Table of Contents “Where Ever Walls” by George Wells “dopamine” by j.lewis “GPS” by Dino Laserbeam “Pigeons” by Mark McKee “After the Noon” by Dr. Ernest Williamson III “What the Ocean Does” by C.J. Harrington “The Crafts” by Valentina Cano “UV Blues” by Fred Pollack “Birthmark” by Tyler Kline “Two Dulces” by Mitchell Grabois “A Story’s Genesis” by Clive Tern “Mrs Chakrabati’s Buddha” by Anton Rose “fall against air” by John Michael Flynn About the Authors Copyright
FROM THE EDITOR Forelsket. It’s one of those words that doesn’t easily translate into English. “Pre-love”, “over-love”, “crush”. The common translation from the original Norwegian is given by the all-wise internet as “the feeling you have when first falling in love”. That’s what Pidgeonholes is for me. There are works here that are, at turns, beautiful and strange. That is the very essence of falling in love. There is sweetness, of course, and sadness and sickness. But, those are things that come with love. There are works from the United States, Mexico, Great Britain, and beyond, works that transcend distance with language, like the careful, deliberate, handwritten love letters that lived before e-mail and smartphones. Perhaps most importantly, there is a clear love displayed between the authors and their work, a love that, hopefully, reaches out and grabs the reader for a dance. This is also my first foray into editing. In these first months I’ve had the opportunity to read so many wonderful stories and poems, but through it all the thing that I’ve been most surprised with are the comments from submitting authors about how much they enjoy this humble magazine. I hope, dear reader, that you will love it too.
WHERE EVER WALLS Into my home into the shadow of another you came you stayed knowing that you more while I as much as I can hang on these bare walls My home near me through me you know my father his stink of motel soap my mother her cache of plastic flasks my brother his search for stronger ground for a home wherever walls may stand a door you wait for me to walk through windows draped with clothes I cast a floor you lift me from for reasons that include you by careful omission My home near me through me you know me
DOPAMINE he is not in the details as i was often told not smoking fiery red no horns no fork no tail no the devil is in the dopamine sliding into synapses overriding receptors interfering with the best intentions afferent and efferent impulses blocked diverted enhanced as love and lust motivation and addiction adoration and adultery swirl in sensual spirals tiptoe through thoughts dance across dreams i am puppet to the stream of chemicals flowing never knowing who controls the rails on the mesolimbic line is the engineer today infernal or divine
GPS “Was that our turn?” Mary turned her head in response to her husband’s question, trying to read the street sign we’d just passed. “No. That’s Mulberry.” “What are we looking for again?” “Oak. Jesus, Tom, how many times have you asked me that? Why can’t we get one of those navigation systems, like everyone else?” “What, like a GPS?” “Yes, a GPS. Can we please get a GPS?” “Waste of money. That’s what maps are for.” “And when was the last time you looked at a map?” “Hush. I’m trying to pay attention to the road.” Mary snorted. I sank lower into the leather of the backseat, shifting the weight of my jacket. I tried to ignore them. Had they ever had a conversation where they weren’t arguing? I loved my sister to death, but sometimes, mainly when Tom was around, I wanted to hold my hand over her mouth until she stopped breathing–just fell asleep and couldn’t talk anymore. That’s not normal, is it? I shrugged. I looked to my left at my nephew. He had his thumb in his mouth, and he was staring out the window. A sevenyear-old sucking his thumb. Maybe if his parents paid more attention to him, instead of who was right in their latest irrelevant fight, he’d have stopped sooner. As I watched, little Jimmy’s sucking turned to chewing. I thought it was weird, but hey, he probably did it all the time, right? I watched with fascination as his teeth ground against his thumb, and his face showed no reaction. The chewing became gnawing, and blood trickled out around his lips. His teeth squished against his finger. As he broke through the skin, red dripped down his hand, past his wrist, and toward his elbow. Expressionless, Jimmy kept chewing. I knew I should say something, stop him, call out to his parents, but instead I stared on with morbid curiosity. As the blood continued to flow, the sound changed. His teeth hit bone. I heard them sawing through. I turned toward the front of the van, allowing other sounds to flood back in. “It’s not my fault you can’t get a better job, Mary. Maybe you should have stayed in school.” “Stayed in school? Tom, I was pregnant with your son! I couldn’t stay in school.” “Well that’s a decision you made.”
“Oh god, not that again. You’re damn right it’s a decision I made. It was my decision to make!” I glanced at Jimmy again. His thumb was gone. No, I don’t mean he’d stopped sucking or chewing on it; I mean it was gone. He sat there in the back seat, buckled in, with his hand in his lap. Blood covered his face, arm, shirt, and pants. And his thumb was missing. My first thought was, How cool. That’s not normal, either, is it? “Uh, Mary?” “Your decision? Your decision? Don’t you mean our decision?” “You are unbelievable, Tom!” “Mary?” She turned to face me. “Not now, Connor.” Looking back at her husband, she said, “Look. It was my body, my decision.” “Mary?” I tried again. She spun around, her face red. “What is it, Connor?” “I think you ought to take a look at this.” I pointed at Jimmy, who sat calmly gazing out the window. Her glare followed my finger, and the color drained from her face. “Mary, what’s wrong?” Tom asked. Mary didn’t speak. “Mary? What’s happening?” Finally, something registered on her face. Shock? Disgust? She screamed. “Mary! What the hell is going on?” I yelled over my sister’s screams. “Tom, I think you need to pull over.” He listened, directing the car onto the right shoulder. He climbed out of the front seat and opened the back door. Mary stopped screaming. As soon as he saw his son, Tom fainted. Right into oncoming traffic. An eighteen-wheeler ran over his head, killing him instantly. Mary screamed again. I laughed. Now, that’s really not normal, is it?
Mary just kept screaming. I couldn’t take it anymore. I took the nine millimeter out of my jacket pocket, and I shot my sister in the mouth. I shot her in the scream. Maybe it was the sound of the gun, or seeing his father killed, or seeing his mother killed, but Jimmy broke out of his trance. He screamed. I laughed again, and then shot him in the mouth. I shot him in the scream. I’d always wanted the make them shut the fuck up. I put the gun back, climbed out of the back seat, and walked east on Interstate 32, wondering where the hell I was. Man, I really wish I had a GPS.
PIGEONS In the park I fed the pigeons until the sky filled with water. Some of it sloshed over the rim and splattered on the pavement at my feet. I heard an old man sigh, turn off the faucet. His massive arm flopped down, the fingers curling, uncurling. Fleas the size of sedans frolicked among the hair follicles. The pigeons began to nibble his fingernails. The old man slapped at them feebly. Grunted. Sighed. A massive voice rumbled, “Not a moment’s peace.” Water sloshed over the rim of the sky again. A large foot settled near my feet, followed by another. The old man pounded across the city. Somewhere out of sight a large door slammed. “Ahh,” said the massive voice. Eventually I heard the sound of snoring.
AFTER THE NOON in the aloe I reside accosted by the ragweed next to, in congruence with, cackle and blandness of your bird songs. I’ve overcome the seeds of hate but where were they? what lies were in the basalts of my generalities? if a canker sore fills the bowels of sanguine hurts, why do I speak? if a question answers its intent with flaccid way why do I doubt? perhaps I’m too adorned in the sunlight. too branded and perched, alone residing with aloe; though a desiccant is my heart; for you are far from the streams.
WHAT THE OCEAN DOES That Time at That Party Here, ocean sunrises drift to hot-sand afternoons. And evenings are easy. Follow song rhythms. Listen for loud talk, laughter. Every bonfire has bottle-filled coolers and roving eyes. Before you see me, I see you: sketching shape-shifting (yellow) flames. We are sitting by a fire. We are just here for the summer. We are here for tequila shots and lime. We expect fuzzy next morning recollections. We don’t expect our conversation to last all evening. That Time at the Nature Center When you visit my internship, I show you birds so vivid (blue, lime-green, red) we call them painted. They inhabit edges of cabbage palm forests and forage for seeds in meadows. Small hands tug big hands, while asking about mini-golf or ice cream after this obligatory tour. Big hands slip tips since I’m stationed here. I would rather be up a tree counting butterflies. That Time We Walked in the Woods Behind the nature center, when we walk, in these woods, on these planks, this breeze-through-leaves (you teach me) makes a kind of singing. Light peaks, shadows recede in traceable, infinite intricacies. Though you do not know their names (I do), you love these trees in ways I cannot. And the tree that I hug (before we kiss) becomes (from that photo I love of you) squeezed by your hands into little ink lines. Stilled into symbolism. That Time at the Beach Beneath, my spine becomes sand, while you illuminate the moon. The night blooms (violet). Your fingers cling. Waves sway (moon-yellow). We did not expect to feel what the ocean does. We did not expect to become the sky. That Time We Wandered On this too-hot afternoon, even the waves lap slow, and the air turns syrup-thick. We are supposed to be going somewhere. Roads fan like branches (let’s go walk among the trees that sing), cutting paths to high-priced t-shirt shops, higher-priced tees and greens (let’s go to the lighthouse). We have no map to lead us away from this maze. That Time You Painted Circles We wake craving sweetness, saying (lying) it’s the salt of the air (it’s our sweat and our tears), and so we walk. At the doughnut shop, we find toddlers on tiptoes peering through glass to choose confections. Later, after napping (such a late hot night) I seek you in the shed turned summer studio. You paint bright circles, the mystery of the continuous, the center emptiness that can’t be known. Now salt craving, I lick the bones of your bare shoulders but leave your hands free to shape creation. That Time I Lost My Keys At the beach, screens slap closed on open porches, and no one locks doors. So when I leave my keys on my bureau, in your studio, on the back deck (distracted again by you) I accept the fluster. You sketch me a set that can’t go missing. Something to remember. That Time We Flew A last goodbye-saying day. Practical. Neither came here looking for this. You shoot hoops over bottlenecks to win me a stuffed gorilla. I lick my two-scoop ice cream (strawberry, peach) uneven, so it collapses to pavement. Next, I ride the merry-go-round. Waving and smiling at you. But you want a different kind of circling, something faster. Those high-flying swings that scare me. This one time is for you. And they fling us so wide apart we can’t hold hands.
THE CRAFTS I fill my hands with thread and warn to keep them out of my head. I allow them to knot and spread, to twist my fingers white that I may think in straight lines.
UV BLUES Her limbs are as firm as math. She wears three ironic triangles. Her eyes repeat the sea. A faint and faintly damp blond down extends the aura of her hair. Her lips do not leave the yogurt cone they kiss, but if they did, would speak essences. The lone, arrested wave extrudes not foam but hands, reaching and pointing. Other beings on the beach, nonviable in this medium, are subliminal smoke. Though the rotation of the planet is stilled, two are not harmed though one is ordinary. Meanwhile the smile exists. Till a phone rings that offers the ever-immanent Other, his imbricated bĂŞtises, charms, and money. That sound was always there. The being beside her lets sand sift through his hand, wishing time would return.
BIRTHMARK On shore, skin filters water from light, paper from tissue. Small stones drawn from the sea mix the brow of shell. Two hands raise a patch and a trail of collage follows. At the onset of thunder you describe lightning art – glass staged by voltage. I think tadpole shadow, sand caught between shoulder blade and back. On shore, the first break, the second – then we leave. Calling my name you shake the blanket, my skin in there somewhere and yours too.
TWO DULCES 1. Dulce can’t sleep, her mind races. She thinks about things she don’t want to think about. Like a canary—she saw one she wanted so bad, but it was like… sixty bucks, so she bought her boyfriend a goldfish instead. He just looked at it. Didn’t say nothing. 2. Then she married Dr. Manhattan, married the dull scalpel. She married Saran Wrap’s ultimate beauty, in the box with the cutter that slides so effortlessly. She married flowers that never die despite her wishes, that handcuff time, flowers with the souls of dead cops. Here are my hands, she intones, high above Central Park, pressed against the window glass, testing its tensile strength. I’m watching, just watching, salt in my eyes, as if I’ve been swimming in the Dead Sea.
A STORY’S GENESIS Pre-historic birds would fear modern cats, organized ideally for early flight, their fear defenses were not yet exact. Now hunters are elegant acrobats, meticulous in both stalk and attack. Pre-historic birds would fear modern cats. Dragons do not fear, with this caveat: professional and imaginary, their fear defenses were not yet exact. Mouse-deer tell stories of crocs on mudflats and other things, but tell a simple tale; pre-historic birds would fear modern cats. A time-vortex sending a pirate back to the past would learn, of pterodactyls, their fear defenses were not yet exact. Creators will create and thinkers think doers do, always learning from the past: pre-historic birds would fear modern cats, their fear defenses are not yet exact.
MRS Chakrabati’s BUDDHA I was woken by my brother. "Come on," he whispered. "Where are we going?" "You'll see." We snuck out of the house and down the back lane. It was dark, but the air was hot and sticky. We arrived at a fence where the wood was rough and splintered, giving plenty of grip for hands and feet. My brother went first, and I followed. The ground on the other side was soft, cushioning our landing. It took a few moments for me to realise where we were, though I'd been in Mrs Chakrabati's garden plenty of times before. She used to look after us after school when my mother was at work, and we'd often go over at weekends for tea and syrup cakes. But in the darkness the garden looked different, more wild. For a few minutes we hid behind a bush, watching the house. The lights were off and the curtains were closed. In the middle of the garden was a collection of ornaments and carefully-pruned shrubberies. There were a couple of water fountains too, and next to one of them sat a golden Buddha statue, the size of a watermelon. My brother was the first to break cover, creeping across the garden, crouched down to the ground. But my legs were frozen as I watched the house, waiting for a light to come on, a window to open. "Come on!" My brother hissed. I hesitated. "Come on!" he hissed again. With a last look at the house, I followed him out into the exposed space. My brother picked up the Buddha and held it, letting the moonlight reflect off its gleaming surface. Then we were running back to the fence, hurtling across the ground. I went first, and my brother passed the statue over the top. On the other side, we kept running until we were sure we were safe. "What are we going to do with it?" I said, still gathering my breath. My brother shrugged his shoulders, smiling."I don't know," he said. "Well why did you take it?" "Why not?" I was still holding the Buddha, but I thrust it towards him. "You need to do something with it," I said. There was a large pond near our house, covered with lily pads and weedy tendrils. We stood at the edge, watching insects buzz across the surface. My brother held the Buddha above his head, and tossed it forwards. The water sprayed everywhere as the Buddha broke the surface and sunk out of sight. We waited until the water had calmed, until there was no trace. The next day, while we were having dinner, there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs Chakrabati, asking our mother whether we had heard anything during the night. Apparently, there had been a burglary. After Mrs
Chakrabati left, our mother spoke to the two of us. "You boys wouldn't know anything about this, would you?" I felt my stomach tighten, but when I looked at my brother, his face was unmoved. "No," we said, together. A couple of nights later, I snuck out of the house by myself. When I arrived at the pond, I took off my shoes, along with my socks and trousers. I waded in, searching the spot where the Buddha had entered the water. I was feeling for a smooth surface, looking for a flash of gold. But it was gone.
Fall against air adamant serpentine this face you are and all its missives Requires this climb – * light reaches you the beach the teacher the moment that comes to admit loss failure dues dust regrets – * you watch a skunk and you guard your overalls, what you need to wear is still your skin you sit down to pancakes allow your body its claims, allow the counter its complexities
ABOUT THE AUTHORS is an American expatriate living in Guadalajara, Mexico, where he teaches English as a Foreign Language and writes. His fiction has appeared in Shadow Road Quarterly and in Spark: A Creative Anthology, where he is currently a regular contributor and Writer Liaison. is an internationally published poet, musician, and nurse practitioner. His poetry and music reflect the difficulty and joy of human interactions, and often draw inspiration from his decades of experience in healthcare. When he is not writing, composing, or diagnosing, he is often on a kayak, exploring and photographing the waterways near his home in California. runs freeze frame fiction, a quarterly flash fiction publication—or an excuse to boss writers around. An engineer by trade, Dino can typically be found staring at blank pages, hoping for bizarre stories to appear. is from the American south. In his spare time he collects nervous breakdowns. His work has appeared in A cappella Zoo, decomP, theNewerYork, and oth`ers. Find him at goodreads.com/markmckeejr. has published poetry and visual art in over 500 national and international online and print journals. Professor Williamson has published poetry in journals such as The Oklahoma Review, Review Americana: A Creative Writing Journal, and The Copperfield Review. Some of his visual artwork has appeared in journals such as The Columbia Review, The GW Review, and The Tulane Review. Many of his works have been published in journals representing over 50 colleges and universities around the world. Dr. Williamson is an Assistant Professor of English at Allen University and his poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology. ’s fiction and poetry has been featured in many journals including Blast Furnace, Rose Red Review, The Vehicle, Gone Lawn, and The Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal 2014. She is a member of the Winding River Writers’ Workshop, a group of advanced creative writers in the Shenandoah Valley. You can find her on Twitter @_CJHarrington. is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her works have appeared in numerous publications and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, was published in 2014 and was called a “strong and satisfying effort” by Publishers Weekly. is the author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press. His collection of shorter poems, A POVERTY OF WORDS, is forthcoming in 2015 from Prolific Press. His work has appeared in Hudson Review, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), The Fish Anthology (Ireland), Representations, Magma (UK), Iota (UK), Bateau, Main Street Rag, Fulcrum, etc. Online, poems have appeared in Big Bridge, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire Review, Mudlark, Occupoetry, Faircloth Review, Triggerfish, etc. He is an adjunct professor of creative writing at George Washington University. balances his time between working on an organic vegetable farm and studying English at The University of Delaware. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Saint Katherine Review, Rust + Moth, and San Pedro River Review. has had over six hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for work published in 2012, 2013, and 2014. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver. lives in rural Scotland where he cares for his wife and three children. His fiction has appeared in Page & Spine and Word Riot. He is also a member of the First Reader team at Spark: A Creative Anthology. lives in Durham, U.K. He writes fiction and poetry while trying to finish a PhD in Theology, all fueled by numerous cups of tea. Find him at antonrose.com, or @antonjrose. is currently an English Language Fellow with the US State Department in Khabarovsk, Russia. His most recent poetry collection, Keepers Meet Questing Eyes (2014) is available from Leaf Garden Press. Find him on the web at www.basilrosa.com.
Pidgeonholes, Volume I, Copyright Š 2015 Pidgeonholes and individual authors. Contents may not be used or duplicated without permission from all parties. Learn more at http://pidgeonholes.com/ Typefaces in this volume are entirely free: Umbrage by Vic Fieger Gravity by Vincenzo Vuono Edited by Nolan Liebert