ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE NO. 56, DECEMBER 2022

ADELAIDE

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international
monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded
by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015,
the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfic-
tion, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles,
and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to
publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to
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A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal
internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e
Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic
em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-
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Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais
assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudan-do os
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(http://adelaidemagazine.org)

Adelaide

INDEPENDENT
MONTHLY LITERARY MAGAZINE

Year VIII, No. 56, December 2022

ADELAIDE BOOKS
New York / Lisbon
2022

ADELAIDE
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal
Year VIII, Number 56, December 2022
Ano VIII, Número 56, dezembro 2022

Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon
adelaidebooks.org

Editor-in-Chief
Stevan V. Nikolic

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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at [email protected]
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ISBN: 978-1-958419-45-8
Printed in the United States of America





REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

CONTENTS

FICTION:
GO DOWN WITH THE SHIP by Michael Duke 7
AT THE END OF THE DAY by Jeff Adams 10
AGATHA by Barry Garelick 19
THE LAST JOURNEY by April McDermott 30
THE JOB by Juan Sanchez 41
ARE YOU A PRINCESS by Christina Klessig 45
THE BUZZER by Kelsey Harrold 46
STEW by Patrick Sweeney 49
MUD SHOWS by Michael Caleb Tasker 64
SMOOTH OPERATOR by John Tavares 83
THE GOLDEN LEAVES OF OLD CITY by Daniel Picker 94
SAIKEIREI by Bruce Kamei 106

NONFICTION: 133
TENSE MATTERS by Chelsea Owens 127
TRAVEL by Ates Yersu 131
THE ANATOMY OF HOPE by Ananya Anand

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IF YOU LEAVE, WHERE WILL YOU GO? by Lisa Hoelzer 138
WHAT I REMEMBER OF THE DRAGON by Kaylin Moore 143
LETTING GO by Brooke Castillo 147
LOVEBIRDS by William McMillan 151
MUCH TOO YOUNG Gary E. Calhoun, PhD 155
THE SETTING by Emily Vest 160
THE CATCH by Kristen Langlois 165
HOW TO TELL PEOPLE I AM WORDLESS WHEN I AM UNABLE
TO SAY IT by Zayda Dollie 168
THE STORY OF THE STORYTELLERS
by Richard Owen Collins 173
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE: LOST AND FOUND by Anu Kumar
182
ILLNESS AND THE MOVEMENT OF TIME by A.M. Palmer 193
DAYLIGHT SAVES by Kay Smith Blum 199
NEW BEGINNINGS by Lisa James 203
HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR FIRST JOB by Ella Mear 213

POETRY:
THOSE TWO by Odeta Xhega 223
ROGUE RIVER REDEMPTION by Clint Frakes 230
THE GROVE by Tina Klimas 237
TO PAINT A CLOUD by Russell Dupont 252

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THE YELLING MAN by V. A. Rivera 259
JACOB AND THE ANGEL by Ingrid Blaufarb Hughes 264
BEYOND GRANNY’S GARDEN by David Matthews 270
FOUR HAIKUS by Jeffrey Tao 275

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FICTION
FICÇÃO



REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

GO DOWN WITH THE SHIP
by Michael Duke

Jim Jack couldn’t find it. “Do you know where my phone is?” “Don’t you
have a fucking app for that?” she asked back. Eventually, he would locate
it himself and walk back out of the room. Buried under her annoyance,
she felt the outline of a past resurfacing inside her. Addiction’s not cute,
but it can be disastrously funny and then tears. Nothing beat laughing
after a terrible day. Sometimes when nothing seemed to go right, it was
worse. Evidence that the world was conspiring against her. Everywhere
she looked was another head nodding out over a screen. She saw the
population take on the postures of blissed out users. It made her body
ache for old habits.

Jill didn’t drink which was why he stopped drinking. She said it was
poison that messed with her chakras. If those were blocked, she wasn’t
going to sleep with him. Out went the booze and the late night bar
runs. But he disliked how Jill badmouthed his tech. No one talked shit
about the wheel or the airplane. The smart phone was like the Swiss
Army knife of information. Really move the needle without leaving
your bed. Why the fuck would you marginalized it? After sadly sliding
the device into a bedroom drawer he looked at the mirror on the wall
in front of him. He staring at his reflection, fixed his hair, and tapped
the underneath of his chin with the back of his hand. Slimming down
was the goal. But arguing was not how you consented her to bed. He
wanted to eventually ease her into a sex tape.

He’d stand naked in the dark of the bedroom, waiting for Jill to
emerge from the bathroom. The draped windows glowed a passive green

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tint from the street lights. It made her freckled skin look like a glowing
polka dot wrap coiled lovingly around her muscles and bones. Her hair
was a red Medusa mane. Jim would slide his fingers through her hair
all the way down to the snugness of her skull. His erection raged down
below his ribcage. The golden square of his crotch radiating heat like a
chemical burn.

She said it made her shy when he looked at her. Her nipples poked out
in the darkness. Jim cupped his hand, running it down the front of her
body, slipped a few fingers inside her. Her hand’s solid grip guided his
erection into her. His body seized up as if each cell of his body became
bound up inside of her. The words ripped out of him like torn pages
from book. His breathing turning choppy and erratic . She called him
a fascist for sex and he said he would do whatever she wanted. “You
prove my point,” she’d respond and grind into him harder and he’d
moan or go speechlessly. Like some sort of cable running through him,
he couldn’t resist her push & pull. “From poison to porno with me,”
she’d tease him. Jim would toss most of his life accomplishments into a
fire if it meant more of her.

A transfer addict finds a new thing to consume. They are as
unpredictable & dangerous as fire. Mechanical & methodical as a
treadmill. Maybe a narcissist. Definitely vain. But always very, very
secretive even to himself. Parts of him were more firewalled than others.
He sometime felt like a conversation with a stranger on the train was
more insightful then the ones he had with his closest friends and family.
Could the stranger have a better idea who he, Jim Jack, was more so then
he could ever fathom himself. “So I would want to go with them and
maybe have sex with them or murder them.” He was no killer. More like
a talker with an interrupting habit. It served him as it infuriated others.
He thought that was funny.

Each time the bar room door opened with new comers and goers, a
blast of daylight flashed everyone’s eyes. You couldn’t help, but turn your
head towards the light. It was so sudden every time. The door slammed
back shut and the day drinkers’ pupils dilate wide like frog eyes popping
out of everyone’s head. The bartender was our rare, sober, motorman as

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everyone else’s train of thought went sliding off the track, derailing in
slow-mo. Jim would cup his mouth with both hands in a megaphone
mocking gesture, and shout, “another round!” as he descended on a
table near the back of the bar.

“When did the world switch from being a scared one to a scary one?
It’s like Hallows’ Eve every goddamn day. Spell live backwards and it’s
e-v-i-l. I can barely take it.” Jim Jack was on a tear. “I still dislike when
I can’t get stoned for the day. Everyday,” he said to the strangers around
him. “You know what the original sin of getting away with anything
is? Getting caught doing it. A self-fulfilling prophecy of stupid acts.
Circus of life. Circle of life.” The bar felt like it was a ghost cloud they
could party inside forever. “To be honest, the thrill of irresponsibility
gets me off.”

Jill wrapped the belt around her right arm in a seductively slow curl
of her wrist. “Obsession is a funny thing, isn’t it?” she used to say, her
veins popping. Him and her. They were levitating inside a ghost cloud
far from the world. There was no door. There was no daylight to break
the spell. The surge of warmth floated along his skin as if he stood in
a hot stream warmed by the earth. Always looking to die stylishly, he
prayed for lightning. “If I am struck dead, will I hear the thunder?”
Love can be a deep set need, but addiction is like love without emotion.
A deep rumbling echoed in the sky as if the Universe was moved with
great amusement. The cogs and gears and ropes flailed against each
other for purpose. A silent explosion light years away like a door to a
bar swinging open. Spectacle and order huddled together tightly holding
hands. Looking into each other’s eyes for answers.

Michael Duke lives & writes in greater Los Angeles.

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AT THE END OF THE DAY
by Jeff Adams

Peg Dooley said to her father, “You are looking at me with different
eyes.” Of course he was. Four days ago Mrs. Dooley left this world.
Sixty-two years as a couple, what else was Peg to expect? Embarrassed,
she excused herself from the second story deck overlooking the back
yard and went inside to the bathroom mirror, the same mirror from
twenty years of living there, twenty-two years removed from that. And
in it she saw the same eyes as her father’s. And when she rejoined Doc
Dooley she saw with her different eyes the end of his life.

“There, walking in the garden,” he said, gesturing down. It was a large
black bird, but not a blackbird. A raven? A crow? He could look it up
later. “It looks to be contemplating.”

It appeared to Peg to be pacing off the distance between two points,
or maybe searching for something to eat, or something to love, or
something lost. “Birds don’t think.” She couldn’t stop herself from
thinking about it.

“The posture is different.” Different from what? he wondered, but it
was. And yes they do think.

“It doesn’t notice us up here.”
“This is how it behaves when it is alone and not feeling threatened.”
He felt very threatened now, very alone.

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“How it behaves,” Peg replied, “when it is with its mate.” Where is
the other bird? she wondered. They mate for life, both ravens and crows,
but not ravens with crows. Where is my mate? she asked herself.

It was early morning, when mated birds make assessments. What was
lost from the day before? What was saved? What must be found to get
through another day? Is my other still alive?

Peg went online. “It is a raven.” With no partner raven to see and to
compare sizes, she could not tell its gender. It was a large bird anyway,
bigger than the local robins by far. Muscular looking, with a broad
and deep chest, a fearsome beak of shiny onyx, a wrestler’s neck. It was
covered in inky blue-black feathers and balanced on burly thighs that
sloped downward to connections with skinny gunmetal grey shins, short
little poles that split open into gnarly, grasping claws that pinched deep
into the soft earth as the creature strolled about.

Dooley’s raven wandered among the intermingled wild grasses and
rose bushes and circled the Japanese red maple with the delicate maroon
leaves that dangled loosely above it all. Doc’s wild grasses and rose bushes
and other plantings had thrived under his care for years in his terraced
garden. So had the Japanese red maple, a more recent gift that Ginny
Dooley gave to her husband for their fiftieth. So had Ginny, whose
meanderings in the garden were an elixir.

Doc’s garden chores were his daily ritual, which was now delayed
a bit to observe the unexpected visitor, to suss out its motives and
perhaps find meaning in its deliberate movements, which were slow
and measured, like the beat of his wounded heart.

Other than the garden, beyond which the avian did not initially
wander, the Dooley’s back yard was nothing more than the root zone of
an immense Canadian maple tree that dominated the space. One could
not walk across the yard with eyes closed and not trip over any one of
the many giant roots that grew thick as firehoses and bulged upward
when outward growth stalled. As a child Peg called them sea serpents

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and gave them names, and from the deck’s elevation she took a bird’s
eye view of her private ocean.

“The serpents are my friends, mommy. They like me. They let me
play on them.”

“The whole tree likes you, dear. The serpents are his feet. The branches
are his arms and fingers. Hug the tree when his leaves wave in the wind,
and dance with him.”

“You are funny, mommy. Dance with the tree?”
“Dance with the one who loves you.”
“Daddy loves me.”
Ginny died suddenly in the kitchen off the deck. Doc found her
and called Peg first because he wanted her there with him when the
paramedics arrived to see what Doc already knew. This was a family
that did everything together.
Peg always wanted to hear how Doc and Ginny knew that they existed
for each other forever. What was it, the thing that made them know?
Not how or why they decided to get married, for example. That was a
different thing, a functional doing something together thing. She knew
other things too. She knew that they met as teenagers, at a dance. She
knew what they did after that. They dated and double dated, and they
kissed some time after the first date but not long after that and never in
front of their double dates. They were able to tell Peg all of those things.
But they were never able to answer Peg’s forever question, the thing that
made them know. They just knew. It wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t
put it into words. Nor was it Peg’s fault that her own marriage failed.
Doc Dooley shook his head and said, “I don’t recall seeing the raven
here before today. Do you suppose there is a meaning to it being here?”
He did not want to overlook a meaning to this day if there was to be
one. Not this day in particular. As a scientist he was trained to look for
things easily overlooked but he also knew that this kind of meaning was

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not one of symptoms as to a disease, where the meaning of the hurt had
a rational basis that could be treated. Or not be treated at the worst of
presentations. The meaning in question was more cosmic to the hurt
he felt and down deep in his rational heart he knew that only the poets
traded successfully on symbolism. Could the cosmos not have sent such
a cliché? Now he felt silly. It is just a bird isn’t it?

“It’s an entertainment,” Peg replied, knowing that it was no cliché but
a cruel reminder that at the end of the day we are all alone.

“I suppose. Shall we give it a name? A back story? We have an hour.”
His playful suggestion belied the fact that he had no interest in doing
so. It was a reflexive comment from the days when Peg was a little
girl and when two squirrels chasing around the trunk of the Canadian
maple were enough of a reason for them to imagine an entire episode
of a Saturday cartoon show. Peg sensed the conflict in her father and
suggested that they ready themselves for what was to come.

The hour passed too fast for both of them and what lay ahead was
suddenly now. The dreaded word, visitation, loomed like a cudgel over
their day. It was worse for Ginny of course, which only steeled Peg’s
resolve to get Doc through the required social aspects of the most private
of vulnerabilities, the loss of his flanker to the outside world. Doc was
quiet and kept to himself in public and even with friends unless Ginny
found ways to draw him out, which was always when they were with
their friends, and he was always grateful for her intercession.

“You are a fascinating creature, Doc,” Ginny would say to him later
on. “I’ve told you a million times I love it when you get going on a story.
I love it when you share yourself with people the way you do with us at
home, so why is it so difficult?” She was no taskmaster and her gentle
chiding was always delivered with good humor.

“Getting started is the problem,” Doc answered.
“You had no problem getting started on our wedding night.”

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Their wedding day was his first reminiscence as he and Peg sat in
the room alone with Ginny on a day that would be, as Doc suddenly
realized, the final gathering of the whole family. Why not conjure the
happiest day of his life? “You were conceived that night,” he told his
daughter. “We were three from the start.” Peg chuckled and then caught
him looking at Ginny with a kiss on his lips, and in that moment she
understood that what Doc had revealed to her was not meant to shock
his daughter but to thank his wife.

As the guests quietly entered by one’s and two’s and three’s they
naturally spaced themselves apart from one another out of respect to Doc
and Peg, but at the same time to gain oxygen against the known effect of
finding oneself in a room where not everyone was alive. Everyone except
for Gwen, who was Ginny’s older sister by two years. She broke out of
the waiting line of people, made a beeline to Doc and placed herself in
front of him, thereby blocking his view of Ginny. Gwen then leaned
over, pulled Doc’s face fully into her bosom and took a nearby seat after
a perfunctory wave to Peg, who blew her aunt a kiss and whispered to
her father, “Bogey at three o’clock.”

Gwen was an exact duplicate of Ginny minus – minus what? Peg
could never put her finger on it without feeling ungracious that she
could not imagine being Gwen’s daughter. Peg saw Gwen and Ginny
as essentially twins born two years apart, with some indefinable gift
going to the younger girl when somewhere in the interim the gods of
personality finally declared they had gotten it right.

“It will never happen,” Doc answered. “Not then and not now.”
His comment struck Peg as funny and not inappropriate under the
circumstances, which she saw more as a perfect response to a bit of
feminine burlesque that would have amused her mother in life and was
therefore suitable in her present condition. “Can you believe her nerve?”
“She is wearing your mother’s favorite perfume too,” Doc answered
with a laugh, reaching for a tissue and wiping his nose and mouth area,

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which had received a full dose of it in the embrace. “Can you smell it
on me?”

“I smell strategy is what I smell,” Peg answered.
“Your mother is not pleased.”
“Oh I think she is proud of you right now.” And that was enough
to get Doc to bury his face in the tissue, at which point Peg put her
arms around him and let him sink into the grief of the moment, which
happened to be the first outward break of his composure during all four
days of pure shock. What had stood for consolation during that time?
Ginny was supposed to live forever? Or Doc was expected to be the first
to go? Or it was a blessing that she didn’t have to suffer, don’t you agree?
And all of the other exclamations of disbelief that came forth in Peg’s
memory as she held the quivering old man steady in his sorrow were
ushered forever from the reality in the room. It is what it is.
After giving Doc a few moments to recover, and with a subtle signal
from Peg that it was okay, little by little the guests stopped by to pay
their respects. Over the course of the next hour all conversations to
be had were had and all guests departed, leaving Peg, Doc, and Gwen
alone with their thoughts. And that was when Gwen spoke up. “I’ll go
to the house to help get the food set up.” About twenty close friends
were expected, but Peg had already arranged for a caterer. There was still
a burial ceremony to follow.
“Come with us,” Doc said.
“It’s okay, dear. I want things to be perfect for you. You two go ahead.
I’ll be fine.”
What was her sacrifice? Peg asked herself. Are we supposed to be
impressed? “You don’t have to do that, Gwen. We have the food taken
care of.”
“I want to be helpful,” Gwen answered, and rushed off.

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“Actually,” Doc said to Peg, “that is helpful.” He gave his daughter a
big smile, one of relief, and the family of three made their way to the
cemetery.

Afterwards, Doc and Peg joined the others at the house, where all
guests were inside chatting and eating hors d’oeuvres and drinking white
wine. The two maneuvered themselves through the crowd and to the
kitchen, where they bumped into Gwen and the caterer. “Would you
like a glass of wine?” Gwen asked.

“Yes,” Doc answered for both of them.
“Would you like to handle that, please,” Gwen said to the caterer,
interrupting the woman from building a new plate of canapes for the
devouring crowd.
The caterer gave Gwen a look of exasperation and then turned to
Peg, who said to her, “No worries, I’ll get it. You go ahead with what
you were doing.” She turned to Gwen and added, “We’re going out to
the deck to get a breath of fresh air.” After filling two wine glasses, Peg
handed one to her father and they exited to the deck.
For the first time that day, Peg welcomed the perfection of a cloudless
sky. She marveled at how beautiful the yard looked in the soft glow of a
late afternoon sun, whose slimmest beams snuck through tiny openings
in the leafy canopy of the huge Canadian maple tree and splashed in
mottled patterns against its serpentine roots. Well beyond this shady
coolness, in the far corner of the yard, unobstructed sunlight brought
vibrant life to all plants growing boldly upward and outward in the
terraced garden. And that is when she noticed the two ravens walking
about, the larger one leading the smaller one, as if it were giving the
other an educational tour. “This is remarkable, dad.” She almost called
him daddy. “Which is the one we didn’t name?”
“I can’t tell,” Doc answered. It was impossible. One was an exact
version of the other. And there was no question in his mind that one
of them had never left the garden since that morning. But which one?
“They must both be adults. There are no fuzzy feathers.”

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“Good point. Male and female then.” She took a long sip of wine.
Despite the clanging commotion of nearby kitchen activities coming
through an open window, the noticeable sounds of excitable voices
emerging from another area of the house, and the noisy footsteps of two
people stepping out onto the deck, the ravens went about their business
unhampered by human activity. Doc and Peg watched in fascination as
the larger raven led the two of them up and down every row in every
level of the garden, even pausing to stand at the base of the Japanese red
maple and gaze up at its elegant system of branches and wispy maroon
leaves that twittered in the soft breeze that typically signaled the looming
onset of early dusk in the area.

“He is giving her an update,” Doc said.
“An update on the garden,” Peg replied knowingly. “Since when?”
“Since about six mornings ago, when I mulched.”
“Six mornings ago. Are you sure?” She knew her father was as certain
of this as he was of the night when she was conceived.
Before Doc could answer, Gwen opened the kitchen door and stuck
out her head. “More wine you two?”
Peg turned to face her. “Not just yet thanks,” she said, and the
imperfect version of her mother retreated back into the kitchen.
In the interval, Doc had moved over a few steps. “Peg, look here.”
He pointed to the base of the giant Canadian maple, where the smaller
raven was now leading the larger bird up one large root and down
another, repeating the up-down pattern until it had traversed the entire
circumference of the tree. Having completed the circuit, both birds
walked side-by-side to a point halfway between the tree and the garden
and commenced pecking at the earth. “Dust to dust,” Doc whispered.
Someone had turned on a classic big band tune. It was loud and
orchestral and coming from the kitchen. It was probably Gwen who
did it, Peg thought. She liked to dance and would sometimes try to

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tempt Doc into taking a spin with her before he could ask his own wife.
“Would you care to dance, daddy?” Peg asked, taking his right hand and
placing it on her waist. He smiled the smile of a man who had no choice.
Peg would take the second bedroom. She knew where everything was.

As the last guest exited the house and the caterer began her cleanup,
Gwen bid Peg and Doc goodbye. Then she drove herself to her sister’s
gravesite and sat silently in her car with its engine running. When she
felt that the sun had finally finished its descent, Gwen lowered all the
car windows, turned on satellite radio, tuned in to a big band station,
and cranked up the volume.
Jeff Adams lives in California’s Napa Valley. His fiction has appeared or
is forthcoming in 34 Orchard, Hive Avenue Literary Journal, McNeese
Review, Voices 2020 from Cold River Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Otoliths,
and other publications. He is the editor of ARCHYOLOGY (University
Press of New England), a book of humorous light verse based on the work
of the writer Don Marquis.

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AGATHA
by Barry Garelick

I suspected there was more to Agatha Berlinsky than her coldness and
lack of humor. It was 1963, and we didn’t get along. She was a long-term
substitute teaching our eighth grade English class. From my perspective
as a 13-year old she appeared to me to be in her forties though she was
probably in her mid-twenties. Her face was drawn and she wore her
blond hair in a tight bun.

Among my friends, I called her by her first name, probably as a way
to make her appear more human. Outwardly, however, it was my way
of showing disrespect, in line with my persona which had emerged that
year in stark contrast to the quiet kid I had been in previous grades. By
virtue of hormonal changes that came with my entry into eighth grade,
I realized a goal of being funny—often achieved by being disruptive.

Agatha was a source of wonder for me. My curiosity intensified when
she had a girl in our class, Eileen, read us the short story ‘Land’ by
Sinclair Lewis.

Eileen effected a superior attitude that probably accounted for her
not having too many friends. That day, she stood in front of the class
and, like Agatha, waited for silence. She frowned at those still talking.
When we were all quiet, she began reading. She read slowly, in a tone
that was both neutral and engaging. It took up the entire period for
Eileen to read it.

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The story was about the life of a young man who wanted to own land
and farm it. His father stood in the way of that dream and the hero
ended up becoming a dentist. He continued in that profession long
after his father died, unhappy with his life, and questioning what his
life would have been like had he done what he wanted.

The next day, Agatha asked for our thoughts on the story. I asked
‘Why did you pick that particular story to have read to us?’

Her answer was delivered in her usual efficient and icy manner. ‘Your
question is not pertinent. I want your thoughts on the story, nothing
else. Is that clear?’ I said yes and hoped she would move on to someone
else, but she was focused on me.

‘I’m waiting,’ she said.
‘I thought it was sad.’
‘Why?’
‘He couldn’t do what he wanted to do,’ I said.
‘Many people can’t do what they want to do. Why do you find that
sad?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It has not escaped my notice that you’re fairly talkative; I’m sure you
can come up with something more than that,’ she said.
‘I felt sorry for him.’ She said nothing in response which I took to
mean that my answer was somewhat satisfactory.
I called Eileen that evening. I phoned her often; she was the first girl
from school I had ever talked to on the phone. Her friends were few
and to my knowledge I was the only boy who was friends with her. We
had known each other since fourth grade but I became friends with
her in eighth grade mostly for the purpose of gaining advice on how to

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win the affection of her best friend Andrea, who I had a crush on. By
the second semester of that year, I ended up having a crush on Eileen.

That evening I asked her about her reading of ‘Land’. More precisely,
I asked her about Agatha.

‘Why did Agatha have you read that story?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she wanted us to think about what we wanted
to do in life.’
‘Maybe, yeah,’ I said.
‘It’s a pretty good story.’
‘But why did she pick you?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘Just curious,’ I said. ‘When did she ask you?’
‘Last week in Home Ec. She came into the class and asked if she could
talk with me. She asked me if I would do it.’
‘Was she different when she talked to you in private than the way
she is in class?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Of course she’s going to be different in private.’
‘Well how was she different?’
‘You know, you talk more about Miss Berlinsky than you do about
Andrea. You haven’t asked me about Andrea for a while. Andrea told
me you hardly call her or talk to her anymore.’
‘I think about her.’
‘You don’t like her anymore do you?’
‘I like her. Why? Did she say something about me?’

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‘No. But she was crying the other day. She found out Edward and
others said some pretty nasty things about her looks.’

‘What does that have to do with me?’ I asked.
‘I think maybe you heard what they said, and now you’re no longer
interested in her.’
‘That isn’t true.’
‘My older sisters think that that’s what happened.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
Our conversation ended as did most of ours with one of us saying
‘I have to go.’ This time I said it. In fact, she was correct, but I didn’t
want to admit it, neither to her nor to myself. I was at a disadvantage
in arguing with Eileen since she had the counsel of her sisters. She had
three sisters—one younger, and two older. She would tell her sisters of
my antics at school apparently. I had no such help. My brother was now
away at college, and my sister had married the year before, leaving me
to navigate an eighth grade romance alone.
I suspected that Eileen knew I had a crush on her—or her sisters
did and they told Eileen. I took a no-risk approach to the whole thing.
My thinking was that if she knew and was still talking to me, then she
probably had a crush on me as well.
‘My older sisters think you’re really wild and cool,’ she had told me in
one of our phone conversations. ‘You remind them of Holden Caulfield.’
I had asked her who that was. ‘Oh, you have to read ‘Catcher in the
Rye’,’ she told me. On a number of occasions she asked me if I had read
the book yet.
A number of kids in our class were reading it surreptitiously as
was done back then. I wouldn’t get around to reading it until a year
later. Although I was not Holden’s age, nor did I drop out of a private

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school and call everyone and anyone a phony, I imagine the popular
interpretation of Salinger’s Holden Caulfield (particularly among
teenagers) has been of a rebellious disruptive young man—which I was.

Prior to Agatha’s arrival, I honed my persona into a laugh and
attention getter in English class which was then taught by Mrs. Brennan
who for the preceding twenty years had taught only fourth grade. In
what seemed to me to be an epic lapse of judgment, the principal had
switched her from fourth grade to eighth grade English that year. She
left abruptly in early February.

It was a year of transition for me. The next year I would be in high
school, and this year I was transitioning to one of the cool kids—kids
who had long ignored me. The cool clique was headed up by a red-
headed good looking boy named Edward who had four or five close
friends. I would sit with them during lunch-time in which we discussed
the events of the day while others not in the clique looked on and
listened as if it were an honor to observe the interplay among royalty.

With the arrival of Agatha, English class became a place where antics
necessarily took a back seat. Ours was a class that sorely needed that
discipline. Having heard another teacher refer to her by Agatha, I took
to calling her by her first name among my friends. Outwardly, it was my
way of showing disrespect, in line with my persona. Inwardly it made
her more seem more human.

I’ve come to believe that she may have had dreams of being a writer as
some English teachers do. ‘Land’ may have resonated with her because
she felt locked in to doing something she didn’t want to do—namely
teaching, and substitute teaching at that.

I managed to get an after school detention from Agatha. She had
given us ten minutes to read an essay, followed by a quiz. I read only
the first page before I lost interest. What stuck with me was the concept
that the days of ‘lone inventors’ like Thomas Edison had become a thing
of the past, and that innovations now occur mostly anonymously in big
companies.

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I didn’t know the answers to most of the questions on the quiz. On
one of them, I decided to just write a nonsensical answer using what
I thought were academic cadences. I don’t recall my exact words, but
they were on the order of ‘It is a sad and tragic situation that the lone
inventor must struggle against prevalent imbalances in our society and
is no longer the etymological phenomenon he once was.’ And so on.

After she returned our quizzes the next day, I noticed that I didn’t
have mine, and Agatha was holding it. She called my name and said ‘I
found your answer to question two rather interesting, and I don’t mean
that as any kind of compliment.’ She then proceeded to read my answer
aloud to the laughter of the class. I enjoyed being the center of attention.

‘Why would you write something like this?’
‘Because I didn’t know the answer to the question.’
‘So you wrote this nonsense instead?’
‘I knew that I was going to get it marked wrong so I figured it really
didn’t matter what I wrote,’ I said.
‘And why didn’t you know the answer?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t know
the answers to most of the questions.’
‘I didn’t read the essay.’
‘May I ask why not?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘I’d like a better answer.’
I was silent for a moment.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘I thought it was boring,’ I finally said.

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‘Whether you find this class boring or not, I suggest that you take
this class seriously. I’m giving you a detention.’

This occurred in the early weeks of May, when students typically are
tiring of school and each other. It was also a time when eighth graders
who qualified for admission to an elite high school were notified. We
all knew who was accepted and who was not. Eileen and Andrea had
been accepted, as had Edward. I was not, and would be attending the
regular high school in my neighborhood along with others who didn’t
get in. While the neighborhood school was good by all measures, it
didn’t carry the same status as the other.

The next day at lunchtime I sat at the table with Edward and his
coterie of cool kids. I had noticed a distinct cooling towards me in the
last several days, ever since they had received their good news of high
school acceptance.

‘What did you think of Agatha giving me a detention?’ I asked.
There was silence for a moment until Edward answered in the form of
a question.

‘Why do you call Miss Berlinsky Agatha?’ he asked. ‘No one else calls
her that. You think it makes you cool, but it doesn’t.’ He was now alive
with a sudden and compelling anger. He proceeded to denounce me,
telling me that everyone was sick of my stupid jokes. ‘Maybe you were
funny at first, but you’re not anymore.’

There was no stopping him.
‘And who said it was OK to sit with us?’
‘Who said I needed permission?’ I said.
‘Don’t bother talking to us and sitting at this table.’
I knew that no amount of logic would prevail. The remainder of lunch
time was shrouded in a tense silence. I was now officially shunned and I

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suddenly saw myself in their eyes—a wise guy, smart ass, and someone
who didn’t get in to the elite high school.

‘They won’t stay mad at you,’ Eileen told me later in our evening
phone call. I was in my parents’ bedroom. It was one of the two rooms
in which there was a phone and it offered the greatest privacy.

‘They seemed pretty serious,’ I said.
‘They’ll forget about it,’ she said. ‘Well, no, they won’t forget it. But
they’ll ease up. My sisters say that it doesn’t last long, and they’re the
only ones doing it. So just stay with the kids who are your friends. And
anyway, school is over in a month.’
We were both silent for a moment. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘My older sisters thought what you wrote on that quiz was pretty
cool, by the way,’ she said.
‘What did you think of it?’
‘I thought it was pretty funny.’
‘Yeah, well I think Agatha thought it was funny too,’ I said.
‘She was angry, though. She wanted to embarrass you.’
‘If that’s all she wanted she didn’t have to give me a detention.’
‘You really should have read the assignment.’
‘Is that what your sisters are saying?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s what I’m saying. I mean she’s not that bad a
teacher.’
‘Next thing you know you’ll say Edward isn’t so bad.’

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‘No, I won’t say that,’ she said. ‘I don’t like him. But I would lay off
the jokes. Everybody is thinking about high school, now.’ She paused,
probably for dramatic effect. ‘Maybe you should too.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said and didn’t want to talk anymore. ‘I have to go.’
As I sat on my parents’ bed I thought about the high school I didn’t
get into, and what life would be like next year. I felt sad, but not sad
enough to cry. Mostly I felt a quiet and elusive maturity that sometimes
came when I was alone.

In the next week Edward and his coterie eased up, although my
relationship with them was clearly different than before. They were
cordial but not overly friendly. I limited my interactions to those I
mostly got along with. I made it a point to not speak to Edward or the
others in his group unless spoken to. I also halted my joking.

An unexpected turning point came for me in the form of a series of
writing assignments that Agatha gave us in the final weeks of school.
Agatha had turned to elements of fiction and writing and on the first
day of this new topic talked about conflict within a story and how it
represented an overall theme. She then gave an assignment which in its
entirety was as follows:

‘I want you to write a story, no more than one page,’ she began. ‘The
story should have a character, and there must be a conflict going on with
this character, and the conflict must be resolved.’ I hadn’t listened to her
entire discussion about conflict, but felt I knew enough to write a story.

My story was about a boy who goes skydiving. During his free-fall
he thinks about many things going on in his life and at the last minute
decides not to pull the rip-cord. In today’s world, such a story would
end up with my being referred to counseling, not to mention the teacher
having to file a report with Child Protective Services. While I wouldn’t
have minded going to counseling, what actually happened was just as

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beneficial: when the graded stories were returned I saw an ‘A’ at the top
and the note ‘Very well done!’

My parents who had been concerned about my slipping grades were
equally pleased, though that night I could hear drifts of conversation
having to do with me, coming from downstairs when I was in bed. It
was mostly about how I should have gotten into the elite high school.

‘He’s lazy, he fools around,’ my mother said. ‘He has high test scores,
but his grades weren’t good enough. You might want to talk to him about
working hard next year.’

‘When I talk to him about anything, he clams up.’
The conversation became softer and when I no longer could hear
what they were saying I fell asleep.

The assignments continued, as did my stories. In writing my
stories, about a boy in various levels of confusion or peril, I felt the
quiet maturity that eluded me in my day-to-day life. The A’s followed,
always with a written note of encouragement. This became the primary
communication between us; she made no indications otherwise of being
please with what I was doing.

In the last days of school, who we hung out with was defined by
which high school we were going to. I never said goodbye to Edward
and his gang, nor to Agatha. I called Eileen a few times the next year,
but it became evident to both of us that we had moved on.

I worked hard in high school, getting mostly A’s, motivated at first
with an ‘I’ll show them!’ attitude, with ‘them’ being those who got into
the prestigious high school. That motivation wore off after the first year
and eighth grade eventually became a memory of a transition.

I think about Agatha occasionally. There is no trace of her on the
internet. I haven’t seen any evidence that she published anything if she
indeed became a writer, unless she wrote under a pen name.

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I doubt she would remember me if we happened to meet; she would
likely be in her eighties. Sometimes I imagine her as the cold and
removed person who taught our class, now old and embittered like
the character in the story ‘Land’. Other times, I see her as having shed
the veneer revealing a warmth she was afraid to show. If in fact she is
still alive and happens to read this story, it will have to suffice to let her
know I’m grateful for the kindness she showed me in her own loving
but guarded fashion as we both made our ways in our respective worlds.
Barry Garelick has written non-fiction pieces that have been published
in Atlantic, and Education Next. His fiction has appeared in Adelaide
Literary Magazine, Paragraph Magazine and Fiction on the Web. He
won a Hopwood award at University of Michigan in 1971 in the short story
category. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife.

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THE LAST JOURNEY
by April McDermott

Lola Hancock was a six-year-old girl with soft, wavy, blonde hair that
fell down to her small shoulders. She wore a light pink dress, it was her
favorite color. Her favorite food was chocolate, though she was apt to
get more on her face than actually in her mouth. She was sitting, cross-
legged, in a large, gorgeous field of wild flowers that stretched up to the
sky, filled with so many bright colors she felt she was in a dream. She
was happy and at peace, not a care in the world. As she merrily picked
some of the beautiful flowers surrounding her, she hummed a familiar
tune. It was a lullaby her mother used to sing to her every night when
she was younger. If she was lucky, she could still get her mother to sing
it to her before bed every now and then.

Then she paused in her flower picking as she heard sweet music from
behind her that played in-tune with her humming. Lola turned her head
and spotted a handsome man, playing a shiny trumpet. The man was
copper-skinned and wore a tunic of bronze. His hair was dark, but his
eyes were bright. He took the trumpet away from his lips and revealed
a brilliant smile. Lola smiled in return. He walked up to her and held
out his hand.

“Hello there. I heard your beautiful humming and was inspired to
play along. I hope you don't mind. My name is Gabriel, but you may
call me Gabe.”

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Lola took his outstretched hand, instantly feeling comfortable with
this man. He helped her up to her feet. “I'm Lola, but everyone calls me
Lo.” She smiled. “And I liked your playing. You're very good.”

Gabe laughed. “Thank you very much.” His bright eyes studied her
carefully. “I can't believe how big you've grown!” He exclaimed with joy.

Lola cocked her head. “Do I know you?” She asked curiously.
Gabe nodded. “I've known you your entire life. You see, I'm the
doctor who delivered you into this world.” He knelt down so he was eye-
to-eye with her. “It's very nice to see you again, Lo, and so grown up.”
Lola smiled. She acted on a sudden urge and hugged him. “Nice to
see you again, too.”
As they pulled apart, Gabe held onto Lola's hand. “Lo, I'm looking
for some of my brothers and sisters. Do you think you can help me find
them? I sure would like some company on my journey.”
Lola nodded happily. “I'll help you find them! I'm good at hide-and-
seek.” Gabe, with a smile, reached down and plucked a beautiful white
rose from the field. He gently placed it in her hair. She giggled.
“Wonderful. Let's go!” He straightened back up, kept Lo's hand in
his own, and they walked together through the field of wild flowers.
Hand-in-hand, they soon came to the end of the field and saw before
them a dark cave. There was a woman standing at the mouth of the cave.
She heard them approach and turned around.
“Brother, how glad I am to see you...and your friend.” The woman,
olive-skinned and wearing yellow, had similar bright eyes to Gabe. She
smiled at the pair.
Gabe smiled in return. “Sister, I'm pleased to have found you. I'd
like you to meet my friend. Her name is Lola.” Gabe introduced the
young girl to his sister.

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Lola took a step forward and offered to shake hands, like her mother
had always taught her. “You can call me Lo,” she stated.

The woman took her hand. “My name is Uriel, but please, call me
Uri. Any friend of my brother's is a friend of mine.”

Gabe came up beside Lo and said, “You know my sister from before,
as well. Does she look familiar to you?”

Lola studied Uri only for a moment before she nodded her head
in excitement. “I remember her. You were the crossing guard at my
preschool!” Lola exclaimed.

Uri smiled. “Indeed I was.”
“You saved a bunch of us from that crazy car that didn't stop.”
“I'm surprised you remember that.” Uri raised her eyebrows. “Maybe
you can help me this time?”
Lola looked at her eagerly. “Sure! What do you need help with?” Gabe
and Uri both smiled.
Uri pointed at the dark cave. “Well, our other brothers and sisters are
on the other side of this cave, but it's very dark inside, as you can see.”
Lola glanced at the cave, then hesitantly looked at Uri and Gabe. She
took Gabe's hand in her own and pulled him closer. “I don't like the
dark,” she whispered in fear.
Gabe squeezed her hand in comfort. Uri knelt down before Lola. “I
don't like the dark either, Lo,” she confided in a quiet voice. “Which
is why I carry this with me.” She pulled out a candle from behind her
back, but it was unlit. “This is a very special candle; it will light up even
the darkest of places. All you have to do to light it is blow on the wick.
Do you think you can do that for me, Lo?” She asked, pointing to the
tip of the candle.

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Lo looked at the candle wick and nodded, “I'll try.” The young girl
sucked in a deep breath, then blew on the candle. To her amazement,
a flame came to life and the candle was lit with a bright, glowing light.

“You did it! Good job, Lo!” Uri exclaimed excitedly. Lo smiled from
ear to ear. She was happy to help. “Now this cave will glow with light.
Will you walk through with me to reach our other siblings?”

Lo took one last hesitant look at the dark, then turned to the lighted
candle. “I'll go with you,” she declared. Uri smiled and took Lo's hand.
Gabe still held her other hand. Together all three walked through the
cave, now illuminated by the flaming candle that Uri held.

As they neared the end of the cave, and could see the light up ahead,
Lo thought she heard a small shuffling noise behind them. She glanced
back into the dark, and saw the swift movement of a hooded figure
cloaked in a black robe. She tugged at her companions' hands and they
both halted and looked down at her. Lo was still looking back, though
she had lost the figure in the shadows, so both Uri and Gabe glanced
behind them as well. The figure shifted again, and they, too, very briefly
saw the billowing movement of the hooded shadow.

“I think I saw something,” whispered Lo.
Uri and Gabe exchanged glances over Lola's head, then both turned
Lo's shoulders so she was facing the light at the end of the cave again.
Gabe leaned down and said softly, “Pay no attention to the shadows, Lo.”
Uri pointed up ahead. “Look, I see our brother at the exit. Let's go!”
With both her hands held by her friends, Lo was guided out of the dark
cave into the brilliant light of the open sky. The shadow lurking in the
dark was forgotten.
Upon emerging from the cave, they came upon a great mountain
towering over them. At the base of the mountain stood a man, clothed
in emerald green with dark ginger hair. Together, they walked up to
him. He turned to face them, and immediately smiled. “Brother and

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sister! I'm glad you have come.” He had the same bright eyes that Uri
and Gabe shared.

The siblings smiled. Gabe knelt down and gently placed his hand on
Lo's back. “Lo, this is our brother, Raphael.”

Lo stuck out her hand to shake. Raphael looked down and took her
small hand in his large one. “Call me Raph. What's your name, sweetie?”

Lo smiled. “Lola Hancock, but everyone calls me Lo.”
“It's a great pleasure, Lo.” He smirked.
“You look familiar,” she remarked.
Raph smiled. “Yes, we've met before.” He gently took her arm. “I
helped you heal once, when you had fallen out of a tree and broken
your arm.”
Lola looked down at her arm. “I remember that. I fell out of a tree at
my Grammy's house. You were the doctor I went to.”
“I'm glad to see your arm is still fine and healthy.”
“Oh yes. Look what I can do!” Lo merrily waved her arms around in
big circles like a wind turbine.
“That's very good!” Raph laughed.
Lo pointed to Raph's other hand. “What's that stick for?” She asked.
Raph rose to his full height and brought his other hand forward.
“Why, this is my pilgrim's staff. It's like a walking stick. I take it with
me wherever I travel.”
“Where are you going?”
“My brother is up this mountain, and he needs my help. He needs all
of our help, for he's fighting a mighty beast,” Raph explained, pointing
up the mountain side. “Will you help me and my brother?” He asked.

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Uri nodded. “I will help.”
Gabe nodded. “I will help.”
Lo smiled. “Yes! I will help, too.” She jumped forward and took the
open hand of Raph. He smiled down at her and gently squeezed her
hand.
“Great. Let's go!” Together the group trekked up the mountain,
Raph and Lo leading the way. The climb was a long way up, but it was
not strenuous. Holding Raph's hand made the way seem easy to Lo.
Only once did she glance down to see how far they had climbed. But
when she looked down, she saw the same hooded, black-robed figure
following them up the mountain. She could not make out any features,
for the black cloak hid everything. He swiftly dashed out of sight behind
a boulder when she spotted him. Then she felt Gabe's hand on her
shoulder.
He whispered in her ear, “Do not look down, Lo.” She looked at
Gabe, who smiled in encouragement. His smile made her feel better.
She smiled back and looked ahead, and never looked back down.
After a while of climbing, they came upon a wide landing on the
mountain side. There, they saw a man battling a wicked dragon. Quickly,
Raph, Uri, and Gabe huddled Lo behind a large boulder so the dragon
could not see them. The man fighting the dragon had a sword that
glowed blue. As the dragon blew a stream of fire from his mouth, the
warrior dove behind the boulder that Lo and her friends were behind.
“Brothers and sister!” The warrior exclaimed with joy. He clasped
hands with them all. Then his bright eyes fell on the little blonde girl.
“Hello.” Lo smiled. This man was very beautiful, and something
about him made Lola feel at peace. He was blonde, like herself, and
wore purple and gold. “I'm Lola, Lo for short.”
The warrior smiled. “I'm Michael. Mike for short.” He took one of
Lo's hands. “I can sense you are very special, Lo. And if you're friends

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with my siblings here, you are my friend, too. But I'm in a situation
and it's too tough for just me. I need your help to defeat this wicked
dragon. Will you help me, Lo?”

Lo looked hesitant. “How can I help?”
Mike smiled, which made him even more beautiful. “You have a
unique power in you, Lo. Take hold of my sword.” He offered the hilt
of his blue sword. Lo cautiously put her small hand upon the hilt, just
above Mike's own hand. Instantly, the blade exploded in crackling blue
flames and burned twice as bright. Lo gasped in amazement. Mike, Uri,
Raph, and Gabe smiled at the child.
“Woah!” Lo laughed.
Mike gently placed his hand over Lo's hand. “Will you help me beat
this dragon?”
Lola looked him in his bright eyes and nodded. “Let's get him.”
Mike looked to Gabe and nodded. Gabe nodded back and rose to his
feet. With a wink at Lo, Gabe ran out from behind the boulder into the
sight of the dragon. He waved his arms, drawing the dragon's attention.
Mike rose to his feet and Lo did likewise. Together, they ran out from
behind the boulder and charged at the distracted dragon. Its underbelly,
where there were no protective scales, was exposed, and that was where
they aimed. Together, Mike and Lo drove the flaming blue sword into
the belly of the beast. With a mighty, anguished roar, the dragon fell
and breathed his last.
Raph, Uri, and Gabe rushed over to the pair with celebratory shouts
and congrats. Mike turned to Lo, picked her up, and spun her around
in exaltation. Lola laughed and cheered with her friends.
“Thank you, Lo. That was very brave of you.” Mike placed the little
girl back on the ground as his siblings surrounded and congratulated
them with joy. “I'm so proud of the girl you've become. You have grown
so big!” Mike smiled with pride.

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Lola looked up at him. Suddenly, it was like her eyes had been opened.
She knew this man, from long ago, from a time when she was too young
to have any real memories. How was that possible? “I know you, don't
I?” She asked.

Mike recognized the look of shocked recognition and his smile grew.
“Yes, we've met before, when you were not even a year old yet. I was the
priest who baptized you, Lo.”

“Father Mike,” Lo whispered in awe. Somehow, she remembered. She
gave him a quick hug, then pulled away with a smile.

Uri placed a hand on Lo's small shoulder. “Come, let's feast to our
victory!” Lo looked up at her in excitement. Uri pointed behind them.
“Our brothers and sisters have already prepared for us.” Lo looked over
and saw a long banquet table covered with the most delicious looking
food and drink she had ever seen before. Lining the table were many
more men and women, of all races and ages, partaking in the feast. They
all shared the same bright eyes.

“Wow! You've got a big family!” Lo remarked with awe. She didn't
even wonder how the table and food got there, it just seemed to make
sense. She was guided to the head of the table, and sat with Mike and
Raph to her left and Gabe and Uri to her right. Before she took any
food, she took the hand of Mike and Gabe. They looked over at her,
but her eyes were shut.

“Dear Lord,” she said softly, “we thank you for this meal.” With her
eyes still closed, she smiled. “Amen.”

Mike and Gabe looked at the young girl with great love as they
repeated, “Amen.”

Lola opened her eyes and glanced at her friends, who were watching
her with smiles on their faces. She did not let go of their hands. “I only
wish my mommy was here, too,” she said sadly.

Her friends shared somber glances with each other. Mike squeezed
her hand. “You'll see her again, but never forget that she's always with

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you and you're always with her. You are her little angel,” he said gently.
Lo smiled at that. She pulled her hands away and grabbed at the food.
Her friends did likewise. Soon she was smiling, chatting, and laughing
again. The food and drink was delicious, the best meal she had ever had.
She was very happy.

After all the food had been eaten, all the drink consumed, Mike
took Lo's hand once more. She looked over at him curiously. “There is
one more I would like you to meet.” He raised her to her feet and they
walked away from the table and crowd.

It was then that Lo saw the familiar shadowy figure that had been
following her, shrouded in a black robe and a hood pulled way over
his head that hid his face. Lo immediately shuffled backwards, into the
strong body of Mike. He put his hands on her shoulders to keep her
steady. “It's okay, Lo. This is another one of our brothers,” Mike assured.

The hooded figure took a step forward. Lo was still hesitant. “He
looks scary,” she whispered as she clung to Mike.

The figure slowly reached up and pulled his hood down, revealing for
the young girl his true face. She gasped in surprise. The man beneath
the hood...was beautiful! He had very pale skin, long black hair, and
the same bright eyes as his brothers and sisters.

“This is Azrael. We call him Az for short,” Mike made the introductions.
“Az, this is Lola Hancock.” Az nodded his head in greeting. Lo smiled
shyly. Az took a step forward, pulling his hood up over his head again.

Lo watched his beautiful face disappear behind the black shroud.
“Why does he wear that dark hood and robe?”

Mike answered for his brother. “Az always feels cold. His hood and
cloak are made special to keep him warm. They help him survive.” He
then knelt down, turned Lo's shoulders so she was facing him, and spoke
again to the young girl. “Az is going to take you the rest of the way up
this mountain, to the very peak.” Mike pointed up and Lo followed his
gaze. It was not much further up.

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“What about you and the others?” Lo asked, glancing back at the
table and those gathered there.

“You must go alone with Az. We'll meet you at the top.” Mike smiled.
Az reached out his hand for Lola. She looked at it hesitantly. Mike gave
her a small nudge. “It's okay. You'll be fine, Lo. Az will take good care
of you.”

Lola took his hand. As told, his skin was ice cold, and she felt bad for
him, always being so cold. In that moment, she forgot all the fear she
once had for Az. Together, the pair traveled up the rest of the way to
the mountain’s peak. It was not a hard trek; it went quickly and silently.

There, at the top of the mountain, Lo and Az came to brightly
glowing, beautiful-beyond-comprehension, white gates. “Oh my God,”
whispered Lo in awe. She had never seen anything so beautiful before
in her life. In front of the white gates stood an older gentleman with
youthful, loving eyes. He stepped forward.

His eyes first went to the cloaked man. “Thank you, Az.” Lo's guide
bowed in response. The man then turned his attention on Lola. “Hello,
Lola Hancock.” He smiled, and it was a bright, warm, welcoming smile.
“I am Peter, but please, call me Pete. For I am your friend, and it's time
for you to join me and come home.” Pete reached out his hand for the
little girl.

Lola glanced past Pete at the gates, and she could not deny the
powerful urge she felt to go through those gates, into the large amount
of joy and love she felt radiating from the other side. It truly felt like
home. Her eyes came back to Pete's and with no hesitation, she grasped
his large hand with her tiny one, and she could immediately feel the
warmth from his hand.

Pete looked to Az and nodded. Az knelt down next to Lo, who turned
to him, expecting him to finally speak. Instead, he pulled his hood back
once more and leaned in close to Lo. He softly kissed her forehead.
Immediately, the white gates began to open. Az slowly replaced his hood
and stood up. Lo smiled up at him. “Thank you, Az,” she whispered.

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ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

Az gave her a small bow, stepped back, then made his way back down
the mountain in silence.

Together, Pete and Lo, hand-in-hand, turned toward the open gates.
Through the open gateway, Lo saw all her new friends, waiting for her
with arms wide open. They looked more beautiful than ever. They had
magnificent white feathered wings and golden auras around their heads.
There was Gabe, Uri, Raph, and Mike, and all their brothers and sisters.
She could hear beautiful harp music playing from behind them. An
indescribable feeling of peace washed over Lola as she walked through
the pearly gates with Pete.

§
In a bleak, starkly white hospital room, the family of Lola Hancock
surrounded the little blonde girl on her hospital bed. Mrs. Hancock
felt her daughter's small hand go limp and fall away from her own.
Immediately, her eyes began to water as she looked to her daughter's
peaceful face. “Lola?” She whispered. “Lo?” She managed to get out
before the crying took over.
Doctor Azrael bowed his head and said quietly, “I'm sorry, Mrs.
Hancock. She has passed on.”

April McDermott previously had poetry published with Adelaide
Magazine. She also had poetry published with Academy of the Heart and
Mind and a short story published with Scarlet Leaf Review.

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REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

THE JOB
by Juan Sanchez

Four individuals stand in front of a concrete wall. The wall surrounds a
large building. One of the four individuals, a man with pointy ears and
a trench coat, looks up and down at the wall before he turns to speak.

"Okay. Here's the plan. We'll come back to this spot at night and
climb the wall. Once we're on the other side, we'll sneak in and get out
with the king's sword. It's easy," the man says.

Another one of the four, a man with armor and a shield, looks at the
man with a nervous gaze.

"Um, Roger, you always say the same thing whenever we do a job
and it always goes wrong," the man in armor says.

"Not always, Arthur," says Roger.
"The last city was on fire," says Arthur.
"Well, it was just that one."
"And the one after that and the one after that one."
"Ok, so some or most cities we been to have been set on fire, but it
was always Alvin's fault," says Roger. He points to a dwarf with armor
and drinks from a gourd.
"That wasn't my fault. You said you wanted a distraction, and you
got your distraction," says Alvin.
"By distraction, I didn't mean set the city on fire!" says Roger.

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ADELAIDE LITERARY MAGAZINE

Alvin shrugs and continues to drink. Next to him is a young man,
wearing a white robe, he sighs at Roger and Alvin's conversation.

"I wish I was caught in the fire. How unfortunate that I survived,"
says the man in white.

"Stop being depressing, Ken. Have a drink," says Alvin, offering his
gourd to Ken.

"Don't give Ken alcohol Alvin. How many times do we have to tell
you that?" says Arthur.

"He's a growing boy, he needs this. I had my first drink when I was
five or was it six? I don't remember."

"Of course."
"Let's focus. We have the king's sword to get. Think of all the money
we'll get when we sell it back to the king," says Roger, staring into the
sky with drool trickling down his mouth.
"Are we going to use the distraction I set up?" Alvin says.
"You set up a distraction? When is it going off," says Roger.
"Now."
An explosion goes off in the northern part of the city. After a few
seconds, the main gate opens, and a flood of guards run to the area of
the explosion. Roger has his mouth open wide; he turns to look at Alvin
who is still drinking. He closes his mouth and lets out a sigh.
"We'll talk about this later, for now, let’s sneak in."
Roger and the others climb the wall. They land on the other side and
search their surroundings; Roger sees an open window and motions for
his friends to follow. They climb inside and find a hallway with multiple
doors.
"Am I seeing things again or are there a lot of doors in this hall?"
says Alvin.

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