟon,” the principal remarked
condemnaƟon. “You know the majority of doc- curtly.
tors in the hospital we work in were not even
born in this country. Does this man not realize The District’s Office
the contribuƟon of immigrants?” Zareena’s
brother Abdulla said as he profusely chewed on “Are you sure? Are you sure you want to resign
the taut marrow of his chicken bone. as a subsƟtute teacher? You realize the signifi-
cant pay cut, as well as the status shiŌ that will
“Well, I can say that aŌer being in this country come from switching your posiƟon?” The ad-
for over thirty years, we will at best be second ministrator said to Zareena in shock with her
class ciƟzens,” Omar said resƟng his face in his request.
hands, as he conƟnued to look on the televi-
sion screen with eyes filled with the sorrow of “Yes. I realize that, but I think I have really
migraƟon. grown aƩached to this child. He needs me.”
Zareena said.
Back in School
“Well, alright, if that is your decision. I will go
“I am sorry, but we cannot have you filling in get the appropriate paperwork,” the adminis-
for the one-to-one posiƟon with Michael any- trator stated.
more. We are looking for someone full-Ɵme.
However, we do need subsƟtute teachers for December 2016
our other posiƟons.” The school secretary said
to Zareena on her way out of the school. For as much as Zareena loved Michael, her
love, like all love was tested. Especially when it
Zareena spent the remainder of the next two came to having him complete his wriƟng tasks.
weeks filling in for other grade levels where
she was needed, but she found herself lost in “If you don’t stop Michael, I will have to tell
thoughts of working with Michael: the eccen- your mother,” Zareena said, as he refused to
tric, lovable, huggable boy. do the wriƟng prompt.

“Ugh. The new woman who got hired to work “No!” Michael squealed as he abruptly got up,
with Michael is awful, just awful, I want you ran around her, took his hand and struck it
back!” The lead teacher said to Zareena in a forcefully over her mouth.
state of flurry while passing her in the hallway
one aŌernoon. “Silence!” He screamed.

“Oh, really?” January 20, 2017

“Yes! Tomorrow morning, you and I will go talk “Silence Class!”
to the principal, and I will get you back!” She
said before scurrying down the hallway. We are going to spend the rest of the day
watching the inauguraƟon of our new Presi-
dent, the lead teacher announced in a state of

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Revista Literária Adelaide

euphoria, as Zareena looked on with all due “So, basically, my son has thousands of dollars
respect. in his budget in terms of the services he can
receive with his disability,” Diane proclaimed.
June 2017
“Oh, wow, that must have been a difficult pro-
“You know, you have done such a wonderful cess to receive,” Zareena stated.
job working with Michael. The family needs a
care provider to work with him at their home “Yes, you have no idea, but I did it,” Diane re-
over the summer. You would be great for the sponded.
job,” The occupaƟonal therapist said to Za-
reena during the last week of school. Zareena “You know what would be great for you to
paused. watch in order to get some context into work-
ing with Michael? Watch the film ‘GiŌed,’ it
“You know, you don’t have to take the posi- sums up my son very well,” Diane said proudly.
Ɵon, but maybe think about it.” She added be-
fore leaving the room. Zareena was intrigued by the endless assort-
ment of magneƟc monkeys on Diane’s refriger-
Zareena had no serious plans over the summer. ator. In one parƟcular image Diane held the
She wanted it to be that way. This job with face of a gorilla next to hers, her eyes closed,
Michael would give her a liƩle spending money her face soŌened by the tranquility that comes
and seemed like it would be easy enough. from sharing tender affecƟon.

The following week Zareena announced: “Wow, you seem to be so fond of them,” Za-
“Well…I decided. I will take the job!” reena said touched by the photo.

July 2017: Michael’s home “I am. You know they are easy to love once
they have been trained to do what you need
Zareena approached the house on the brink of them to do,” Diane replied.
the hill. It was a one story home made of
bricks, resƟng on a small yard, with barren soil Summer Days
and a broken driveway, deterioraƟng with rum-
bling rocks, where a worn down, rusted mini Zareena’s summer days were spent taking Mi-
van sat slumped and exhausted from the chael around town, playing in the parks, taking
weight of carrying a heavy burden. Zareena him swimming, and going to the museums: the
rang the doorbell. perfect summer job indeed.

“Come in, the door is open!” Hollered the voice “Come on Ms. K! Come into the water with
of a woman. Zareena entered the home that me!” Michael screamed from the lake, as he
smelled of both children and their pets on hot splashed around like a fearless, flapping fish.
summer days. The blinds were shut, the win-
dows closed. A dark dankness penetrated Zareena tepidly walked to the edge of the lake
through creaking cracks in the hard, wooden in her bathing suit, feeling the penetraƟng eyes
floors that were covered in boxes upon boxes of the large bystanders on her small body,
of material goods of dire need. hearing their jarring voices in her head:

Michael’s mother, Diane sat at the head of a Perhaps that is her adopted son…he is
wooden table, her blonde hair thrown up care- far too white to be her actual son…then again
lessly, her face plain and unadorned, with the anything is possible these days...is this woman
potenƟal for a country like beauty of simplicity, even permiƩed to be with this child? Faces
but one that had lost itself. compounded by both confusion and suspicion
leŌ Zareena with both inner sensaƟons of pul-
“Oh, don’t worry about taking off your shoes, saƟng pleasures and disorienƟng disturbances.
we are not like those people,” she said as Za-
reena stopped herself from doing what had
been her childhood habit upon entering a
home.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Come on Ms. K! Be the unicorn that I wish to Michael: restless, eager to move. “Michael,
ride!” Michael requested as Zareena got into Mrs. K asked you a quesƟon, what do you like
the water next to him and Michael climbed to do?” Zareena reiterated, looking at him in-
onto her back, as she took him for a swim: the tently, as Ayesha’s face suddenly fell to clouds
magical, swimming, unicorn, and her heroic of sadness.
rider.
Michael made his way over to the mosque
August 2017 monument that rested on the table in the foyer
and turned it on.
“It is so great that Michael has you, that you
love him so much, thank you so much for all “Allah Akabar!” The monument rang loudly.
that you do, I really don’t know what we would
do without you,” a text message from Diane “Ah!” What is that? Michael said as he jumped.
appeared before her. “That is our call to prayer, as Muslims.”

It is nice to be needed. To be wanted. Zareena Ayesha suddenly interjected enthusiasƟcally.
thought. “You know, Islam is a religion that….” But Mi-
chael was already half way through the family
In a home, outside of home: room, where he found the cat.

“Michael really wants to meet our family cat, “Here Michael, hold my hand and I will give
Misty, is it ok to bring him to my home?” Za- you a tour of our house.” Zareena said leading
reena asked Diane via text message. him into the kitchen.

“Sure,” she replied. “Ah! What is that smell?” He asked in frighƞul
awe. “That is my mom’s Pakistani curry, re-
“Ok, now before entering you need to make member I told you that we were from Paki-
sure to take off your shoes and I don’t want stan?”
you running around like crazy— got it?” Za-
reena said more sternly than her usual self as “See.” Zareena said as she liŌed the cover to
they arrived on the driveway of her home. the dish, the hot steam invigoraƟng Michael’s
face, as he gazed in, and then abruptly made
“Ummi! I have a special visitor!” Zareena hol- his way to the fruit pile and helped himself to
lered to her mother; her voice echoing through the sweet, decadence of a juicy plum, digging
the large foyer as they stepped on shiny, white, his mighty teeth into its bursƟng flavor, “this is
floors made of untarnished marble. delicious!” he proclaimed in a state of exhila-
rated intoxicaƟon, the plum’s purple residue
“Oh…what a surprise…hello…” Ayesha said, in smearing the perfecƟon of his skin, as he con-
her trying to be welcoming voice, as she made Ɵnued to make his way through the rest of the
her way down the stairs, as Michael looked house; Zareena following like a sheep behind
around like a domesƟc cat brought into the him.
wilderness for the first Ɵme.
“I met Michael today, he came to our ghar,”
“It is nice to meet you Michael,” Ayesha said Ayesha revealed to her husband Omar that
shaking his hand. Michael, suddenly coy, evening. “Oh. He came to the house?” Omar
looked down and smiled innocently. asked, suddenly unable to sip his tea.

Zareena took his hand and led him to the living Exchanges At the Kitchen Table
room, siƫng next to him. Ayesha sat on the
opposite side of them, looking on. “You know, since you work with my other chil-
dren, just add some extra hours so that you
“So, what do you like to do Michael?” Ayesha can get paid more, I don’t want you to think
asked, aƩempƟng to make conversaƟon with that this job is not worth it for you.” Diane said.
the boy that had won over the heart of her
daughter.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“Oh, ha. I don’t mind playing with them, mak- Meanwhile, Michael’s younger sister:
ing up hours would probably be just a liƩle bit Mallory screamed in anger
unethical!” Zareena said with a hint of sarcasm. Running to the refuge of
Zareena’s safe arms
“Unethical? No. I don’t think so. Just do it,” WanƟng to hide in them
Diane remarked. Forever
From the scorching flames
“You want to teach children in the inner city? Of the inflaming voice of her mother
Do you understand that they will most likely “Ms. K cannot save you!”
rape you? You will not make it out alive. You Her mother roared
are really great with children, but you need to Screaming in terror
be working with children like Michael, not The child fled to the chambers
those kids that will just end up working in Burg- Of her forƟfied room
er King. Don’t waste your Ɵme.” Diane said
looking Zareena in the eye.

“Did that woman in the water not understand
to evacuate the city? What is wrong with these
people?” Diane retorted in response to the
images of the Houston flooding on the news.

“So what is your plan?” Diane asked. The glorified Nanny, with a master’s degree,

“My plan? Like my life plan?” Zareena laughed. The brown Savior

“No silly. Your plan with Michael, what’s your Of white mothers and their children
plan with my son?” Diane asked.
Sit.
“Oh come here Michael let me fold your jeans
up so that you can put your rain boots on Empty handed in the homes of their Oppres-
properly,” Zareena said, as she kneeled down sors
in front of him.
“Zareena, you need to understand what this
“Oh, stop Ms. K! You are just crazy! Let me woman is doing. She is using her power over
show you the way this is done.” Diane inter- you, to guilt you into staying in this job, that
jected. quite frankly you seem to not even want!” Za-
reena’s friend Zion stated to her over coffee.
“You know, you don’t have to call me Ms. K,
you can call me Zareena.” Zareena looked on at him with the pouty sul-
lenness that comes from hearing the hard
“No. Ms. K… it just suits you so well,” Diane truth. “Yes. You are right. I don’t even want
responded. this job. Yet, here I am. Feeling stuck, feeling
like this woman’s children are mine, saturated,
“Ms. K, my daughter Mallory’s birthday is com- completely…by feelings of a despairing guilt!”
ing up. I will email you an image of the giŌ that Zareena exclaimed in devastated self-
she would just love to have. Ofcourse, don’t realizaƟon, siƫng haplessly before him.
feel obligated to buy it or anything.”
“Break free Zareena, break free from the
“I really think you will end up marrying a white chains of the oppressor.”
man, tell your family to stop trying to pair you
up with a South Asian man!” Diane declared “But, Zion, for all the ways in which you are
one evening. “In fact, let me message my one right, I cannot help but see the humanness in
cousin, he is amazing. He would be the perfect her. In me. In us both.”
husband for you.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

In those moments of your “She is not my mother!” Michael’s words of the
past shook her.
Helpless defeat,
“But they are not your children!” Zion’s words
Of your angry anguish reminded her.

Of your sullen eyes filled with a dooming des- In Bed Wide Awake
pair
The image of Michael’s baby sister, Adele
Of longings for a life that could be flashed before Zareena’s eyes as she lay in bed
wide awake that night.
Something other than what it is
The tender, soŌ feet
I see in the empƟness of your watered gaze,
Delicate and fragile
A reflecƟon I cannot run from.
Healing the broken, bruised hands
October 2017: Laps of AffecƟon, Words of
Hate Of the people doing their bidding

One evening Diane’s youngest daughter KaƟe Grow up to become
decided to crawl up into her lap like a cat; Za-
reena more than willing to rub her back with The thudding thuds
affecƟon.
Of loud feet in combat boots
“You like Ms. K that much, huh? Diane said
staring at her daughter with piercing eyes. Why Ready for baƩle.
don’t you go and live with her and her mOzlem
family? She said, like the sudden hiss of a ven- Voices of the past came suddenly flooding
omous snake. through her:

That evening, Zareena stopped and parked her “Zareena. I want you hear now. Right now,
car in front of her favorite soothing tree, star- right this instant, get in the car and just drive,
ing at it for what seemed to be hours, unable just drive to me,” Christopher commanded
to stop thinking about Diane’s words. over the phone in the voice of utmost urgency.

Her and her Mozlem family. “I just want to dig in, dig it into your sweet-
ness, and taste it, taste it on the Ɵps of my
Words siƫng like cemented, wet spit on her tongue.”
face.
AŌer the ordeal, Zareena perused through her
How could she? Why would she? As much as facebook page as a numbing ritual, as Christo-
Zareena wanted to pretend it did not happen, pher planted himself directly in front of her
she could not get her words out of her mind. face and demanded her to:
But more importantly, Zareena had no choice
but to confront the unveiled ideology behind Gag herself.
them; the haunƟng secrets of Diane’s heart
overtly emerged, engulfing her into the dark- Zareena felt Michael’s hands fearlessly placed
ness of her heart’s inner most chambers. on her mouth as if they had the right to be
there:
But then, there were the children.
“Silence!” The memories flooded through her
The children who had her heart. like a devastaƟng tsunami.

The children that found refuge in her lap. October 13, 2017

The children who loved her love. “I Quit.”

But, the love that loves, also chains one’s feet
to the ground.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Zareena stated via text message to Diane. And About the Author:
then, she quickly clicked:
Hina Ahmed is a writer from Binghamton, New
Block. York. She holds a BA in history and an MA in
educaƟon from Binghamton University. She
“You need to call Diane. She is very upset,” enjoys wriƟng poetry, short stories, poliƟcal
read Diane’s husband’s text message. essays, and is in the midst of a forthcoming
novel: The Dance of the Firefly. She has had her
Zareena quickly clicked: work published in NYU's AŌab Literary Maga-
zine, East Lit Journal, Archer Magazine, Pipe
Block. Dream, Press and Sun BulleƟn, among others.
When she is not wriƟng, she is probably talking
Freedom is never earned through the asking of about how she should be wriƟng.
permission.

Zareena parked her car, as it sat sƟll under the
bright sun. She got out of the driver’s seat and
climbed over to the passenger side of the vehi-
cle. She took her favorite handmade crochet
blanket infused with the rich hues of blue, pur-
ple, and red, and placed it over her delicate
body. She closed her eyes. Yet, even amidst the
darkness that ensued, she could sƟll see the
faint flickering of light.

61

THE CHOICE

by Zia Marshall

Kaira stood at the edge of the water, watching sipped her coffee as she watched the sea
the frothy waves as they swept over her bare gliƩering in the early morning light like a thou-
feet before receding into the distant ocean. sand Ɵny diamonds were strewn over its sur-
The waves danced over her feet, someƟmes face.
vigorously and at other Ɵmes in a smooth al-
most silky moƟon. How eternal the ocean was, Joe walked into the room just then. “Mooning
Kaira thought, as she stared at it for a long over the ocean again,” Joe teased, slipping into
peaceful moment fixing the image in her a chair and grabbing a toast from Kaira’s plate.
arƟst’s eye. Day changed into night, the sea- “I don’t get it, you know. Most people Ɵre of
sons slipped by, but the ocean remained the the ocean aŌer a couple of months. It becomes
same, its waves eternally roiling with froth and part of the regular scenery. But you are some-
bubble as they lapped against the shores be- thing else, Kaira! You stare at it every single
fore receding into the distant blue and then day as if you are seeing it for the very first
returning once again. Ɵme.”

Kaira walked back to her coƩage, which was Kaira turned to look at Joe with a sheepish grin.
just a short distance from the shore. She had “I know Joe, most people find it odd. But I can’t
been lucky to find this house, she thought, as help it, honestly I can’t. I feel very drawn to the
she slid the key into the door and entered. sea – it calls to my soul...”
Most of the sea-facing properƟes had long
been snapped up in the sleepy, seaside town of “Oh God! It’s too early in the morning for your
Kollam. But its owner, old Mrs. D’souza, who arƟst-sharƟst philosophy Kair, drop it please,”
had recently lost her husband, had put up this Joe complained, grabbing the coffee mug from
house for sale. She had wanted to move to Kaira’s hand and taking a long sip of coffee.
Mumbai so that she could be close to her chil-
dren. Kaira had just arrived in town and heard “Oh I needed that. Here you can finish the rest,
the house was for sale. She had immediately I don’t mind,” Joe said, seƫng down the cup
made an offer – that was a liƩle more than the before Kaira and grinning impishly at her.
asking price just to make sure Mrs. D’souza
wasn’t tempted by a beƩer offer. That had “Thanks,” Kaira grinned back. “My morning
been almost a year ago and Kaira had happily coffee would taste odd if you didn’t steal a cou-
seƩled into the liƩle coƩage. ple of sips from it. But why won’t you fix your-
self a cup? Or shall I do it for you?”
It was a good life, she reflected, as she walked
into the kitchen to fix her usual breakfast – a “No Ɵme, sweeƟe. Got to run. Rahul will be in
mug of coffee and toast with some marmalade office by ten and I need to run these plans by
smeared over it. Then seƫng the coffee and him before the client meeƟng at twelve and
toast on a tray, she made her way to the dining then….”
table where she had an uninterrupted view of
the ocean from the large picture window. She “Carry on, Joe” Kaira said. “I’ll finish up here
and head for the studio. Will you be in for
lunch?”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“Not sure,” Joe called, grabbing the keys from “All right Kaira! There’s really no need to get so
the foyer table and dashing out of the house. upset. Now before I forget … the real reason
why I rang up is Anita Shankar came to visit me
Kaira’s mobile rang just then. Frowning, she the other day. There’s a boy she’d like you to
glanced down to see who was calling. It was meet…”
her mother. Briefly she contemplated ignoring
the call. Then shrugging, she decided to get it “Mum, stop! I am not meeƟng any boys! And
over with. that’s final. I thought I made that clear the last
Ɵme we spoke on this subject.”
“Hello, Mum!”
“Yes, but this is such a good match, Kaira. Why
“Hi sweeƟe, you haven’t called in so long. I was don’t you just meet him? There’s no harm in it,
worried!” is there?”

“We spoke two days ago, Mum,” Kaira said “No! Not happening!”
struggling to contain her impaƟence.
“But Kaira, you are twenty-three darling. Isn’t it
“Well, did you think about what we discussed Ɵme you started thinking of seƩling down?”
last Ɵme?”
“Ma, I’ve got to go! There’s someone at the
“About moving back to Mumbai? Honestly, door. I’ll talk to you later…”
Mum why would I do that? I am happy here.
This place is so beauƟful and I am finally able to Kaira set down her mobile with a guilty sigh.
paint. I am selling my painƟngs and making a She loved her mother but honestly they just
decent living. I have a great set of friends. Why weren’t on the same wavelength. Her mother
on earth would I give all this up and move back didn’t understand the life she had chosen to
to a crowded city?” lead. She was eternally struggling to make her
fit into the convenƟonal mold but Kaira was
“But you can paint anywhere, can’t you dar- just not made that way! Why couldn’t her
ling? It’s not like you have a real office job or mother understand?
anything to keep you in Kollum.”
The conversaƟon had upset her more than she
Kaira sighed. “I couldn’t paint in Mumbai, re- realized and she walked into the kitchen to fix
member? I just couldn’t…I felt like the city was herself a cup of coffee. Then with the mug in
sƟfling me. Here I feel like I have finally found her hand she made herself calm down. If not
my muse…” the day would be a disaster and she would nev-
er be able to paint. And she needed to finish
“Oh Kaira, don’t start all that arty talk with me, Lavanya’s orders. Lavanya wanted a set of six
darling. It’s not like painƟng is a real job or painƟngs for her new home – it was a large
what you will be doing for the rest of your life. order and Kaira needed to finish it by the end
Eventually you will have to grow up, get a regu- of the month.
lar job and seƩle down into a career. You were
so intent on painƟng that Dad and I thought A few hours later, Kaira was humming to her-
you should give it a go. But it can’t last forever, self as she worked in her studio. She added the
can it?” finishing touches to the third painƟng in the set
and stepped back with a sigh of saƟsfacƟon to
“I don’t see why not!” Kaira burst out angrily. survey her work. Yes! It was good even if she
“My painƟngs are selling well and I am making said so herself. Lavanya was sure to like it. And
decent money. Why do I feel I have to jusƟfy since he had such a wide social circle, Kaira was
my life and what I do every single Ɵme I speak hoping that she would bag other orders when
with you? It’s so annoying! Just because I don’t Lavanya’s friends saw her painƟngs.
have a career and a nine-to-five office job, it
doesn’t mean I don’t work hard, Mum! Be- Glancing at her watch, Kaira realized it was six
cause I do! I am an arƟst! Just accept me for in the evening. The hours had flown by and
who I am please.” she hadn’t realized the Ɵme. Walking into the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

kitchen, she hurriedly started fixing dinner. Joe, even our friends are bound to figure things out
who was eternally hungry, would be home any sooner or later, aren’t they? I’m asking again –
minute. Kaira smiled to herself as she thought are you ashamed of who I am? Because if you
of Joe! Who would have thought that she could are, then we should stop right now! Before I
have found someone who would become so start to care too much.”
special in such a short space of Ɵme? So what if
it wasn’t the most convenƟonal of relaƟon- “No, Joe,” Kaira wailed. “Don’t say that! And
ships – she cared a hoot about all that! All she don’t talk of leaving please. I couldn’t bear it if
cared about was that Joe brought out the best you were no longer a part of my life. But I don’t
in her. She was a different person thanks to want to share you with others just yet. Can we
Joe. It was Joe who had encouraged her to keep things secret a liƩle longer please? Per-
reach out for her dreams and try her hand at haps in a month or two we can start telling our
painƟng. If it hadn’t been for Joe, she would friends. As for my parents, I am not sure…let’s
never have had the courage to do so. see shall we?”

“I’m home,” Joe’s voice cut across her “Ok!” Joe acquiesced, giving in to Kaira’s plea
thoughts. She glanced down and realized that because it was so hard to refuse her anything.
she hadn’t even started on dinner. Joe walked
into the kitchen and smiled. “Let’s go for a walk aŌer dinner, shall we?”

“Did the arƟst lose track of Ɵme again?” Joe Later that night, Kaira tossed and turned rest-
asked. “Here let me take over.” Soon Joe had lessly in bed. She mulled over her relaƟonship
things under control. There was a pot of vege- with Joe. She loved Joe dearly and she knew
table stew simmering over the flame and some Joe felt the same about her. But Kaira wasn’t
fish fillets in the grill. sure she could deal with the relaƟonship if it
came out into the open. Deep down inside, she
“Thanks, Joe,” Kaira sighed. I don’t know what I knew that while she couldn’t imagine life with-
would do without you. out Joe, she also couldn’t deal with the kick-
back if their relaƟonship came out into the
“Well, you’d starve for starters,” Joe replied, open. Was she ashamed of Joe? She wasn’t
smiling indolently. “Come here, babe? How sure – although she denied it, perhaps she was.
was your day?” She shuddered when she thought of the com-
ments that would follow if people knew that
“It started out with a call from Mum. That did- she and Joe were a couple – that they loved
n’t go very well. She wants me to meet some each other. How would people react if they
boy, but I fobbed her off.” knew the reality about Joe? But wasn’t Joe’s
reality, her reality as well? OŌen Kaira had
“When are you going to tell her about us, Kai?” thought of leaving, of walking away before she
Joe asked, glancing down at her quizzically. became too emoƟonally entangled in the rela-
Ɵonship. But she just couldn’t bring herself to
“I don’t know if I can. And why should I? Can’t do so. She knew she was being a coward, Kaira
we just carry on the way we are? Why does thought. She loved Joe, but she wasn’t ready to
anyone need to know about us?” commit to the relaƟonship. She wondered if
she ever would be! And was she being fair to
“Because it’s more honest! With your parents, Joe to keep things in limbo? The quesƟons
it is also the right thing to do. We can’t hide tossed around in her mind as she driŌed off
forever, Kaira! People are bound to find out into a restless sleep.
about us sooner or later. Are you ashamed of
me, of who I am?” The next morning, when Kaira woke up, Joe
had already leŌ for the day. There was an early
“No, Joe! Never! But I honestly feel that our morning meeƟng, she supposed as she tossed
relaƟonship is our business. Why do we have to aside the duvet and walked to the window to
bring other people into it?” throw it open. Pale sunbeams filtered
in through the lacy white curtains that were
“Because we can’t live like this forever, Kaira!
Pretending in public that we are just good
friends – how long can that carry on? I mean

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Revista Literária Adelaide

fluƩering lazily in the gentle early morning stood before her. “But isn’t Joe an odd name
breeze. Kaira showered and walked into the for a girl?”
kitchen to fix herself a cup of coffee. The door-
bell rang just then. “Kaira didn’t tell you my full name Mrs. Shar-
ma. It’s Jyotsna, but my friends call me Joe.
Who could be calling so early in the morning, Actually there’s a lot Kaira hasn’t told you.
Kaira wondered. Opening the door she found Would you like to do it, Kair? Or shall I?” Joe
herself face to face with her mother. asked.

“Surprise, darling!” Tara Sharma exclaimed. Kaira’s eyes filled with tears and she shook her
head. “Please don’t, Joe,” she begged.
Kaira stared at her too shocked to take in what
she was seeing. “What….what are you doing But Joe was relentless. She had had enough.
here, Mum?” she asked. “Why not, Kair? You have to make a choice.
Isn’t that what life is all about? Choices? So
“Well you won’t visit us so I thought I would here’s the choice you have to make – are you
come down instead and surprise you. What’s willing to stand up for who you are? If not, I
wrong? You look so shocked!” think it’s best if you return home with your
mother. Because clearly this life isn’t meant for
“No, it’s nothing,” Kaira said shaking her head. you.”
“I’m just surprised to see you. And happy of
course,” she added, with a bright smile. Thank Kaira stared at Joe for a long moment. Why
god Joe had leŌ early, Kaira thought. She was she pushing her against the wall? Forcing
would have to phone and warn Joe not to re- her to choose? And yet Joe had been so clever
turn home and stay elsewhere for a few days about it. She hadn’t given anything away. Kaira
Ɵll her mother leŌ. “How long are you planning could sƟll leave with her mother, right this mo-
on staying, Mum?” Kaira asked. ment and no one would know anything about
her and Joe. She could choose the convenƟonal
“For a week at least, Kaira or may be two. I’m path, marriage, children, a real family, all the
not sure,” her mother replied. things her parents wanted for her. Or she could
stay here with Joe as her life partner and be
Kaira’s mind was in turmoil. A week or two! prepared to face the consequences of the
Where would Joe stay for so long? And worse choice she was making.
sƟll what would Joe think? What if her moth-
er’s visit brought maƩers to a head and Joe “What’s happening?” Mrs. Sharma asked in
insisted on coming out into the open. What bewilderment, staring at the two girls before
would she do? her. “What does Kaira need to tell me?”

The door opened just then and Joe walked into Joe looked at Kaira. And Kaira stared at her
the room. “Kaira, darling I forgot my laptop in lover as if she were seeing her for very first
the mad rush this morning….” Ɵme. She took in Joe’s tumbling, unruly mane
of hair that refused to be tamed, her slim fig-
“Hello!” Mrs. Sharma exclaimed brightly. “Are ure dressed in what she jokingly referred to as
you Kaira’s friend? I’m her mother, Mrs. Shar- her “office uniform” - a pencil skirt, a formal
ma. It’s so nice to finally see where Kaira is shirt teamed with a jacket. Joe lit up any room
living and meet her friends. Do you live here as with her very presence. People were drawn to
well?” her like bees to honey. And she collected peo-
ple the way other people collected objects. She
Joe stared at Kaira’s mother in shocked sur- had a wide assortment friends and thrived on
prise. spending Ɵme with them. Her innate honesty
had made it hard for her to accept the secrecy
Kaira stepped in, desperate to salvage the situ- that Kaira had insisted on. But she had gone
aƟon. “Mum this is Joe - a very good friend along with it to please her. They
who is staying with me for a few days.” hadn’t planned on becoming lovers. But it had

“Nice to meet you, Joe,” Mrs. Sharma said,
smiling brightly at the two young people who

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

happened. Friendship had blossomed into love her eyes as she contemplated life without Joe.
– a love that was rare and sweet and exquisite The thought was almost unbearable. And yet
in the biƩer-sweet ecstasy it brought them. the thought of openly announcing that she was
OŌen they found themselves reading each oth- in a relaƟonship with Joe filled her with horror.
er’s thoughts. Each intuiƟvely knew what the How would her parents react? And her friends?
other needed and gave it willingly almost un- She couldn’t bear the sƟgma…she just couldn’t.
thinkingly. The sniggers and the whispers behind her back
– they would be like Ɵny poisoned arrows that
Had Joe guessed that she wanted her freedom, would shaƩer her peace of mind. She doubted
Kaira wondered. Did Joe know that she some- she could ever be happy with Joe, once the
Ɵmes wished she could walk away from the relaƟonship was out in the open. Damn Joe!
relaƟonship, unscathed, without anyone find- They had been so happy, cocooned in their
ing out about it? Was Joe offering her a chance liƩle world and pretending to the outside
to do this? world that they were two girls sharing a home.
Why did people need to know anyway, Kaira
“So what will it be, Kaira?” Joe asked. thought angrily, as the tears coursed down her
cheeks. It was nobody’s business, except hers
“Why do I have to decide or choose?” Kaira and Joe’s. Yet a Ɵny part of Kaira realized she
burst out angrily. “Why can’t things carry on as was fooling herself. Joe was right! They had to
usual? There’s nothing wrong in that, is there?” make a stand and come out into the open, if
they wanted to conƟnue in their relaƟonship.
Joe shook her head stubbornly. “Stop being a But Kaira lacked the courage to take that stand.
child, Kair. You know it can’t. So what will it Snapping the suitcase shut, she heaved it off
be?” the bed. Turning, she glanced briefly at the
room where she and Joe had spent so many
“I don’t know,” Kaira replied, miserably. happy moments. FleeƟngly she thought of go-
ing into the living room and confessing to her
“I think you should leave, Kair,” Joe said gently. mother. Then her courage failed her. Dragging
“Leave with your Mum. Marry this boy she has the suitcase behind her, Kaira walked out of
chosen. Have children and a real family. Deep the house, her mother following in bewilder-
down inside, I think that’s what you really ment, wondering why her daughter looked so
want.” upset and why she wouldn’t even say goodbye
to Joe.
“Who are you to make up my mind for me,”
Kaira burst out angrily. Joe stood with her arms folded across her
chest watching Kaira leave. There was a flinty
Mrs. Sharma stared at the two girls. She was look in her eyes. It was for the best, she told
baffled and couldn’t for the life of her under- herself. Kaira wasn’t cut out for this life. She
stand what was going on. They seemed to be was too vulnerable, too fragile. She cared too
speaking a different language altogether. much about what people thought of her. It
would never have worked if things had come
“Are you also an arƟst, Jyotsna?” she asked out into the open. Kaira just wasn’t tough
brightly. “You don’t look like one but all this enough to face the consequences. The whis-
talk sounds very philosophical to me. But pers and sly innuendoes would have destroyed
thanks for making Kaira see sense. All this her and slowly it would have destroyed them
painƟng business is not good for her. She as a couple. BeƩer this way, Joe thought. At
needs a good husband and some children. least she had some precious memories to cling
Then she won’t be so restless and unseƩled. to. They would have to do. Blinking back the
Go pack your bags, Kaira.” tears that threatened to fall, Joe grabbed her
laptop and leŌ for work.
Nodding, Kaira glared at Joe and walked out of
the room. Marching into her bedroom, she
pulled down the suitcase from the top of the
cupboard. Slamming it down on to the bed, she
opened the cupboard and furiously started
throwing her clothes into the bag. Damn Joe
for making her do this, she thought. Tears filled

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Two months later “No,” Dev replied, taking off his glasses and
rubbing his eyes. “She hasn’t. But I think I can
“Kaira! Here’s your soup. Have it while it’s sƟll guess what’s wrong.”
hot,” Mrs. Sharma said, as she marched into
the room with a steaming bowl of tomato “What is it? Tell me at once! Is it some boy? Is
soup. this why she’s behaving like this? But if she
likes someone, I won’t object. She can marry
Kaira was standing at the window staring out- him. I just want her to be happy…” Tara’s voice
side at the bustling traffic on the street far be- trailed off as she stared at her husband.
low. She shook her head. “I don’t want it, Ma!”
Dev shook his head. “It’s not a boy, Tara! It’s a
“Kaira, you have to eat, child. Look at you! You girl! It’s Joe to be precise.”
have become all skin and bones in just two
months. You won’t eat, you have stopped “Joe?” Tara Sharma shook her head puzzled.
painƟng, and you won’t look for a job. All you “What’s Joe got to do with all this? She’s just
do is stay in your room, reading and listening to Kaira’s friend, that’s all.”
music. What’s come over you?”
“No, Tara, I don’t think so. She isn’t just Kaira’s
“Leave me alone, Ma” Kaira said. friend. She’s far more than that. I think they
are in a relaƟonship! I am not absolutely sure,
Shaking her head, Mrs. Sharma set down the of course. I have just pieced this together from
soup and leŌ the room. She would have a word what you’ve told me about your visit to Kollam,
with Dev, she decided. Perhaps Kaira’s dad the strange conversaƟon between Kaira and
would be able to talk some sense into their Joe, Kaira’s hasty departure, and her behavior
daughter. She had always been close to him since she’s returned.”
and listened to him. Yes, Mrs. Sharma decided.
She would speak to Dev about it right now! She “No, no, no! A thousand Ɵmes no! You have
had tried to broach the subject with him sever- got it all wrong! It can’t be! I can never accept
al Ɵmes in the last two months but he had al- that! Anything but that! What will people say?
ways fobbed her off telling her to give Kaira We will be disgraced.”
some Ɵme and space. But enough was enough!
Time and space be damned! She wanted to “But if that’s what makes Kaira happy, then we
know what was going on with her daughter. will have to accept it, won’t we?” Dev pointed
And she would make Dev talk to Kaira and find out gently.
out.
Tara sank down on the sofa beside her hus-
“Dev! I want to speak to you, right now!” Mrs band, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you
Sharma marched into the room where her hus- sure?” she whispered.
band was watching a cricket match on televi-
sion. Dev shook his head. “Kaira hasn’t said anything
to me. I’m just guessing.”
“What is it, dear?” he asked, turning down the
volume with a paƟent sigh. His wife was in one Kaira walked into the room just then. “Ma,
of her moods, he realized. Papa, there’s something I want to tell you,” she
said.
“Well, it’s Kaira, Dev. What’s going on with
her? And don’t give me this nonsense about Dev nodded. “Go ahead, Kaira,” he said gently.
giving her space and Ɵme. She has just shut
herself up from the outside world. How long “Well…I know this will come as something of a
can this conƟnue?” shock to you, and believe me, the last thing I
want to do is hurt you, but the thing is, well…
Dev stared at his wife. “Leave her alone, Tara,” Joe…Joe and I…” Kaira’s voice trailed off as she
he said wearily. stared at her parents helplessly.

“Why should I leave her alone? She’s my “It’s alright, Kair,” Dev said walking up to his
daughter. I have a right to know what’s going daughter and hugging her Ɵghtly. “No maƩer
on in her life. Has she confided in you?” what it is, we will always love you and stand by
you.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Oh, Papa,” Kaira said, sobbing as she clung to “Most people get Ɵred of the sea aŌer some
her father. “I have tried. God knows I have Ɵme. To them it becomes part of the scenery.
tried! But I just can’t live without Joe. She But you are staring at it as if you are seeing it
means the world to me.” for the very first Ɵme,” Kaira whispered soŌly.
“That’s just me missing my arƟst-friend,” Joe
Tara’s face soŌened as she saw her daughter’s said, smiling even as tears welled up in her
obvious distress. Placing her hand gently on eyes.
Kaira’s shoulder, she said, “If it’s Joe you love, “Can you ever forgive me, Joe?”
dear, then you should be with her, shouldn’t “What’s there to forgive? I love you – it’s as
you?” simple as that,” Joe said, twining her hand
through Kaira’s as they stared at the vast blue
Kaira stared at her mother in surprise. “You of expanse of the ocean stretching endlessly be-
all people are saying that, Ma! I thought you fore them.
would never agree. I was so afraid of losing “SƟll? AŌer everything I did?” Kaira asked in a
you, both of you, if I made this choice.” soŌ whisper.
“Always,” Joe replied, puƫng her arm around
Tara Sharma swallowed as she struggled to Kaira’s shoulder and leading her back home.
hide the distaste she was feeling. But she loved
her daughter and wanted her to be happy. And About the Author:
if accepƟng this relaƟonship was what it took,
then so be it. She would do so. Zia Marshall holds an MPhil and PhD in English
Literature. She is a Learning Designer and Com-
“If you love Joe then you should be with her, municaƟon Specialist skilled in performance
Kaira,” Dev said gently. and competency development for personal and
professional growth. She creates context-
“Oh Papa! Thank you! If both of you are in my sensiƟve, soluƟon-oriented e-learning, blended
corner then I can brave anything. I can take on learning, and mobile learning programs
the world if required.” for corporate houses like Wipro, Infosys, HCL,

“It’s a hard life you are choosing, Kaira,” Dev
warned his daughter gently. “It won’t be easy
you know. Society is not so accepƟng of … well
relaƟonships like this.”

“Say it, Papa,” Kaira said fiercely. “Use the
word – lesbians! Joe and I, we are not abnor-
mal or bad people. We are just wired different-
ly – that’s all! I’m just sorry I didn’t have the
courage to accept this earlier. I just hope it’s
not too late and Joe will forgive me.”

*****

Kaira rang the doorbell and waited impaƟently
for Joe to open the door and let her in. She
couldn’t wait to see her again. But the door
remained resolutely shut. Where could Joe be,
Kaira wondered. It was just seven in the morn-
ing. She couldn’t have leŌ for work already.
Perhaps she was traveling. Or had she leŌ for
good! Lost in thought, Kaira made her way to
the beach almost unthinkingly. And there by
the seashore, she saw a familiar figure staring
out at the sea. Silently, she walked up to Joe
and stood by her.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

DHL and also for the educaƟon sector. She is
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69

OUT OF TUNE

by Annina Lavee

We’d all agreed; we’d all emailed; we’d all seen “But on-line it said it was en suite,” said San-
the photos online. We gathered in Ville Pieve a dra.
small village outside of Lucca, Italy at a five-
hundred-year old villa in early June. “No, not to the bedroom,” said Mr. Tornetore.
“I don’t understand where you saw it on-line?”
“The damp smell is from a month of rain,” said
the owner, Mr. Tornetore. “We won’t stay,” said Richard. His voice was
full volume, strong.
“Mold,” said Sandra.
“My friends will not stay and my birthday is
“It’s a five-hundred-year old house and it’s ruined,” said Amanda. Susan handed her a crin-
been renovated. There is no mold. I assure kled Ɵssue. “It’s a disaster. She blew her nose.”
you.”
We’d gathered here for Amanda’s fiŌy-fiŌh
“Mold. My mother is ill from mold. I can smell birthday.
the mold. It’s mold,” said Sandra.
Mr. Tornetore’s smile sunk. His eyes looked
Amanda, Susan, Janice, Sandra, Richard and I moist. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been raining
had surrounded Mr. Tornetore on the great for a month. What can I do? There is no base-
lawn in front of the villa. “If you open the win- ment; it’s built on the soil. I have other proper-
dows and air it out the smell with evaporate,” Ɵes. I’ll see if something else is free. I’ll call
said Mr. Tornetore. “If you run the heaters in you.”
each of the rooms the dampness will go away.”
We four women agreed to stay. The couple
We could smell the rosemary, basil and cilantro agreed to stay the night to try the house. The
growing in an herb garden a few steps away. owner agreed to give back a porƟon of the
He’d furnished the house with anƟques of its money if they didn’t stay and would call. The
era. The outside was painted a leaf green, with seven bedrooms were all off the main room on
white trim, with wooden shuƩers on all the the second floor, where two grand pianos sat.
windows. My fingers ran over the keyboard. Clunk, chink,
out of tune. I tried the second piano, with
Sandra leaned over, her mouth against Rich- sounds like screeching birds. There was a third
ard’s ear. “Mold,” whispered Sandra. “We can’t piano on the first floor in the smaller siƫng
stay here.” Then to Mr. Tornetore, “And room, also out of tune.
there’s no bathroom en suite to the bedroom.”
The following morning there was no hot water
“En suite,” he said, “surely you understand it’s in the bathrooms. The gas tank lived in the
a five-hundred-year-old house. There are no entrance hall outside the kitchen.
bathrooms next to the bedrooms, but there
are three newly renovated bathrooms.” “What else can go wrong,” asked Amanda?

Mr. Tornetore adjusted the glasses on his nose
that had dots of sweat.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

“Maybe it’s the light,” said Susan. That night we went out to a local restaurant for
a glass of wine.
“Probably it’s the light,” said Janice.
“I think Richard and Sandra should come back
“Yes, more than likely it’s the pilot light,” I said. to stay,” said Amanda.

“It’s the light,” said. Mr. Tornetore who came I stared at her for a couple of moments. Did
and relit the pilot light from a cigareƩe lighter she really say that? “But they were here and
he carried in his pocket. didn’t like anything about the place,” I said.

Richard and Sandra came downstairs into the “Maybe they’ll change their mind.”
kitchen later that morning.
The following morning Amanda joined Sandra
“The bed is too short,” said Sandra. and Richard for breakfast at their hotel. Susan,
Janice and I met her later.
“The maƩress is too short,” said Richard.
“They wanted their money,” said Amanda.
“And the bed is too soŌ.”
“And?” I said.
“Oh, you mean the maƩress is too soŌ,” I said.
“They just wanted their money.”
Mr. Tornetore did not smile but he did not
frown. His face was almost blank, which under “Did you give them their money,” asked Susan?
the circumstances I thought was a hard thing to
do. He returned the agreed amount of money “No, just in case Mr. Tornetore changes his
to Amanda. “I cannot find another empty place mind and wants more money.”
for you; it’s the soccer finals and everyone is
visiƟng. What do you choose to do? Will you “Do you really think he would ask for money
stay?” back? I said.

“I’ll call,” said Amanda. “I don’t know,” said Amanda. “I’ll send them
the money aŌer I get back home.”
“I’ll wait for your call,” said Mr. Tornetore.
“My head hurts,” I said.
“He’s a nice looking man,” said Susan.
“I have some aspirin, Susan said.
Janice shrugged.
“Thanks, I’m ok,” I said.
“He’s a nice-looking man,” I said.
Three days later there was another note on the
Two days later, aŌer the four of us visited door from the owner. “I have not been able to
Cinque Terre, the five towns along the Ligurian reach you. I will try again.” Amanda was having
Sea, known as the Italian Riviera and a drive in trouble with her phone. “I think he wants more
the countryside we found a note taped to the money,” she said.
door. Why are you sƟll here? You do not like
the villa. Call me. Later that night Amanda A meeƟng was held in the kitchen on the first
called Mr. Tornetore. floor next to the dining room. “We’re going to
drive Susan to Pisa for her 7am flight,” said
“He doesn’t understand why we’re sƟll here,” Amanda.
Amanda said.
“I would have liked to be asked,” I said,
“Didn’t we agree with him that the four of us
stay,” I said. “You’re being difficult,” she said.

“We said we’d stay, it’s just Sandra and Richard Janice nodded.
who leŌ. I think he’s confused or angry,” said
Susan. Janice nodded in agreement. “I’m just saying,” I said. “I would have liked to
be asked rather than told.”

“He’s coming tomorrow morning and I’m afraid
he wants more money.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Maybe he doesn’t want more money? What if the window came down a Ɵny bit, just enough
we tell him we don’t have more money?” to let in some air. No one seemed to noƟce. I
breathed deeply.
“He’ll block the gate.”
But that was a week ago and now we were
“I don’t think he’ll block the gate. What makes near Pisa, arrived at 7am so Janice could catch
you think he’ll block the gate?” I said. “He her flight out of Italy. We had leŌ the villa at
doesn’t appear to be that kind of guy.” 4:30am in the morning. Ordered to pile into
the car and drive by Amanda who held the car
“You’re being difficult,” said Amanda. keys. AŌer dropping Janice at her desƟnaƟon I
said, “So we’re going to see the leaning tower
“I just don’t think he’ll block the gate. Why now.”
don’t you ask him if he wants more money? I
don’t understand.” “No,” Amanda said.

Amanda sat there silent. “Up at 3:30am, “she “But we’re so close to Pisa. We can be there in
said. five minutes.”

“Up at 3:30am?” I said. “But…” “I don’t want to get caught in traffic in Pisa.”

“See you in the morning,” Amanda said. She “Who cares if we get caught in traffic. What’s
went up to bed. the emergency? We’ve been up since 3:30am
and we won’t even see the leaning tower?
I tossed and turned all night. C’mon.”

The car pulled into the Airport Galileo Galilei Amanda shook her head.
just outside of Pisa Italy. Amanda was the driv-
er, Janice was in the passenger seat, Susan and “You’re kidding,” I said. “I’ll drive.” I had goƩen
I in the rear seat. A week earlier I had been an internaƟonal driver’s license specifically for
banished to the back seat from a misread of the trip. Amanda had said it was a good idea
the map of Italy, in my memory a small mishap back then.
that caused the banishment. I had offered to
be the navigator for a reason. Easily nauseated “The rental car is in my name. It’s my insur-
in a car but less so in the passenger seat, even ance. You’re not driving.” She dangled the keys
less so in the driver’s seat but I was certain in her hand.
Amanda was never going to let me drive, so I
offered to be navigator. The first couple of days “But we’re so close. We’re pracƟcally in Pisa.” I
were fine then I made that error in my reading eyed the keys; could I grab them?
of the map and almost got us slightly off-
course. A violaƟon, banished to the back seat. “We’re driving back to Florence.”
The windows were closed, the air stagnant, my
body swayed, my stomach sloshed. “I’m not much of a tourist but here we are in
Pisa. “I want to see the leaning tower of Pisa,” I
“Ok if I open the window?” I said. said. “I want to see the tower.” If a human
could become a twister, I would have spun
“No,” Amanda said. wider and wider, exploded into a ball of fire.

I thought she was deaf in one ear but appar- On the ride back to Florence, Susan was in the
ently, she was capable of hearing me in the passenger seat with Amanda, the driver. I was
driver’s seat over the car engine. Mistake num- in the back seat leaning hard on the window
ber two for me. This was just the beginning or crank seeking air.
the end anyway you’d like to look at it. “I’m
easily nauseated,” I said to Susan. She either
ignored me or didn’t hear me. My hand moved
to the window crank, the old-fashioned win-
dow crank in this car rental. I rested my hand
there, leaned my body. One minute, two
minutes and then with the slight shiŌ of weight

72

About the Author: Revista Literária Adelaide

Annina Lavee teaches screenwriƟng at the
University of Arizona. Her work has appeared
in the online Literary Journal Brevity Sand-
script, The Awareness Journal, The Mountain
Eagle and the Desert Leaf. She has received
grants from the Arizona Arts Commission and
the Tucson Pima Arts Council and was a Finalist
in the Arizona State Poetry Contest-Jorie Gra-
ham judge in 2003. She aƩended the Squaw
Valley Community of Writer’s program with
scholarship and was a semi-finalist for the
2014 Tucson FesƟval of Books Contest.Lavee
worked in film producƟon in New York City
including as producer of the short film/video
unit at Saturday Night Live.

73

ABBY’S

GOODBYE

by Sharon Frame Gay

Abby saw the news on Facebook. Todd Conway people. Before long it was difficult to know
died last night. The funeral will be held Satur- where Abby leŌ off, and Todd started. For four
day at The Church of the Woods in Deer Ridge. years, their love reigned supreme, cast in a
In lieu of flowers, mourners are asked to do- tableau with other young lovers whose only
nate to the Heart AssociaƟon. ambiƟon, it seemed, was to merge, marry and
breed.
She pushed back from the computer and stood
up, paced in circles, sat down again, tried to There was the usual small town high school
find her breath. pregnancy scare. Abby walking the corridors of
school with her girlfriends surrounding her,
Todd gone. AŌer all these years. Her first, and belly bloated beneath the zipper of her jeans.
if truth be told, only love. The first man to en- And Todd had his warriors - fellow jocks who
ter her body, weave fingers through her hair, huddled with him on the football field, whis-
peer into her eyes unƟl he knew every striaƟon pering and conjuring up frightening images of
in the iris, every stroke of the hand that made baby blankets and swollen wives. Todd was
her pupils dilate. with her a week later when Abby felt sick and
ran into the women's room at Henson's Dollar
The man Abby was meant to be with for the Store, found blood in her panƟes. He stood
rest of her life. outside the door and heard her let out a
whoop, and later told her he nearly fainted
Only it didn't work out that way. It was sup- with joy.
posed to work out that way, damn it, but Todd
paid no aƩenƟon to the law of the Universe Was that the first clue? Was he already feeling
and broke her heart instead. the loops and threads Ɵghten? Or was it later,
when they both went to State University to-
She sat back in her chair, touched the screen gether.
with a finger, read the rest. Sal Higgins, an old
high school friend, related that Todd keeled Sal said on Facebook that his wife Loren was
over at the local A & W while waiƟng for his with him at the Ɵme. Thankfully their kids were
burger and shake. A swiŌ and massive heart at soŌball pracƟce. Abby's cousin Brad, the
aƩack. Sal saw the whole thing. Said when he local cop, was first on the scene and performed
fell, he sƟll held on to the shake, and it landed CPR, but Todd was already gone.
perfectly on the floor, not a drop spilled.
Comments poured in. Old friends said they
Abby and Todd were high school lovers, sewn were coming home to Deer Ridge for the funer-
together in the Ɵght knit community of a liƩle al. People already making plans to meet at the
town in Iowa. In the soŌ cocoon of their small local steak house on Friday night. Abby could
school, they had already finalized life's plans, almost feel eyes shiŌing towards her through
and to Abby the cool metal of Todd's high the internet, wondering. Would she be there?
school ring on a chain around her neck was as
much a done deal as the sun rising in the East. Abby would never forget the day Todd broke
They breathed the same air, knew the same up with her. It was early spring. Their junior

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Revista Literária Adelaide

year at State. He asked her to skip classes and foot of adult life. It seemed to Abby that his
go out to the lake with him. existence held her soul in thrall. Todd had died
so many Ɵmes in her tortured thoughts, that
The air was chilly, blowing frothy waves up hearing about him now, truly gone - seemed
against the shore. They sat atop a picnic table, like an anƟ climax.
huddled under an old quilt. Abby reached over,
stroked his thigh. He took her hand, held it sƟll. #
She looked up, puzzled.
As luck would have it, Abby was in Deer Ridge
"Abby, Babe, I don't know how to say this, so years ago for Todd's wedding to Loren. It was-
I'll just come right out with it. I need to move n't planned. Just a quick trip back home to visit
on. It's not that I don't care about you, but I Aunt Edith and help move her to a senior living
don't think I love you enough. Not in the way apartment. Bells rang out from the church
people are supposed to love each other if around the corner. Abby saw all the cars, the
they're going to be married. It just doesn't feel back of a bride as she walked up the steps, veil
right anymore." Todd looked away, tears in his flowing in the autumn breeze.
eyes, his hand shaking.
"Who's geƫng married, Aunt Edith?"
As many Ɵmes as she tried over the years, Ab-
by could not remember the rest of the conver- A long pause. Then, "Why, I believe it's that
saƟon, what the sky looked like, what she said, Conway boy and Loren Taylor." Aunt Edith
nor the drive home. What she remembered gazed nervously down at Abby's wrists, the
were the years aŌer that, the years where she scars sƟll pink against her skin.
shut herself off from romance, watching
friends marry and have families, but she re- "Oh," said Abby, turning away before Aunt
mained apart, bemused, as though one foot Edith saw the tears springing up. She fluffed a
were in this world, another in a world she only pillow, threw it in a plasƟc bag, tossed it in the
dreamed about. corner marked for the senior home. "Shall I
pack
Her downward spiral was a thing to behold.
Never had a jilted lover grieved so much. Abby up the kitchen, Aunt Edith?" She smiled at her
dropped out of college, lost weight, grew aunt, trying to remain calm, as she spiraled
shaky and unbalanced, did things to herself down a dark drain, swirling in agony, fighƟng
that was wrong. Tiny cuts at first, then larger the urge to run down the street screaming.
slices. Cut her long hair into spiky tuŌs that
looked as meager and lost as her legs in faded Loren. Two years behind her in high school.
jeans. Abby knew her. In a town this small you knew
everybody. What happened aŌer high school,
She fantasized that Todd would come back to Abby had no clue. Did she also go to State?
her. Everything she did, she did with Todd in Stay here in Deer Ridge? Unite with Todd aŌer
mind. How would that impress him? Would he college? Abby wanted to know everything. Eve-
like the new color in her hair? Her small ry nuance, every moment and detail about
Loren Taylor. She strained her memory, con-
successes from Ɵme to Ɵme? Todd was the jured up football games and study halls
unknowing muse to decades of sorrow and throughout the years, peering into the past to
regret, and the need for revenge. Oh yes, re- see if there was already a signal, a sign, a toss
venge. of the head, a note passed in English class.

In her mind, Abby dreamed of this day. Dead In the end, though, it sƟll boiled down to just
Todd. Closure to the story. Abby standing over one thing. Why was she chosen? Why did Todd
his grave, a sorrowful look on her face as she wait for Loren at the end of the aisle, liŌed the
turned and walked away, back to a family, ca- veil from Loren's face, brought her home
reer, proper place in the community. In her to their wedding bed and cherished her body
imaginaƟon, her life was a success story, his
that of a slow bloomer crushed beneath the

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

again and again, giving them children, a home, her tongue over and over for years. A bit of
a purpose. gray in his hair. The gold band on his finger.

As if in answer, Abby saw on Facebook that Then she burst into tears. Ugly tears. The kind
Loren addressed the comments friends had leŌ that comes out in ragged sobs, snot running
on Sal's page. The heartbroken widow found down her face.
Ɵme to commiserate with all the sympatheƟc
friends. Like a person possessed, she chanted. "Why,
Todd? Why? What was wrong with ME? Why
"To all my dear friends, please know I have didn't you love ME?"
read the comments from every one of you, and
am sending you a big hug. Todd was the most He stepped back, shocked. People slowed, then
wonderful husband in the world. He was the stopped and stared. And sƟll she conƟnued to
best father any child could ask for, and the light cry. It was as though the sky opened, a cloud-
of my life. My first and only love. XOXO, Loren" burst of heartache, raining down on Todd, the
sidewalk.
First and only love. Abby was stricken. That was
HER posiƟon in the galaxy. Todd was HERS first, Carrie Anderson, an old classmate, approached
her first and only love. How dare Loren step in, her from the crowd, speaking soŌly, put her
a latecomer in Abby's mind, and grab the Ɵtle. arms around Abby and held her close while
Todd, mysƟfied and embarrassed, walked
Abby poured herself a sƟff one, sat in the worn away, the echoes of Christmas music in the
chair out on the porch, watched kids walking background.
home from school. Felt the haunƟng, familiar
ache that she never married, had no children. Later that night in bed at her parent's house,
She raƩled the ice in her cup, toasted the sky, Abby stared at the ceiling. This was all her
took a sip, then another. Walked back into her fault, she thought. Todd was always good to
lonely apartment. her. He did nothing wrong. She had no place to
set her grief. No blame to smear on his
Should she go to the funeral? How awkward memory. He simply didn't love her. All she had
would that be? Wear black like Loren, or a sim- were quesƟons. QuesƟons that would never be
ple linen dress? She'd wander in at the last answered.
minute, sit in the back pew, keep her head
down, ignore the intake of breath and curious Perhaps that is what made it the most difficult.
stares from friends. No, it would be a mess. There was no drama. No cheaƟng heart. There
Nobody in their right mind would expect her to was simply no more. Then came Loren. The
come. Especially aŌer what happened five kids. A life. And while they built a family to-
years ago. gether, Abby went to live in the big city, found
a drab apartment two blocks from work,
# trudged home every night to the silence that
only a lonely soul can hear.
Abby had come home that year for Christmas.
She was gazing in shop windows at the last She had never wanted anyone else. Abby sel-
minute, looking for a scarf for her mother, dom dated, never let a man get too close. Her
when Todd was reflected in the glass behind body sƟll hummed from Todd's touch, and she
her. She turned, startled, and he smiled that guarded it, kept it sacred, lighƟng a candle in
same old smile that she had known since sec- the farthest corner of her heart and keeping
ond grade. the flame alive with memories.

"Abby" he said, and her chest loosened as Abby had tried therapy, tried expanding her
though constricted all this Ɵme. horizons, but nothing seemed to bring her out
of the abyss she dove into long ago. It was
He held out his arms for a hug, stepping for- painful. It was sad. She plucked at the threads
ward. She smelled the wool in his jacket, the of her thoughts over and over again, feeling
aŌershave, saw the crooked front tooth she shame and heartache. And a vast yearning.
knew so well, the tooth she had traced with

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With effort, Abby reached over and turned off About the Author:
the computer. Held her hand above the mouse,
poised to pounce on Facebook again, changed Sharon Frame Gay grew up a child of the high-
her mind. Turned away and walked into the way, playing by the side of the road. She has
bedroom. There, she took off her clothes, been internaƟonally published in over fiŌy an-
stared long in the mirror, ran her hands in rip- thologies and magazines including BioStories,
ples over her body where Todd once touched Gravel Magazine, FicƟon on the Web, Literally
her, hung her head and wept. Stories, LowestoŌ Chronicle, Thrice FicƟon,
Literary Orphans, Indiana Voice Journal, Cran-
# nog Magazine, and others. Her work has won
prizes at Women on WriƟng, The WriƟng Dis-
Two months later, Abby stood in the Deer trict and Owl Hollow Press. She is a Pushcart
Ridge Cemetery alone. It was easy to find Prize nominee. You can find her on Amazon
Todd's gravesite. The soil was sƟll fresh, bald, Author Central as well as Facebook as Sharon
the tombstone newly chiseled. Flowers doƩed Frame Gay-Writer.
the site, bright against the October sky. Abby
set a single red rose right next to the head-
stone, traced his name with her fingerƟps.

How ironic, she thought. She was the one who
should have died, suffering a hundred lifeƟmes
of loneliness and heartache. Yet here was
Todd. He went first. He wasn't supposed to go
first. He was supposed to yearn for Abby unƟl
they were both ancient, then fall to his knees in
grief when he heard of her passing, filled with
regret.

But Todd didn't fall. He didn't regret. He did
not yearn. He merely died.

Abby peered around, then bent to the head-
stone, kissed his name with her lips. The gran-
ite felt cold and final. She turned away, walked
back towards the rental car, stared down at her
shoes, scuffed, the laces unƟed. She thought
of home, back in the city. She'd been thinking a
lot since Todd died. Perhaps she'll paint the
old walls, buy a new sofa, maybe even adopt a
cat. Get those boots in Macy's window, replace
these worn out shoes. These worn out
thoughts.

Looking back at the cemetery, the grave was
stark and jarring in the aŌernoon sun. A maple
leaf, fiery orange, sailed in the autumn breeze,
landed near her feet. How beauƟful the leaves
are, thought Abby, as the trees set them free.
She reached down, picked up the leaf, held it
to her heart. Watched it quiver with each beat.
Then let it go.

77

THE PHILOSOPHY OF IRONY
IN GREEK CULTURE

by Dimitra Tsourou

This arƟcle stems from my dissaƟsfacƟon with “dramaƟc situaƟonal irony” – a form of irony
the available interpretaƟons of irony in Greek that stems from the plot itself and occurs when
culture. A further difficulty in understanding the characters ignore what the audience al-
“Greek irony” results from the inability to ex- ready knows. EssenƟally, it is based on the an-
press its full meaning when translaƟng from Ɵthesis between ignorance and knowledge.
Greek into other languages. The main purpose When Odysseus and Telemachus meet, Odys-
of this arƟcle is to clarify the parƟcularity of seus’s son is unable to recognize his father in
each type of irony and to draw conclusions disguise. However, the audience knows every-
about its significance in Greek culture. thing.

WHAT DOES IRONY MEAN? In this form of irony, characters are not able to
understand their situaƟon and thus act contra-
The mulƟple forms in which irony appears in ry to logic. The outcome of this ignorance is
Greek culture do not allow for a single defini- that the character pursues and eventually ex-
Ɵon. From Homer and the Tragedians to Socra- pedites his/her self-destrucƟon. Oedipus, for
tes and Plato, irony has been employed in vari- instance, insists on discovering Laios’ murder-
ous ways; however, all instances of irony entail er, without realizing that he is searching for
a contradicƟon or anƟthesis between words himself – a detail that the audience already
and meanings, acts and results, illusive and knows.
objecƟve reality, expectaƟons and outcomes.
IRONY IN PHILOSOPHY
DRAMATIC AND SITUATIONAL IRONY
The mulƟlinear dimension of irony does not
The most famous type of irony is “dramaƟc end here. In the philosophical sphere, irony
irony”. The term was coined by C. Thirwall in takes on a different usage. When Socrates
1833 and has been consolidated since. Dra- opens a dialogue, he feigns ignorance of the
maƟc irony appears in two forms: verbal irony issue in quesƟon, challenging both others and
and situaƟonal irony. “DramaƟc verbal irony” is his own intelligence. SocraƟc irony is hence
found mostly in the Tragedians, and occurs based on the idea that a man feigns ignorance
when the characters use words whose meaning in order to elicit responses from his discussants
is ambiguous to the audience. A clear example or to steer the dialogue in a certain direcƟon.
is in Sophocles’ “Oedipus the Tyrant” when the
old soothsayer visits the king. Oedipus ridicules Socrates’ conscious statement of ignorance, in
the man because he is blind, and the outraged conjuncƟon with his deep thirst for knowledge
Tiresias tells the king that, while he can see, he and his belief in lifelong learning, explains why
is “blind” to the truth. When Oedipus becomes Plato envisages such a strenuous educaƟonal
blind, he finally understands the meaning of system in his “Republic”. Plato’s use of irony,
the old man's words. meanwhile, is revoluƟonary in many respects.
The oxymoron inherent in Platonic irony is that
Arƞul and arƟculate, Homer, the author of truth emerges from myth. Thus, the paradoxi-
The Iliad and The Odyssey, was adept at using cal narraƟon of “The Allegory of the Cave” is

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transfigured into a logical, realisƟc, cruel truth or poetry. Rather, it is a philosophy in itself, an
about the human condiƟon. It is a conscious ideology, or even a state of being. At Ɵmes, a
choice by the philosopher to show that the sense of unexpectedness, human fragility, self-
myth is in fact the truth. Plato achieves this harm or illusion emerges; at others, irony re-
with eloquence, avoiding pompous expressions veals the absolute un-idealized truth at its
or plaƟtudes. His myths are wriƩen in simple most naked and occasionally cruel. The dia-
Greek, not the language of philosophers, and chronic meaning of irony encompasses the full
are disƟnguished by a lack of technical terms. spectrum of human nature, from naivety to
Plato’s fluency and simplicity are two virtues tragedy. In these postmodern, ungrounded
that make his wriƟngs aƩracƟve and readable, Ɵmes, irony reveals the power of realism.
even to newcomers to philosophy.
About the Author:
CAVAFIAN IRONY
Dimitra Tsourou was born in Athens, Greece,
There is a long history of irony in Greek culture. in 1983. As a qualified Secondary Teacher, Di-
The internaƟonally renowned poet ConstanƟne mitra has a considerable experience teaching
Peter Cavafy used irony as an essenƟal tool in Classical Greek, History, LaƟn, Greek Literature
his poems. Many have characterized him as a and CreaƟve WriƟng. She studied Classics and
modern philosopher, with irony as the protago- majored in Greek Literature. She also special-
nist of his “philosophical” poems. At Ɵmes, he ized in European History and PoliƟcal Science.
uses Homeric irony; at others, dramaƟc irony. During her studies, she parƟcipated in the pro-
The astonishing feature of Cavafy’s irony, how- gramme “Balkan Crossroads” pertaining to
ever, is the unique way that it conveys his mes- human rights and peace-building strategies
sage to his readers. In his poem “WaiƟng for undertaken by the Columbia University. She
the Barbarians”, Cavafy presents a whole com- was awarded a diploma with disƟncƟon in
munity looking forward to their surrender, an- Freelance and Feature WriƟng and in English
ƟcipaƟng the Barbarians’ mercy and a return to History from London School of Journalism. She
the simple life. All the leaders, kings, legislators lives in the UK and she works as a Greek Lan-
and judges are ready to relinquish their author- guage teacher and writer.
ity to the Barbarians. However, the Barbarians
never appear, and the people’s expectaƟons
are dashed: the irony is created through refuta-
Ɵon. Irony is also used in the poem
“Alexandrian Kings”, when Cavafy implies that
there is no value in impressive structures. In
her ambiƟous ceremony, Cleopatra apporƟons
all the territories once conquered by Alexander
the Great to her children in an aƩempt to stu-
pefy the Alexandrian kings. However, the audi-
ence already knows the fate of both Cleopatra
and her son, and can see the fuƟlity behind the
lavishness. The poem’s beauƟful images thus
leave a biƩer taste.

CONCLUSION

In the modern era, we experience every form
of irony. Irony has become more topical than
ever in this period of endless relaƟvism and
simulated realiƟes where the boundaries be-
tween the ficƟve and the real are increasingly
blurred. Irony uncovers the human illusion in
every context and in every form. Irony in Greek
culture is thus not merely a tool of philosophy

79

HE LOVES ME, HE
LOVES ME NOT

by Michele Sprague

Twenty years ago I couldn’t get enough of him. liƩle conversaƟon. The bulk of our acƟviƟes
We talked for hours and never ran out of things involved our children.
to say. We greeted each other with anƟcipa-
Ɵon, smiles and lust. I remember the early days of our marriage. Just
seeing him brought a smile to my lips. I actually
I was 18 then. Puƫng stock into childish enjoyed geƫng up at 5 a.m. to fix his breakfast
games, I used daisies like people use Ouija and spend quiet Ɵme together. Now, I can’t
boards – as a tool to search for answers. With a remember the last Ɵme I fixed an early morn-
pull of a petal I said, “He loves me.” Then I ing breakfast for him.
pulled the next petal and said, “He loves me
not.” I conƟnued pulling petals one-by-one And I remember seeing the lit porch light when
unƟl the last petal revealed the answer. If I I returned home in the evening. To me, it rep-
didn’t like the answer, I started the game over resented my home, which was filled with love,
with another flower. comfort and security. It represented coming
home to him – the man I dearly loved. As the
In the meanƟme, our friendship grew. We fell years passed by, the porch light dimmed. The
in love and married. On our wedding day he house no longer felt like a home – it was cold
looked lovingly into my eyes and said, “I’m go- and lonely.
ing to make you so-o happy.”
Time moved swiŌly from those early, carefree
I remember some of the good Ɵmes we shared days before our children and advancing our
together. He took me to the botanical gardens careers. We’ve driŌed apart as if on separate
and served as my chief photographer; he woke ships to distant countries. And we no longer
in the middle of the night to help me with a spoke the same language.
computer program so I could meet my story
deadline; and he surprised me with a decorat- Most nights he reƟred at 9 o’clock. I was up
ed Christmas tree when I was too depressed to with the kids, who were winding down. Then
celebrate aŌer my friend passed away. I’d reƟre about midnight. To be fair, he went to
bed early because his work day started at 5
Nineteen years passed. Our king-size bed, a.m.
which was once a marital playground, provided
distance and loneliness. His body hugged the We spent too much Ɵme away from each other
edge of the right side of the bed; mine hugged – not enough Ɵme really listening to each oth-
the leŌ. The snoring he found cute when we er, taking walks, indulging in playful behavior…
were first married annoyed him. We spent very liƩle Ɵme being friends, com-
panions, lovers; and almost no Ɵme that said
I didn’t remember the last Ɵme he said he “I’m so glad I married you.”
loved me. Come to think of it, I didn’t remem-
ber the last Ɵme I told him. We didn’t laugh The house was very cold. It felt as if oxygen
together anymore. We rarely went out as was being sucked out of it. I played the flower
a couple, except for an occasional movie and game, which I haven’t played in 20 years. “He

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loves me. He loves not.” The last petal indi-
cates he doesn’t love me. So, I tried the game
again but with a different quesƟon – “Should
we stay together? Should we part?” I cried.
About the Author:
Michele Sprague is the author of the book,
“Single Again 101,” and wrote hundreds of sto-
ries for magazines and newsleƩers. Sadly,
Michele and her husband divorced. FiŌeen
years later she remarried and lives in Michi-
gan. (porƞolio.michelesprague.com)

81

KINDER-WHORE

by Deanna M. Lehman

(an excerpt) Why was the social worker here today? I didn't
know that my mother was abusing and ne-
I was born into a world of darkness and my glecƟng me and that her relaƟves kept turning
mother was the moon. Cold and unsmiling, she her in to the State. I only knew that I loved my
stood illuminated by her man of the moment, mom and didn't want to be taken away. While
many faces changing throughout the passage the adults were talking, I crept away and bur-
of Ɵme. How I longed for your love! How I wait- rowed behind the curved back of the couch in
ed for your acceptance. All in vain. The stars the dark living room seeking the solace of shad-
around you are the tears I've shed, wavering ows. I could hear my heartbeat as I half held
brightly and already long dead by the Ɵme my breath and tried not to move. I watched
they're perceived. My mother. My Mary. My the bright circle at the end of the tunnel. May-
unrequited love. My betrayer. be they wouldn't find me. But the sofa was
pulled away from the wall and I revealed with
I remember the day they took me away. A nowhere leŌ to hide. The caseworker kept say-
caseworker arrived at my house. Her name was ing that I needed to leave with her. She had
Diane Solembrino. I remembered social work- carrot red hair cut into a bob with a direct, seri-
ers taking me to foster care before, so I was ous gaze. I don't want to go, I said. She was
suspicious. The last Ɵme I was in foster care, it calm but firm in her insistence. My mother
had been with a young, plump woman in a wouldn't look at me. She spoke only to the
trailer who gave me a chewy hamburger on caseworker in a steady, unintelligible stream of
white bread that I didn't want to eat. I was friendly words. A brown paper bag with my
scared of her because she spanked her daugh- name, Deanna, wriƩen in black marker, was
ter in front of me hard, making her cry. I stood handed to the caseworker with a daisy drawn
in petrified horror and she looked at me and underneath my name like I was going some-
asked, what's wrong? Why are you hurƟng where fun, not away from my mother forever. I
your daughter, I asked. My mother never was handed my stuffed teddy bear Timmy, who
spanked me. I'd never seen anyone spanked I held Ɵghtly under my chin and over my heart.
before. I thought the woman would maybe Diane took my hand. My mother didn't hug me
hurt me too. I wasn't even her daughter. She as she said her final words to Diane. Why did
was being bad, the woman explained paƟently. she seem cheerful? It was like she was already
But I'd seen no wrong doing and stayed silent serenely separate from me. I hesitated, waiƟng
and far from the woman's grasp, which made for her to say goodbye but she ignored me and
her sigh. I was in this home not long. Maybe a directed Diane to watch out for the motorcy-
few days or a week or two. I can't remember. I cle, which was parked inside the enclosed
was too young to have a sense of Ɵme and porch, on her way out. Uncertainly I leŌ with
didn't even know how old I was. Maybe three, Diane. We passed Uncle Steve on the way out.
maybe four. But I did remember the feeling of He was just arriving to visit with my mother. He
sadness and not belonging. said goodbye as we passed each other on the
porch.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

It was winter, aŌer Christmas someƟme and snowy white with a light blue ribbon Ɵed round
already dark outside. There was no snow, only his neck. I knew he was a boy because of the
black skies with naked tree branches dancing. baby blue ribbon, which I asked to be taken off
A strong wind blew, licking the cooling tears because it had a sƟff plasƟc look and feel I dis-
from my cheeks sideways in liquid streaks as I liked. I didn't know any names, so I wanted to
squinted against it. I could see the Christmas name him Jimmy aŌer Uncle Jimmy in appreci-
lights strung up on houses in rainbow colors. aƟon for the giŌ. But he said that was his
They swelled to spiky, bright blossoms as tears name, so why not Timmy instead. I liked the
welled and then contracted to their original way it sounded like his name and happily
pinpricks of light aŌer they overflowed. Over agreed. He was my only toy and very solemn
and over again. I had no idea where we were looking because his Ɵny, Ɵpped over red D of a
going or why. I sat in Diane's cold, strange car mouth was unsmiling, his brown gaze ever di-
as we drove off into darkness. I cried and asked rect. How many tears had his fur absorbed over
why I needed to go with her. She said I had to the years, changing it into nappy, darker and
come with her and nothing could change that. I dingier salt-encrusted shades of gray? Some
was distracted by looking through the wind- areas worn bald from being loved overmuch.
shield because I'd been on very few car rides in He never complained and his watchfulness was
my life. My mom and I mostly walked places, unwavering. At least he was with me. Mrs Cave
when we went anywhere at all. I couldn't stop opened the paper bag and removed a couple
the tears from slipping down my cheeks, as clothing items, a row of cookies in a sandwich
houses smeared by outside taking me farther bag and a black plasƟc comb. Is that it, she ex-
and farther away. Diane said it was for the claimed quesƟoningly. She couldn't believe my
best. mother packed so liƩle. These are junk, she
said with a wrinkling of her nose, seƫng the
We arrived at 5721 Adams Avenue in Ashtabu- cookies aside to throw away.
la, Ohio. A woman opened her porch screen
door to let us in. Well hello there! She was Mrs. Cave told me I'd be a very preƩy girl if
middle aged, with her brown hair pulled atop only my hair were combed. I didn't want her to
her head. She led us into her living room where comb my hair because I worried that meant I'd
an older man was seated. He folded his news- have to stay. That's okay, I said, I have to go
paper, set it aside and smiled welcomingly. home soon, so you don't have to. I felt an exas-
They were introduced to me as Arthur and So- perated despair, like I was unsuccessfully nego-
phie Cave. The couple received me with con- ƟaƟng with kidnappers. Mrs. Cave asked to
cerned cheerfulness, voices strangely musical, comb my hair again, but so nicely that I went
as I stood in their living room eying them wari- along with it, not knowing what else to do. She
ly. Diane handed over my brown bag, told me tried working out the snarls in my shoulder-
I'd be fine and said her goodbyes, then leŌ me length hair. I endured her combing awhile. Mr.
with these strangers. The door shut and they Cave watched beaming warmly at me. Mrs
both looked at me. Mrs. Cave asked if I'd be Cave finished up and then offered me some hot
happy staying with them. I promptly said no, cocoa with marshmallows. I'd never had that
that I didn't want to stay, that I wanted to go before but she said I was in for a treat. She
home to my mother and baby brother. I held went off to heat the cocoa in the kitchen, leav-
my teddy bear Ɵghtly. I trusted that Timmy ing me alone with Mr. Cave in the living room.
would help me through all this. He was a living
creature to me, silent and watchful with gray, Mr. Cave was siƫng in his brown leather reclin-
maƩed fur and unblinking brown eyes. He was ing chair, his feet up holding a newspaper. He
my sibling and confidant, soŌ and soothing to had a big round belly and reminded me of a
my cheek. Uncle Jimmy won the bear at a car- teddy bear. He wore glasses and a friendly
nival and tried to giŌ it to my mom. She didn't smile, dark stubble standing sƟffly on his
want it though, saying it was cheap. Why don't cheeks. Come sit with me, he invited, moving
you give it to Deanna? Uncle Jimmy handed his newspaper aside and paƫng his lap.
him to me with a small smile. The bear was This scared me and I stood frozen before him. I

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

thought he wanted to play with me. Uncle Jim- why. The subject of sexual abuse wasn't
my was the only man who'd ever touched me brought up again in the three years I lived with
inƟmately, but he was thin and young and I the Caves. Nor did Mr. Cave ever ask me to sit
knew him well. My uncle liked to do things na- on his lap again. He was preƩy astute, consid-
ked with my body but he was my friend and I ering how liƩle his intuiƟon had to work with
didn't mind. Nobody else ever really touched before asking his wife such a quesƟon. But to
me. Not my mom or Big Donnie. Only that one her, the quesƟon seemed out of the blue. She
Ɵme when Mrs. Munger bathed me. Mr Cave hadn't seen my frozen reluctant to sit on Mr.
probably wanted to do things with me too but Cave's lap and she didn't menƟon his concern
it was awkward because I didn't know him. to my caseworker. I think all children who en-
Also, his tummy seemed so big to me. Maybe ter foster care, irregardless of age or gender,
he'd crush me if he laid on top of me. I didn't should receive complete medical and psycho-
have the words to express these thoughts, be- logical examinaƟons for signs of abuse, both
ing four-and-a-half. So I just stood there hesi- physical and sexual, so that any therapy need-
taƟng, unsure of what to do. Mr. Cave's smile ed can be provided as early as possible.
faltered and I didn't want to hurt this nice
man's feelings, so I climbed onto his lap. My name's Deanna, it was pronounced Deen-a.
That's how my mom said my name. Mrs. Cave
I sat sƟffly in the depths of the recliner chair, kept calling me De-Anna, which wasn't how my
off to Mr. Cave's side, enfolded by the ink- name was said. I told Mrs. Cave my real name
scented, rustling newspaper that he conƟnued but she said, no, that's not your name. It's
reading. I sat waiƟng for him to do something. spelled here on the paperwork D-e-a-n-n-a.
Nothing happened. Mr. Cave asked me if I Deen-a only has one n, so your name's Deanna,
knew how to read. I said yes, thinking that was she said in the new way. She said she liked the
a good thing to say but when he asked me to name Deanna because of an actress named
point to the words I knew, I realized I didn't Deanna Durbin. She concluded that it was a
know any. I'd never seen a magazine, newspa- beƩer name than Dean-a. Soon I accepted it as
per or book before but knew about Quik from my own and even grew to prefer its superior
my strawberry milk. By the Ɵme Mrs. Cave phoneƟc beauty. I was Deanna Cave on my
came back with the cocoa, I was relaxed. While report cards for a couple years, although I was
I was sipping melted marshmallows at the din- born Deanna Dunford because my mother was
ing room table, I heard a low, whispered ex- married to Dean Dunford when I was born.
change between the Caves. Mr. Cave asked his
wife if it was possible that I'd been interfered I adjusted to my new life with the Caves. My
with. I didn't know what being interfered with mom hadn't supervised me much, so some-
meant but was paying carefully aƩenƟon be- Ɵmes my feelings were hurt because I couldn't
cause I felt I wasn't supposed to hear what was understand why Mrs Cave got angry at me for
said. Mrs. Cave replied, Children's Services did- liƩle reasons, like playing with the Windex, so
n't say anything about that. I didn't say any- beauƟfully blue and strangely scented with a
thing about it either, not having the vocabulary fun squirt nozzle trigger to squeeze. Before,
words like penis or vagina or sexual abuse. It staying away from the adults was the main
would take a gynecological exam at age seven rule. I played and did what I felt like and if in
to discover the physical evidence. When ques- the process I made a mess, broke something or
Ɵoned about these findings, I broke my prom- hurt myself or others, I got reprimanded aŌer-
ise to Uncle Jimmy that I wouldn't tell our se- ward and that's how I learned. Here, if I did
cret and said yes, somebody touched me there. something I wasn't supposed to do, I oŌen got
But when pressed for details or emoƟonal re- caught in the act or even right before doing
acƟons to the sexual abuse, I became tongue- what I desired, which felt strange and restric-
Ɵed, embarrassed and silent. Uncle Jimmy was Ɵve, although I respected it. It even felt like she
my friend and my feelings about the situaƟon knew exactly what I was thinking and told me
were complex. The psychologist said it was not to do it even though it was sƟll just a new-
wrong for him to do that but didn't explain born thought. Mrs. Cave was amused at my

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Revista Literária Adelaide

amazement at her ability to predict what I was waggling my feet back and forth as they dan-
thinking. You can fool a lot of people but you gled well above the floor, scanning to see
can't fool mom, she recited. It made me feel where my held puzzle piece went. Mrs. Cave
she was near magical. I soon realized I could read me two stories from the LiƩle Golden
only do what I was instructed to do, not what- Book series, Jack and the Beanstalk and Mickey
ever I felt like unƟl it caused a problem. Even Mouse's Picnic, which always made me hungry.
specific acƟvity were assigned, giving me more I enjoyed the colorful illustraƟons and the sto-
organized and focused play periods which were ries soon became familiar favorites.
excellent for skill building. Play on the front
porch with your pretend groceries. Here's a Mrs. Cave tried to teach me to color in a
ball, go see how many Ɵmes you can dribble it Scooby Doo coloring book but I had no experi-
in a row. Why don't you go play on the swing ence coloring. She was disappointed by my
for awhile? Then I'd go do it unƟl Mrs. Cave messy first efforts with orange, wild zig zags
told me to stop. going well outside the lines. I pressed with
heavy intensity, which resulted in a sudden
They tried teaching me life skills, like how to snap and I stared at the two unƟdy halves. I
spell my name, how to recite our address and tried to push them back together bu it would-
how to Ɵe shoes. I didn't always understand n't stay. I wanted a whole crayon but now it
why they were doing this. When they present- was ugly, broken and felt too short. It made me
ed me with a pile of ugly, worn out, sƟnky adult feel disappointed, guilty and sad. Mrs. Cave
shoes to pracƟce shoe tying with, I was bewil- watched in growing disapproval. I colored with
dered. I didn't want to play with yucky shoes. my leŌ hand but she scolded me and put the
There was a shapeless tan pair which truly crayon in my right hand. Why not, I asked. I just
offended my aestheƟc sensibiliƟes. Even their wanted to see what it felt like and if I would do
eyelets looked stupidly staring with the toes all beƩer on that side. She gave no real explana-
cracked in creases and Ɵredly curling Ɵps. I Ɵon. It's the wrong hand, use the other one. I
hated them. It took effort to understand how felt gnawing dissaƟsfacƟon because I couldn't
to Ɵe the laces exactly and I didn't want to figure out why it was wrong. Later in life, I
touch the frayed ends, someƟmes gray with would integrate leŌ-handedness into my reper-
dirt. I didn't understand why the Caves were toire in direct defiance to this memory, becom-
forcing me to sit there unƟl the enƟre pile had ing parƟally ambidextrous. But back then, I just
their laces Ɵed. Worse, they stood there used my right hand as instructed. I tried color-
watching me and correcƟng me the whole ing Shaggy again with less pressure, but the
Ɵme. I cried throughout the enƟre ordeal and color wasn't bright enough that way. I pushed a
hitched a watery, anxious sigh of relief when it liƩle harder and snap! Another broken crayon.
was finally over, leaving them both wondering Two of eight were now broken. Crayons
aloud to each other why I was so upset. Won't seemed ridiculously fragile. I felt dismayed as
it be nice to be able to Ɵe your shoes now, they Mrs. Cave took the coloring book away saying
asked placaƟngly. I just gave them a dirty look she'd save it for when I was old enough to use
and said nothing. But eventually I learned to it properly. I felt like I failed.
appreciate the fact that they were trying to
equip me with the training that I needed, even I only colored at school thereaŌer, well behind
if I treated them like they did me an outra- my kindergarten peers in terms of experience. I
geous indignity at the Ɵme. didn't know how to cut with scissors and had
problems using pencils because the lead kept
They had me do jigsaw puzzles at the dining crisply snapping. The teacher wondered why I
room table on rainy aŌernoons. My favorite was going up to the pencil sharpener so many
featured Robinson Crusoe and had five hun- Ɵmes and my explanaƟon they just keep break-
dred pieces. It was easy to do the frame using ing sounded lame. I wrote such dark markings
the corners to start out, but my aƩenƟon wan- that if I went to erase a mistake, no amount of
dered filling in the center. I would sit there rubbing at it seemed to work. I could sƟll see
impaƟently, elbow on table, head in hand, the ghost of it. I tried licking my fingerƟp and

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

washing the pencil marks away, but it only wet kneeling inside the wagon on one knee and
the paper and I ended up rubbing a hole scooƟng along with the other leg singing, liƩle
through it when I tried again to erase it. My red wagon painted blue, skip to my lou my dar-
vigorous erasing made pink smears and usually ling! I wasn't allowed to go around the block or
wrinkled the enƟre page if it snagged. I was across the street. Just back and forth along
startled to discover that if you erase too brisk- Adams Avenue. We lived near Bunker Hill.
ly, you could burn your fingerƟp touching the SomeƟmes Mrs Cave took me on a walk to the
hot spot. I sucked on my finger, near tears from Stop-N-Shop at the top of the hill, filching mul-
frustraƟon and surprise but the burning sensa- berries off a large bush along the way. I played
Ɵon quickly faded. My markings were so fierce- outside every day that it wasn't raining. A fresh
ly pressed that the lead point someƟmes tore pile of dirt was purchased and Ɵpped ceremo-
through the paper, each deliberate stroke leŌ niously from a wheelbarrow into a rich, loamy
liƩle grated granules of lead which smeared pile in the backyard by Mr. Cave. I made mud
when I went to Ɵdy the page or transferred to pies and gingerbread boys, carefully decorated
gray smudges on my face and clothing. But I with pebble buƩons and dry dirt for sprinkled
was concentraƟng and trying to control myself sugar. I enjoyed geƫng absolutely filthy. There
with such focus that pressing hard felt natural. was a garden with sun-warm tomatoes and a
The added stress from the bad results in- variety of flowers in a rich range of colors. I
creased my anxiety and determinaƟon to do liked the sweetly scented snapdragons with
beƩer, which in turn caused me to press even their purple and white snouts roaring silently at
harder. I had all these emoƟonal ups and the press of a delicate jaw hinge. There were
downs. Not that the teacher observed my pussy willows in the spring, light gray and vel-
methods, just the horrible, wrinkled, smeared vety soŌ to the lips and nose. In the summer a
and holey results which she complained about grapevine hung heavy with green and purpling
before my classmates. I wanted to please her globes of slipskin grapes. There was a sour
so badly. Or at least escape criƟcism for my green apple tree which made me salivate to
clumsy efforts. even look at and a lone raspberry bush growing
along the very edge of the back yard keeping
I felt like a horrible student compared to the the tall peach tree company. There was a tree
cheerful confidence of my classmates. They with a wooden board swing which had a cool,
didn't seem anxious. They seemed like they moist clay furrow curved beneath from bare
were relaxed and having fun. They even talked feet. I'd swing as high as I could, protected
with each other while I stayed separate not from the burning sun by the shade singing
knowing what to say. Why was it so hard for songs to myself taught by Mrs. Cave. I was hap-
me and so easy for the others? I felt different pily busy during the day.
from them, made worse by the fact that I was
the only foster child in the class. They talked of At night, I had trouble sleeping. I just wasn't
moms and dads and siblings. Their jobs, nice able to. I would play with Timmy, either rodeo
things they said or did or liƩle giŌs that they rider where my foot was Timmy's bucking
gave them. I had no such details to offer. The broncho or I'd have him do a series of flips,
Caves said my mother was a bad woman who catching him in my hands. Then I would just
didn't take good care of me and abused me. I think and think and think to pass the Ɵme. I
only knew that I loved and missed her and be- was starƟng to love the Caves but sƟll missed
ing told she was bad made me miserable. I my mom and wanted to be with her. I missed
shrank behind the person siƫng in front of me, my baby brother with his blonde, tousled hair
trying not to be noƟced. and silly smiles. I'd lay in my bed on the boƩom
bunk staring at the overhead maƩress and
But before the stress of starƟng school, my tracing the metal laƫce diamonds. I just didn't
days from spring to the beginning of fall that feel sleepy and was put to bed at eight, which
year were filled with freedom and play. I'd be felt especially cruel in summerƟme when it was
busy pulling a liƩle red wagon up and down sƟll light outside. I'd watch the bleeding sunset
Adams Avenue with many a noisy claƩer. Or

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Revista Literária Adelaide

fade to black, mourning the loss of precious About the Author:
playƟme. The nightlight in the hall made every-
thing golden sepia-Ɵnged surrounded by shad- Deanna M. Lehman is an author, poet and
ow. A Chewbacca piggy bank stood guard by arƟst currently residing in Des Moines, Iowa.
the door, anchored with countless pennies She is currently represented by the James Fitz-
within. I would hear different TV shows turn to gerald Agency of New York City and is the au-
nightly news downstairs. Then Mrs. Cave would thor of Kinderwhore, available through Ama-
look in on me before turning in for the night zon.
with Mr. Cave in their bedroom across the hall.
I was someƟmes the last person in the house
to fall asleep.

In the dark for many hours, I'd play all the
memories of my mom that I could remember.
I'd do this nightly because it made me feel clos-
er to her and I didn't want to forget her. I felt if
I forgot her then I'd never see her again. I
hoped one day she'd take me back home. My
mother was thin, with long, straight brown hair
past her waist and dark brown eyes. She had a
deep tan, so different from my own strawberry
-blonde paleness. The 1/4th Cherokee blood
was very apparent in her. She was beauƟful to
me, especially in the soŌ focus of my memo-
ries. Mr. and Mrs. Cave were in their fiŌies,
more like grandparents than parents. My
grandmother was younger than Mrs. Cave. I
missed my mother so.

87

THE EIGHTIES

by BeƩy J. Sayles

My son was a career Air Force man and while that can do dire things to a "Live and Let Live"
visiƟng me in northern Wisconsin, he saw 80 philosophy. It has, also, been my observaƟon
acres of woods, swamp and beaver dam that that bumblebees have a placid nature while
he loved on sight and wanted for a summer yellow jackets come at you like a "Spiƞire" at
home when he reƟred. There was a vintage war, at least, when you dislodge their nest with
house trailer on a large clearing near the road, a gush of water.
and with water, boƩle gas cooking stove and
an outhouse, he could stay there, comfortably We waged war for a month or more. I sƟll
enough, during summer visits. With two days don't know how I came through unscathed, I
leŌ before he was due to leave for his next was threatened oŌen enough, but it's amazing
staƟon overseas, he completed the transacƟon how fast a human can move when the adrena-
and owned the land. He leŌ the key to the trail- line is at its peak and he's fighƟng for some-
er with me. thing he considers belongs to him. My offense
was always the same; I'd give a mighty pump
I made numerous trips to the "80" that sum- on the handle, and dash for the back door that
mer. I learned my way about the woods, and was only 10 feet away. I'd look through the
while siƫng on the bank of the beaver pond window and there he'd be glaring at me inches
watching for beavers, enjoyed dozens of jewel from my face [I swear it was the same one eve-
colored dragonflies darƟng about. I never saw ry Ɵme, he hated me].
a beaver, but saw a stump and freshly gnawed
wood chips. With the nest dislodged, the yellow jackets
would hover about for 10 minutes, or so, and
Under the steps of the trailer lived a nest of then leave, and it would be safe to go out and
bumblebees. I oŌen sat on the steps, basking in pump "my" water.
the sun, and the bumblebees entered and leŌ
their home with no apparent concern or malice With a week usually elapsing between my vis-
towards me. I enjoyed watching them. On the its, the yellow jackets always had a new nest
opposite side of the trailer was a pump with built in the pump spout. Then, one day, I made
deliciously cold water. AŌer a warm walk in the the dash for nothing, the enemy had departed.
woods, that pump would be my first stop. Un- I was surprised to find that I was disappointed;
fortunately, some yellow jackets also liked it aŌer all, my old enemy had been a worthy ad-
and made their nest in its spout. versary and our encounters had been exciƟng. I
wondered if they would be back the next sum-
I suppose there's no parallel between the bum- mer.
blebees and the yellow jackets because one
lived side by side with me and we didn't inter-
fere with each other. In the case of the yellow
jackets, we both wanted the same spot and

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author:
BeƩy J. Sayles is a reƟred librarian who has
been wriƟng most of her life, but only tried for
publicaƟon a few years ago. She loves to read,
everything from Poe’s Raven to Rex Stout’s
Nero Wolfe. She walks in the woods and writes
a poem about it. And she writes about feelings,
good and bad.
She has had short stories and poems published
in Storyteller, CreaƟve With Words, The Oak,
Nomad’s Choir, UlƟmate Writer, Persimmon’s
Tree, Spontaneous Spirits, PKA Advocate, Amu-
let, MysƟcal Muse, LOS, CC&D, The Enchanted
File Cabinet, Conceit, Shemom, Pink Chamele-
on, PBW, Down in the Dirt, The Weekly Advo-
cet, Van Gogh’s Ear, Yellow Mama, Song of the
San Joaquin, BeƩer Than Starbucks, Pennine
Ink and Stray Branch.

89

THE HOWL OF AN AMERICAN
PSYCHO: An IntrospecƟon

into the DestrucƟve America

by Vanya Suchan

To raise the noƟon that the human being the mental destrucƟon and the clinging to es-
reaches for the glamorized “American dream”, capism from what exists as the human being’s
but remains crushed in her struggle and reality aŌer the confected and dangerously
trapped in a capitalist worldview, we might romanƟc “American dream” comes to fruiƟon.
first examine the works of Ginsberg’s beatnick On my reading, the erosion of the human be-
call for the affirmaƟon of life as it appears in ing’s spirit, and in turn assimilaƟon into an un-
his poem, Howl. In his noƟons, Ginsberg ex- natural, capital and freedom driven existence,
plores the desƟtuƟon of America and the “best ensues in both Ginsberg and Ellis’ works. In
minds of [his] generaƟon [have been] de- this way, the polarizing and materialisƟc idea
stroyed by madness”(1),“demanding instanta- of freedom, grounded throughout the naƟon,
neous lobotom[ies]...”(69). Ginsberg preaches eradicates that for which Allen Ginsberg fights
of the all-too American endeavor to meet the and stands. As such, the residue of the human
demands of the melee of fighƟng for success in being leŌ behind remains her madness, which I
a straƟfied, capitalist society. Here, Ginsberg insist on understanding as corresponding with
expounds on the human being’s struggle to that of Ellis’ depicƟon of the cliché realizaƟon
exist in fighƟng for the realizaƟon of the of the American dream in the film American
“American dream”. This incommensurability Psycho: an exaggerated extreme of the Ameri-
that lies at the heart of such plaƟtudes de- can ideal as the creaƟon of freedom fostered in
stroys the momentum of her becoming who heinous acts of murder.
she is and what she iniƟally grasps for in the
first place: the forgoƩen American Dream of In exploring there heinous acts of murder moƟ-
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Gins- vated by the American dream ideals, the film
berg conƟnually quesƟons the stability of adaptaƟon of American Psycho follows an elite
America, inquiring into the nature of the businessman, Patrick Bateman. As demonstrat-
“American dream”. The very ideal of the ed in the film, he exists hindered by the binding
“American dream” commercializes what the role as a successful man in a consumer driven
human being strives for is that which drives the society. He prides himself on his wealth, status
crushing of her sanity. On my reading and as it through his possessions, and physical appear-
appears in the text, the human being ventures ance. Housed in the “American Gardens build-
for what her true American dream remains as, ing on West 81st Street on the 11th floor” his
something destroyed in the process of her en- social presƟge, although impressive, sƟll leaves
lightenment to reveal the source of true happi- him struggling to meet the standards of the
ness. Here, I would like to bring these thought social strata of his colleagues. Bateman, rou-
paths of Allen Ginsberg into dialogue with Bret Ɵnely mistaken for other men, described as the
Easton Ellis’ “American Psycho” as a way of “boy next door” and “ ...a dork...[s]uch a bor-
opening up a hermeneuƟc understanding of ing, spineless lightweight”, struggles with his
Howl. The cinemaƟc adaptaƟon, wriƩen own masculinity and the fragility of his status.
by Mary Harron and Guinevere Turner, depicts Living wholly obsessed with his self-image and

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Revista Literária Adelaide

ability to “fit in”, he endures a “balanced diet, real [him]”. Bateman flees towards an escape
[and] a rigorous exercise rouƟne” and yet lacks from the tortures of his dying core to an exist-
a sense of control. He lives the “American ence of control through animalisƟc behaviour.
dream”, but fails to find pleasures in his rou- The indulgent pleasures of sex and drugs, such
Ɵne life, fiancé and luxurious lifestyle. Fabri- as that of his colleagues, inefficiently quenches
caƟng an escape from his detrimental regimen Bateman’s yearning to kill, a symptom of the
of the nine-to-five finds itself in the gruesome ailment which afflicts this kind of American
killing of his co-workers, prosƟtutes, and those society.
who impede his success, a pasƟme that exclu-
sively exists as his only true coping mechanism. Reaching for a diversion from this lifestyle,
Bateman exists in a detached state with his Ginsberg similarly presents the human being
“self” similar to the Ginsbergian human being. taking on her own methods to reaching an es-
Both variaƟons of this human being exist in the cape from the incarceraƟon of her societal
distorted idea of the American dream, forced roles that she insists on playing. She takes part
to carry out the life and ideals of an abstracted in the external pleasures of “drugs… alcohol
vision in which from they wish to diverge. In and cock” (11), a hubrisƟc act in an aƩempt to
her aƩempt to survive, she requisitely “fad[es] reach happiness before she is forcefully
out in vast sordid movies...picks [herself] up shocked herself out of her “natural” ecstasy by
out of basements...stumbl[ing] to unemploy- Moloch, the canite demon in “Howl”. She di-
ment offices” (43). The idenƟty in the private verts herself from the constructs of societal
discourse of her and the idea of herself she norms, extending to the divine in an “ancient
portrays to the public both are rooted in and heavenly connecƟon”(3) in a moment of flood-
juxtaposed to one another. In this way, she ing freedom, clinging to her daily sojourn. In
remains in a disconnected state with herself, this way, the human being has the ability to
obligated to juggle between the side in which achieve a moment of peace without dragging
she will present to the public and the side she in the body of the taboo and monstrous life-
discloses to herself. Much like the human be- style of Patrick Bateman. Comparable to the
ing, Bateman exists in as Heidegger deems the human beings diversion in Howl, American
human being as das unheimlich, the unhomely Psycho invokes these occuring themes and
way in which she dwells estranged to herself, moƟfs as well. Throughout the film, drugs, sex,
trapped in mediaƟng between a capitalist and alcohol exist as a crutch, even a prevailing
America and her authenƟc aƩunement toward mechanism for the most elite in the business
being. world. These imperious characters spend their
free Ɵme worrying about how “good [a] bath-
Bateman, exisƟng in what I call an unhomely room [is] to do coke in” and a woman “who will
comportedness, lies collocated to his, if not saƟsfy all sexual demands... without being too
sterile, dwindling passion of his pneuma, the sluƩy about things.” Their domineering traits,
vital spirit of his being. As illustrated in film, employed by the demands of a compeƟƟve
through the character of Bateman, the human and hypermasculine culture, force them to
being loses herself in her endeavor for com- escape to a realm that Ginsbers idenƟfies as a
mercial happiness. The core of her being lies “starry dynamo in the machinery of night” (3),
deprived of the forgoƩen American dream, unable to find happiness in their own realiƟes.
becoming an idea, a rouƟne, as she lives “hug On my reading, these men, much like the hu-
[ing] and kiss[ing] America under [her] bed man being, cling to any escape from her actual-
sheets” (127) “while it coughs all night and ity and the mockery of her embarrassingly sim-
won't let [her] sleep”, the same America that ple existence. She lives detached from her self,
Ginsberg laments. (128) Ginsberg’s verdict on exisƟng as “some kind of abstracƟon...”, a con-
the sickliness of America we see epitomized in ceptual version of who she really appears to
the character Bateman as he broods on his exist. Through the human being’s process of
actuality that “there is an idea of Patrick Bate- seeking the fundamental life of the “American
man, some kind of abstracƟon, but there is no dream” she finds herself in a tortured state of

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

being. The shallow ideology that supports the About the Author:
capitalisƟc “American dream”, destrucƟve in
nature, embeds itself in her and manifests into Vanya Suchan is a student who aƩends Lakehill
a biƩer existence. Her “self” and who she once Preparatory in Dallas, Texas where she studies
lived as subsists in disunity, emblemaƟc of an and excels in deep textual analyzaƟon of litera-
erisƟc existence. Her life is now one of dis- ture and poeƟcs. Her work mainly focuses on
chord and fricƟon between who she wants to the human being's existence in dialogue with
be and who she is forced to rouƟnely dwell as other texts. She hopes to be able to share her
and against. She now remains as an imitaƟon work with others and to help readers be as
of herself, her past ideals forgoƩen, clocked- passionate about literature as she is.
out of her pneuma, living solely for the tasks
she must complete. Although she has reached
a point of supposed success, what was seem-
ingly her goal, she remains yearning and pining
to bridge her existence to that of the forgoƩen
American dream. In this way, the divide be-
tween aƩaining the “American dream” and the
happiness beyond the bounds of that noƟon
exists as a liminal space she cannot cross. Here,
the human being finds herself forced to remain
trapped by the societal duƟes of the “American
dream” or live detached from this reverie eter-
nally. She remains fastened between the two,
struggling, possibly even failing to mediate be-
tween them. This detrimental life she leads
Ginsberg, diagnosing this as “the narcoƟc haze
of capitalism” (51), which blinds her as she
takes a proverbial drag from that cigareƩe of
an inescapable and monstrous ideals of a capi-
talisƟc driven democracy. What she was once
in awe of now embodies that of her nemesis.
She lives howling for those who “bared their
brains to Heaven...” (4) and howls for the
“ancient heavenly connecƟon”(3) and “though
[she] can hide [her] cold gaze, and you can
shake [her] hand, [she] is simply not there.” In
the human being’s aƩempt to sprout form the
soil of the forgoƩen American dream, she di-
verges from her once un-tainted desires to a
corrupted agenda. Only when she realizes that
this seeded perversion has bloomed like a
“sunflower...on top of a pile of ancient saw-
dust” (4), does she have the choice to escape.

Work Cited

Ginsberg, Allen. Howl. The Norton Anthology of
American Literature, W.W. Norton and Compa-
ny, 2012. p. 492-500. Print.
Harron, Mary American Psycho. (2000). [DVD].
Ginsberg, Allen. Sunflower Sutra. The Norton
Anthology of American Literature, W.W. Nor-
ton and Company, 2012 .Print.

92

FAKE PEOPLE ARE
THE BEST ONES

by Cassie Follman

When I was a kid, I was enamored with the irritaƟng comments that she only said to rile
world of Pretend. Endless possibiliƟes me up.
stretched out before me, and imagining fake
scenarios came second nature. Characters It worked, too. Her add-ins usually led to me
squirmed their way into my brain and sunk yelling at her for ruining everything by breaking
their teeth into the caverns of my ears. They the magic. Not to menƟon that she had messed
whispered adventures that I had to write, and up the scene where I was supposed to be
refused to leave me alone, like my incessant crowned The Greatest Heroine of All Time.
younger cousin who had just discovered an-
noying people was the single-handedly most Most children have a favorite stuffed animal,
entertaining thing in existence. To please the my sister’s was a terrifying cat, named Fuzzy,
characters, I would oŌen act out these adven- that she slept with unƟl she became “too cool”,
tures myself, or through cunning negoƟaƟon and went to high school. I was never obsessed
with my older sister. This tacƟc usually in- with a certain object, though that did not pre-
volved me promising to give her the last piece vent my obscene collecƟon of stuffed fluffy
of tomato pie pizza. I was lucky that her main white rabbits and black Labrador puppies from
moƟvaƟon in life at the Ɵme was food, it would storming my bed like a castle and staking their
have been much more difficult if she had re- claim there for years. Instead, my Fuzzy mani-
quested something else, like Webkinz, as pay- fested from Pretend.
ment. Those bitches were expensive.
I was addicted to making one character as real
One such situaƟon consisted of my sister and as possible. He was formed from photographs
me pretending that we were heroines with and stories told with shiny, melancholic eyes.
magical abiliƟes. While my mom shopped, we His hair was messy, dirty blond, his eyes an
ran around Ann Taylor, ducking into coat racks indeterminate blue. The khakis he wore were
to baƩle dragons. We stormed upon display taƩered, the beer t-shirt had holes he couldn’t
sets and dashed into dressing rooms to rescue have been prouder of, and his loafers were
Ɵmid liƩle boys who cowered under their beds. destroyed. Huge glasses were perched on his
nose. My dad.
“Oh, how can I ever repay you?” They begged
while sinking to their knees in awe of our He never said much. The comments were
amazingness. small, insignificant. Their structure was flawed,
and ideas ran together. They swirled in bub-
“By swearing your allegiance to us and promis- blegum pink and lilac, like the ‘poƟons’ I made
ing that if you are ever in danger, you will call out of only my mother’s finest bath products.
for us.” Of course, they always did. Their mere existence made them invaluable.

SomeƟmes my sister would screw up the story The words he said were lies, as he was not real.
by adding in, “And don’t forget to tell everyone At some point he was, but for my life, he was
that I’m the superior sister,” or other equally nothing more than a story. I outlined his image
in my head and stared at the crappy brown

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

chair that used to be his. With my eyes About the Author:
squeezed Ɵght, I would put him together one
piece at a Ɵme. Cassie Follman is an aspiring writer from Phila-
delphia, PA. She is currently obtaining a Bache-
“Maybe if I stared with enough intent, I could lor’s degree in History and English, with an em-
conjure him up into existence.” I had whis- phasis in CreaƟve WriƟng at Smith College. She
pered to myself on one occasion. has been wriƟng and reading her enƟre life and
has served on the boards for school newspa-
Once, I went out to the swing set behind my pers and literary magazines.
house and kicked my legs as hard as I could. My
rhythm on the swing was wobbly. I imagined
that my extreme height was due to my dad’s
strong arms sending me flying up, up, up to-
ward the kaleidoscope leaves from the trees in
mid-October.

I craved validaƟon from the one person I would
never receive it from. On the occasions that we
would talk, he fueled my pride. The voice was
the hardest part, and I could never get it quite
right. I tried different movie stars, aƩempƟng
to find one that fit. For a while I seƩled with
Ferris Bueller, but I grew frustrated as it didn’t
sound perfect enough.

SomeƟmes, I believed my mom thought I was
insane, oŌen asking me, “Who are you talking
to?”

Out of embarrassment, I never managed to
respond further than, “Ugh, no one!”

Pretend was both rewarding and torturous. It
was like I was desperately thirsty, and my brain
conjured up a glass as a mirage. Then, it filled
that glass to the brim with ice cold water. I
could almost feel the water running down my
throat, puƫng out the fire. The water would
never be mine, as all games have their limita-
Ɵons. SƟll, for those few seconds when I was
able to picture my dad, the thirst was a liƩle
less unbearable.

94

DERELICT

by Allen Long

I once sat on the floor at a Saturday night party by her classmates, she held a high rank in stu-
at my friend Rick’s house; I was drunk, and Rick dent government, and she’d aced her classes
unknowingly stood on my legs, sipped a beer, and was Harvard-bound. I was happy for her,
and conversed with a preƩy blonde from but I felt a wisƞul regret that we’d never be-
school named Jane. I’d downed six large plas- come closer. I was a smart guy with good pro-
Ɵc cups of Heineken from the keg for two rea- spects, but here I was now, drunk on the floor
sons. First, I’d just worked nineteen of the last without the maturity or common sense just to
twenty-four hours as a cook at Pizza Hut, and sip my beer socially.
my legs ached bone-deep, so the brews served
as sedaƟves/painkillers. Second, I’d entered To make maƩers worse, I caught Wendy Sum-
junior high as a crew-cut straight-A widely des- mers looking at me with pity as well. Wendy
pised nerd, and now that we were high school was a stunner, with long red hair and matching
seniors, I enjoyed shaking my shoulder-length green eyes. Also, she smiled and laughed a lot
auburn hair and reminding my classmates I and seemed like a kind and happy person. I
could party with the best of them. had a big-Ɵme crush on her, but I knew she
wasn’t available. She stood with her boyfriend
“Rick!” I shouted. “Watch the legs!” Frank Delatorre, who was a bit short, but he
was deadly handsome with piercing blue eyes
Rick glanced down, laughed, stepped off my and shiny liquid-gold hair.
pins, and apologized. Jane smiled at me, but I
was clear-headed enough to catch the flicker of Luckily, I redeemed myself with Wendy before
disappointment in her eyes. I was embar- the school year ended. This was 1975 in Arling-
rassed. Jane and I’d been in school together ton, Virginia, and Wendy and I were both in a
since kindergarten or first grade. Our mothers psychology class engaged in encounter groups.
were friends from college, so Jane came over Our class was divided into four small groups,
to play at my house periodically when our and Wendy and I were in the same cluster. We
mothers got together. My guy-room didn’t were encouraged to tell our peers the basics of
interest her, so we oŌen went for short walks; our personaliƟes and interests within five
we liked each other but were too shy to say minutes. Then each classmate would make
much. I had a bit of a crush on her that lasted honest comments about how he/she perceived
for years. During our best visit together, we that person. The idea seemed to be to idenƟfy
gorged ourselves on delicious green grapes gaps or a lack of gaps between these two reali-
growing on a fence we shared with a neighbor Ɵes. We were encouraged to hug each other
who raised orchids and parakeets. This was a at the end of the session to soothe hard truths
bonding moment for sure, but our only one. and our high anxiety levels. Our much-loved
teacher, Mr. Lee, circulated from one group to
At Yorktown, our high school, Jane and I smiled another, monitoring our progress and making
and said hello in the halls. She seemed poised sure our comments about one another re-
for a highly successful life: she was aƩracƟve, mained humane.
friendly, and down to earth; she was well-liked

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Wendy said she wanted to become a nurse Wendy and I ended up in the same shelter,
because she liked helping people; two years as siƫng together on a sofa. We were pleased to
a volunteer at Arlington Hospital had inspired have each other for company, and when we
her. Her expression was bright and open. God, became sleepy, I put my arm around Wendy’s
I loved her, or I thought I did. When it came shoulders, and she snuggled into me, leaning
Ɵme for my comments about how I perceived her head against my chest. We fell into a deep
her, I said, “I think you’re very aƩracƟve and and contented sleep. This is one of the most
also full of kindness and posiƟve energy. You’ll peaceful dreams I’ve ever had.
make a terrific nurse.” She smiled, her eyes
shiny with graƟtude. Okay, so there’s a third reason I was drunk at
Rick’s party. My younger brother Danny and I
When it was my turn to describe myself, I said, were physically abused by our parents from the
“I’m a preƩy mellow guy, kind of shy, and I love Ɵme we were small children unƟl we each en-
reading, wriƟng ficƟon, swimming, playing gui- tered seventh grade. So I was a boƩled up guy
tar, and spending Ɵme outdoors— in fact, I’m who enjoyed uncorking myself now and then.
going to Virginia Tech and may end up as a That’s why Wendy’s friendship hug felt like
forest ranger— spending Ɵme outdoors is very pure, unadulterated love and why I wanted to
spiritual for me.” I pictured myself working redeem myself with Jane.
contentedly at a remote post in a gorgeous
forest and wriƟng ficƟon in these inspiraƟonal Jane gave a speech at our graduaƟon ceremo-
surroundings. This never happened— I ended ny, but I didn’t see her at any of the parƟes
up unhappily working in the business world in that ensued. Soon aŌer, we leŌ for college and
expensive California, where we moved to be lost all contact. However, over the years, I re-
close to my first wife’s family. ceived Ɵdbits of news about Jane from my
mom. She graduated with honors from Har-
In high school, I had three close friends: my vard; she earned a B.A. in art history and de-
buddy Will whom I’d known since first grade, bated whether to pursue an art-based career
my friend Nick whom I’d met in seventh grade or study law. Her father, who’d abandoned the
and who shared my passion for swimming and family when Jane was in elementary school,
science ficƟon and horror books/movies, and was a lawyer. She fell into crisis trying to figure
my pal Craig V. who played guitars with me. out if she really wanted to be an aƩorney or if
Otherwise, I wasn’t that well known, so my she was considering that path to please/
encounter group mates told me how happy impress her father. She put her life on hold
they were to get to know me. and sought therapy. Later, Jane married, and
her husband leŌ her. She returned to therapy.
Wendy commented last: “Before today, I Jane dated and then married one of our high
thought you were a total derelict, but I can see school classmates, Jimmy Thornton, and they
now you’re a smart nice guy who’s going to be had two sons.
happy and successful.” When the embracing
began, Wendy made straight for me and gave I was pleased to hear of Jane’s triumphs and
me a bear hug. She held me Ɵghter and longer sad to learn of her struggles. I wished I could
than I expected, and I felt we became friends. help her in some way, but she was on the East
Unfortunately, I never saw her again aŌer grad- Coast, and I was married and living near San
uaƟon, despite aƩending a couple of class re- Francisco. I don’t know why, exactly, but I felt
unions. I sƟll think about her, though, especial- an unusual amount of empathy toward her,
ly since I now work as an assistant nurse in an perhaps because we’d parƟally bonded when
inner city hospital— as it turns out, I, too, dis- we’d laughed with crazed abandon as we
covered a deep desire to help others. stuffed ridiculous amounts of jade-colored
grapes into our mouths, the sƟcky sweet juice
I recently dreamed about Wendy. We were pouring down our chins. Also, we’d both been
back in high school, and there’d been some somewhat beat up by life.
kind of natural disaster in Arlington, and
we had to evacuate our homes for the night.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

And I was happy to hear Jane had married Jim- mom; I was founder and president of a small
my Thornton because I remembered him as a Silicon Valley high-tech markeƟng firm. I didn’t
good-natured kid with a sense of humor. Jim- know it then, but my firm was desƟned to get
my was a friend of my buddy Nick and oŌen sat wiped out in the Great Recession that began in
with us at our junior high lunch table. When- 2001, and I would become a swimming instruc-
ever we got into insult baƩles, Jimmy might tor, a swim team coach and, later, an assistant
say, “That’s preƩy big talk for a one-eyed fat nurse, all very saƟsfying “helping” jobs. We
man!” A line from the John Wayne movie, True briefly discussed our families— I knew Jimmy,
Grit. Or someƟmes he‘d say, “I’ve et beƩer of course.
men than you with their heads buƩered and
their ears pinned back!” Source: unknown. Finally, Jane glanced at me shyly and said, “Did
your mom tell you I was hoping you could give
I wondered if Jane ever thought about me, and me a few pointers about the restaurant?”
if she did, was I her grape-guzzling buddy, a When I nodded, she said, “Is there any informal
derelict, or something else? I suspected I rare- way to eat there? I’m afraid the boys might not
ly crossed her mind, and if I did, she probably present the best manners. Also, is there any
just remembered me as a nice guy she’d known trick to keeping the price down while sƟll hav-
from her pre-college school years. ing a good meal?”

Shortly aŌer I made plans to aƩend my thirƟ- Before I could answer, Jimmy rounded a near-
eth high school class reunion in Washington, by oak, glared at me, and shouted at Jane.
D.C., my mother, who was friends with Jane, “Where the hell have you been? I need you
called to tell me that Jane would be there as over here with me, now!” He grabbed her arm
well and wanted my advice about a world- with surprising force. Jane cried out and broke
famous and expensive French restaurant in free.
Berkeley where she and her family planned to
dine while on vacaƟon. I knew the restaurant “You’re not doing this!” she yelled. “You don’t
and said I’d be happy to pass on a couple of own me— I’ll be there when I finish talking to
Ɵps. I was excited and curious about seeing Allen— don’t you even want to say hi to your
Jane. old friend?”

*** Jimmy shot me a venomous glance and strode
back the way he’d come.
I aƩended the reunion alone, my beloved sec-
ond wife Elizabeth having stayed behind in “What’s wrong with him?” I said.
California with our four children. The venue
consisted of an insanely crowded bar with “Stress,” she said. “He does classified work for
French doors opening out upon an expansive the government, and it takes a toll.”
lush and fragrant garden. I wended my way to
the bar and ordered a Corona with lime. Of my Jane’s face creased with anxiety, and she trem-
close friends, only Nick was aƩending the reun- bled. I longed to touch and comfort her. I
ion, and I didn’t see him, so I strolled the think she sensed this but was afraid she’d
grounds, stopping periodically to sip my brew break down if I made contact. Also, touching
and chat with classmates I remembered liking. wasn’t in our repertoire.
Fireflies flickered around us. AŌer several en-
counters, I met up with Jane. She looked She forced her face into a bright expression.
preƩy and elegant in her simple black dress “So, please, tell me about the restaurant!”
with pearls. We smiled.
“There’re two tricks to it,” I said. “Go there for
Jane said, “It’s so wonderful to see you!” lunch because it will only cost half the price of
dinner. Also, eat downstairs versus upstairs
I concurred. Then we spent a few minutes because downstairs is less formal, and you
catching up— Jane had ended up working as an should be able to have your sons with you
art therapist, and she was now a stay-at-home without any hassle.”

As I delivered this informaƟon, the last of my

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

a warm glow of saƟsfacƟon from helping my About the Author:
friend aŌer all these years. But even as Jane
thanked me and turned to join her husband, I
knew my giŌ was like one of the fireflies sur-
rounding us— a brief flash of luminescence
besieged by darkness.

Allen Long is the author of Less than Human: A
Memoir (Black Rose WriƟng, 2016). His work
has recently appeared in Adelaide Literary
Magazine and the Adelaide Literary Awards
Anthology 2018. In addiƟon, his memoirs have
appeared or are forthcoming in Broad Street,
Eunoia Review,and Hawaii Pacific Review. An
assistant editor at NarraƟve Magazine since
2007, Allen lives with his wife near San Francis-
co.

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