Crack the Spine
Literary magazine
Issue Ninety - six
Issue Ninety-Six January 1, 2014 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2014 by Crack the Spine
CONTENTS Gladys Justin Carr Reality Show
Michael Haskins The Philosopher
Pierrette Rouleau Stukes Swimming
Corey Pentoney Curtains
Patrick Curley “Tercet”
Barb Nativad A Slice of Pie at the Crawley Diner
Gladys Justin Carr Reality Show
The baby cries
what fresh hell is this (you talkin’ to me?)
a cat scurries the dog appears
the baby sleeps
(what joy is this says the mouse to the cheese)
between sheets
the lovers lie to each other their rage is vast & endless
the dog barks
the lovers’ cries are borrowed from The Young and The Restless
Michael Haskins The Philosopher
A
stranger to the desert, a
philosopher from one of the great cities on the continent to the north heard of this oasis and undertook preparations to travel. He was an admired and respected man, and he possessed in himself all the best virtues of his people. He was systematic in his thought, receptive to new ideas, generous of spirit. But despite these attributes, the body flagged even as his mind excelled. The philosopher determined to sojourn to the oasis because he had heard of its healing waters and although he did not fear death, he still believed he had more work to do. Of course, rumors of the desert water’s healing powers ran rampant in the north; the people of the desert knew the sad inaccuracy of these tales, for they had bathed in those waters for thousands of years and still they watched their
loved ones die from the failings of the body. Nevertheless, all the credible sources to the philosopher’s ear extolled their healing powers—or perhaps the philosopher merely assigned his faith where he wanted, for when days are days of exhaustion and pain, even the greatest minds seek comfort—and he sailed to the mouth of the desert, where he loaded a camel with supplies and bowed his head to the wind blowing across the sands. The pace of his journey’s beginning was no slower than anticipated, and steady. By nightfall of the tenth day however, he could no longer control his fear. He sat on a carpet in front of his camel-dung fire and, in the sand, he redrew the map of the land from memory. A five day journey for a young man in good health, the philosopher had reasonably
allotted to himself ten days, had hoped for eight or nine. He had yet, in all his time in the desert, to see another wanderer, although he could find little reason for the inhabitants of this place to stray far from their city and its water. The water sprang four days south and one day east of the port on the sea. Was it possible he had turned east too early? By what arrogance had he not first followed the coast? He had supplies for twenty days. If he turned back now, he would leave the desert only as alive as he had entered it, succumbing to the body. The philosopher snatched the robes about his attenuated chest. He had been made old, not by the revolutions of the seasons, but by the deficiencies of the flesh. He cursed his wretched body, but knew that when the sun rose upon the sands, he would continue south towards
the oasis. By the fourteenth day, traveling south, then further east, then south some more, the philosopher, a calm and reasonable mind, felt the unfamiliar fluttering of panic in his breast. He trekked west; perhaps he had gone too far east instead of south. He trekked north. On the nineteenth day, supplies dwindling, he dropped the camel’s rope and stood still. Reason is indistinguishable from madness in the desert. Facing north, towards his homeland, the philosopher raised his right forearm to his forehead—to block the sun?—and resolved to stand still, to expend as little energy as possible, to hope for rescue. On the first day, the sun turned his shoulder to stone. When night fell, the philosopher tried to lower his arm and found that he could not. He looked down and
saw the stony skin. He reached across with his left hand and felt his shoulder: the hard, rough grain of sandstone. He dropped back his left arm, lest it too turn to stone. On the second day, the stone weight of his left ankle sank into the sand. Each day, the sun turned another patch of skin to stone. But the philosopher did not die; the stone kept him alive. A triage on the living body, limbs and non-essential organs ossified first. When the sluggish blood could no longer feed the hungry brain, his head hardened, his last thoughts on the immortality of the immaterial soul. Only the chest remained alive, the attenuated chest. The blood pooled in the chambers of the heart and it beats still, a statue of living flesh.
Pierrette Rouleau Stukes Swimming
I inhaled gasoline fumes. I was ten. I have no idea how I knew that breathing vapors would get you high, your mind thick, silly, forgetting. Sneaking along the nighttime edges of 1960s starter homes lined up on stark Bermuda lawns, I would feel for the greasy, metal surfaces of push mowers in sheds, unscrew the caps and breathe. Insider’s joke: The trapeze artist grips the bar in his mouth over empty space, no net. Alcoholics let go on purpose. They drop willingly into forgetting oblivion. I don’t remember my first meeting. But I recall sitting with a pudgy, sixty-something woman in cotton jeans at a diner afterwards. Diners look the same on the outside: sticky booths, griddle cooks, single patrons eating, smoking, staring off into memories. Ellie and I hunched over stained Formica, drinking coffee and pushing stale apple pie around on our plates. We looked like a grandmother and her twenty-two-year-old granddaughter. “I missed a dance routine at a national competition. I was passed out in my hotel room in my tutu.” “That’s alcoholism.” “I stole cheap wine from the A & P behind my parents’ house.” “That’s alcoholism.” “Lost jobs. Quit high school. Kicked out of bars. Relationships sucked dry.” “That’s alcoholism.” “When I was fifteen, a friend I drank with committed suicide. She got her dad’s gun. Shot herself in the park beside her house, her mother probably sewing or baking. Oblivious.”
“Do you feel suicidal?” “No,” I chuckled. “I don’t have that much courage.” Bridges attract suicides. Most people die from the trauma of impact. They free fall for several seconds into the blue oblivion before their bodies collide with the water at approximately seventy-five miles per hour. The coroner can approximate the angle at which the body hits the water by the injuries. A few jumpers outlive the drop. They usually die from hypothermia or drowning. I remember this much about my second meeting. The breakout groups had gathered for the closing. People sat in cockeyed rows of folding chairs and leaned against dusty walls. They stood in the doorway and spilled out into the basement hallway of the church which had donated space to help them remember. Most were sober. Some were not—able to face their memories. Crumpled one-dollar bills and loose change filled a basket like you might put candy in for trick-ortreaters. Cigarette smoke escaped through the opened transom windows which were supposed to let in the September air, hot and close even at 9:00 p.m. Ellie rubbed my back. Missy held a tray of plastic poker chips and passed each token in front of her like the Eucharist. I pushed my chair back to give my legs room. I understand what Stevie Smith means by “not waving, but drowning.” In the sixth grade, I got knee-collapsing sloshed in my neighbor’s darkened living room, a pair of scissors in one hand, a bottle of Boone’s Farm in the other—a short cut
or long cut to forgiving oblivion. The television screen waves of white noise. “Are you alright?” Ellie asked. I jumped. “Oh, yes. I’m fine. Thank you.” I could be a polite drunk, like the southern debutante I never was getting tipsy from her first chilled mimosa on the veranda. Or fouled mouthed, I could scream at my horrified mother, “Kiss my ass,” when she threatened my air supply. “We have the white chip for anyone who would like to give up the high cost of low living and join us,” Missy said. On dry land, some addicts laughed easily, confession, indeed, good for the soul. Others clung to any flotsam floating by, their smiles guarding their secrets and their bottles. I inhaled and held my breath. “Would anyone like a white chip?” Adrenaline rushed up my legs. An alcoholic by eighteen, I went with my mother to a church camp with seventy-fivemile mountain views. I stayed high that weekend on the living water of Christ. On Sunday morning, perched on a rock outcrop, I floated on the blue horizon. I drank for four more years, but mom and I would attend country revivals, altar calls drawing me down the red-carpeted aisles, strangers praying “hallelujah.” I don’t remember when I learned to swim. But by ten years old, I swam a solid backstroke. I could dive—sleek and long—off the starter’s block, hold my breath and paddle my feet in mermaid waves, pushing my body farther and farther before breaking the surface.
Corey Pentoney Curtains
I
stared at the hollowed-out
speaker. It was one of those fivefoot-tall floor speakers with fake wood sides. The kind you see sitting by the side of the road or at a Salvation Army. Not the kind anyone actually used. It was lined with tinfoil and a UV lamp hung from the top. Arty had cut a hole for a vent hose in the back, which ran out the window. A fan at the end of the hose would keep the air moving and the smell from gathering too heavily in his tiny, cluttered apartment. At the bottom of the speaker was a bucket of water with fertilizer in it, and a little plant, about five inches tall, stood straight out of substrate floating just on top of the water. “You're an idiot,” I said. Arty just grinned. He was proud of the work he'd put into the thing. “Mike gave me the cut for
free,” he replied, as if it would explain everything away. Mike was a co-worker of his at the Lobster Pit. “Said he just wanted a few ounces when it was ready.” “You're an idiot,” I repeated. “You don't think your neighbors will notice the smell?” “That's what the fan is for. No one's going to pay attention to the smell of a little pot wafting out of the window.” He finished off his Corona. “And it's not like anyone would have the balls to report me to the cops on a hunch.” I sat back down on the broken reclining couch and watched while he screwed the back of the speaker into place. “And you're just going to dry it
in there too, I suppose?” “Yep.” “And then sell it all to the first bum you meet on the street?” “I'm sure I can find a buyer easily enough.” Arty frowned. Someone had to play the voice of reason. “Half the guys at work are potheads, anyway.” “Great. My best friend wants to be a drug dealer.” “Don't knock it, man, it's a good way to earn money. Want another beer?” “Why not?” Arty went into the kitchen. “I figure this plant will be worth like three thousand. If I sell a few plants a year and save all the money, I'll have fifty thousand saved up in no time,” he said when he came back into the living room. “And what exactly would you do with all that money?” “Get a new place. Or a new
car. Or a lawyer.” He shifted around in his low rocking chair, his foot tapping at a million miles a minute, vibrating the whole room. “Because a judge is going to award custody to a drug-dealer.” “No one would ever have to know. And big time drug lords get custody all the time. It's just about hiring the better lawyer.” “And where would Stephanie sleep? She needs a room of her own.” Arty's apartment had only one bedroom with a large living room, a kitchen, dining room, and bathroom. Not much space for a four-year-old. “The money will help me get a new place, like I said.” “What happens when Steph finds out her dad is a drug dealer?” “We'll be a drug-dealing family. Like in Weeds,” he replied. “Just without the killing and sleeping with cops. Unless the cop has a really nice ass.” “Then the cop figures out
what you are, you get arrested, and I have to bail you out with your own drug money.” I took a sip of my beer. Needed lime. “At least you'd already have a good lawyer!” “Maybe.” “You think she'd fall so in love with you and Steph that she'd overlook your little business and you'd get married and live happily ever after?” “Maybe.” His foot was still tapping incessantly. “Wouldn't have to sell drugs if we got married. Cops earn huge salaries.” “OK, I can't argue with that.” I laughed, then something sparked in the speaker box and the fake wood caught on fire. “Shit! Extinguisher!” Arty scrambled into the kitchen, spilling his beer on the carpet, and tossed aside a few garbage bags looking for it. “Go check in the bathroom!” he yelled. “Who keeps a fire extinguisher
in the bathroom?” “Someone who hates spiders!” It wasn't in the bathroom. I ran into the bedroom, careful to step over the condom wrappers on the floor. The room was so covered in dirty laundry that it took me a minute to find the extinguisher that was hidden in the corner. By the time I got back to the living room, most of the speaker was on fire, but a few quick sprays were enough to put it out. “Good thing you don't have curtains,” I said, dropping the empty canister on the floor. Arty laughed a little. I couldn't help but laugh too, relief sweeping over me. “Well, looks like that plan is ruined,” he said. “Take it as a sign from the universe, Arty,” I said. “You're not meant to be a marijuana farmer.” “Maybe.” He went to the kitchen and I heard the pop-hiss of a beer bottle being opened. “I've heard mushrooms are pretty easy to grow.”
Patrick Curley “Tercet”
Perhaps, because we knew that moments-made can be unmade and ruined utterly, you and I embraced, and feared the silence – lest it tempt us add one line too many.
Barb Nativad A Slice of Pie at the Crawley Diner
“Morning, hon. Cup of coffee?” Brenda asked. It was early, before the breakfast crowd rushed in, and the man at the counter was the only customer. An upside-down cup rested on a saucer in front of him. He turned it right side up. Brenda reached for the coffee pot and poured without overfilling or splashing. “You new in town?” she asked. “Passing through.” The man’s voice was deep and hollow, like his eyes. Brenda wondered if he had traveled all night. “Where’re you from?” “Here and there.” “Me, I’ve lived here all my life. Never even been to Chicago.” The man grunted. “That ain’t but a hundred miles east of here.” “Got no reason to leave. Everything I need is right here in Crawley. Kids, grandkids, friends, church, work.” “That so?” “It is,” she said with an emphatic nod that made her gray curls dance. “The early bird special’s printed on that card in front of you, or you can order something off the menu.” She pointed above the grill, to a black board on which white plastic letters spelled out both the breakfast and lunch entrees. “You do the cooking, too?” Brenda snorted. “College Boy’s the cook. Probably in the office studying. You know what you want, hon? I can holler for him.” “I’ll have pie.”
“For breakfast?” “Apple, if you have it.” “Warmed up?” “Nah.” When she returned with the slice, the man held a gun aimed at her and was grinning like a sugar skull Brenda had seen on a cable TV program about a holiday called the Day of the Dead. Those skulls were meant to be eaten. “Look, mister,” she said, “I don’t want no trouble. How about you have your pie and go? My treat.” She set the plate in front of him. The man worked his jaw like a cow chewing cud, then spit a mixture of saliva and phlegm onto the crust. “Now why’d you ruin a perfectly good slice of pie?” Brenda asked. “Shut up. Eat.” “What?” “Eat the pie.” The man pointed to the fork in front of him, and then to Brenda. She picked up the fork and the plate, closed her eyes, and took a bite. She chewed once or twice and swallowed. She didn’t feel the buttery crust flake against the roof of her mouth. She didn’t taste the cinnamon-seasoned apples. The man’s fluids coated her throat like a film of whole milk. She opened her eyes. He was gone. On the counter next to his unfinished coffee were five worn and dirty dollar bills. The glass door opened and the regulars filed in, wishing Brenda a good morning, waving like beauty queens on a parade float.
Contributors Gladys Justin Carr Gladys Justin Carr is a recovering corporate executive now writing full time. Formerly Publisher & VP at Harper Collins book publishers, she is the author of a poetry chapbook, "Augustine's Brain--The Remix," and co-author of "Edge by Edge." Her recent work has appeared in over 90 literary magazines nationwide and in Canada. She is a winner of aCalifornia State Poetry Society Award and has been nominated 3 times for the Pushcart Prize. She is listed in Who's Who in America and Who's Who in the World, probably because she is an internationally renowned chocoholic. Patrick Karl Curley Patrick Karl Curley is from the Northwest Coast of Ireland. He has a BA in Anthropology and English Literature and an MA in Drama and Theatre Studies. Recent dramatic work includes "Beneath The Bone Moon" and a theatrical adaptation of Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment". He has previously published work in Black Heart Magazine and From The Depths. Michael Haskins Michael Haskins is an M.F.A. candidate in fiction at Oklahoma State University. Barb Natividad Barb Natividad's work has appeared in the Wilderness House Literary Review, Center, and the North American Review. She lives with her husband and three cats in Chicago, and holds an MFA in poetry from The Ohio State University. Corey Pentoney Corey Pentoney is currently working on mastering the art of the waffle, searching ancient texts for the perfect combination of baking soda and sugar. When he discovers the perfect waffle, he plans to start a monastery deep in the Adirondack wilderness to pass on the recipe.
Pierrette Rouleau Stukes Pierrette Rouleau Stukes loved words as a child, but forgot. Relishing others’ words, she earned degrees in English literature. She remembered her first love and has published creative nonfiction in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Mountain Memoirs: An Ashe County Anthology, and The Rose. Her essay “Swimming” was awarded first place in a regional creative nonfiction contest. “Tilted Toward Life” was nominated for the 2011 Best of the Net for nonfiction. A short-short fiction story, “Between the Lines,” earned an Honorable Mention in New Millennium Writings. Her nonfiction memoir essay “Misinformation Effect” has also earned an Honorable Mention in New Millennium Writings.
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