Crack the Spine
Issue forty-two
Crack The Spine Issue Forty-Two October 2, 2012 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2012 by Crack the Spine
Contents Gabriel Holt Six Characters in Search of a Story Shannon Hanks Fall’s Carriage Voice Control Kamden Hilliard 0/100 Carly Berg Rose and Pumpkin Sinta Jimenez Hiro Matthew J. Hall The Piano Keys Harlan Wheeler The Backyard Children
Cover Art “Tristessa� by Sinta Jimenez Sinta Jimenez is a writer, fine artist and fashion journalist. Her paintings, poetry, and short fiction have been published in several literary magazines including Underground Voices, Otis Nebula, and The Black Boot. She has contributed to various online fashion and lifestyle magazines. In 2000, she was a recipient of a National Association for the Advancement of the Arts Award in Short Story. Born in Manila, raised in DC, she received her MFA from Otis College of Art and Des ign in Los Angeles.
Gabriel Holt Six Characters in Search of a Story Conrad is a thunderous man with a thunderous voice. His upper lip wields a moustache like a bear trap. He has an extraordinary propensity towards showing up in the wrong place at the right time, and a temper like the short end of a dead dog. There is a smoldering look in his eyes that says he has been waiting too long for one thing and has almost given up. He is a development discontinued, the abstraction of impatience never realized. Susanna has been destroyed more than one time. She can no longer stand for herself, though she has a perfectly adorable sneeze. She enjoys long walks along the beach in her head, but has no beaches she can walk on for real. She regrets that she never once learned how to play the piano, because now it is much too late. Her favourite flower is a peony because she read a book at one point which made a big fuss over peonies, but now she cannot remember what the book was. Murphy has long been trying to make up for the fact that he has no lower half to his body, but has never quite figured out how to do so. He enjoys Beethoven, though he has never heard more than a few pieces by the man. His hair looks like a cat that had wanted to kill itself for some time finally curled up on his head and decided to end it all. He is attracted to women, but not in that way, you pervert. Cain used to have a brother named Amos, which was too close for comfort. He eats all parts of an apple, including the core, complete with seeds and stem and that brownish scraggly stuff at the bottom. He thought he had a girlfriend once, but it turned out that she had just stepped into the wrong streetcar and he had overstepped his boundaries more than a little. Dahlia sings, and would probably have sex with you. But no, not you. Sometimes she sings too loud, and she has always hoped that doing so would break glass, just like in the films. She has never been right about this. The only thing she had been right about was when she guessed that her fiancĂŠ would leave her at the altar.
Basil has seen people come and go. He works in a hospital, but sometimes he feels like he works in a factory, watching bodies straggling in and then being shipped out, all packaged and ready to go. He has no sense of how to keep his emotions to himself. Once, he met someone he thought was Tony Blair. It was not Tony Blair; it was a man named Edward, and the two of them had casual sex in the bathroom of an expensive restaurant.
Gabriel Holt is a young whippersnapper of a Canadian writer. He is an admirer or the nonsensical and the nihilistic, his head shoved firmly into city smog. His medium is adoxography. He writes flash fiction, poems, novels, scripts, and love letters. Some people have published his work, and some people have told him that he smell nice.
Shannon Hanks Fall’s Carriage
Compliant buttons wince around bundles of escape Our death trip mostly, upcountry recollecting a vague name, some shady birthrights of lesser grief. Devouring the arias of departure's thunderstorm, begging the elusions to disenthrall into hurrahs and dedications for the wayfarer. Lingering a bit... in some upper wilds weather medium's trembling. This volatile and cradling day takes the continent and the kitchen gasps.
Shannon Hanks Voice Control
That loyal fetch so shrewd against the gross negation of an airy bent whose ink is pooling into solidity. This hesitant we facing a protean amble, oblivious inside frugality's wreckage. But, an adaptive lunging against stillness, to pull out God and fetter it on tongues.
Coming from the bayous, Shannon now hides amongst evergreens - remembering barbeques, sweet tea and sweat - waiting for the snows to sedate her. When she's not corralling her teenage son into - admittedly faux - submissiveness, she studies Comparative Literature and Cinema Studies at the University of Washington. She's been writing poetry since she was a kid but has only recently admitted it to herself. In culling words, she is compulsively trying to give voice to what resists such silliness. She lives, most often, in between things. She likes to laugh and crack-wise until someone gets hurt. Her work has been published in Hoarse.
Kamden Hilliard 0/100 imagine Hemingway (before genetics) near the end. clawing at polyphonic shotguns and psychosis asking why? in every story imagine Basquiat (before therapeutic death dances.) cowering behind canvas, hiding from the camera. injecting something like placation. alone in new york, great jones street; alone. always alone. imagine Plath (before the genome.) stewing deadpan and desolate while poems and demand release from her bell jar body. imagine these geniuses before cancer, confused by the necessity of their consuming creations. We must remember to thank our forefathers for their prodigious martyrdom.
Kamden Hilliard is a rising freshman at Sarah Lawrence College studying creative writing, education, survival, and philosophy. His respect for language has led him to numerous prizes including: the Easterday Prize and a gold medal in the Scholastic Art and Writing program. He was also named a YoungArts level one winner in creative nonfiction. Kamden has expanded his writing interests to include a poetry editorship position with the Adroit Journal. He looks forward to the future, in which he'll be writing profusely without distractions, like math. He has been published (or has forthcoming work) Crashtest, Emerge Literary Journal, Missive, Fortunates, and The Enuoia Review. His ultimate goal is to discover a healthy and interesting way to survive his life. If he wasn’t writing, he’d be a mad scientist.
Carly Berg Rose and Pumpkin Rose studied her painted mouth in the cosmetics counter mirror. “I love these bright new shades. This “Rose” is perfect for me. And the “Pumpkin” looks great on you. It stays on, too. Look here. I tried to take it off, to see if it was really 24 hour.” “Mmm hmm," Pumpkin said. [I swear that girl would walk through the valley of death for the latest lip color.] "Let’s go to the new buffet instead of the food court. I think it would be nicer." [She thinks it would be nicer to get more food.] Rose said, “All right, let’s.” The friends chatted as they filled their plates at the restaurant. Pumpkin steered Rose away from the booth, and settled in at a roomier table. [And you can stop sneering at my fried appetizers, “Judge” Rose. I'll eat what I want.] “Is Purple home for the summer yet?” “He’s not coming home, he’s got a summer internship.” [Wow, three eggrolls, fried golden. I bet they’re crunchy. Sweet and sour sauce, too.] “It’s with Colorcorp, though, so Dark Green is happy.” Rose was unsettled at how Pumpkin’s thick, polished lips savored the eggroll. It was like she was taking a lover into her mouth. “Ah, well. At least you and Dark Green can party hearty with the kid gone, huh?” [At least the kid won’t be around to interrupt the affair you’re having with your mirror] “Aren’t you gonna eat?” “I just wanted to drink my tea and cool off for a minute.” Rose was weak from not eating since yesterday. Her husband liked a thin woman. “Be right back.” Annoyed, Pumpkin changed her mind about getting a takeout order for later. Maybe she’d come back, after she'd dropped off Nosy Rosy. Rose sat back down with her salad and squeezed a lemon wedge onto it. “So, how are your widdle puddy tats?” she said.
[In other words, Rose’s life is important and serious, whereas mine is best discussed in baby talk.] It seemed extra demeaning coming out of that perfectly painted mouth. [The skinny bitches get everything.] “They’re fine. I got stuck with a new stray, Mint. That makes four.” “Ooh, cute! They’re all named after pastels, then?” “Yeah. Um, the sliced fruit looked good. I think I’ll go get some.” [And by sliced fruit, I mean fried chicken, skinny bitch. The amount of food on her plate wouldn’t be enough for one of my cats.] A mental picture of the elegant Rose wolfing down stinky Friskies with that prissy, painted mouth cracked her up. Rose decided she’d allow herself a little something tasty, once she finished her salad and iced tea. [She better not start with the skinny bitch jokes again.] “What’s so funny?” “Oh,nothing. Just happy to see you, I guess.” Pumpkin went for seconds, and came back with her plate piled high. “Did I tell you I’m renting a beach house in Biloxi with some of the gals from church next month? We’re going to tour the plantations and eat lots of seafood. There will be a dozen of us, so it should be a hoot.” “Wonderful.” The news nearly knocked the wind out of Rose. Dark Green would never let her go off on vacation with a bunch of girlfriends. [Did Pumpkin ever do anything besides whatever she felt like doing?] Rose would die of embarrassment in that top, sleeveless, with those big flubby arms.[Look at that. Chicken wings, summer sausage, mac and cheese, banana pudding. A good week’s worth of calories.] "I am going to get some chocolate cake!” Pumpkin jumped at the fervor with which the cake announcement was made. “Uh, okay. Hey, while you’re up there, would you grab me a couple of those miniature cream puffs? Three or four. Four. Thanks, hon.” “Certainly.” [No wonder Pumpkin didn’t have a man or any kids. And didn’t even seem to notice. She’s like a spoiled little kid, totally ignorant about anything but what she wants right this minute.] Pumpkin was starving. She wolfed down the sausage and the pudding while Rose wasn't there to watch. [I swear all she thinks about is how she looks, while her husband does everything for her. Does the spoiled hag think she’s a sixteen year old beauty queen?] She watched Rose click away on her expensive high heeled sandals, her tiny, tailored bottom swaying just so.
“Here you go, Pumpkin. The desserts here are so pretty it’s a shame to eat them.” [Bet that thought never crossed your mind, Tubs.] “They taste good, too.”[You’d probably carefully apply them to your face instead of eating them. What’s another hour a day to your morning beauty regimen, Bimbo.] Rose nibbled at the chocolate cake, trying to make the great event last. Just a morsel sent her taste buds soaring. Pumpkin was alarmed. The painted mouth across the table quivered, took in crumbs a few at a time with the pointy tip of its tongue. Then, Rose would moan, as if deep in marital pleasures. “What’s funny?” Rose figured Pumpkin was giddy from a fat buzz. Rose watched her eat and thought she looked like a machine designed for that purpose. [The polished hatch opened and food was loaded into the large, weird hopper.] “You tell me what’s funny, girl. You’re laughing, too.” “Oh, nothing," Rose said. “Just happy to see you too, I guess.”
Carly Berg's stories appear in a couple dozen journals and anthologies, including PANK, Scissors and Spackle, and The Molotov Cocktail.
Sinta Jimenez Hiro It has been a long time since I’ve seen you, Hiro. But you are still polluted pink heat tomahawking the slums of Costa Mesa, soft half-caste skin, a samurai in sambas and seriousness; sweat beading on your elegant neck, my fingertips relishing the pressure of your tongue that made me hungry from the start. You are still hot-cheeked afternoons trapping me in my apartment when I was eighteen hanging onto your haste confessions that only heightened my compassion and your vanity. You would come to my apartment unannounced usually just as I’d be on my way out. Your eyes would meet mine in that narrow bare-bulb lighted hallway right as I’d slung my bag over my shoulder, ready to go meet someone or do something. But without any words, after seeing your face, your small smile, I’d unlock the door I had just closed and you’d go past me, and I’d forsake those plans and errands and go back inside with you. Often you’d bring something with you, food or herb or both. You’d brew some tea and we’d bullshit, we’d make jokes, and smoke. “A calcification of dreams hardens –” “Inbetween?” “Inbetween dreams.” Then, we would move to my pink flowered mattress lying askew on the floor. We would become catatonic or euphoric depending on the day. I remember the sun patterns full of fatigue on my bedroom wall that changed slow and deliberate into evening as an old fan whirred over our scant clothing. And, yes, you are still a young man with whom no one ever attaches another person, as you keep all personal obligations at bay. Truth is, you’re not the one that got away. You were never around to begin with. Before I left home to join Isabel on her way to California I searched for your phone number madly, between books, in journals, in notes, in calendars, old pockets of old jeans, images flashing of the things I always had with me when I was always with you. I found nothing, no trace, like you had never been in my life, never existed. And I felt bitter. I was bitter for all the times I would throw away almost everything I had, over the years, in an effort to start afresh. Not much remained from those days in LA
with you. I sat there, on the floor of my closet, everything opened and misplaced, almost-tearful because I hadn’t thought of losing you forever for a long time. But, then, I finally found an address book shoved into the inside pocket of an old bag that in one way or another had escaped the Salvation Army. Then I realized why this bag was never thrown away. There was your name and a phone number crossed out and a new one written in red ink, childlike and heavy handed as though I’d also etched it into my heart. It all came back to me then, the day I called 411, from one of the last standing payphones somewhere in Greenwich Village, on my way home from work. I had asked the operator for your mother’s home. Unlisted. But then I remembered the place of where she had been working at the time and though it was inappropriate I called and asked for her. And she remembered me from all the times I would sit in your kitchen eating sliced melon with her as I waited for you to finish making phone calls and finalizing plans for the night in your room. Your mother with her thin fingers, her body light as an autumn leaf, would smile and ask me how school was going. Your sweet Japanese mother, who never questioned the hydroponic garden you had growing in the backroom, gave me your new number and address. She told me you had taken over the apartment you had shared with her and she had left to live with your older brother. I thought of you living in that apartment alone and all the parties you’d probably thrown since she left. I thought of you in your ruined childhood home. I was sad to get off the phone with her soft and soothing voice. Talking to her made me feel very young, took me back to another time instantaneously. It was two years ago when I called her, I was with Adam then. I stood on the street, the sun just beginning to set over Manhattan though it was already 8:15 in the evening. I stood staring at your number and thought for the longest 10 minutes over whether to go on with my emotional infidelity and call you. But I didn’t have the nerve even though I knew hearing your voice for a few minutes would ease the pressure of his love and maybe your ambivalence would help me appreciate his security. I turned from that payphone and walked home to my man, my life without you and the secrets about us I would never tell him. I had found a faded Polaroid of us in the pages of the address book, too. It looked like you were holding the camera above us, your eyes are wide, looking shocked and silly, losing its arresting Japanese slope. I am leaning against your chest, my hair in a long messy ponytail, eyes closed, smiling with an ice cream cone in my hand. The Polaroid unnaturally emphasized the contrast of colors and you looked even paler than normal, so pale you looked almost completely French except for your hair slicing black
and angry as kanji. Meanwhile, I looked so young, younger than usual and I was able to recall just how small I am next to you when you are not very big at all. The Polaroid was pleasing but unfamiliar. I thought I had remembered every single heaving holy moment we’d had together but I could not remember this picture or this day or the locale. When did you ever take Polaroids? When did I ever eat ice cream? Even your shirt, a startled yellow that said in bright red block letters, “I DO ALL MY OWN STUNTS,” I don’t remember even though I laughed when I read it sitting there in that mess of clothes and boxes from the past. The only thing that was familiar in the picture was the black backpack you have on. For a while I held that picture unable to shake a feeling of uneasiness. What else, I demanded, has been lost against my will in the shifting impermanence of memory? Why does my heart betray itself over and over again? As soon as Isabel and I arrived in Los Angeles, I called you. I was sure your number would be disconnected. But surprisingly you answered, sounding cheerful. “Hell-O, hell-O,” you say playfully, your voice slightly muffled by the sound of a crowd or maybe traffic. “Hey, Hiro? Hiro, it’s me.” “I’m sorry, who?” “Me. Hiro, it’s me. ” “Is it really? I don’t believe it –” A pause. “Oh shit, greetings long lost. What are you doing?” Your voice is that of a young man, nothing sophisticated about it and so agreeable to hear. “I’m in LA.” “No way. For long? We have to see each other. It’s been ages. Have you been good?” “No, not for long. Where are you living these days? How are you doing?” “On my way out of Echo Park, actually in the middle of a move to the Anaheim Hills! I’m doin’ good, good." "Very nice to hear," I say. "So, yea, hey, there’s a party going on tonight that I know of in Santa Monica. Or I’ll come to you. Will you come with me? It’s up to you, though, whatever you want.” “I’ll go with you – to the party. It sounds good, I’m in Venice – close by,” I say. “I can’t believe it, long lost, long lost love. Remember how it was?” you ask. “Yeah, I remember when we would leave this place for space. God, that was a good time,” I say even though I know you’re not talking about the parties or the drugs.
“No other and no regrets,” you play along. Again, we are running around each other the way we used to. “Ok great.” “I can’t wait to see you,” you say and I want to hold it under my tongue like a promise. “I can’t wait either.” “I’ll see you soon long lost.” You pick me up but we don’t say much before arriving to the evening’s festivities. In the car we are a little strange. Strange because we are sentimental. We had never been sentimental before but time can do that to people. “You’re look great long lost.” “Thank you,” I say. “You know, the second time I saw you after I first met you, you were more interesting than I had remembered.” “I don’t believe that. You didn’t say anything to me.” “Nothing unusual about that. Speaking is just a triviality.” “So tonight we’ll catch up on the past four years by staring at each other silently,” I say with an edge to my voice. “No words. No staring. Osmosis.” A familiar feeling comes over me. The words he chooses somehow always leave me hungry. And then we are at the party. At this house party, you pass me saying nothing, touching my stomach, no one seeing or knowing but you and I. This is your message that later, against all better judgment, I will fall apart for you. I watch you like a bonfire courting the tide. It never mattered how pretty I am or was to others: I was never anything to you but an artfully pleaded lover. Hiro, you are still prettier than all the girls – that, you knew and yes, they all want to go home with you. You push the boundaries of adulation with awkward haircuts, irony and carelessness, to see how much can you get away with but it changes nothing. All of the girls here seem to want photographs of you for their bare walls. But better than the pictures, they want to arrive with you and leave with you. But even the fairest are not fortunate because you will be loved forever and you will never care. They are merely decorations for your perpetual transience.
“At a certain time at any party, no matter how good the music, the hungry eyes come out.” “Go on.” “I don’t have the balls to engage it even when I want to. The sultry, breathless ‘Come over and talk to me big boy’ eyes. And maybe I’m a prude but –” A long pause. “But?” “And yes, then there’s the ‘Homeless and starving eyes’ that’s the worse. See that girl over there, the drunk one, she’s been taking photographs of you and I on her camera creep phone for the past five minutes.” “She has,” I say disgusted. Adam and the Ants is playing on a retro style boombox. Some scene you are in these days. It is all high life, pill poppin, wannabe-starlets and wannabe-stars hanging out around glass tables. But I know that you are never who you are with. You are your own star, revolving as the sun. As though you can read my mind you speak up. “These aren’t my real family, my real brothers. I’ve found real brothers, I have to tell you. We are always creating together. Creativity. All the time. Painting. Music. Living in light!” “Who? Where are they? Why wouldn’t they be here?” “My mother has moved back to Japan. Several years now. I visit her for months at a time. I’ve found my family, Tokyo friends. We go to the mountains in Kobe, make music.” I’ve never heard so much happiness in your voice. It’s thrilling. Just then the party peaks and you whisper in my ear, your mouth in a wide strange smile, “No more deviations, fuck distractions, tired of this, we’re leaving.” You are acid wash under all that sweet face. And we leave because you always want to leave everyone wanting more. You smile, raise your arm, say that we will be right back, just going out for a smoke and a walk. But you have no intention, you never do. You never come back to a party once you’ve gone outside. All exits are final. You’re really enjoying leaving with me because to your new friends I am the stranger in town for the night. The question lingering in their minds about us excites you. Exposure is to suffer, so you live in the shade, in the AM, in the half-light, half in flight. But on top of it all, you leave with me because for a long time now you have been wishing I was here with you and here I am. We get in your car, an old red Miata. “Let’s talk about you. Where have you been all these years? I heard you went travelling all over the world.”
“Well, through all of Central America, most of South America, much of Europe and a little bit of the Middle East. I was very serious in college. And when I wasn’t studying I was travelling. It was a – compulsion.” “Yeah, of course, when there’s so much to see hard to make a visit back here.” The hard words, the long inquiries somersault as they fall, masked in lightness. “I didn’t stay in touch with many people. I didn’t have many friends. I had other goals for a while.” “Didn’t you have a boyfriend?” The drive will last a while on the 405 and I think of breaking and telling you. I want to tell you about all the years in between. I almost tell you because all the windows are down and you’re driving slower than you should. When I was a baby and my parents were young they would put me in the car and drive till I fell asleep. This part of America reminds me of my infancy in Asia and I want to tell you everything because I feel so serene right now. I can tell the night feels good on your body too, freshly shaved, freshly bathed. But I don’t because seeing you reminds me of old times. And I’m only here with you to pretend for a while that I could be who I was before – guileless. “Actually I got married. Briefly.” “Really, wow. Any kids?” “No, it wasn’t really like that. It didn’t really go that far.” “Alright, I think I understand.” “It was more about being confused and a lot of pressure. He was older, it seemed only fair.” I shrug my shoulders and look out the window to the muddled skyline. “When did it end?” “Just recently, officially. But we’ve been apart for a while now. I know it’s strange to say but sometimes it feels like it never even happened. Even right now, telling you, it feels like I’m lying,” I say. “It’s ok, don’t feel bad.” “No, I don’t feel bad.” “Sure, so why do you look so guilty?” “It was no way to treat someone, I’ll pay for it someday.” “It was no way to treat yourself. You’re alright, you’ll be alright.” Stunned by your compassion I remember why the friends who saw us grow up are the truest friends we have. I have missed you so much. I end up asking about all the other lush and feral children we scattered around with, loosely and colorfully as marbles. I have not seen any of them since Lake Havasu many winter breaks ago. We were
all out of our minds in one way or another, unrefined and reflecting flames off of each other. We all thought we were invincible in our youthful hubris. Remember how we would listen to hip hop instrumentals, drink malt liquor, smoke blunts dipped in hash oil in honor of LA? When the parties finally ended, and everyone left or fell asleep you would swoop me, grab my waist and take me into hidden rooms. And even after all your confessions, in your selfishness, you never told me you loved me. But that doesn’t matter now, none of it matters anymore. Me me, oh, my my. It must be this night sky. The air tonight. “What happened to our crew, the Crosby kids?” “There’s no Crosby crew anymore. Don’t know where anyone is.” You smile, your cheekbones rising high and sharp like a temperature. You ignore the further comments and questions I have about our old friends. You look at me and smile. You start singing an old Massive Attack song and sing boldly because without music your life would be a mistake. I love your voice, it as fresh and unencumbered as your body taut as a teenager’s. It has always sounded so young, so free, and light. I’m glad that adulthood has not robbed you of this voice. Oh. And the air is so warm tonight, almost luminous. I couldn’t get over it if I tried. Though the night is not yet over, and who knows what will happen to our lives in the next hour, I haven’t gotten that old feeling of pining and expectation that you would put me through back in the day. It would rear its head vicious as a sleeping dragon crawling into my skin. For the first time in a long time, that feels okay with me, not knowing what comes next, what comes after, if I’ll survive the hour. I turn to you singing in the driver’s seat. You slide your eyes across to me and smile radiantly, showing your little fangs that peek out from behind your lips when you smile wide enough. Have you changed, Hiro? Happier? Stronger? Fitter than before? “I’m happy you’re here,” you say. You would have never said that before. “I am too. I was happy to come back out here. I've been due for a visit.” “Happy happy. You, miss thang, you look, lady, like a field of marigolds.” We laugh. Something about our laughter has always sounded similar. We laugh our shared laugh for so long it’s clear we’re not laughing at your silliness anymore but something else. What is it? I don’t know. Then I realize we are at your place. You turn the ignition off. You turn the lights off. We get out of your car, leaving the rustle of palm trees, the summer night, and the dark California ground behind in a hot hum.
Your room is spartan, clean and almost vulgar in the whiteness. This is a new austerity which must've come with age or a new cultish obsession of yours that I do not know. Your clothes hang, fragrant with your after shower scent, in the closet. You’ve got a Buddhist calendar in Japanese tacked to the wall. A couple books are piled together in a corner. Your lamp is on next to a framed picture of your mother, taken when she was young, a portrait in sepia of her in a kimono. Then, finally, there is your bed, low to the floor, with white sheets crisp as ice chips. That’s all there is to be said about your room. I sit on the edge of the bed and look through your bedroom door and see you take off your black, waist-grazing jacket as you open the refrigerator. It’s simple, cut solemnly like a monk’s cassock with the sleeves falling a little too long on your arms giving a youthful effect. “Did I tell you I like your jacket?” I yell as I stand and walk around your room. “Mmm – no you didn’t. Thanks. Ah, I just stole it from a friend who never wore it. And I don’t think he misses it yet so it’s mine till the day he remembers.” And I know you wear it better like you wear all things better. You come into the room, your arms swinging a little with the residue of the warm evening that relaxed us both. You hand me a beer then sit on the floor against the wall and take a slow drink from the bottle. “Are you tired?” I ask. “I’m always a little tired,” your voice trails. Well, here we are. Here we are carried into a tsunami of silence after all our chatty chatty discourse in the car. We have always been so weird in this way. The mood of our interaction changes without premonition or direction. I walk over and sit next to you, not touching you. The few inches away from you are canyons. It is an abyss too large for human travel. For some reason I am tuned into the sound of our breathing, the inhalation and exhalation quickly becoming unbearably loud in my ears. Haven’t we known each other long enough to not have such awkwardness, Hiro? But maybe it’s not awkwardness, maybe it’s more than that? Is it desire? Suddenly, you take my forearm swiftly, hold the inside of my wrist against your ear and look straight into my eyes. “I’ve always liked that song. Wish I could hear it more but you’re the only one who plays it,” you say soberly, your eyes averted down lingering over my legs. Then you look up impeccably slow, your mouth slightly ajar ready to apologize, just in case, but eyes exultant.
Almost inaudibly I mouth your name, Hiroshi, which means generous and sounds like it should be cooed no matter your age. And I pull your head up, my palms framing your face. Hiro, I say, and those who only know English would think I was calling you a savior. Hiro mon chou because sometimes you are so French talking about cigarettes and the beautiful struggle. Hiro-chan for our friendship and for thinking I’d never be this way with you again. The sudden sound of rainfall comes from outside your walls. The hot hum we left behind dissolves in an extended and fluid release.
Sinta Jimenez is a writer, fine artist and fashion journalist. Her paintings, poetry, and short fiction have been published in several literary magazines including Underground Voices, Otis Nebula, and The Black Boot. She has contributed to various online fashion and lifestyle magazines. In 2000, she was a recipient of a National Association for the Advancement of the Arts Award in Short Story. Born in Manila, raised in DC, she received her MFA from Otis College of Art and Design in Los Angeles.
Matthew J. Hall The Piano Keys Don't seem so black any more And the high notes not so righteous I can't be certain The scale is all up the wall And my teacher is in some kind of Self induced coma She seems to choke on her dribble Deeply gurgling on her saliva The minor scale hits the main line Drawing back blood like Miscreants shame The piano keys Don't seem so black any more
Matthew J. Hall is a writer, artist and musician who lives in Bristol, England. He has recently been published by Every Writer's Resource and has a chapbook due for release in early 2013.
Harlan Wheeler The Backyard Children
The uncles snore with delight, as the old women whisper-the children own the night. Back flipping through the loops of time, mama grabs herself another glass of wine. Toothless girls with mannequin legs, dance the jitterbug under the back porch swing. Light bulb bugs circle in the night, and all of the cousins are hiding out of sight. Crickets tune their silky strings, no one’s listening, but everyone sings. Hollow spiders that have no bite, weave sticky monkey hats throughout the night. Frisbee buns fly around like kites, while the charcoal smells simmer in the night. Red rover throws up some magpie soup, The hula hoops break their silent loops. Dogs with skinny legs jump high and fast, over sapphire turtles snapping in the grass. A magic cat scratches and bites, turns into a lion for just one night. Helicopter rides on big bumble bees, iodine patches on elbows and knees. Porch lights flicker it’s the end of night, shhhh.....the backyard children are all out of sight.
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