Oxford Magazine Summer 2015: Curious Kin

OxMag Issue 34 Summer 2015 curious kin

Masthead Managing Editor Joe Squance Editor-in-Chief Evan Fackler Prose Editor Andrew Marlowe Bergman Poetry Editor Ian Schoultz Creative Nonfiction Editor Joshua B. Jones Digital Editor Jess Marshall Events Coordinator Michelle Christensen Staff Readers Mosisah Mavity Courtney Kalmbach

Table of Contents Cover art: Bird Man of Carnyland by Christopher Woods (originally published as “The Dark Bird of the Midway” in black and white in The Bohemoth) John Surowiecki!

Uncle Johnny at Ninety Five ........................................................................ 5!

Rohan Garg!

Electric ........................................................................................................ 6!

D. Jeanne Wilson!

Aunt Magnitrude Rises Again ...................................................................... 7!

Joddy Murray!

Garrote .......................................................................................................16!

Jean C. Howard!

Las Vegas Hilton Taxi Line ..........................................................................17!

Allen Forrest!

Magazine Rack ...........................................................................................18!

Lane Osborne!

The Mess We Made .....................................................................................19!

Mark Aiello!

On the Way Back to the Airport ..................................................................25!

Allen Forrest!

Shopping Expedition ..................................................................................26!

Cyndy Muscatel!

Clueless in California..................................................................................27!

Dimitri McCloghry!

Anything Sane ............................................................................................33!

Ruben Rodriguez!

The Mothers Never Knew ............................................................................34!

Allen Forest!

Berlin in the 1920s Fan Dancer ..................................................................37!

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Shannon Quinn!

The Body Hauls Memory .............................................................................38!

R.M. Cooper!

Jon .............................................................................................................39!

Ruben Rodriguez!

An Inborn Character ...................................................................................40!

Rohan Garg!

Serene ........................................................................................................41!

Contributor Bios ............................................................................................42!

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John Surowiecki John Surowiecki

Uncle Johnny at Ninety Five And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long and did so little harm. —James Joyce The cake was lopsided, just like his head, brain fever or something, everything sloshing over to one side when he was looking into a hole, man to mouse, and it stayed that way for the rest of his days, oddly tilted, and looking like he’d topple over any minute. Estelle was gone by then, her family demanding that her remains be Mobile-lized. Oh no, replied Uncle Johnny, holding fast. He said southerners only got upset about their corpses and colored people.

Then Roberto taught the youngsters how to deliver a punch, how to twist the fist just as it rips into flesh, crushing bone and reaching the sweet nougat within.

By then Johnny had already liberated his teeth, stuck them in his breast pocket, a hanky-nested smile, so it was hard to figure out that he was actually confessing his sins, his thefts, seductions, crooked deals, bouts of drunkenness and the time in the forgotten war when he killed a Commie who was taking a leak, aiming just to the right of the rising steam.

5

Rohan Garg Rohan Garg

Electric

6

D. Jeanne Wilson

D. Jeanne Wilson

Aunt Magnitrude Rises Again Any similarity between these characters and anyone living or dead is purely on purpose. Why should I make up a story when no one in our eighthgrade English class can dream up anything that compares to the adventures Aunt Magnitrude has had? And dragged me through.

Fate made us friends. When Aunt is between husbands, she is alone, and that is pretty much the way I see myself. Being the only girl in the family keeps me from the finer things of life: campouts, fishing trips, fox chases, deer hunting.

“Why can’t this child go?” Aunt Magnitrude asked that sunny morning as my three brothers rushed around gathering their bedrolls and cooking gear.

“Magnitrude, it’s a boys’ camp,” Mom explained. “In case you haven’t noticed, Angela is a girl.”

“Angela needs to sleep under the stars. Be at one with nature.”

“Surely to goodness that child can find a little nature on this two-hundred-acre farm.”

When Mom argued that we didn’t have camping gear and that Tyler River State Park was one hundred and fifty miles away, Aunt Magnitrude merely said, “No problem.” Aunt attracts problems like salt does cows, but she can out argue anyone.

It didn’t surprise me to end up squashed into a car loaded with camping equipment and barreling down I-79. It had taken most of the day to track down supplies, so we didn’t reach Tyler County until after dark.

“No sleeping, Angela,” Aunt Magnitrude said as evening shadows darkened. “Help find the turnoff.”

She leaned forward to grip the steering wheel as if a tighter grasp would help locate the road. A few miles later Aunt whipped the car sharply to the right and turned onto a narrow road. The gently curving blacktop led us through a grove of trees to a locked gate.

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D. Jeanne Wilson “The main area must close at dusk,” Aunt said as she pulled off the road.

“We’ll camp here until morning.”

After working for an hour to put up a tent Aunt Magnitrude had said would pop up like an umbrella, we ate a quick supper and went to bed. I stretched out on my sleeping bag and slept soundly until Aunt Magnitrude screamed.

Thrust between the tent flaps was a huge face with a bushy red beard.

“What in frazzling hell is going on?” a man asked.

“We’re camping.” Aunt Magnitrude sat up and pulled a cover close. “This is Tyler River State Park, isn’t it?” Her words trembled in the cool morning air.

“State park? Woman, you’re on the front lawn of the governor’s mansion!”

“It was dark when we arrived,” Aunt Magnitrude explained. “We’ll leave as soon as we pack.”

“Couple dames.” Red Beard’s head disappeared as he spoke to someone behind him. “Thought they were in a state park.” He exploded with laughter.

Through the tent flap we saw another man, a little weasel of a fellow, who bent over to hold his stomach while shaking with mirth.

“Wait until we tell the boys. Ca—ca—camping in the wilds!” Red Beard sputtered. “Just like a DAME.” “Yeah, leave it to a WOMAN to camp on the governor’s lawn. Sure, no DAME’S gonna go too far from a shopping center.”

Aunt Magnitrude had closed the tent flap and hustled into her clothes when the words “woman” and “dame” came to her attention. She stepped outside and stood, with arms folded, watching the men. A tall woman, dressed in coveralls borrowed from my father, Aunt straightened her spine and gritted her teeth.

“Yep, leave it to a DAME to camp near McDonald’s,” snorted Red Beard.

“No campfire smoke for her.”

“And right on the interstate.” The tiny gray-faced man flapped his eyelashes and simpered. “Oh! Oh! Keep me safe from big bad animals.”

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D. Jeanne Wilson They whooped, snorted, and slapped their legs. It wasn’t until the men had exhausted their jokes that they noticed Aunt standing in front of the tent.

“Ma’am,” Red Beard said. “The state park road turns off three miles east of Moundsburg.”

“That is all very well,” Aunt said. “We choose to camp here.”

“Here? No way, lady. This is the governor’s front yard.”

I turned and saw that standing on a rise of land behind our tent and partially hidden by trees was a large brick house.

A snicker from the little bug of a man caused Aunt to pin him with her dark eyes. She spoke firmly: “Tax money bought this land. I have paid taxes for twenty-four years.”

“Woman, you’re not camping here.” Red Beard’s face flushed as bright as his hair. “It’s against the law.”

“Where is it written that an honest, taxpaying woman and her niece can’t put up a tent on state land?” The Queen of England couldn’t have spoken with more authority. “Show me the exact article and code,” she said and turned to me. “Angela, dear, it’s time to cook breakfast. Find small stones to outline the fire circle while I gather dry sticks and pine cones for fuel.”

The continuing sputter and roar of the men were no more to her than a gentle breeze. As I wandered off, I heard Red Beard say, “We’ll be back, you crazy dame.”

The only rocks I could find bordered a bed of red geraniums, but Aunt had said to get stones, so I loaded up. The rim of the flowerbed looked like a broken necklace after I finished the fire circle, but our bacon and eggs were delicious.

Aunt took a deep breath of smoke-scented air. “Umm, there is nothing like the outdoors. We’ll wash these dishes in the river, cleansing our skillet with sand.”

Through the trees, I could see bright streaks of color as sunlight glistened on four lanes of traffic that separated us from the river. “Are we going to stay on the governor’s lawn?” I asked Aunt as she extinguished the fire.

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D. Jeanne Wilson She beat an ember into submission. “Angela, when a man thinks he is king of the mountain, it’s time to knock off his crown.”

Aunt’s three former husbands must have thought they were mountain kings, I decided as we collected our utensils. While we walked the shady driveway toward the highway, Aunt sang “Life Is a Dream,” mixing the clear notes of the song with the hum of traffic. At the interstate she paused to study the fast-moving vehicles and then strode into the first lane to hold up our skillet in the manner of a highway employee raising a stop sign.

Cars screeched to a standstill. When drivers realized that the sign was only a skillet held up by a woman who used a handful of silverware to wave a child across the road, they laid on their horns with a vengeance. Unperturbed, Aunt used the same procedure from lane to lane until we reached the other side of the interstate, where a wide strip of concrete separated us from the river.

“There is no sand,” Aunt complained, clearly blaming the state for not providing scouring material.

Kneeling, she swished the skillet through the water and, while leaning to better submerge it, toppled into the river. I reached to help her from the water, but she only handed me the skillet and continued to tread water while squinting at a nearby sign.

“Angela, what does that sign say?”

I hesitated. The water looked wonderfully cool, and I love to swim.

“It says ‘no swimming,’” I mumbled and foolishly hoped she wouldn’t hear me or ask again.

“Does it say anything about not falling in?”

“Not at all,” I said clearly.

With strong, overhand strokes, Aunt Magnitrude swam toward the center of the river and then flipped over to leisurely backstroke toward shore. With closed eyes and long hair floating about her face, she smiled softly. Aunt, tall and slender, moved gracefully through the sparkling stream while I hurriedly washed cups and plates before falling in beside her.

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D. Jeanne Wilson “Nothing like an early swim when you’re camping,” she said.

Our forest was a row of tall buildings, and car horns replaced birdsong, yet it was a lazy sort of river with water only pleasantly cool. I was sorry when Aunt insisted it was time to make our way back across the highway.

A portly man in a gray suit met us at camp. “So there you are,” he snapped.

“So here we are,” Aunt Magnitrude pleasantly agreed.

He took a step in our direction. “I represent the governor. He wants you off the premises immediately.”

Aunt’s smile disappeared. “Such a lack of hospitality toward someone who voted for that man. Yes, even campaigned for him.”

“Madam, you have been asked to leave.”

Aunt ignored rivulets of water that ran from her hair onto her wet shirt.

“Sir, I must know the article and code stating that a faithful, law-abiding taxpayer, who made a slight mistake and needed rest for the night, must be ridiculed and tossed off state land.” With that, Aunt Magnitrude strode into the tent and I followed.

“I’ll be back,” I heard Gray Suit say. That would make three coming back.

They must have had trouble finding the exact article and code, for no one returned until evening when a truck from the Charleston Exponent and one from Channel 6 Television pulled up. People piled out to swarm around us.

“Over here, over here!” a man with a rough voice demanded as if he were in charge of the world. “I want to film you and the girl in front of your tent.”

A tall fellow, with a long face and coarse broom-bristle hair, shoved toward Aunt. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“I am here—” Aunt Magnitrude paused and there was an expectant silence. Pens were poised and cameras aimed. “I am here to build a campfire.

Come, Angela.”

She had only to light the fire we had laid earlier. As flames leaped, Aunt stood before the blaze and watched visitors move toward her. Even before reaching the fire, a red-faced man blurted out, “When will you…?”

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D. Jeanne Wilson Ignoring him, Aunt began to sing in her clear, strong voice, “As the bright flames ascend to heaven, oh God of love and truth.” ‘“Why are you…?” The red-faced man again tried to insert his question.

Aunt stopped singing. “Circle up,” she directed the watchers, “and drape an arm across each neighbor’s shoulder.”

The men and women moved close and then glanced anxiously, first at Aunt Magnitrude and then at each other. Hesitantly they placed notebooks and cameras on the ground and then warily, as though danger lurked in the process, formed a circle and draped arms across the nearest shoulders.

“Do you plan to…?” Again the voice intruded.

Aunt overrode the question. “We will sing ‘Cherry Orchard.’” She started the song, swaying with the tune and pulling others, first left, and then right.

“Down in the old cherry orchard under an old cherry tree…” A few voices joined hers, and then others, until the circle filled with melody and swaying bodies.

As one campfire song followed another, darkness thickened around us.

Our fire cast its cozy warmth into the evening chill, and there was the fragrance of pine and the delicate scent of smoke as questions and cameras seemed forgotten. While singing “Peace I Ask of You, Oh River,” I imagined the faint swish of traffic, on the interstate below, to be the echo of a flowing stream.

“I haven’t heard that song for thirty years” came a voice from the shadows. I recognized the tall, square-built man with white hair as our governor. Everyone but Aunt Magnitrude and I scurried to surround him. She was almost to the tent when the reporter with stand-up hair dashed up to push his face close to hers. Others crowded around the front of our tent, waiting with notebooks and cameras. The governor joined them.

“Give me a statement,” pleaded the man who had first spoken.

It surprised me for Aunt to smile and speak pleasantly. “Tomorrow at two o’clock I can work a full statement into our camp schedule.”

The next morning I crawled from the tent just as the sun topped misty hills. Aunt, up and dressed, sat on the ground, leaning against a tree and writing furiously in a notebook.

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D. Jeanne Wilson “Will we go for a swim?” I asked.

“No, Angela.”

She didn’t look up or offer to help cook breakfast. While I struggled with the fire, and later as I ate ash-peppered eggs, Aunt wandered among the trees mumbling. I could only assume that she was working on her full statement.

Lunchtime came and went while Aunt continued to mutter and stare at her notes. I began to wonder about that full statement. “Magnitrude is a puzzle,” Mom often says while her eyes get that worried slanty look. Now I felt nervous as I watched Aunt. Could her full statement lead to trouble?

As two o’clock neared, a crowd surrounded our tent as people scurried for a good position from which to hear Aunt’s full statement. We seemed to have been on the six o’clock television news, and now a crowd of chattering people stretched from our tent to the highway.

At exactly two o’clock Aunt emerged from the tent, handed me her notebook, and took a step closer to the waiting crowd. Tall and stately, I wondered how she could appear so regal dressed only in Dad’s old fishing clothes.

The thick braid of her chestnut-colored hair wound around her head like a crown, and her eyes, the same gleaming brown, held an unreadable expression. The stately tilt of her chin made me think of a Greek goddess pictured in my literature book.

The hot afternoon air held an expectant hush, and it seemed to me that even the leaves on nearby maples stilled their rustling. Aunt looked over the waiting crowd and, managing somehow to appear a little taller than usual, she began her full statement.

“Today, I speak to women,” she said. “And I speak for women. There is no topic that is of more importance.” She paused to glance over the crowd as though daring anyone to disagree. Continuing, she asked, “Is there one among us not born of woman?” Again she waited as though willing to give anyone an opportunity to disagree. In air heavy with silence, all eyes were on her.

“Sisters,” she continued, “and we women are all sisters. Never hesitate to 13

D. Jeanne Wilson claim your rightful place on this planet and demand respect that is your due.”

She continued to speak of how women must insist on being taken seriously.

“Could a woman have invented the lightbulb, explained the theory of relativity, or led America in its escape from England’s rule?

“Yes, absolutely,” she continued in her strong, clear voice. “If only women had funneled energy in those directions and believed in their ability. Society bends to the shape of expectations, and society saw woman only as the nurturer of dreams, an important role but only one of the many possible.

Always expect the respect that is your due. Claim your title as ‘woman’ with pride, for to do anything less is to denigrate half of society.”

Computers clattered and pens scribbled as Aunt continued to talk. Even I understood, however, that the full force of her speech could not be captured by the written word. Power came from Magnitrude, herself. My aunt. A woman.

She ended her full statement to flashing cameras and applause. The governor, unable to resist those cameras and the crowd, stepped up to say a few words about the forthcoming bond levy.

People quietly loaded equipment and left the area. It was lonely with just the two of us at the campfire, although the governor did eventually stop by. He and Aunt Magnitrude sang dopey old songs, so I went to bed and read by flashlight. Later, I lifted the tent lap to go after cookies and saw the governor sitting close to Aunt Magnitrude. “Maggie,” he asked, “are you really leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes, John, we’ll spend the rest of the week at Tyler River State Park.”

The next day we moved our camp, and it surprised me when Governor John visited, not only that evening but every evening all week. Bored with their discussions about the importance of unimportant things, I usually went to bed early, but he and Aunt Magnitrude talked for hours.

They were still talking after Aunt and I got back home, and the governor called so often I began to wonder if taxpayers paid his phone bill. It seems that he’s going to be Aunt Magnitude’s fourth husband. Mom always said she couldn’t hold up her head at church if Aunt Magnitrude married again, but I 14

D. Jeanne Wilson think something about Aunt being the governor’s wife strengthened her neck.

Life will be boring without Aunt Magnitrude, but she said I could visit her at the governor’s mansion. “Or when school starts in the fall, bring your whole class,” she offered. “We have room.”

“Aunt Magnitrude, there will be thirty-six kids in my class.”

“It will be educational for the children, Angela. Get them closer to the political process. Bring sleeping bags and it will be no problem. No problem at all.”

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Joddy Murray Joddy Murray

Garrote

She is a cliff, jagged in memory clung all around, fingers etched in bloody honor of past battles rarely needed. Her bath salts are black. Too many treats come and go; she has many gifts and nobody tells her what to do.

She is destined for amplitude, gasps in decibels reserved for more seismic events: calving ice, fires that speak with suburban tongues, sinkholes so sudden they seem now as old as the oaks.

Snails in sleek sequins mark her path as she thunderheads her way to declare herself present, like a planet and its dust, or a spider centered on its web in the eaves.

Marks in the sky reverse.

Her movement scars tides.

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Jean C. Howard Jean C. Howard

Las Vegas Hilton Taxi Line

By Elvis I stand, leaning on bronze, the smooth tone of eternity brushing my thigh.

Yucca are spreading their barbed umbrellas into Vegas light, Hilton yawning shadow onto rock and rosemary.

Elvis’s arm is lifted to mic, the fatigue of all these years captured and cold with the first mood of morning.

Birds chatter, chaotic as maddened fans, above his sideburned head.

I am waiting for a cab to the airport and Elvis speaks to me of stance, of chance and consequence, of one thousand panties floating through air, angelic, lace-edged doves in stage lights, Now bronzed and greeting the hundreds that queue in this cab line.

All the screaming and thrashing could not save him.

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Allen Forrest Allen Forrest

Magazine Rack 18

Lane Osborne Lane Osborne

The Mess We Made I’m seven years old, it’s Thanksgiving, and my father and I are sitting in a bar. This place is almost empty, and any other year we wouldn’t be here either.

We’d be home gathered around the dining room table with my mother and older brother. Eating turkey. Snapping the wishbone. Telling each other what we’re thankful for. Doing all the things I imagine other families do. But not tonight. Tonight’s different. Tonight my father and I are sitting in a bar.

We don’t have much to say, my father and I. We sit shoulder to shoulder, facing the mirrored backdrop where bottles are lined in rows, so even though we’re looking ahead, most of what we see is behind us. What’s behind us, besides this empty bar, is my parents’ marriage to one another. They separated weeks before, and the last time I saw my father was a few days ago in the lobby of the Greene County Courthouse the day a judge determined the conditions of my custody. The day I told that judge I’d rather live with my mother.

My father sits slump-shouldered, elbows on the bar, Winston pinched between his first two fingers, and the silver ribbon of smoke from his cigarette draws upward, gathering around the pendant light that dangles above him. I’m toying with my straw, stabbing at the cherries at the bottom of my glass, trying to think of something to say. But this is harder than it seems. We’ve already covered school, which I said was going fine, and weather, which we both agreed was colder than most Ohio Novembers. I keep waiting for my father to bring up that day at the courthouse, but he never does. Maybe he’s sparing me the awkwardness or embarrassment of having that conversation or maybe he’s just sparing himself. I don’t know for sure. Either way, I get the sense we’re both tiptoeing around it, not quite certain where we should start or what we should say.

My father picked me up about an hour ago, and now we’re sitting in this place somewhere on the outskirts of downtown Dayton waiting for our dinner.

Years from this evening I won’t remember the name of this bar, what road it’s

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Lane Osborne on, or if it’s built from cinderblock or brick. But that doesn’t matter right now.

What matters right now is that my relationship with my father feels broken and I hope it’s better before the night is through.

When we walked into this place my father asked the bartender if it was okay for him and a non-drinking patron to have a seat at the bar. The bartender was buffing the hard water spots from a set of stemware with a white rag. He eyed a glass against the light, then eyed me, the non-drinking patron, the boy. He looked like he was considering us, my father and me, considering the near empty bar, considering it was Thanksgiving, then finally said, “What’ll you two have?”

Now, the galley-style door behind the bar swings open and the bartender returns from the kitchen. “Food should be out any minute,” he says. “How ’bout another round?”

My father nods and we watch as our drinks are mixed—another gin martini for my father, and a Roy Rogers, Coca-Cola mixed with a sweet syrup and cherries skewered with a plastic sword, for me. Then my father whispers to the bartender, telling him something I can’t quite hear as he thumbs toward the only other person here tonight, a man at the other end of the bar. The man is gray-haired and plum-nosed and looks older than my father. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened down, and he looks tired. But when the bartender pours the man another drink and motions in our direction while saying something to him, the man smiles. He raises his glass and nods toward my father who does the same.

My brother, Jon, and I will sometimes raise our glasses like this at dinner, mimicking the adults during toasts. I wonder if he’s doing that at home right now. I think about the music that’s probably playing, the lit candles, the fine china, the smell of home cooked food, the tradition. I think about what I’m missing. Jon is a half brother from my mother’s first marriage. I have two other half brothers, Adrian and Rod, from my father’s third marriage, who live in Virginia with their mother. But Jon is who I’ve grown up with. It was Jon and me lying on our bellies at the top of the stairs listening to my parents argue for 20

Lane Osborne weeks on end. It was Jon and me who listened to the raised voices, the slammed doors, the squeal of my father’s tires against asphalt the day he left.

Jon and I didn’t intervene. Didn’t take sides. Didn’t talk about it between ourselves. Didn’t do anything. Jon has been through this before with his own father, and though he’s never told me what to expect, there’s always been a quiet comfort in having him by my side. But now, he’s there, I’m here, and this is my situation to deal with on my own.

My father and I sip our refills as the bartender fiddles with the tinfoil wrapped tips of the TV antenna, taking a grainy football game to a whiteout of static and snow then back again. He mumbles to himself, “There, that’s better.”

But it isn’t any clearer than it was before.

My father doesn’t seem to care about the TV reception, but he’s interested in the game, rooting for the Bears who are trailing the Cowboys.

“That’s my hometown, kiddo,” my father says, pointing to the Chicago skyline rising above Soldier Field.

My father watches the Bears struggle against the Cowboys, cursing under his breath when things don’t go his way. But when the camera pans to show the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders rooting for their team on the sidelines he elbows me and says, “Not bad, eh?”

And perhaps this says more about our relationship than anything. My father has always treated me like a young man, like we’re best friends, but it doesn’t feel that way tonight. It hasn’t felt that way for quite awhile. I know we’ve had good times, happy times, but right now they somehow seem beyond the reach of my memory and imagination. My parents haven’t told me they’ll work things out, and, if asked, we would probably all agree the separation is for the best. It’s not our family I’m worried about, nor my parents’ marriage. It’s my relationship with my father I’m concerned with at the moment because it’s suffered in the separation too.

Before sitting down with the judge that day nearly a week ago at the courthouse, my mother told me what to expect the judge to ask. Then she coached me on the answers I should give. She’d told me I should say my father 21

Lane Osborne is a drinker, a smoker, that I don’t want to leave my home, my mother, my brother. And these things were all true. So when I met with the judge and she asked which parent I’d prefer to live with, I did as I’d been told, what I’d rehearsed. “The thing is,” I said, pausing, then starting again, “The thing is my dad drinks and smokes.” And though I’d prepared for that moment, said those very words out loud before, it was like I was hearing them for the first time. I felt as though I’d betrayed my father, lied about him somehow. When the judge asked if there was anything else I’d like to add, I said, “Yes, ma’am. I love my dad.”

When our meals are served my father snuffs his cigarette in an ashtray then wrings his hands together as though in prayer, but my father and I don’t bless our food. Instead he just says, “Some spread, huh?”

I poke at the cranberry sauce still in the shape of the can it came from then say, “Yes, sir. Some spread.”

The turkey looks dry despite being covered in gravy, and the mashed potatoes look like they might have the same taste and texture of wallpaper paste. So I settle on the stuffing which I decide isn’t half bad.

“Clean your plate and we’ll get a slice of pumpkin pie,” my father says as he salts his food.

“I don’t like pumpkin pie,” I say. This is a lie, but I know there’s no chance I’ll finish this meal.

“Suit yourself.”

My father watches the game as he eats and I hide most of the turkey under my mashed potatoes, making it look as though I’ve made an effort in eating my meal too. Then I look at the plum-nosed man slouched in his stool at the other end of the bar. I feel odd sharing this holiday with a stranger. I wish we weren’t here, or at the very least that he would leave. I don’t notice that my father is watching me, watching him until he leans over and whispers, “It isn’t polite to stare.”

22

Lane Osborne I look down at my plate and start picking at my food. When I’m certain my father’s attention is turned toward the game again, I steal another glance at the other end of the bar, but the plum-nosed man has left.

My father finishes his meal, pushes his plate to the side, and strikes a paper match. He cups his hands around the end of a cigarette, his third or fourth of the night. The lit end of the Winston brightens when he takes a long slow drag, and he blows smoke daggers through his nose. Time’s running out. I know when this cigarette is finished, we’ll leave, he’ll take me back home, and nothing will have changed.

The bartender makes his way toward us, swabbing the lacquered counter as he goes. “Still working on it or you done?” he says to me.

“I’m done.”

“Can I get you guys anything else?”

“Just the bill,” my father says.

The bartender slides it across the counter, clears our plates, and disappears into the kitchen. My father and I are alone now and I’m left searching for something, anything to say. I want to tell my side of things. I want to explain why I chose my mother over him. That I’d just done what she’d told me to do. That there’s no winning in situations like that. That someone’s feelings were bound to get hurt. That my feelings were hurt. That I deserve an apology too. I want to tell my father all these things, but more than anything I just want us to be close like we were before.

My father taps his Winston on the edge of the ashtray and I watch the spent embers fall from the end of the cigarette. I fidget with my straw, winding it around my finger, trying to find the right words. “Dad, about the other day,” I say. “I just want you to kno-” “Jesus Christ!” my father says. I jump in my seat, but realize he’s arguing with a ref on TV, angry at a questionable ruling. “How’s that holding?”

A time out is called, the game goes to a commercial, and my father turns toward me. “What were you saying?”

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Lane Osborne I’m second guessing myself now and don’t know if I have the courage to repeat it. I look at the word “Restrooms” written in neon script on the far wall with an arrow bent at a ninety, indicating they’re around the corner. “I said, I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

But when I swivel my seat to get down, I misjudge the height of my stool and stumble. My father grabs my arm to keep me from falling and when he does we knock my tumbler to the floor where it smashes to bits. I look down at the ice cubes, cherries, and glass shards spread across the floor, then to my father, and I can feel my face warm with embarrassment.

“You alright?” my father says. He stands and helps me out of my seat.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay. It’s as much my fault as anyone’s,” he says as we kneel toward the mess we made and begin picking up the pieces.

24

Mark Aiello Mark Aiello

On the Way Back to the Airport The driver tells you when you’ve left Almagro and a place that he calls Baja Flores begins; two neighborhoods no one mentioned once the whole week you were in town.

He points to the highway you’ve run parallel to for the last few miles. You nod and smile when you see the long line of cars all standing stock still under the concrete sky.

He says it means ‘down flowers’. His English is so much better than your Spanish, which has only one tense, and is only useful for asking a waiter for a fork. To thank or to apologize. You had no idea, all week, that you sounded like a toddler.

Every traffic light in Baja Flores takes a few seconds too long to turn back to green and you try not to look into the eyes of the woman who taps on your window or the baby she holds on her hip.

It’s a town of crooked dogs and the ruins of fruit carts, this place named ‘down flowers’ or, you decide, he meant to say ‘low flowers’. As if handing over a big tip gave you the right to correct someone who speaks the language and learned the back streets by walking them barefoot, years ago.

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Allen Forrest Allen Forrest

Shopping Expedition

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Cyndy Muscatel Cyndy Muscatel

Clueless in California When did thongs start being called flip-flops? Tina wondered as she again tried to pluck the solitary hair from under her chin. The tweezers slipped a little in her grip. Darn, she should have put on the cuticle oil last night, but she’d forgotten. Since her manicure appointment was right before her flight, she’d had to put it on this morning—she needed to soften her cuticles so her nails would look perfect at the reunion. Everything about her had to be perfect tonight—her entire future was riding on it.

She wiped her fingers on a tissue and regripped the tweezers. “Gotcha,” she crowed as the hair gave up its roots and released.

Tina continued to examine her face for flaws. “And now people don’t hang up their phone, they disconnect,” she said aloud. Charlie opened one eye at the sound. He sat at her feet, as he always did, watching her every move.

She looked down at him. “Do you suppose this disconnect thing started because everyone uses cell phones now?” Charlie’s meow could have been agreement, or did his shrug mean he didn’t care? Well, she did. It bothered her that things got renamed without her being aware of it. It made her feel out of touch—made her feel old. And she wasn’t. She was in the prime of her life—fifty years old. Well, fifty-one-and-a-half.

She turned to look sideways in the mirror, standing on tiptoe to see as much of her body as she could. She didn’t have a full-length mirror any more.

Her townhouse, well, two-bedroom condo, didn’t have room for one.

She frowned for a moment, thinking of the beautiful home in Beverly Hills she’d been forced to give up. Then she remembered the plastic surgeon had warned frowning could compromise the results of her brow lift. She switched her thoughts to that of a beautiful sunset. She couldn’t afford to create a new frown line.

Newly centered, she opened her eyes. By and large, her reflection in the mirror pleased her. Her breasts had always been the bane of her existence—

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Cyndy Muscatel well, at least since seventh grade. She’d felt top-heavy since she was twelve.

Then breastfeeding two children and gravity’s pull had driven her breasts to her knees. Not a pretty picture in the dating mart. But after her reduction, she was a perky 34 C. She tore her eyes away from the image of her new-and-improved self to glance at her watch. Oh, God, she was going to be late. Why did everything have to go wrong for her? She rushed around the house, slamming her suitcase shut, and filling Charlie’s dishes with enough food and water for the two days she’d be gone. *** Tina couldn’t believe it when she found a parking place so close to the airport entrance. Maybe my luck is changing, she thought as she turned off the engine. She got out of the car and pulled her battered Louis Vuitton suitcase from the trunk. Hitching her carry-on more securely over her shoulder, she rolled her suitcase through the crosswalk and into the terminal. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought about how forlorn Charlie had looked when she’d left. She could easily relate to his feeling of desertion. First her husband, then her two children had deserted her. And most of her friends too. Up until the time Robert had told her he wanted a divorce, she’d felt blessed by good fortune. For twenty years she’d lived a Cinderella life. Then in a flash, it was gone. And Robert, so generous during their married life, turned into a pennypincher as an ex. Life was just not fair!

Inside, Tina found a long line at the ticket counter. She hadn’t checked in online—she hadn’t thought she’d needed to. “My luck,” she muttered. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, just as her yoga teacher had instructed. She began to chant, “Om,” in her head, and felt more centered by the time it was her turn.

“Yes? Can I help you, ma’am?” The woman behind the counter looked nothing like an airline employee. More like a kindly grandmother or the old woman who lived in a shoe, Tina thought.

She handed the woman her ticket. “I’m on the Seattle flight at 3:33.”

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Cyndy Muscatel The agent looked at the ticket and then at Tina. “This is for the July 18th flight.”

“Yes, I know. Saturday, July 18th.”

“Sorry. July 18th was yesterday. Today is Saturday, July 19th.”

“What? What are you saying?”

The agent’s lined lips thinned. “I’m saying, ma’am, you missed your plane. You’re a day late and a ticket short.”

What? Did the woman think this was funny? Was it a time for oneliners? The old biddy no longer looked so kindly. Tina clasped her hands tightly, still mindful not to smudge her drying nails. This was not her fault. The computer must have filled in the wrong date.

Panic rose in Tina’s throat. She had to be in Seattle by 6:00 tonight. She had to. Her 30th high school reunion began at 7:00 and she had to be there.

She’d watched the Dr. Phil show when all those high-school sweethearts had been reunited and fallen in love all over again. Dieting, working out, and the liposuction had gotten Tina back into fighting form. Now, she was ready to skirmish with her first love. Donald would be at the reunion—she’d checked.

He was a dentist in downtown Seattle, so he had to be making big bucks.

Sometimes you had to make your own good luck. And though she’d miss the sunshine in California, she was willing to make a sacrifice for a secure future.

Anyway, she could always talk Donald into spending time in Palm Springs during the winter.

“Can’t I just exchange this ticket for today?”

The ancient agent glanced at the monitor. “Nope, no can do, ma’am.

Coach is completely full. The only thing I could do is upgrade you to first class.”

“How much would that cost?”

The woman pressed a few keys. “Eight hundred ninety-two dollars one way, ma’am.”

“Eight hundred ninety-two dollars? You must be joking. My old ticket was two hundred dollars round-trip.”

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Cyndy Muscatel “That was a special super-saver price.” The agent’s look conveyed her awareness that Tina was a bargain-basement shopper. “Ma’am, it is first class.

First class is expensive.”

Tina thought about her credit-card limit. She was pretty sure she’d already maxed it out, but it was worth a try. She took a Zen breath and pulled out her wallet. “Okay, here.”

The crone took the card. Again she was busy on her computer. Tina stood there, sweating. Her mother always said, “Girls don’t sweat, dear. They perspire.” Well, Tina had news for her mother. In Palm Springs, in July, you sweated.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?” Tina looked at the ticket agent hopefully.

“Your credit card is being denied.” The ticket agent grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.

Tina thought about recommending her dentist to the woman. Dr. Calvo did a whitening for only $600. She would never let her teeth get to the deplorable shade of the ticket agent’s. Once she was married to Donald, she’d be sure to keep up her bleaching. It would be free, after all.

“Do you have another card you’d like to use?” The woman’s yellowed teeth gleamed in the artificial twilight of the airport.

“No.” Tina was beginning to feel annoyed. She’d chosen this airline because of its television commercial advertising its friendly service. She wasn’t seeing any. With her rotten luck she’d probably picked the only unfriendly employee in the entire company.

“Can I speak to your supervisor, please?” Her voice wobbled. She could hear it. So much for the assertiveness-training class she’d spent good money on.

“Sorry, ma’am, he’s on break until 4:00.”

“But the plane will have already left by then.”

“Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to either buy the ticket or step out of line.

People are waiting behind you.”

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Cyndy Muscatel Tina turned. Two people, indeed, stood behind her. Both wore expressions of impatience. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Ma’am, you need to either give me the correct amount in cash or leave.”

Something snapped in Tina. She pivoted on her heel to face the ticket agent. “You’re getting on my nerves. If you call me ‘ma’am’ one more time in that sarcastic tone, I’ll…”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Threatening? You? Me?” Tina didn’t shout, but her voice was elevated.

At least the ugly biddy was no longer smiling, Tina thought as the woman reached under the counter.

In the next nanosecond, Tina’s arm was grabbed from behind. She wrenched away, protecting her purse.

When she turned, she saw a beefy security guard pulling a nightstick from his belt. “Ma’am, you better come with me.” His voice vibrated with threat.

“You don’t understand. I have to get to Seattle today.” She faltered as her eyes filled with tears. She always cried easily, which had angered her as a child. Then she’d found out what a handy tool it could be.

The guard’s expression softened. “Why don’t you come along with me and explain it.” He put away the nightstick and picked up Tina’s suitcase.

An hour later, wiping at the tears still streaming down her face, she pushed the automatic door-opener to her garage. Why, she wondered, why do I have such bad luck?

As she pushed open the door to the house, she found Charlie standing there as if he’d been waiting for her. She picked him up and buried her perfectly made-up face into his fur. “You’re a good cat, Charlie Brown. What would I do without you?”

In the kitchen, she took the bottle of Bombay gin out of the freezer.

Wiping away fresh tears, she filled a tumbler with gin. She went into her tiny den and flopped onto the couch. Would life ever turn around for her? Would her luck ever change?

Listlessly, she picked up the remote control. People didn’t turn on 31

Cyndy Muscatel television sets any longer, she thought. No, they clicked it on from across the room. She sighed. Nothing was the same.

She channel-surfed from Judge Judy to Ricki Lake to Dr. Phil. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Like I’m ever going to believe one of your shows again.”

She cast him out of her life forever with a flick of her wrist. She clicked back to Judge Judy, took a deep drink from her glass and laid her head back on the pillow. She had to do something with her life, had to change the way her luck had been running. Maybe she would go to that psychic she’d heard about.

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Dimitri McCloghry Dimitri McCloghry

Anything Sane In the ravine, your corsage murderous from the light, it’s after prom and you’re dead.

My mind, a weathervane, is moving again, and I’m lifting the lacerated blonde with ash on her head from behind the wheel, the hurting girl, the deeply Catholic girl.

Our skin brims over the corrugated metal as I pull you from the fire. This is the weakness they said would leave the body: gasoline hurrying to rave against your gown, against anything sane. The car’s glare tricks the humidity on your skin to look like a diamond. I can almost hear your breath slither through the grass to the surf.

Watching you bleed, I’m so scared I could faint.

But then your eye shadow runs down your face as if trying to evade its own darkness, and I wonder if I’m speaking to myself, or if my past has come a long way to find me— ready to betray me like Judas, illusory in its inferno. You feel yourself leaving, it doesn’t matter what you do, and I say I can’t promise you’re a phoenix, but I know you’re ready.

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Ruben Rodriguez Ruben Rodriguez

The Mothers Never Knew The feathers wait in the cabinet above the fridge.

“I know it’s dusty up there,” but what’s Grandma to do. Her arms couldn’t be lifted for the Lord.

The feathers are for affect. As are the scarves draped over lamps brought into night’s kitchen—scarves of crimson with gold rococo borders. Creamy centers exploding with flora on fire—the reds, the oranges.

The house is kept cool, the shivers coming with whispers. A girl glides through this place, socks slick on Grandma’s linoleum floor.

“Aye mija, the stove, it’s hot.”

There is something to be said about the flammable nature of cloths in kitchens. All of Grandma’s aprons are scarred by sears secured by a granddaughter named, Juliet, no Nadine, or is it Claudia, Claudette. Whatever it is, Grandma can’t let them know.

“La olla mija. Put it on.”

She’s plump this one. Beautiful. A big booty and heavy chest. Her skin smooth, worth touching, like Grandma’s once was. A man will love her, no doubt.

“Get the crickets, mija.”

She is special. Grandma can trust her. She was told to get crickets and she did—the white ones as required. Five hundred crickets don’t look like much in a one-gallon jar. When trapped atop one another crickets don't know what to do. They’re like people, so they’ll sit and wait to see what happens.

Grandma must do the next part.

She lifts herself from her strong wooden chair, a hand on the table, a grunt, and an exhale when the job is finished. Her small steps come with soft gray eyes that peer over her delicate glasses.

The girl backs away, the jar of crickets out in front of her.

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Ruben Rodriguez When the water bubbles, Grandma turns to take the jar. For a moment the two share the glass in their hands. It seems the girl doesn't want to let go.

When she does, Grandma holds the jar steady looking deep into the girl’s eyes.

The two stand frozen before Grandma speaks.

“Abrelo, mija.”

Soft hands twist the lid.

Piles of crickets smell like aluminum soil.

This is a job only Grandma can do. Holding the jar out in front of her like a baby, Grandma repositions her hands, a spider-walk dropping her thumbs to be replaced by her pinkies. Facing the boiling water, Grandma swiftly upturns the jar with a jolt. The mass of crickets succumbs to the force and plops with a singular splash.

A hiss rises from the pot. The girl takes the jar from Grandma. They stand together, gazing into the cricket carnage.

“Ahora.”

Leaving the girl, Grandma returns to her chair. The girl takes the pot from the flame managing to splash dollops of scolding water onto the floor. A strainer sits in the sink. She pours out the cricket soup, clearing the sewagestink-broth with a tap of the faucet.

“It’s so much easier now.”

The girl looks to Grandma and smiles.

A giant molcajete rests on the table in front of Grandma. The girl dumps the cooked crickets into the stone and hands Grandma the large telojete. With the fat end, Grandma steadily smashes the crickets around the bowl. The cracking of thoraxes and cricket heads sounds like a spirit tramping through the wilderness. Standing, Grandma braces herself at the table with a hand on the edge of the molcajete. Her shoulder and elbow turn like an ancient locomotive and with a clenched fist, Grandma grounds the crickets into a violet paste. She works the stone until every wing, leg, and head has been melded into the muck. With the wide end of the telojete, Grandma circles the convex of the bowl searching for any remnants of the previous lives.

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Ruben Rodriguez The roll of stone on stone fills the kitchen with a circular sound.

With a thud, the girl hits the ground. She lies splayed upon the kitchen floor. Grandma looks down at her then runs her fingers through the violet paste. Thick and cool, it clings to her crooked digits. With her palm held out in front of her like a sacrifice, Grandma inches toward the girl. She struggles to kneel. Looking at her granddaughter, Grandma remembers her name— Angelica. Grandma spreads the paste in three lines down the length of the girls face. With what remains, Grandma makes the same marks over her eyelids, nose, and mouth. Leaning over the girl, Grandma keeps their faces inches apart and blows a cold stream of breath into the slightly parted lips of her granddaughter.

When she coughs awake, the girl slides out from beneath Grandma’s dead weight. She stands to turn off the stove. Prancing around the place, she plucks the scarves from the lamps and gathers the feathers. She runs her soft hands over the smooth skin of her arms and her face and knows she is back where she belongs.

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Allen Forrest

Allen Forest

Berlin in the 1920s Fan Dancer Allen Forrest

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Shannon Quinn Shannon Quinn

The Body Hauls Memory your feet are points of peace on earth jackrabbit beautiful whiskey jack bold I knew them as shy birds with a low whistle bad habits cropped at the legs too young to know of everything a ghost is the slowest to burn portrait in the blood set on a slow revolve among fragile joints & an undefended heart I am a confused liar feet filling up with ash be a thin reed by the water if I could I am no such only the sum of coherence crow smart enough to count dog-like enough to stay trusting nothing with a gentle approach teach me what good people do be specific

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R.M. Cooper R.M. Cooper

Jon

Across the street lives the old man who built your house. He tells you about how he dug out your basement with a pair of pack mules, how lightening struck his brother in the backyard. Lays his palm flat as the landscape and points to the spot below his knuckle where they found the boy’s body. There’s a Juniper tree there now, you say, and he calls you Jon. You two haven’t spoken since the spring, and you remind him your name.

But the man isn’t listening. Squinting at something on the horizon the way farmers used to read the weather. Wouldn’t say a word, just smell for sulfur on the air, hot and electric, and look for any clouds blowing over the county line like a cobweb of God—all that before the fluorescent buzz of the Quik Stop came in ‘72.

Around the station, the skies are clear, scentless save the sweet, gasoline tinge, and the old man opens his hand once more. Shows you under the curve of his knuckle just where the boy died. Looks at you, tongue pushed between his lips. Was lightening you know. Ever heard such a thing?

The old man squints to dim the daylight, his open eye lazy and staring over your ear like he’s waiting on someone just beyond your shoulder to answer.

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Ruben Rodriguez Ruben Rodriguez

An Inborn Character Any child might think they were for smashing, those boulders at the ends of wrists. Fingernails like turtle shells, the bulbous product of his mother’s drinking. Skin cracked dry between knuckle valleys, a mango in his hand is squeezed. Other men don't do the shopping, the duty too grand for their grip.

What do they call that? a bushy haired boy asks, fingers entwined in shopping cart mesh.

The mango is tossed back in its bin, and the man with boulder hands smiles thin before saying, I’m not sure, but it’s what you do.

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Rohan Garg

Rohan Garg

Serene

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Contributor Bios Contributor Bios Mark Aiello's poetry has appeared in such publications as Poetry, Tribeca Poetry Review, Nimrod, The Cortland Review and Weber, among others. Mark lives and works in New York City.

R.M. Cooper's writing has appeared in Fugue, Portland Review, Whiskey Island, Lumina, Berkeley Fiction Review, Ellipsis, and elsewhere. He lives on the Colorado Front Range and is the managing editor of Sequestrum www.sequestrum.org Allen Forrest was born in Canada and bred in the U.S. He has created cover art and illustrations for literary publications and books. He is the winner of the Leslie Jacoby Honor for Art at San Jose State University's Reed Magazine and his Bel Red painting series is part of the Bellevue College Foundation's permanent art collection. Forrest's expressive drawing and painting style is a mix of avant-garde expressionism and post-Impressionist elements reminiscent of van Gogh, creating emotion on canvas.

Rohan Garg is currently a junior in high school who lives near Cleveland, Ohio. As a photographer, he is most interested in nature macrophotography and landscape photography. His works have previously been published in several literary magazines, and he has earned both local and national recognition for his photography.

Jean C. Howard is an award-winning video and performance poet, organizer, producer, and participant in the original development of the internationally-acclaimed, “Poetry Slam.” Her poetry has been published in over one hundred publications, including Harper's Magazine, The Chicago Tribune, and her own book, Dancing In Your Mother's Skin (Tia Chucha Press).

Dimitri McCloghry is a 2013 graduate of Flagler College and lives in Saint Augustine, Florida. His poems have appeared in Flare: The Flagler Review, Paperfinger Magazine, ellipsis, Studio One, and Permafrost among others. He's currently at work on a chapbook entitled Speed.

Joddy Murray’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in over 70 journals, including, most recently, Caliban Online, Licking River, Moon City Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Pembroke Magazine, and Southampton Review. He currently teaches writing in Fort Worth, Texas.

Cyndy Muscatel’s short stories and essays have been published in many literary journals. A former English teacher and journalist, she now writes two blogs. She teaches fiction writing and memoir, and is also a speaker 42

Contributor Bios and workshop presenter. She is writing a memoir of her years teaching in the inner city of Seattle.

Lane Osborne teaches English Composition at Coastal Carolina University in Conway, South Carolina where he lives with his wife and two children. His work has recently appeared in Waccamaw, StepAway Magazine, and storySouth.

Shannon Quinn lives in Toronto, Canada. Her poetry has appeared in literary journals in North America and the UK. Her debut collection of poetry, Questions for Wolf, will be published by Thistledown Press in October.

Ruben Rodriguez writes, paints, and wastes his time at the foot of the San Bernardino Mountains. He is the fiction editor of The Great American Lit Mag and the author of the chapbook We Do What We Want (Orange Monkey Publishing, 2015). You can find him at www.rubenstuff.com.

John Surowiecki is the author of four books of poetry, the most recent being Flies (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2012), a semi-epic comic poem narrated by eight generations of housefly. John is the recipient of the Poetry Foundation’s Pegasus Award for verse drama as well as winner of the Pablo Neruda Award, the Washington Prize and the White Pine Prize. John’s work has appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Carolina Review, Indiana Review, Margie, Mississippi Review, Nimrod, Poetry, Prairie Schooner, Redivider, The Southern Review, West Branch, Yemassee and many other journals.

D. Jeanne Wilson writes from her mountaintop home in rural West Virginia. Her work appears in literary, religious and prize winning journals such as St. Anthony Messenger, Chrysalis Reader, Appalachian Heritage, and Seeking the Swan. She has just completed another novel, Real Teachers Don't Cry. Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer living in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas. He has published a novel, The Dream Patch, a prose collection, Under A Riverbed Sky, and a book of stage monologues for actors, Heart Speak. His work has appeared in The Southern Review, New England Review, New Orleans Review, Columbia, and Glimmer Train, among others. His photographs can be seen in his gallery: http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/. A black and white version of “Bird Man of Carnyland” was previously published in the Dublin journal, The Bohemoth, in 2012 under the title “The Dark Bird of the Midway.” It was also part of a multi-photograph, limited edition broadside from Petite House Press in 2014. This is its first time appearing in color.

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