Crack the Spine - Issue 99

Crack the Spine Literary magazine

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Issue Ninety-Nine January 22, 2014 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2014 by Crack the Spine

CONTENTS

Anthony Van Witsen Everybody Sang But Hattie

Alicia Cole The Tobacco Barn

Drew Dean Monadnock

Strother Kevin Hall An Unnecessary Cut

Skyler Nielson Pigeon Empire

Scott Anderson Rasputin

Anthony Van Witsen Everybody Sang But Hattie

Celeste’s

enemies are growing

every day now, not only in their size, number, and menace, but also their range, convictions, and the scale of their ambitions against her. Parents, her teachers for sure (some of them, anyway), the President of the United States, faces on TV, the nasty little shits who taunted Celeste and her best friend Lauren as “hep cats” for dancing a silent Lindy-hop in the hall between classes. With such a catalogue, nothing needs explaining the afternoon Celeste watches her mother pack up a selection of her father’s clothes just before leaving them in the hall outside the apartment door. For a few minutes she stands stupidly, observing, as Harry James’ trumpet plays “Begin The Beguine” through her headphones. Why not listen to Harry James? All this fuss has

nothing to do with her, it’s her mother briskly opening drawers and closets, gathering suits, shirts, ties, jeans, and jamming them into two suitcases and a duffel. Not jamming, that isn’t fair, her mother is more careful than that. Then she turns toward Celeste and her lips move.

“What?” Celeste says, lifting off the headphones.

“I said if you’re just going to stand and gawk, then go get his stuff out of the medicine chest.”

Sensing this isn’t the best time to protest that she has homework, Celeste replaces the headphones and heads for the bathroom: out of the medicine cabinet comes the razor, two toothbrushes, floss, underarm deodorant, can of shaving cream slimy with goo. A box of condoms spills onto the bathroom floor.

Dropping to her knees to pick them up gives a sudden closeup

of scuffed tile and clogged groutlines, reinforcing, somehow, her sense that nothing about her family life fits into place anymore or that she’s betraying her father.

Not just him, but his ideals, everything he’s accomplished. Of course he stays out overnight; isn’t he working past exhaustion in a good cause? Of course, of course. Of course these allnighters have a longer history than that, but still.

“Help me carry these.” Her mother’s pale face appears at the bathroom door. Dropping the condom box, Celeste follows her mother to the living room, but instead of taking one of the suitcases, she reaches a hand into her jeans pocket to feel for the key. For no reason she can explain, she stands, fingering it, as Ray Noble plays “Cherokee.”

Then her mother leans over and pulls off the phones.

“I said help me carry these.

Not when the next tune is over.

Now.” Celeste half thinks, half mutters something.

“What?” her mother says.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that look. And clean up your language, whatever it was.”

Celeste looks at the floor. Her father gave her that key three weeks ago without explanation.

Now she’s beginning to perceive something about it.

“Look at me when I talk to you. Is there any reason you won’t show me what’s in that pocket?” Actually, Celeste can think of several, but who’d be foolish enough to state them?

Slowly she reaches into her jeans, withdraws the key, clutched in her fist.

“What have you got there a key?” Her mother’s baleful stare.

“Is this about your father?” At which Celeste can’t help an involuntary smile, almost a smirk.

“Does this have something to do with that little art world fake he’s

shacking up with?” her mother continues. “Because don’t think I don’t know about that.”

She wouldn’t be talking like this if he were here now, Celeste thinks. If her parents break up and her mother starts dating, will she have to be polite to those guys? All of them?

“Fine. Sneer at me,” her mother says. “Can’t I get an atom of respect?” Celeste returns to the bathroom to pick up more condoms. When the last of three bags are shut, her mother drags them to the hallway outside the apartment door. “I should stick a plane ticket in there,” she says with a laugh, though Celeste can’t see what’s funny about it. “To China.

He can organize the Revolutionary People’s Movement To Free Outer Mongolia.” The more she laughs, the less funny it seems to Celeste.

Her mother laughs and laughs till the moment when she stops laughing, leans against the wall for a moment, then sinks into an exhausted half-squat, half-crouch.

“Ma?” Celeste says, as her

mother’s gaze threatens to bore a hole in the floor. “Ma?” Finally she helps her mother stand, then leads her, step by step, to the bedroom where she undresses her—shoes, athletic socks, slacks and sweatshirt—then folds back the bedcovers and helps her into bed.

That evening, with her mother sleeping, Celeste sips a cup of coffee and watches the President on TV: “Saddam Hussein and his sons must leave Iraq within 48 hours. Their refusal to do so will result in military conflict commenced at a time of our choosing.”

It’s starting, she thinks. She wonders if her father will return home after a day of planning the antiwar rally, see the suitcases, and figure out their meaning. Will he take the bags and slink off without even a goodbye?

Burst into the apartment and wake everyone up with whimpering apologies?

Apologies--like that’s going to happen, right?

Hours later, Celeste sits up in bed, having figured out who the

enemy is and it’s tragic; no, worse than tragic—maybe the worst disaster of her life. Fully awake, she fidgets upright against the pillow. The clock by the bed reads 12:20. From Broadway twelve stories below comes the wail of a siren and taxi horns; from above, the faint roar of a jetliner approaching LaGuardia.

Nothing’s changed except she knows who her enemies are: everyone. Everyone. In. The. Whole. World.

Pushing back the covers, moving smoothly in the dark, she finds the CD player, clamps the phones over her ears, then immediately yanks them off, full of hateful thoughts; it’s the coffee talking, she shouldn’t have had three cups, but still she can’t purge the hatefulness. She hears the President’s muffled voice through the wall from the TV in the next apartment, but can’t make out the words. Can the President of the United States be your personal enemy? It doesn’t matter. Indulging an impulse, she moves silently through the

darkened living room then eases the front door open.

The suitcases are still there.

Of course he never came home; he’s trying to stop a war, isn’t he?

If you live the kind of life your enemies wish for you, that’s no life at all, so start with that. Up at six, hot breakfast in the tiny dining nook across from the kitchen with its chipped parquet floor. Oatmeal with maple syrup or cinnamon rolls from the Broadway deli. Sometimes her mother joins her, sometimes not.

Eleven block trek to school past the wall of apartment buildings on West End Avenue. On 83rd street she passes one of those stores that sell every kind of junky appliance and cat litter and greeting cards. Six TVs going in the window and different images of the President on each one.

With the caffeine gone from her system, a kind of deadly calm lets her think things over.

Here’s what Celeste knows in early 2003: the United States is preparing for war with Iraq. Or it

isn’t. “The tyrant will soon be gone,” says the President in his calm, even voice. “The day of your liberation is near.” Except that no one she knows believes this, starting with her father, who neglects his family to work for peace. Someone is going to be right in this deadly contest and someone is going to be wrong.

Choose, Celeste. Who’s your lesser enemy?

Here is another fact: in the fall and winter of 1941, the Tommy Dorsey Band traveled to nineteen cities in eight states up and down the east coast. Band members stayed in fancy hotels when they reached big cities but sometimes had to sleep on buses in between, traveling through the night across the Pennsylvania mountains to make the next date. Celeste learns this reading Swing: The Music, The People, The Era from Time-Life books, sitting on her bed or Lauren’s, reading and playing Artie Shaw or Bunny Berigan. It always feels good to be with Lauren, who, whatever her differences with Celeste,

knows how important it is to work very hard and fast at your homework so you have time left over to waste. Not put to some productive use, just waste; no uplift, no culture; Lauren gets that. Lauren gets swing music too, never objects when Celeste just wants to lie on the floor, looking at the ceiling, playing the same track of “Jersey Bounce” again and again. Songs like that define something between them.

People were tough as nails in that era, and dressed better. It’s obvious that if she lived back then she’d be going out with Harry James, who played the trumpet with beauty and brash masculinity. After a session, he’d find her somewhere; he’d smell of sweat and aftershave and there would be no need for foolish talk or flirting because they’d understand each other. So that would be that. She’d do whatever with Harry James for a while and see where it went; then it would be easier to relate to contemporary boys, like having a map and finally acquiring a scale

to go with it.

“What did they do when they weren’t making music?” Lauren says as Celeste starts the number again.

“They didn’t exist when they weren’t making music,” Celeste says.

“Bullshit.”

“No, it’s true. They didn’t have to do anything but make music, so they didn’t exist otherwise. It was perfect.”

“Crap. C-r-a-a-a-a-a-p!”

“It feels true,” Celeste says.

“That’s what counts for artists.”

“How about Metropolis?”

Lauren says. “They make music videos.”

“Music videos are no more real than albums,” Celeste says.

“Anyway, they don’t sell out.

They don’t do commercials.”

“What’s more commercial than a music video?” Lauren says.

“I can’t explain it any better than I have,” Celeste says.

“Put on their album.”

“What’s wrong with what’s on now?”

“Just play them,” Lauren says.

Some of Celeste and Lauren’s most involved arguments have been about Metropolis, four contemporary singers who do artful, if slightly tongue-in-cheek recreations of swing vocal arrangements. In an interview, Harriet “Hattie” Martin, the alto, said something that deeply impressed Celeste: “It’s not enough to sing the music. You have to live it. You have to be there in your mind, up on all those bandstands. If you aren’t living it, your singing’s a lie.”

Brilliant, bloody brilliant, Celeste thought, knowing Harriet meant some super-deluxe ballroom full of blue-jowled yeggs with padded shoulders and tough cookies with blood-red lipstick and hennaed hair who chewed gum and said, “Nerts to that.”

“I can’t play Metropolis now,” Celeste says. “I have to do Mr. Block’s homework for tomorrow.”

“Maybe you could get your father to book them for the rally.”

“We don’t know where they stand on the war.”

“Actually,” Lauren says, “I’m

pretty sure Hattie supports the war. I don’t know why. I know I read that somewhere.”

“That’s it,” Celeste says.

“Forget it, then.”

“Don’t worry. Hattie won’t talk about her beliefs at the rally.

That would ruin their chance for some great publicity.”

Which is pure Lauren, seeing the pecuniary side of good deeds.

Lauren wants to be an entertainment lawyer like her father because it’s a chance to help really creative people with some of their most important problems.

The main thing, though, is she wants to be a lawyer. Taking Lauren through her own apartment for the first time, Celeste stared at the floor, unwilling to see the place through rich-girl Lauren’s eyes. Or worse, see what isn’t there: no huge, light-flooded living room like Lauren’s, overlooking Riverside Drive, no fully grown shrubs in pots or a grand piano nobody played, the top covered with silver-framed photos of Lauren’s father’s show-business clients.

Endless closets including one just for ski gear. Lauren drops the news that her mother gets inhome body waxings. “My mom is totally obsessed with her body. I mean totally.”

Lauren’s apartment makes Celeste feel the nauseating wish for stuff she didn’t know she wanted, like a heated towel rack. Her own kitchen cupboards hold jars of mustard, tops stuck from years of disuse, a block of brown sugar dry and hard as a brick, dusty utensils, shapeless things that had once been foodstuffs and now aren’t. Behind that are more things, ancient things, things it’s not good to think about. Who’d notice if she reached into Lauren’s stainless steel freezer and took one of the imported Brazilian tropical fruit popsicles?

“Did you understand that homework?” Celeste says.

“Kind of.”

“Because I don’t get when Mr. Block wants us to make up three constitutional laws and three that are unconstitutional.”

“I didn’t get that part either,”

Lauren says.

“He gives out assignments like he’s the only teacher,” Celeste continues.

“You just have to make the argument whether it’s constitutional or unconstitutional.”

“I mean, can we have a life this semester?” Celeste says.

“Just give him five paragraphs by tomorrow.”

“Five paragraphs? That’s, like, an entire paper.”

“It’s bullshit, but so what? I mean the whole point of high school is learning to deal with bullshit, so this is something to practice on.”

Celeste considers the logic of this, which is airtight, but depressingly strategic in a lawyerly kind of way. She thinks about being on that bus with the Dorseys. Miraculously, she’s 24, having somehow aged nine years.

They’re headed to Pittsburgh, where the band is booked into Rusty Coogan’s club. At 3 a.m, she squirms in her seat, trying to find a comfortable sleeping

position as the bus pulls up to an all-night diner with its fizzing neon sign and steamy windows.

It’s snowing lightly. Everyone tumbles off the bus and into the chill air to brace themselves up with some coffee. And where will she be, what will the band be doing on December 7, the day a different war begins?

“Talk to your father about Metropolis,” Lauren says.

A prolonged silence tells Celeste the music has just run out again. She gradually remembers she’s been lying on the floor of Lauren’s bedroom so long her back aches.

“What if Hattie tells everyone at the rally what she thinks?”

Celeste says.

“Never happen.”

“Are you sure?” Celeste says.

The thought that Hattie might set off a real debate right then and there at the rally, sets off an electric buzzer in her head. “If you’re not up on all those bandstands, your singing’s a lie.”

Could that really happen? Is it too much to want?

“The main thing,” Lauren says, “is to get some decent music at the rally.”

“That’s exactly what I don’t get,” Celeste says. “I mean today, there’s nothing around but a million kinds of shitty rock groups so it’s perfectly understandable people are fucking up a lot of other things too. But back then— ” “I need some time to do this homework,” Lauren says. “Don’t think about it.”

Celeste reaches for her coat.

“Of course if you have a good enough record to get into the college you want, maybe you can afford to think about it,” Lauren says.

There are many New Yorks: the New York of boardrooms and foundations where Celeste’s mother works, but also the New York of cruddy side streets and firetrap loft buildings in Chelsea where her father works, organizing the rally. Fucked-up New York.

Waiting for the elevator to creep down to the

first floor, she reaches into her bag and touches her Metropolis CDs—one, two, three—they’re all there. The lobby hasn’t been cleaned since 1973. Just before the elevator doors close, two coldly beautiful, impossibly thin women enter and ride up in the tiny car with her. It isn’t till they all exit on the third floor and the women enter a photographer’s studio that she realizes they’re models.

Her father’s office radiates the history-book sadness of one of those hippie scenes from the 60s: the same thrown-together used furniture, same stupid peace symbols, stupid posters of Gandhi and Martin Luther King, a plastic replica of the Statue of Liberty holding a peace flag. DIPLOMATS DEBATE TIMING OF WAR; PRESIDENT’S ULTIMATUM, says a newspaper on the desk. If the 60s are dead, why do the 40s still live for Celeste with their elevated trains, their black-andsilver nightclubs, and lipstickstained cigarettes? She avoids this thought as she sees her

father working two phones at the same time.

“Danny, you’re the only one who can give this some credibility, some edge,” he says.

“You da man, know what I mean?” Seeing Celeste, he grins and thrusts both phones toward her, one in each hand. “Say hello to Susan Sarandon? Or Danny Glover. I’ve got one on each line.”

Da man, she thinks. When did her father decide he was black?

But that’s her pop, isn’t it? Eager, solicitous, so supremely sure of himself he makes you feel he’ll never die. “If Danny Glover’s ‘da man,’” she says, “is Susan Sarandon ‘da woman?’”

“Susan!” he says to the other phone. “Did you hear what my daughter just said? No, you have to guess; those are the rules.” He looks tired but buoyant in worn jeans and an exquisite silk tie that’s too elegant for the frowsy office.

His thinness, which sometimes makes him gaunt, now gives him vigor, reminding her of those Saturdays past when

he took her to the Planetarium.

“I didn’t know you knew movie stars, ” she says after he hangs up both phones at once.

“Movie stars have their uses in this world, as long as they do what they’re told. But you have to make them think they thought of it themselves. Are you coming to the rally?”

She doesn’t answer. “This is going to be the biggest one, worldwide. We’re going to stop this thing. We’re going to give this warmongering, draft-dodging President one big fist of protest.”

She doesn’t try to argue.

Weeks ago, he’d switched off the TV when he caught her watching the aftermath of a gas attacks on Kurds.

Bloated bodies with blistered limbs lying next to a dead donkey in the street. More bodies slumped over in cars, a whole family dead at the dining table, flies buzzing over the remains of food. “This is what the tyrant Saddam does to his own people,” said the narrator.

Security guards laughed as they tossed prisoners, hands and feet

bound, out a third story window.

They emerged shrieking and kicking, as if, by struggling hard enough, they could prevent their fate.

Celeste clutched her stomach at the crack of bones breaking when they hit the ground.

He reached for the remote. “I don’t want you watching that.”

“Alright.”

“That’s my girl.” A lecture is coming on, why fight it? She wanted to kick those security men in the balls till they howled in pain for the pain they had inflicted. Last week he skipped dinner with her to attend a worldwide planning meeting to coordinate antiwar activity; maybe that’s where he picked up the tie. How did you argue with a father who received a gold key from the Lord Mayor of London?

“How would you like a backstage pass? You can meet all the celebrities.”

“Okay.”

“Is that all you can say? Don’t tell me you’re still weeping over those TV scenes. Don’t you know

those films are carefully orchestrated propaganda?”

“But––” “Look, it is not necessary to support Saddam Hussein or anything he’s doing in order to oppose this war, okay? They’re different issues.”

“Will this be on the test?” she says.

“Try to be serious.”

“I am being––” “So you don’t like it when Iraqis murder Iraqis but you have no problem when Americans are doing the murdering, is that it?

Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“I’m not on anybody’s side.”

“I watched the President on TV last night,” he says, pausing a moment. “I saw his lips moving; I heard sounds. Some of them resembled words I thought I knew, so I tried to connect them with meanings I understand and believe in. I couldn’t do it.

Liberation? Freedom?”

“But—” “But nothing.

Liberating what? The oil?

What’s that about? Tell me, go on, tell me.

You can’t, can you?

The privileged son of a bitch—has he ever done a day’s honest work in his life?”

“Daddy, your phone.”

“Sorry, sorry. Yeh?” he says into the receiver. “I’ll have more to say about that Friday. Some major commitments against the war from some very big people. I can’t tell you who yet. Well, make him cover it. Lean on him.

Tell him the Washington Post is covering it, you’ll look stupid if you don’t cover it too. Does your editor want to look stupid? I can’t tell you till Friday. Yeah, tell him that, right. Thatsa boy.” He drops the phone on the hook.

“Why do you want to attend this rally?” he says.

“Because you’re going to book Metropolis to entertain,” she announces.

“Who?” “Here.” She hands him a CD from her bag, the album where they sang “I Can’t Get Started.”

He glances at the cover, then pushes the disc into the player behind him. She holds her breath

till she hears four voices harmonizing in a perfect blend: OOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEOOOOOO OOO-Even over the tinny player, the sound seems to hang in the air like something physical, heavy and rich as a live performance.

“Well, my goodness.”

He pushes the eject button.

“You must have heard them.

Like I’ve only played their music about a billion times, right?”

“Why book this group?” He pushes the disc back into the player, listening intently as the same glowing harmony floods the room. “ Do we know where they stand on the war?”

“Does it matter?”

“When I invite Danny Glover to speak, I know what I’m getting.

What do we know about these people?”

“I’m–– Sure they’ll behave themselves.”

“If I book them,” he says, looking straight at her, “will you come?”

She regards him regarding her, amid the music, dark and

gleaming now, like the glossy body of a black limousine.

“Please? For my sake?”

“Yes,” she says, finally. “I will.”

“Celeste?” he says as she turns to leave.

“What?”

“How’s your school work? Are you keeping up?”

“It’s okay.” She walks toward the door.

“Because I had dinner with your math teacher recently.”

Celeste stops, bracing for a lecture about grades. “She saw me in the street. The one with the freckles and legs that go on forever.”

This is something Celeste has never thought about before. “Can you believe she remembered me from Parents’ Night? I suggested we have drinks. One thing led to another.

I should just shut up, shouldn’t I?” Celeste flees the office as she contemplates this fact, which seems infinitely more

intimidating than trigonometry.

In the elevator, with the models nowhere in sight, decides she was smart not to argue with him about the war. Anyway, there wouldn’t have been an argument if he hadn’t started it.

But if you had to, wouldn’t you always help those Iraqi prisoners, unbinding their hands and feet to ease the pain? Wouldn’t you always choose that?

Outside the building, walking toward the subway in the winter dusk, she recalls how she got to work the projector during their visit to the Planetarium because the lecturer was her father’s college buddy.

For a few minutes, she made the sun set, the moon rise, and the stars wheel in their tracks, loving the delicious feeling of playing God. The sensation returned when they left for home and it had turned into one of those clear nights when the stars glittered with chilly intensity over the skyline; she could even see a faint patch of the Milky Way. “There’s your universe again, Celeste,” her

father said, taking her hand. She remembers her pride when he didn’t call her honey or sweetie, just Celeste. “What kinds of politics do you suppose they have in Andromeda?” he said.

“What?”

“If there are creatures out there, there must be injustice.

Wherever there’s injustice, there’s struggle. There’s politics.”

They talked their way home through the cold night, stopping when they passed a bakery window with a dozen perfect slices of jam-glazed hazelnut torte lit like jewels. “Want one of those?” he said. He insisted on buying slices of cake for everyone in the bakery, blowing fifty or sixty dollars, which might have been fun if he hadn’t also insisted on explaining his theory of politics in Andromeda too.

Celeste watched the counterman and customers grow intrigued at first, then impatient, till one woman finally asked, “Would you by any chance like your cake back?” For a long time after that, Andromeda, almond cake and

jerky political harangues seemed like a single thing. But then she once thought Alaska was an island. You believed a lot of stupid shit when you were little.

“Are

you

having

trouble

sleeping?” Celeste’s mother says to her that evening.

“No.” “Are you sure? I’m worried about you, Celeste. I wake up and think I hear you moving around in the night. I have the strongest feeling something’s not right with you.”

“If you’re waking up, who’s the one having trouble sleeping?”

Celeste says.

On

a

freezing

Saturday

afternoon in February, Celeste and Lauren emerge from Grand Central, walking east along 44th Street toward the rally. Thick waves of bodies clog the street as they pass Lexington Avenue, hugging the line of buildings as protection against the lacerating wind off the river. “Can we come

through please?” Celeste says.

No to Bush’s war. No! No! No!” “Don’t push,” someone In the distance Richie Havens’ growls. guitar and voice roar over the “The light’s changing,” Celeste loudspeakers: “Freedom … says. “We’ll miss the speakers.” freedom … sometimes … I feel …

“The speeches are going on for like a motherless … child…” three hours,” Lauren says. “We “Nobody goes in here,” won’t miss much.” another mounted cop grunts as “Does my hairdo make me they approach the stage. look like a musician?” Celeste “We have passes,” Celeste says, “or just a fan?” says.

“Like a musician,” Lauren says.

“Nobody,” the cop repeats.

“You bullshitting me?”

“Hey!” Lauren yells in an “Well, but you’re the one who’sunnaturally loud voice. “What’re acting like it matters.” those guys fighting about over “Do you at least think my hairthere?” Then she raises her looks sexy?” Celeste says. camera to snap a picture. Celeste “What’s with you, anyway? feels a certain awe when, just as Like when did sexy start to matter the cops turn in unison to see, to you? It’s a political event, not Lauren yanks her through a flap in a pickup scene.” the backstage tent, where the Past Third Avenue the crowds crowd’s roar is lost beneath the seem almost impenetrable. roar of a propane space heater.

“What’s the holdup?” someone Rally organizers mill around, shouts as two mounted police muttering into walkie-talkies. Is ride by close to the crowded that Susan Sarandon over in the sidewalk. corner, talking and gesticulating “Where’s the entrance? to someone Celeste can’t Fascists! We want to attend.” recognize? A coffee urn stands to More shouts, which then change one side, neglected; apparently to a chorus of, “No war for oil! the idea had been to fortify

speakers with hot coffee against the cold, but everyone seems to be drinking mimosas instead and eating pastry, including two men and two women her parents’ age looking not quite like the golden hued METROPOLIS poster in Lauren’s room. Peter Dearing, the tenor, has a wispy beard that makes him look scrawnier, shyer, and more tenorish than his pictures. Gene Scott is tall and scowlingly serious, but he sang bass, so it fit.

Alto Harriet Martin’s bulk is wrapped in a green down coat that makes her resemble a large, fat dill pickle, and Alison Fedorchak, the soprano, has a single red-haired braid down her back and the eager, saucy face of a sly little girl.

“So,” Peter says, spotting them. “Are you kids in the show?

Did you just sneak in here to get autographs?”

“We’re nightclub owners,” Celeste announces. “We’re also millionaires. We’re looking for talent.”

“Owners you say?”

Peter smiles.

“It’s early 1942. We have house seats for you,” Celeste says, encouraged that all the singers are smiling now but Hattie, who sips her mimosa, looking quietly angry at something. “Everything in this club is black and white,” she continues. She talks about tunes she’s heard, tunes she knows only the names of. She describes the club, a scaffolded confection of planes and louvers full of musicians and fans. The vague sense hits her that many fans might have started this conversation with a little halfapology for not owning every Metropolis album or something like that; Celeste just barges confidently ahead, as if her sheer power to spin out this fantasy could give it the weight and shape of conviction, even in the cold, dimly lit backstage tent jostling with people.

“And I forgot to tell you,” she adds. “Not everyone gets into this club.”

“No?” Peter says.

“You have to get by the doorman.

A chocolate lab

named—” She thinks a moment.

“––Mifflin. He doesn’t let just anyone in. You need to use the password.”

“Which is?”

“Bow wow wow. Go on, try it.”

“Bow wow wow,” Peter says.

“Excellent.”

“And then if Mifflin says ‘Bow wow wow’ back, you get in.”

“Bow wow–– W-o-o-o-o-o-w,” Peter sings the last word.

“Keep practicing,” Celeste says. “Meantime, I’ll fix it with Mifflin; he’ll let you in.”

“Very good. Sing it, guys,” Peter says and resumes the note.

“Bow wow w-o-o-o-o-w,” Alison sings, adding to the harmony.

“W-o-o-o-o-w,” Gene’s bass comes in, giving Celeste a new glow in the cold.

“Hattie?” Gene says.

“Right,” Hattie says.

“Come on, Hattie. Join the chorus.”

“The croissants in Paris weren’t as good as these,” Harriet says, nibbling a pastry.

“Don’t talk with your mouth Choir,” Harriet says. “I wanted to‘91. He says we made a big mistake ba full, Hattie,” Alison says. “Paris sleep.” then by not moving in on Baghdad. If yo was fun.”

“Finally––” Gene says, grinning. want my opinion, that’s what we shou “Why was it fun?”

“Drop it, Gene,” Harriet says. do now. Finish the job.” She stops smilin “Who needs a reason? It’s P“Finally,” Gene continues, “sheand seems to be studying Celeste’s face. a-r-r-r-r-i-s-s-s-s-s!” Alison throws stood and yelled, ‘Shut up! I’m “So. Like I said: what are you goin her head back and warbles the going to sleep now!’ And you to do with that?” Celeste asks. last note. couldn’t hear a word anywhere.

“Do?” “Don’t you see how “The croissants were barely at She’d silenced that whole plane.” important it is to say that to the the Starbuck’s level.”

“Why are you doing this?” Celeste crowd out there?”

“That’s our Hattie,” Alison shouts.

Celeste feels the tug of says. “You never know what “Doing what?” Gene says.

Lauren’s hand. “Do you know she’ll do or say next.

For “Picking on her like that. What is what kind of rally this is?” Lauren instance––” wrong with saying exactly what she says.

“For instance,” Peter says. thinks?”

“I know that! I’m not stupid! “the flight home.”

“What?” Gene says. “Picking on I’m just telling Hattie she “No, let me tell it,” Alison says. what?” should—” “Last night.

This morning.

“And you? What about you?” “Have you lost your mind?”

Whatever time it was over the Celeste says to Hattie, oblivious to the Lauren says.

Atlantic.

One of the flight way her voice is starting to turn heads. “Maybe I’ve found it.” attendants found out we were on “Why don’t you say what you think “I apologize for my friend,” board. Before we could stop her, right here, right now?”

Lauren says to Hattie. “She’s she got on the speaker and “What are you talking about?” overexcited.” announced we’re going to lead aHattie says.

“No I’m not.

Somebody’s songfest.”

“Never mind the singalong. What always shoving their opinions “So everybody was singing about your ideas about this–– The down your throat and you can’t along with you guys?” Lauren says. events today.” even answer back.” The moment “Everybody but Hattie,” says “Oh, you know about that?” has turned awkward and Celeste Gene.

Harriet smiles a jet-lagged smile. “Well. can’t believe how hard she’s “That goddamn plane soundedIt’s true. I’m an army brat. My brother’s pleading, but there’s no retreat. th like the Mormon Tabernaclea Colonel in the 10 Mountain Division in “You have to speak out, Hattie.

You have to.”

“You haven’t been around professional entertainers much, have you?” Hattie says. “I can usually tell when fans haven’t.”

Hearing the words, Celeste knows she’s just failed a test she hadn’t even known existed. But that’s so unfair; it’s Hattie, after all, who’d just failed her, not the other way around. This is what Celeste thinks just as her father appears at the edge of her vision.

“And who have we here?” he asks.

“That’s Hattie,” Celeste says, then adds, “She sings alto,” as though that explained everything: the club fantasy, her foolish wishes, even Hattie’s inebriated candor.

“Is this your daughter?” Hattie says Celeste’s father.

“Yes indeed. Hey, here’s an idea: since booking you was her idea, what if she introduces you?”

“Perfect,” Peter says. “We’ll pretend it’s that club you own.”

“Owns? My daughter?”

“This club she told us about,” Peter says as Celeste drills into

him with a look. “But you have to get past Mifflin the doorman first.

Bow wow w-o-o-o-o-w.”

“What’s he talking about?”

Celeste’s father asks her.

“Maybe I didn’t pronounce it right,” Peter says.

Celeste, noticing how many people are now watching, waits a long deliberate beat before answering, then waits a beat more.

“Whatever,” she says finally, looking away as Peter’s smile stiffens. “He’s making it up.

Or it’s part of their act or something.”

“Did I miss something here?”

Peter says. “What about you guys? Bow wow wow.”

“There’s no club,” Celeste says when silence threatens to overwhelm everything. “Or if there was, it’s closed.” It has begun to dawn on her what her father meant when he said stars have their uses as long as they follow orders.

“I may be drunk, but I know when it’s time to go to work,” Hattie says. “Help me up the steps.” Leaning on Celeste’s arm

with Peter and Gene half leading, half pushing, she mounts the stage, with Alison following.

Standing on tiptoe on the stage, Celeste gazes up Second Avenue, which is black with bodies extending for fifteen blocks to the 59th Street Bridge.

The mob seems as big as a football crowd only angrier. Hey, you people, she thinks. Hattie’s going to say a few things and maybe start some real dialogue.

This is what Celeste has a last, desperate urge to say, but instead, some invisible tape in her head starts spewing out an intro so formulaic and scripted she wonders if it was programmed by her father: “And now to continue the entertainment portion of the afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, please give a big hand for— Metropolis!” She glances into the wings where her father waits, then turns to the four singers, heavily bundled up, with lockedin-place smiles so broad and beaming, so ludicrously identical they might have been cloned.

Backstage again, she stops

breathing as the first number ends, Lauren snaps a picture, and Hattie steps forward to speak.

Say it. Oh, please say it, Hattie!

(And what next? What would the crowd do?)

Then notes her shocked relief when Hattie says only, “We’d like to thank you all for this huge turnout against the war. Our final number—” How could Celeste not have seen that coming? Lauren stands in the wings shooting pictures of everything in sight, flashing a stupid grin that says Isn’t this wonderful? Isn’t it just great how things turned out?

Suppose Hattie’d spoken her mind?

SINGER STUNS PEACE RALLY WITH PRO-WAR APPEAL. But no.

This is how it’s done. She’s been an idiot to think otherwise, a moron, a dupe.

“That was fun,” her father says. “I’m glad we booked this group.” Celeste looks around, bewildered. She needs to pee, but has no intention of plopping her naked butt on the icy seat of a Porta Potty. Some enemy has sold her out, betrayed her best

hopes, but who to blame? As the singers take their bows to a tsunami of applause, Lauren pulls an autograph album from her bag and leans forward, waiting expectantly, pen in hand, for them to exit the stage.

Alicia Cole The Tobacco Barn

Red

boards crack in the hot

breeze.

The girl, her mouth puckered, purple from blackberries, stops, deer-still. The slat roof scurries with dust.

The neighbor’s dog bays, high and shrill, his cry sharp like a gunshot. She turns her head, mouth parting, stained fingers brushing back blonde hair.

The barn moans.

“Dinner!”

Her mother’s cry stills the pricks on her neck. She runs, flashing white legs tumbling through the field.

“How

long have we had the

tobacco barn?”

Long strips of tobacco hang from the rafters, thick scent suffusing the air.

“It’s been in this family for three generations,” her father supplies after a long pause.

The girl wrinkles her nose, brushes past the hanging, skinlike leaves.

Muffled by the barn, the neighbor’s dog snarls. Her father turns, mouth tightening.

The dusky, evening light filters through the air, mingling with the motes of dust that float through the barn.

“Get on back to the house and help your mother with the rest of the cleaning,” he orders.

Before long, her father’s in the house, latching the door. Her mother lights the lamp and the girl curls into her side, eyes lapping at the light spilling over her mother’s embroidery.

Peonies and rosehips for a new bed skirt.

The house still, her mother’s side warm, she soon falls asleep.

A

hand,

mawkish,

twines

through the blackberry briar into the air. Pale, green, struck with the red trails of thorns’ making.

Fog roils close to the crops. The

girl is frozen.

Her eyelids rustle.

A sharp crack in the eves of the barn. The dog's bay cut short.

To her eyes, filmed by sleep, the center slat hangs heavy. A muslin gown winds around thin ankles in the still, night breeze.

Waking, the sheets tangle, her legs knotted as a chorus of highpitched squeals breaks through the night air. The floorboards creak as her father strides through the house, the hitch of oiled metal loud as the shotgun loads.

An open door.

The explosion of gunpowder.

“Mangy beasts. Get the hell off my property!”

The girl lays awake, her eyes saucered, moonlight pooling.

Her

mother spoons eggs onto

her plate, ladles gravy on a biscuit.

“Had a dream last night,” the girl mumbles, careful not to speak with food in her mouth.

Her father raises an eyebrow.

“Coyotes get to you?”

She shakes her head.

“Well, what was it then?”

The girl motions in the direction of the back porch, a glint of green field through the curtained window. “I dreamt of a hanging in the tobacco barn.”

Her father and mother exchange glances.

“Did one of your cousins tell you such a fool tale?”

Her mother’s frown is accentuated by her father’s shake of the head.

“Don’t be kept up by ghost stories,” her father advises, rising from the breakfast table, dressed and ready for work.

Her mother busies herself scrubbing dishes.

She enters the barn, quiet.

No moaning boards greet her, though the light spills like water poured from the morning’s wash.

A stray rope cracks against the rear wall. A pigeon rattles among the rafters, its coo echoing through the empty space.

Her heart beating wildly, the

girl’s body winds tight, hung in the motion of running towards home.

Drew Dean Monadnock

Monument Temple.

Mindset.

Of an isolated mountain.

More of a solitary playground for the hiker that wants to see in all directions, who climbed to find the catamounts.

That dog you always wanted and/or never had who went to the great bone yard in the sky With senses to find That story after three years meant for the city taken on a train with the wife Wound up Monadnock way The Crazy Horse community and family who didn’t bring any possessions and took up a spirit quest With senses to find And Lo, the change In the space between the seats For the toll

Wound up Monadnock way Socks drying on the line And with a gust from the summit All the right ones are left With senses to find Those written in stone Conceived in flashes Forced to be transcribed Wound up Monadnock way A tale of war Another of return The last has yet to be With senses to find All the things we meant to lose, Wound up Monadnock way.

Strother Kevin Hall An Unnecessary Cut

I

should have never shaved my legs. Or, more

accurately, leg. Or, most accurately, part of my leg.

While this is a good rule of thumb for many, if not most, men (and for those who do, I’m not judging, so shave away with your silky smooth bad selves), I chose to ignore good sense and instead indulged on a bit of a whim, albeit a well-intentioned whim.

To be quite sure, this was no ordinary shaving expedition. Strong medical reasons backed my decision. OK, so mostly the desire to have a semihumorous story mostly backed the decision, but there’s some medical logic floating in there, too.

A few weeks ago, I learned I have yet again torn my ACL, requiring a surgery (this time foregoing a repair with a tendon of my own with that of a cadaver instead; if my knee suddenly goes on a homicidal rampage, there’s nothing to blame except medicine, science and, clearly, voodoo and/or witchcraft of some sort). Being a helpful sort, I asked the nurse if I should possibly shave down some of the existing hair on my leg, particularly since my previous ACL surgery still brings about nightmares of another nurse’s hatchet job on my leg. This was 13 years ago, pre-dating the staph infection fears so prominent now in hospitals, so when my leg got a little nicked up in the pre-op, it was no big deal, minus the blood from the cuts.

And the potential for possibly fatal infections, but those were different times.

After being told that I could, indeed, pre-shave pre-surgery, I prepared to pare the hair from my knee area.

First, though, I needed help.

I began surveying female friends, asking for tips on shaving my leg. I asked about five women and received different responses from each, thus proving that it’s impossible for a man to ever understand a woman. I had recommendations for regular razors, disposable razors, flexible razors, special shaving cream, regular shaving cream, sensitive skin shaving cream, aftershave, baby oil, lotion.

None, I might add, suggested having a full supply of bandages, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I ultimately selected a flexible razor with my regular shaving cream and baby oil (this was suggested to help with itching, but I think it mostly just made my leg glisten, making me wonder why do babies need to be so shiny?). I used electric blades to trim down the hair, soaked the remainder in hot water for a bit, then shaved away.

I should also probably note, for the visuals, that this was done from about two inches above my knee to about the middle of my calf.

Most of the shaved area was just fine, at least

from what I could tell through all the blood. It didn’t gush out of the cut, but it was a nice steady flow, like the chocolate lava stations at Asian buffets and Golden Corral, only with less bacteria.

The tub looked like a crime scene, and as I tried washing the rest of me, I kept worrying about ALL THAT BLOOD running down the drain. Of all the ways to be found dead, lying naked in the shower having bled out from a wound on a partially shaved leg has to be one of the most humiliating. “Do not die,” I commanded to myself.

I did not die.

I did, however, ruin a perfectly good towel, as it looked like I’d wiped down Carrie after the Prom.

That was on a Sunday. Four days later, I showed up for the surgery, ready with Junior Mints to slice this fat bastard up, got so far as being told to change into my gown. “You can shut this for privacy,” the nurse told me, referring to the little privacy sheet/partition.

I was just about to undress when another nurse entered the area, having not gotten the memo that the room was mere seconds away from a seminaked man. Note: I say “semi-naked” because I was allowed to wear my own boxers, but not without some reservations. My pre-surgery instructions said to wear cotton underwear, and the best I own was

55 percent cotton, 45 percent polyester, 100 percent sexy. When I mentioned this to a friend, she told me they want you to wear cotton so that you don’t possibly catch fire during the surgery. I need better friends.

Before slipping into my gown (I realize that phrase, combined with my shaved leg, has me one “heaving bosom” away from this turning into a Harlequin romance novel), the nurse sat down with me to go over a few things, including prepping my leg.

“Oh, you already shaved it,” she said, before taking a closer look. “Uh-oh, looks like you had a little trouble there.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t very good at it. It was my first time shaving a leg.”

“You didn’t need to do that. I’ll shave your leg for you.”

“Last time, they cut me up.”

She held up some futuristic device. “Not anymore. I promise to make it as pain-free as possible.”

She took a closer look, called in the doctor. This can’t be good.

And it wasn’t.

It turns out (and for any of you facing your own surgery, this is very important to note) you don’t

have to shave yourself prior the surgery. It’s recommended that you do not shave yourself, actually. I explained that I had apparently received some poor information, we all agreed it was a learning experience and we delayed the surgery for a few days to give the cut time to heal so as to lessen any risk of infection.

I told a few friends about the delay, and the females of the bunch started offering up their own commentary, including things like “You should have waxed your leg” (which can be added to the list of Yesterday’s Helpful Hints) and “Silly boy. I can’t believe you cut yourself” (to which I told her she’d been shaving her legs for 20-plus years and apparently forgot how hard it can be to shave a knee, so when she inevitably grows her facial hair, I expect to laugh at her when she first nicks her chin).

The day before the make-up date for the surgery, I popped in my doctor’s office to let them gauge the cut’s progress, and they again said they’d prefer to wait. Since my pain level is manageable and I can walk on my own, I agreed to wait and not risk an infection, no matter how small that chance might be.

The only difficult part is updating all the necessary paperwork at my job (and returning to the actual job itself after a few days off), so no big deal.

The women at my work have had a field day

laughing at my leg, questioning all the previous advice from my friends. “You should have just called us in Human Resources, Kevin,” one lady told me.

“We could have helped you out.”

I don’t seem to recall that being a topic in our new employee orientation, so I somehow think asking the female staff in HR for tips on how to shave my leg would land me in worse trouble than actually performing the actual surgery on my own.

So, now I wait -- for the wound to heal, the surgeon to return from vacation, for things with my cursed left leg to somewhat normalize. In the meantime, I have plenty of free time to think about what went wrong (mostly, deciding to shave my leg in the first place).

God help me if I ever require testicular surgery.

Skyler Nielson Pigeon Empire

Meetings were held, formal and otherwise, and all the options were discussed.

Hours were spent

searching for that vital piece of information that might make the decision obvious. Experts were interviewed, and when their advice proved unhelpful, laymen were consulted. Opinions of every type arrived in the form of e-mails flying across fiber optic cables. Then text messages and phone calls were sent skyward until satellites caught them and dropped them back to earth. Moments later, replies returned along the same path. Finally, someone made a choice. Action had to be taken; the vile creatures had defiled the childcare center long enough.

It had to be done on the weekend, when the students and teachers were away. In the rafters of the Science Buildings upper deck, the offenders made their nests. We moved the scissor lift there the day before, making sure to lie to passing secretaries who wondered what we where doing. Our cover story was simple, the electrician needed to check some suspicious wiring running along the underside of the roof. They were fellow employees, but the plan was covert, and the plan had to be followed.

So there I was on a beautiful Saturday morning, a few miles from the coast, hanging nets across the overhangs and ledges of the Science Buildings. At that moment my friends were enjoying a swell that made for the best surfing in weeks, but I had focus on the rhythm. It was a two-man job; and in that wonderfully organic way we quickly found our respective roles. I stayed in front, placing the netting and operating the lift while Edgar followed, nailing down the deterrent and making sure it stayed tight against the building.

The scissor lift worked fine I guess, but whenever it was raised it squeaked and groaned disapprovingly. It jerked forward before settling into a slow steady creep and with the battery indicator failing, there was no telling when it would leave you stranded up in the air. I’ve stood on the edge of cliffs, climbed to the top of tall trees and spent weeks working on rooftops, but nothing puts me into a panic like working out of that old scissor lift.

Edgar slapped another cartridge into the nail gun and growled, “You know boy, just because I’m getting time and a half doesn’t mean I want to be here all day.”

“I hate this thing.”

“It’s been inspected every year for the last twenty and nobody’s ever got hurt in it. It’s never fallen, never got stuck and never tipped over. Now try swallowing a spoonful of cement and harden up.”

I slammed on the joystick and the lift jumped forward. “I don’t care how much this thing’s inspected.

We should talk to Walter on Monday about buying a new one.”

“I ain’t talking to Walter for a month.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s making me set up for that protest that damn tree hugger club is putting on.”

“So?” “I was a public servant for twenty years before my knees gave out. I’m not gonna put up tables and chairs for a bunch of anti-American socialists. Never. And the fact that Walter’s making me do something like this shows how little that desk jockey cares about what I did for this country.”

“He knows.”

“I didn’t say he doesn’t know, I said he doesn’t care.”

“They’re just a bunch of kids into saving trees. That hardly makes them anti-American.”

“They’re trying to shut down the building of the new Gymnasium…”

“They’re not trying to shut it down, they just asking the district to adjust the plan so they don’t have to cut down all those blue cedars at the site.”

“They’re holding up the building of a multi-million dollar facility cus they want their names in the paper. Hell we’ve cut down trees before. Nobody cared when we took down that big Eucalyptus behind horticulture last month. Where were the tree huggers then.”

“I think their argument would be that Euch’s are an invasive species but Deadora Blue Cedars are rare and those are two of the biggest in the county. But what do I know, I’m just a simple utility worker.”

“Yeah well I wonder how many of those spoiled college kids are thinking about the hundreds of jobs they’re holding up with this nonsense. What if the pioneers had waited to cross the prairies because it might upset the buffalo? What kind of shape would this country be in today?”

“I guess that depends on who you ask; us or the buffalo.”

“We’ve worked together for a few years now and I want to know, are you ever going to take a real stand on anything? Maybe voice a strong opinion.”

“Not if I can help it. At least not at work.”

“Your father was a veteran, I wonder what he’d think about that.”

“I think he’d be more concerned to find out I was scared of a bunch of hippie kids trying to save a few pine trees. After all, he spent his youth facing battalions of North Koreans.”

We worked steadily, as passing clouds gave occasional respites from the sun but the cooling shade never lingered long, and like the prisoners of Alcatraz who were condemned to watch life in the city play out through iron bars, I could hear the surf crashing in the distance. Then we turned the final corner, and could see the end of the day.

“You know boy, you gotta good heart. I’ve picked up on it, so has everyone. You want to get along, and don’t want to offend anyone. It’s a good trait. It’s why so many people here like you. But even centrists have to get off their butts and take a stand now and then.”

I considered ripping into him about accusing me of being a centrist. Then pointing out that getting along with people at work was not a sign of indecisiveness. But what that have accomplished. Nothing, but increase the chance that I’d be staying late to talk about America and the Blue Ceders place in it. I couldn’t bear it. Best surf in weeks and I would be arguing about merits of diplomacy and pigeons in a parking lot. I didn’t like letting it go, but the waves were calling.

“Where would this country be if the centrists dictated its future? Take the wagon trains again, should they have lined up at the edge of the waiting west only to wait while the people calling the shots stood around arguing about who it might piss off if they crossed the line.”

I laughed quietly to myself.

“What’s so funny?”

“Man they knew exactly who they’d piss off. So they killed off the herds and sent the people of a thousand nations to the deserts of Oklahoma.”

“You know what I mean damnit!”

“Right right.”

“It ain’t pretty, but…”

A car horn honked in the distance and I recognized the old Ford Van belonging to Edgar’s live-in girlfriend.

“Sorry boy, duty calls.”

He walked out and I couldn’t watch. I wasn’t offended, just envious. See, we where both getting time and a half, but while I was stapling nets to wood beams covered in pigeon dropping, he was

making love to his women. I considered what he said and in the sanctuary of my mind I spent the next fifteen minutes dismantling his argument.

I thought about the nation and followed its story through all the milestone events I learned in school.

I thought of the hardnosed crackpots that might have been cast out anywhere else, but here were allowed to contribute (for better or worse) and make us what we are. For each of these, there where others. Those who not only wanted, but needed compromise. There’s no way of knowing who was more important, at least not on that day. It wasn’t any kind of logical line of thought, just my mind rambling away until Edgar returned.

I never saw him leave the van; I was too busy focusing on imaginary arguments. He came around the corner as I secured the last of the netting. Edgar let out a sigh of relief, and was preparing to make some cliché remark, when we were startled by a small flock of pigeons darting out from the last gap in the net.

I put my hand up in the air and four or five of the birds zipped past my head. Suddenly I felt something in my hand, which I griped lightly with my fingers. I looked at the bird, truly terrified at its plight, and in an instant I was smashing it against the cement pillar that represented an end to the days work. I then flicked the birds’ carcass over the side of the lift where it landed at Edgar’s feet. He looked at the dead bird and then, with a stupid, dumbfounded expression; looked at the circle of blood on the side of the pillar.

I leaned over the lift and looked at the lifeless body of the pigeon. “You think you can beat us? WE CONQUERED THE FUCKING WORLD!”

Scott Anderson Rasputin

They walked slowly through the meadow, holding hands. A light breeze stirred up the faint scent of clover. When they reached the stream Marinara took off her clothes. She moved effortlessly, folding shorts and shirt as if she were getting ready to model for an art class. Then she undressed Sweeper.

They stood in silence, holding each other, each looking off the other’s shoulder.

Sweeper followed the path of a goldfinch as it flew through the forest, a bright streak of color across the mottled canvas. The bird landed on a branch and a solitary leaf floated to the ground.

Marinara pulled Sweeper down into the water. Their embrace was more urgent now and they kissed each other with hungry open mouths. The water

was cold but that didn’t matter, and they thrashed about in the shallows, rolling on top of each other, thrusting with arched backs and thrown back shoulders.

Afterward, they sprawled on the bank of the stream, still half in the water, scratched and muddy, and their wild energy dissipated into a cool lull. Sweeper looked up at the sky. It was the blue that all other blues were made from.

Marinara sighed.

“Do you mind if I ask you a strange question?”

Sweeper was riding a wave of delirium.

“Of course not darling, you can ask me anything.”

“Well, we didn’t use protection so it’s possible that we could have a child together from this madness. If we do I want to name the baby.”

“That should always be a

mother’s prerogative. Do you have a specific name in mind?”

“If it’s a boy I’d like to name him Rasputin.”

There was a long pause.

Sweeper considered various replies.

Marinara looked disappointed.

“Don’t you like the name?”

“It just took me by surprise.”

“Grigorii Rasputin was known as the Siberian mystic healer. He was a poet, magician, prophet, and holy man.

Rasputin possessed great powers. In particular, he had the ability to heal the sick and to predict the future. His modest lifestyle and fierce social conscience serves as my inspiration. Like all visionaries his time on earth was cut short.

“Jealousy and fear sparked a rage within his village. A band of skeptics plotted against Rasputin.

First they poisoned him with tainted meat, but the toxins had little effect, in fact, the more he ate the stronger he became. So they returned with pistols and shot him full of holes. Magically, the bullets passed through his

flesh like shafts of light streaming through stained glass windows.

“The word spread and pilgrims traveled from across the land.

They piled alms around his hut and slept standing up just to get a glimpse of this divine being. It was like finding a painting that weeps blood, or seeing an image of the Virgin Mary in a loaf of French bread. Rasputin could

have held the world in his outstretched hands - but his mission was solely for the poor and afflicted.

“Rasputin’s enemies were relentless. They hunted him in a pack, like jackals, rousting him from bed at dawn and dragging him to a bridge over the Neva River. They bound him with heavy chains and dropped him into the

dark-flowing water. Rasputin’s faithful disciples stood watch for days, but his body never surfaced.

“You never know when that spirit might reappear, Sweeper.

Forces in nature are powerful and unpredictable. Rasputin, my beautiful young son, although I’m not sure what his schoolmates would call him.”

Contributors Scott Anderson Scott Anderson studied fiction writing as an undergraduate at The University of Iowa and also at Goddard College. His fiction appears in Word Riot, Burst, Marco Polo Arts Mag, Otis Nebula, Cell Stories 2010, Fuck Fiction, and will be in the next issue of Sleet Magazine. He has received grants from The McKnight foundation and The Five Wings Arts Council.

Alicia Cole Alicia Cole lives with a photographer and a bevy of animals. Over their house, egrets and great blue herons fly. She has a penchant for birding, blackberries, and walking through brambles. Her poetry and short fiction may be found in Birkensnake, Third Wednesday, Punchnel's and Eclectica Magazine. She blogs at three-magpies.livejournal.com.

Drew Dean Drew Dean is from Northeastern Vermont near the city of Burlington. He went to the Vermont Commons School, a private college prep school in South Burlington. He started writing seriously in junior year with poetry, and moved on to fiction and nonfiction in senior year. He has participated on the reading board for Rivercraft magazine at Susquehanna University where he attends, and is currently the poetry editor for another magazine, Variance. He entered college as a creative writing major with a film studies minor. He hopes to carry his lessons and experiences to his goal of writing and directing films.

Strother Kevin Hall Strother Kevin Hall is a native of Powell County, Ky., and currently lives in Georgetown, Ky. He is a graduate of the University of Kentucky and spent several years as a newspaper reporter and editor in Georgetown. His first book, "Lost Change and Loose Cousins," co-authored with Aaron Saylor, was published in 2013.

Skyler Nielsen Skyler Nielsen grew up on a family farm in California’s San Joaquin Valley. A fifth generation farmer, he acquired a love for stories from his father and this led him to UC Riverside where he received a BA in U.S. History in 2002. Shortly after the family farm went under in 2003 Skyler relocated to California’s central coast and began writing while working for the grounds department at Cabrillo Community College.

Tony Van Witsen Tony Van Witsen has been writing fiction for approximately ten years, specializing in short stories. In the summer of 2001 he enrolled the MFA program in fiction at Vermont College and received his degree in January 2004. His stories have appeared in Square One, Serving House Journal, Crosstimbers, Ray's Road Review, and Valparaiso Fiction Review. He lives in Wisconsin.

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