Wayne Literary Review 2011 Edition by Wayne Literary Review

Wayne Literary Review

TwoThousandEleven

Wayne Literary Review Senior Editor Assistant Editor and Cover Art Editors

Sean M Davis Nicholas Klaus Stephen A Barcus Erin Dawkins

Faculty Advisor

ML Liebler

Thanks to the Wayne State University College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, the Department of English Faculty and Staff and all of our generous Donors. Special Thanks

Chris Tysh Carla Harryman Bill Harris Barrett Watten Kathy Zamora Chris Leland Margaret Maday Royanne Smith

Submissions can be directed to: wayneliteraryreview@wayne.edu -orWayne Literary Review c/o Department of English 5057 Woodward, Ste. 9408 Detroit, MI 48202 The Wayne Literary Review is committed to presenting the best creative writing in Michigan with special focus on the work of former and current students of Wayne State University. All rights revert to contributors upon publication.

WAYNE LITERARY REVIEW A WORD ART JOURNAL

WAYNE LITERARY REVIEW – TABLE OF CONTENTS Ashton Kramer The Causality of Look-see L o u i e 7 Honest John Does Some Fornicatin’ 9 The Order of Levitating Librarians 12 Bill Harris An Excerpt from Booker T & Them & the Blues & That 16 Tamara Holland The Myth of Gyanda Maraheb Jennifer Erny The Embrace of Egon Schiele

23 27

Ricardo Castaño IV A Day in the Life of Deus Ex Machina Shelley Wettergren Last Love

Anne-Marie Oomen An Excerpt from Sewing Lessons: Love, Sex and 4-H 47 Drew Bazini Lunch

Danielle Gonzalez Flight or Flight Carmen M Mendoza King Las Cruces 79 molly gail shannon [CHTHONIC] HOMO SACER

81 83

Joshua Pippen gown fodder

M.M. Wolfe One of These Mornings You’re Gonna Rise Up Singing 86 Alan Harris COLORS

Ana Gavrilovska A PERSON/ A WOMAN/ A BODY/ A BED Malcolm Moorer Soul Searching Chapters 101 Joseph D Willaims The Wolves

100

102

Michael James Green An Excerpt from Case Log Josh Olsen “YOU BURN ME” 123 There’s nothing 124

111

Ashton Kramer The Causality of Look-see L o u i e Look-see Louie limber enough to linger over the laurels at Laurel lowering her drawers. Morals scarce he can‘t coerce the girls into nudity, he has no ability with charm but agility with his arms and oh boy watch that boy dangle. Steals looks not hearts. Glimpses Gertrude‘s girdles, devours Della‘s delicates, peeps Pamela‘s privates, hounds Holly‘s hips, oh if they only knew the screw outside their sill. Baby Louie should-have-been-named-tom starts with mother in basinet when she thought him too young to fret over changing in other places turns around and his face is held in rapt attention through the bars. Not long before he‘s onto sis mis-trusting with locks on things but by a series of strings he can rig himself a spy seat, for an infant quite the feat, on a roof. Worships Windex was a window washer once whoops wouldn‘t work without wandering eyes watching women work what a pervert. Unemployment left time for neighborhood watch, whoa, worse - what were we thinking? Pores over scores of bedrooms looms over lavatories inventories what space he can. Genuflects reflections, hobbles off with erections, gee is Louie sick. Pop peeped poorly dropped out of game but same methods perfected by offspring truly uninspiring for perplexed progenitor. Sits him down father-son-style chats awkwardly all the while protagonist is thinking about opportunities missed and at the end loses the gist, father is pissed (gets drunk to forget his son the window cyst). But here we have savior in that sharp-asa-tack Margot buttoning up, her back to the window where some Louie loosens the slack on his spying chair rack. Oh unfortunate Louie too

slow for Margot not down for a show it‘s a nogo wait until she tells her beau (who gets to see it all for free). Beau‘s not too pleased, someone‘s neck is going to get squeezed, takes him out at the knees how many times did he say please? Doesn‘t matter he‘s a sleaze, it‘ll be a while before he‘s back on the trapeze. That‘s quite the cast, Louie. Recovers rapidly right-away eye-rapping on another room rasping as Ramona removes raincoat and remains of get-up get-going girl, got a gasping gangly guest gawking greedily gross misuse of manners and mobility to monkey up a maple only to ogle the oblivious outlandish! He is the Neighborhood Watch stands on guard, what a dog. And pleasure derived becomes the question inside all the girlie‘s heads, should he have first said hello and tipped his hat they wouldn‘t wish him dead but this audacity coupled by his tenacity and the girls don‘t fathom pity within their capacity. What is it in this stealth is clearly a question of mental health and why is it that he resides within bushes for viewing such. Shimmies up a sap knap-sack packed stacked takes out binoculars for stake-out sap breaks out oh Louie you lout. Was it worth your soul, all the looks you stole? All the terror you doled out, dogs you out-ran girls you out-right humiliated for shame sick man. Broke his neck once bent twice cracked like thin ice – sounded out for miles and the girls all smiled – it was the sound of privacy and the death of Louie.

Honest John Does Some Fornicatin‘ Honest John don‘t dilly dally, don‘t dawdle, don‘t look down at gasoline acting prism on the special occasion that it‘s raining, Honest John don‘t like rain. Don‘t like books, once wrote a poem about football that got put up on the fridge by a realtor magnet that didn‘t really work. Honest John don‘t work, don‘t work hard smells beer for a living doesn‘t imbibe, doesn‘t know what it is to imbibe. Has a nose like a hound in more ways than looks, how many hops in there John? Don‘t rightly know, ‗bout 700 but the devil‘s in ‗dem bottles boys let‘s keep a low count. ‗Dem bottles roll by and Honest John rolls by with ‗em, don‘t take-a-few bottles home to the missus, has no missus, wouldn‘t steal. Honest John likes church, likes posture and loves a nice sore ass after sitting on rock-wood pews, pain is Satan coming out of you don‘t you think, Honest John? Honest John gots-to walk to the store every now and then but would rather drive the two blocks it‘s raining lazy ass that don‘t meander but rather gets to it in a straight line that the horizon agrees it too straight and even the Washington Monument says loosen up there young man go chase some tail young fella. Honest John gotsto have some kids soon but oh the sin! If only it didn‘t involve that fornication but Honest John so potent could populate a city in one throw and would perhaps like it so much he would explode so he steers clear but wants some boys of his own – no girls they‘s the devil in large doses, especially two concentrated doses up front and behind Honest John don‘t rightly like tits or ass, he‘s a God-man. Honest John don‘t rightly like females ‗cept for Ida-Mae and Cliva-Dae who make him pies and give him eyes oh my if he could only see their stares. The two little pitties they live down the lane so quaint you can often find them kitchen sos

they‘s evil doses even eviler than some. And he rolls up in his car that he can‘t rightly afford but Honest John would never swindle sos he makes it work. These women-folk are virile and perhaps holy and so well they fit on each arm as they walk to the car to drive to church to sit in pews and whiles the ladies fidget with hats too big Honest John takes on a holy glow similar to the boils he‘s developing while reciting the Lord‘s Prayer oh lordy. Oh the damnation he‘s feelin‘ by the end when every one says amen and Honest John is head and shoulders above the crowd perched upon some new evil. Preacher says only ways to cure that sin is to take himself a wife who can tend to his lower extremities and exterminate the Satan. Honest John don‘t rightly know but them church pews sure are a pulling a number on his ass so big now that the twin-women-folk takes to thinking he has a bustle and oh the eyes they give it! So he takes them women and they‘s a fighting over who gets to be his wife and one walks down the isle on this arm and the other on that arm but one‘s supposed to be a bride‘s maid but they say i-sure-do in unison and Honest John gets himself a pair of wives as his coat tails drape oh-so-prettily over his everso-sinfully-evil behind and Preacher says there‘s so much evil purging to do that two wives might be the only cure dagnabbit. Honest John can‘t work poor dope only lie facing down as Ida-Mae and Cliva-Dae kiss and coo and worry over all the demon he‘s got in him for such a righteous man and the boil beams purplishly up at its doting nurses but will not get-togetting. Oh lordy when one wife can never be satisfied and Honest John‘s got himself two and no room in the marital bed what‘s a fella to do? And preacher says consummate consummate consummate, in so many a fine worded verse. And one wife, no matter which-un decides that fornication is the only way to purge the demon and creeps into the bed that only Honest John

and his boil can fit in and before our straight-line man know‘s what‘s for he‘s got a prim little pretty part pair on his prude little pecker poor prick that is so startled and frightened, don‘t rightly know which way is up as it is so very up. Don‘t rightly know what happened next and was it that sinful blurb or that fountain of life reserves and had that poor Honest John survived he would have said it was a miracle as he exploded into nothing but Holy Water(oh boy did Play-boy have a time with that one), flooding the city with something that looked like gasoline whilst it‘s raining and every woman woke up pregnant poor dears and bore some blood-hound looking babies, Ida-Mae and Cliva-Dae gots themselves some twins of course though-in one gots herself twins after that and twins after that and was always a carryin‘ and bearin‘ with no more fornicatin‘, doesn‘t matter which-un. And with all those big-nosed boys truffle-hunting became a citypastime longs with long days in the pews and long days o work and no ones was ever tardy or lyin‘ or cheatin‘ and rainy days were days off spent inside or inside a car and the beer was perfect but never drank and what a boring town that Honest John afflicted them now so dullard folks with. But Honest John don‘t like no girls don‘t leave no girls and if-en he did none of ‗em would have won a beauty contest or dancin‘ show so it‘s just as wells that them boys have no girls and be so shy and hates that fornicatin‘ and that promiscuous twin was in a constant state of bearing she had no time for sneaking into alls thems beds for another tidal wave of fertility so that no babies ever came about and thank-the-lord alls them Honest Johns died out.

The Order of Levitating Librarians God-less Lucy loses faith in billions of eonsaway bearded man with cosmos in hand, sipping slowly. Likely lord could afford a haircut and shave and save the occasional post-coital sheet (get-up would be done-up in modern fashion). Lucy finds it odd that god isn‘t a woman, whoaman gave birth? Lucy has done her reading on breeding and testicles were not the first ovaries. God-less Lucy lips prayers in the socially acceptable form of psychosis - a mental hypnosis for spiritual fun. Prayer goes not eons but down the block to a peon in glasses and a bun. Lucy likens maker to local librarian. Isabel Shafer believes in no heaven, hell, maker, believes in book scanner, day planner, apocalyptic date-stamper. Isabel Shafer doesn‘t believe in god, doesn‘t believe that she in any way looks like a god, and wouldn‘t believe in this praying-to-herbusiness if not for the voices in her head. These voices ask for menial things and give humdrum updates for her to contemplate while the footsteps echoing on marble fade away into the dusty wings and she is left with her stamp and scanning device. She was thanked for the money to buy a new pair of shoes, thanked for the sunny afternoon that coincided with a party, she was thanked for being laid, wondered to when certain shipments would be made, asked to hurry up the suspense of a morning-after phone-call and cursed for a broken heel, a faulty car, burning toast, tedious people, and a cat that wouldn‘t stop pissing in the corners. And each night in a tiny bed the voice in her head gives a prayer as blocks down Lucy bows her crown and says, ―Oh she who is all wisdom and knowledge, all earthy and documented, all that has been and may be. She

that is silliness and fantasy and hope.‖ Accomplished simply by passing the Children‘s Section! ―She that is science and all religion and thought – fact and fiction. She that is closed Mondays to re-shelf the cosmos. She that puts the card catalog of life in order. She The Librarian.‖ And with prayers given, Lucy slips under the linen while Ms. Shafer is wide-eyed and stricken and wonders what it all means. God-less Lucy runs red light – ―Oh my Librarian!‖ – red sedan slams red Caravan red light howls and flashes, time passes, Lucy in casts as she prays and chants and entreats and oh-my something is going on with Ms. Shafer‘s seat. Pastor Lurhman needs some reference material for his sermon and to the library he goes. But the main desk is lacking librarian, stamper turner over, scanner askew and a little voice that says ―help.‖ Lurhman looks heaven-ward, eyes lift and pop, knees drop, hands clasp. For there is Ms. Shafer bobbing against the ceiling, still reeling, yelling to the man kneeling to get her down. Knees pressed together, with one hand clutching her sweater and the other stabilizing herself, pressed against the frescoed roof – a librarian so literally aloof. Oh how heavenly for she places her hand, fingers splayed and with them she‘s made a bridge between God and Adam (and if Michelangelo saw this version of ―The Creation of Man‖ he would have approved). Pastor is no help rather he sends the press running, ―Isn‘t my find stunning?‖ and soon many are sunning themselves in the glow of Ms. Shafer‘s divinity. She takes her meals with the help of the window-washer who rigs a pulley system, though many of the followers cry out to starve her as this is God‘s will. Now the head of a new congregation, called Levitians, Lurhman lovingly lectures Lords‘ will, always with a finger pointing up

to Shafer perched precariously on her chair and pleading that someone get around to checking in all the books. The shelves are in disarray although there is nothing she can say, and though there are fines to pay, all the patrons do is sit around and pray. Lurhman, now head of The Order of Levitating Librarians offers this suppliant: ―Oh she that brings God to man, the interceptor of God‘s divinity. She who brings us closer to him while floating high above our heads. She who will save and never sink. In her ascention she brings with her the soul of man and we are closer to him through her. Oh Librarian who rose upon my entrance to this now holy shrine, guide me and my flock.‖ And Shafter shouts down how nice that is but could he please check that ―ascention‖ is an actual word? There is a dictionary on the circulation desk. Bed-ridden Lucy reads local rag proclaiming the latest miracle, a sensation over levitation and how was Lucy left out of the equation? Side note that local library now in desperate need of staff to work on behalf of Ms. Shafer who is the town‘s new golden calf. Books have been stolen, the drop-box has swollen and from her chair, Shafer sees – gasp! – scuffs on the linoleum. Lucy sighs in disgust, this religion is a bust, how unjust, she needs a god she can trust, leave that floating woman in the dust. Ah! But here is Nurse Sue on cue, meds are due and Lucy begins to construe – and is a nurse not that caregiver of the world or ward? ―Ah, Nurse Sue, watch over me and protect me and please do not succumb to media hype.‖ And with that transference of prayer that little chair (and the little lady atop it) begin to falter and Pastor Lurhman at the altar looks up from his Psalter. The chair gives a lurch, Shafer falls from her perch – what a thing to happen in this make-shift church. Down

she goes, the followers in their rows watch as she tumbles to the ground, ever faster, and what a disaster – Little Ms. Shafer has landed on the Pastor. What a crash, there is a cloud of ash and all the followers dash to the mangled mash, my that‘s quite a gash. Red light howls and flashes, time passes, and loot at these three little patients all in a row. Nurse Sue, too good to be true, makes her debut as the caretaker of these two new members of the crew. What a dear she is to Ms. Shafer, a doll to Pastor Lurhman, a friend to Lucy. With the best intentions in mind (and as Pastor Lurhman feels so inclined) the efforts of the three of them combined send out a prayer to thank Nurse Sue, the helper of mankind. Ah, a shame – what they will find when prayers are aligned, it would have been best to rest and unwind. There had been a moment of squealing, now the hospital staff is still reeling, construction workers are still dealing with the assignment and that three patients (those that can) are still kneeling and constantly appealing to the hole in the ceiling (it‘s quite a view) that very much resembles the shape of poor Nurse Sue.

Bill Harris An Excerpt from Booker T & Them & the Blues & That

CHAPTER 16 In which is related the unfortunate adventure that befalls Mr. Jefferies when he encounters 2 fisted Mr. Johnson . . . &other unlooked-for happenings.

1910 to America of the 4th of July, as viewed by the colored 2nd class, Frederick Douglass said 58 years prior : “your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; … are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants brass fronted impudence; your shout of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns. . . a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages.” Independence Day. Reno, Nevada. Former Heavyweight Champion, Jim (James L.) Jefferies, (1899-1905), now alfalfa farmer, is recruited as the “Great White (& last ditch) Hope” to recapture The Title from black Jack Johnson & redraw the Color Line. Keeping it mano a mano, Johnson says, “I honestly believe that in pugilism I am Jefferies‟ master.” First class signifying or low class, racially insensitive choice of words? The Press does what the Press does: goes nuts. “Johnson believes he‟s Jeff‟s master,” print pundits editorialize, formal with the former, familiar with the latter, while stirring boiling

bile in the racist pot. “. . . and it is my purpose,” Jack, who drives fast, consorts with & marries white women, continues, as if he is not out on a limb &in it up to his neck, “to demonstrate this [this ass whupping he‟s predicting] in the most decisive way possible… ” “It‟s the money I‟m after, man,” Jefferies insists. Jack London, racial schizoid, nudges Jefferies forward toward his bruising, saying “Jeff, it‟s up to you. The White Man must be rescued.” Shotguns are oiled, ammo loaded. Ropes noosed, Jim Crow & hellhounds readied to be loosed. “Let me say in conclusion,” Jack says over ½ way to his close, “that I believe the meeting between Mr. Jefferies and myself will be a great test of strength, skill, and endurance.” Then, in the tradition of trickster masters, shifts gears on „em, having covered the human, he rags over into the cultural. “The tap of that gong will be music to me.” BOING! That does it. It‟s etched in stone, time to be about it. It is Jefferies‟ duty, to God, country, & the notion of Anglo-Saxon pre-eminence to re-right Holy Writ re their rite, in matters of might to (as the last left standing) write the last word. Contradicting his earlier assertion Jim says, “I am going into this fight for the sole purpose of proving that a white man is better than a Negro.” The remark pulses with the proper supremacist sturm & drang, huh? Reckon that means any white man &any Negro. Cue Ride of the Valkyries. All Coons Look Alike To Me is struck up by the ringside band instead. Jim refuses the pre-match handshake. Nothing to do,

as they say, but to do it. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. Tap. Gong. Puff. Pow. & the righteous warfare is on. Jim, intent on abolishing so arrant a strain from contention, assumes the offensive. Countering Jim‟s assault &his backers‟ savage songs (that as the contest continues, turn to ones of Sorrow), Jack, string bassist in his leisure, begins with a steady, bluesy, barrelhouse doom-doom-doom-doom, to show them the things that will happen soon, then, as Jim jousts, lunges & tilts with whirling flurries like a longnailed Great Dane on a sheet of Antarctica ice, Jack, carefree as a boy, fiddles with Jim, shifting rhythms in jabbing & tapping, teasing & taunting, tattooing, saying, over the noise & uproar, “Here! Here! Big Jim, Now is the time to show the strength of your mighty arms.” Tap, gong to Jefferies‟ jaw & head. Johnson knocks The Hope down. Puff. Pow. & for Jefferies (& all the throng transfixed) it is chapter 1 of a Revelation. Hearing the words of Jack‟s prophecy & the time is at hand. & they see who was & who is & who is to come. & each eye, clear or dazed is a faithful witness, that he is more man, of that mode, than any they can contrive. &they know, with woeful regret, that it will be written & it will be filmed & that word will go out, blaring like a trumpet, to New York, Philadelphia, Detroit, St. Louis, Cleveland, & to Chicago where Negroes swelling with pride in multitudinous numbers reside. Jack, strategically shifting rhythms at will, from slow, blistering as-Joshua‟s-blue-flame-hot-

dog-day sun that stood still in the middle of the sky & did not hasten to set!; to jerky-jagged as a Jack Rabbit outjuking a beagle through the briar, doubling back, circling & beelining for its burrow all at once; tomidtempo, like a smoking locomotive chugging, with death‟s determination from the vanishing point on down the line; jabbing in hummingbird flurries &stumpthumping, staccato, sledgehammer rights; all with the ease of bleached linens breeze-drying on a May Monday morn. & his head, this lawless giant‟s, is shining marble, & his body an oak trunk, black & annealed as if furnace-fired, his teeth are ingots of gold, & his words, as if raining from the clouds like spears, pierce& cut, saying: Fear not, I am the first but not the last. I am nothing, but behold I am forevermore. I will sport the crown, & hold the key to the highway. Let your scribes write & your cameras record that, yes, there is a spirit guiding my left hand, & a mystery guiding my right hand, & that it fetched the stars dancing, like enchanted, windmilling madness in your head, & in your eyes as you fall at my feet like a dead man. Amen. . . .“2!”; & for Jim light collapses & time & history are simultaneous contraction-expansions, & are out of joint; . . .“3!”; uncoils like the shadow of a waking snake; stretches, now a ribbon unspooling in lengthening, twisting curl; . . .“4!”; pastpresentfuture—meet mesh meld, in the shadowy infinite; coalesce, a harmony of contradictions stretch like a rubberband,

to its limit; Where—was I—& who? Jim waking thinks, Why is the light so bright, & what is that noise?; . . .“5!”; & as his head clears, Jim Jefferies (18751953), “The Boilermaker,” bullstrong, quick as a lie, bloodletter, rib breaking 1-punch knockouter, takes punishment like a Georgia mule, sees, through the blear, Jack standing ape-arrogantly over him, fist cocked, sun gleaming off his black & bald as a bad luck 8 ball head. In this instant interchange of their eye-lock, time, at its limit, leaps ahead, reverses, snaps back realigned: 1st-last, back to front; passed past pretense. Sham, lies, glossed portrayals shatter; reassemble as raw reality, recognized by the amassed (aghast!) for what it is & forever has been, & its folly never again can as fully be. “6!” Johnson grins his golden grin, mocks his Caucasian combatant bruised to a pulp, dares him to rise. “&7!” The assembled on their feet, fear & flop sweat blacking the bands, arm pits & collars of their skimmers& shirts, hear him, see this as more than monkey shines, or sanctioned legalized assault, & are sore afraid. Jefferies, at the crowd‟s despairing exhortations, & with the weight of the Western World on his brawny but battered shoulders, is weak, but manages, with Herculean effort, to heave up, (Puff.) till heaven falls as The Force of Darkness strikes again. (Pow.) (The throng pray news of the event not fit to film not be conserved in permanent annals.)

& down goes White Supremacy, knocked out of the ring. Shock & awe. Jefferies‟ seconds push him to his feet & back into the ring. The White Hope, to quote B.B. King, “getting some outside help he didn‟t really need” is punched, pounded & knocked from the ring again. . . . & it‟s over . . . All over . . . “White Man Outclassed by His Opponent from the First Tap [rat-tat-tap] of the Gong” John Arthur Jack Johnson, having stood against all comers, WINS IN 15 ROUNDS, is Still The UnDisputed Black Heavyweight Champion of the World! “I Couldn‟t Come Back,” says Former Champion, Helpless After Third Knockdown. It is natural to the breed, groused some in dim barroom post-mortems, their derbies tipped back, counterbalance to their tilt forward tendency under the weight of the rye. Jungle tutoring carried over, they conclude. Or, stogie chomping beer-sippers muse, t‟was some Dark Continent deity, or demon more likely, guided the coon. Either way, be Goren, the jig up, our man down.

In sight of the loss

RIOTS COUNTRY WIDE

the race affect frowns, MANY COLORED INJURED pretend they havenâ&#x20AC;&#x;t heard, 8 DIE but away from the watchful eye, they buck, do breaks, & cut Cakewalking capers. Deemed too hot for public viewing, film of the calamity is, by congress, banned, border-to-border, coast-to-coast. But, they despair, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x;s no way to put the clamps on the outcome. The direct indirect affect will, at lickety-split speed, leap, with that voodoo they do, space& time. Jigs are likely, even now, rumbling & jumping from Kansas to the Congo from the foundation shaking pummeling put on our poor Jim by him who crowned himself a man, a claim, shown up as we are, none can now deny.

Tamara Holland The Myth of Gyanda Maraheb

At the 16th hour, long-curved nape bears shadow of a toasted bunt, faith-painted bustier, exposed boning, marrow air-dried and spent, balls of lent reveal its candor, bold hips slip into skin-tightJacobian genes made of worn-Jesuit denim with contrasting Arab seams, tornMoor pockets, frayedSpaniard hems, gypsy zipper pinches belly: low-rise-bootleg flare. The door was left cracked open, back faced it, crimson suede stilettos

stomp then drag behind, as thorn-kissed hips pass, the Great Mosque wakes as a cathedral, stained-glass cuts deep into your fortune Miss? Tanto monta monta tanto, one four nine two Reconquest Boulevard will be hard to avoid, a peek into keyhole of cafĂŠ canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t will destroy your innocence. Legs jump over a puddle of blood-blistered pads of feet pinned with shards of stained glass step into, shoes stamp temporary dents into cracked mortar and dry clay although they stay

to move, through keyhole eyes entrance soul as a man tiptoes tightropes that stretch from Andalusia to Spain and a vain femme stayed devoted to god. The soul felt orphaned by him, who slapped that figure eight well frets spin clap, held his cypress hips tight restricted the neck, eyes drop velvet curtains, they raise as backside is pecked erect bent pivot, coral feathers: wings swing like boomerangs, curve to strike a match of pissed flames, fame is scattered as pelvises in unison

lean strut turn, seem to lean to the side elbows point toward the sky as psalms evade them, palms bend rip stiff yet fluid as hips rotate, contort spin olive mannerisms slip in oil, rest is spoiled, moves, seams rip, they mend snap spin as wrists mimic fins, divide wind, blood-pitched moans and blunt sighs stain feet on buttocks, bruise the skin, strained vocal chords fade into futureâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a journey that steps into everywhere nowhere.

Jennifer Erny The Embrace of Egon Schiele The blue just whispers a psssssss leaks from the composition enfolding her legs homage in foam mountains yet kneels beneath gold. His caption a prison cell, mine self-imposed a grid-like relationship unfornicated form the line is deranged by an Austrian emboldened unafraid unending in folds uncrippled by smooth, by ideal, by appropriate dose of pornography. i womenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s lib. accepting that naturalistically we are the fucked embrace being fucked and still embolden the position hints ownership embrace enjoy exploited become man freed from the cell that restricts us to sex. i am the man but the lines covet my forms the blue the gold the folds her skin is pale the white enfolds almost consumes white more Danaeâ&#x20AC;&#x;s shower of gold than the olive-skinned companion the white borders the man borders the gold encloses them both. my version is all red hued black. Floating holding her hair placed tenderness fluid like the act unindented a whisper not a kiss. Slip. Angularity lack of depth undermines singular gestures of softness maniacal geometry unfulfilled urgency after or before entwined underneath perfunctory imbalance her him me schiele positionly knee gold slightly dirtied blanket begins she ends continued by him earthen mountainous landscapes inherent valleys folds holding gold a whisper kissed blue.

Ricardo Castaño IV A Day in the Life of Deus Ex Machina DEUS EX MACHINA: An older man, late forties, early fifties. SHERRY: His receptionist, thirties, to forties. MADDIE: A five year old girl. M: A no-talent overpaid Hollywood has-been. FATHER: MADDIE‘s father, an alcoholic in his late twenties, early thirties. MOTHER: MADDIE‘s mother, twenties to thirties. Scene 1 (The curtain opens on an office, professional and successful-looking. Big oak desk, office chair, certificates of appreciation, plaques all over the wall, two black leather couches at either end of the office. The desk is situated back center, with a big window giving a city view. There is a door at front stage left- the front door of the DEUS EX MACHINA‘s office. It is a standard wooden door, with a plate of frosted glass on the upper half. It opens out toward the audience. Its title is on the glass: ―Deus Ex: Plot Resolver Extraordinare.‖ It is subtitled: ―Need a cheap way out? I‘m your man. Or your woman. Or whatever.‖ Despite its cushy appearance, it is messy with beer bottles, soda cans, pizza boxes, and cigarette butts. The ashtray on DEUS‘ desk is overflowing, but also has two cigarettes lit and burning. There are papers and files all over DEUS‘ desk, and his phone is off the hook with the receiver in the wastebasket. It is beeping softly after being off the hook for so long. He has fallen asleep on the desk, arms splayed awkwardly. A knock is heard at the door.)

SHERRY: (From outside the door, knocking throughout.) Mr. Machina? Mr. Machina? Mr. Machina, are you awake, sir? You have a phone call on line two! Mr. Machina? Mr. Machina? (DEUS stirs. She continues to knock, and starts to creak the door open.) Mr. Machina, are you alright? DEUS: Yeah, yeah, what is it Sher? I‘ve got important shit to attend to! Jesus, can‘t a guy get any work done nowadays? (He continues to grumble and get to his feet, stumbling to a whiskey bottle on the end of the couch by the front door. As this happens, Sherry is in the office. The door is wide open. Her expression says she‘s used to this.) Oh there you are. What do you want? Can‘t you see I‘m busy? SHERRY: Oh yes Mr. Machina. I can see you‘re very busy. However, M. Night Shamalyan‘s on line two. He wants to set a meeting to discuss the new screenplay he‘s writing. DEUS: Good lord, how many movies have I ended for this guy? I should start asking for a percentage of his grosses. Then again, there would have only been money in that on The Sixth Sense, and he didn‘t even use me then! Ah well, c‘est la vie. I don‘t feel like talking to him now, just set up a meeting for next week. And for the last time, Sher, would you please call me Demmy? I hate being called mister, and you butcher my last name whenever you pronounce it. It‘s Machina. Not mack-in-a, got it? Mah-kuhnuh. You know, I blame all this on Bill Shakespeare. (English accent)

Oh please, Mr. Machina, you must help me! I am ever so vexed upon this ending! How shall I end it? (Stops accent) Never knew when I told him he was killing me with all those questions he‘d take me seriously. (He reaches for the phone in the trash, hangs it up, and takes a swig of whiskey.) SHERRY: (Writing.) Next week… Got it, (hesitates) Demmy. Oh god, what a silly name. Why would you ever go by something so… goofy? DEUS: I like it. Deus Ex Machina. D-E-M. So, Demmy. See? SHERRY: Yes, I see it. I just don‘t like it. It sounds so unprofessional. And when are you going to clean this place up? You do know you have that talk with Stephen King today, right? And after lunch, Steven Spielberg is coming in for help on how he should end Indiana Jones and the Sadistic Templar Lesbians of Narnia. DEUS: I don‘t care how the place looks. King‘s used to this garbage, it‘ll take him back to when he wrote Cujo. And as for Spielberg, isn‘t he friends with George Lucas? SHERRY: (Not understanding.) Yes… DEUS: Exactly. (She still doesn‘t get it.) Now, don‘t just stand there with that look on

your face, order me some pizza. And make sure they put the anchovies on the side this time! SHERRY: You should clean this place up. DEUS: Don‘t forget the friggin‘ Cheesebread, neither! SHERRY: She‘s coming tonight. DEUS: (His attention has been grabbed.) What? SHERRY: She‘s coming. The little girl. You said you‘d see her tonight, so she‘s coming. DEUS: What? You gotta be kidding me! I was just fuckin‘ around with her. You know I don‘t do real life jobs! It‘s in the rules! (Reciting.) The Deus Ex Machina cannot be used as a means for solving real-life problems. It is only to be used asSHERRY: (Cutting him off, completing his sentence) As a strict literary device for ending stories, plays, or other creations made by humans in the realm of the imagination. At no time are problems to be solved by the Deus Ex Machina that have real-life implications, or have root in real-life situations. I know, Demmy, but this kid is different. She needs someone. Like it or not, it‘s you. And where do you get off acting like this would be the first time you‘ve broken that rule? Need I remind you about Flight 1549, and your little act there on the Hudson River? That‘s the most recent example I can think of right now. Don‘t make me get out

the record books. DEUS: Yeah, yeah, alright already. So I‘ve bent the rules a couple of times. I‘ve seen sob stories like hers hundreds of times, and I‘ve never stuck my neck out for someone like that. The Table would nail me to a wall. You know that. They hate it when I throw extra pages in just to smooth things out. SHERRY: Since when have you let your actions be governed by the Table? Besides, you know that the Contents are just a bunch of suits only interested in the bottom line. I‘d be surprised if any of them have read a word of what they‘re supposed to keep in order. DEUS: I wish they were that full of themselves. It would make my job so much easier. But anyways, Sherry, you know I can‘t. Why did you even take me seriously last night? I was hammered. I know you could tell I was hammered. And what did I say about making appointments when I‘m hammered? SHERRY: Don‘t pencil in dates— DEUS: (interrupting) Don‘t pencil in dates when I‘m hammered! SHERRY: If you don‘t want me to pencil dates in, don‘t wake me up at three in the morning calling me about some five-year-old you met in a mall playground. DEUS: Hey, she was very persuasive. We had a very in-

depth conversation on the giant French toast. SHERRY: I‘m surprised you weren‘t inebriated then. DEUS: Hey, cut me a little slack. tipsy then. I didn‘t really afterwards. It was probably asking her where the pisser

I was only a little get going until why I remember was.

SHERRY: How did that blossom into you blabbing about who you were? DEUS: She likes fairy tales. We got into a rather one-sided talk about how much she loves Little Red Riding Hood. I couldn‘t help but tell her about my hunter idea. Then she told me about how mean her daddy was and a bunch of other sentimental crap I‘ve heard on TV hundreds of times. I guess it got me feeling a little bad, and I was wasted, so I told her I‘d help her out. But I didn‘t mean it. I don‘t go for sob stories, and you know that. SHERRY: Don‘t you dare tell me you‘re going to lie to a child just because you were too drunk to keep your fat mouth shut! You may have heard stories like hers, but you‘ve never heard them come from someone as young as she is, Mr. Machina. You know well enough that the amount of customers you‘d get would be in the billions if more people knew who you are, and what you can do. Most people think you‘re a device. Not even a word, but a certain arrangement for an author, playwright, whatever, to use to squirm his or her way out of the muddled mess that they‘ve written themselves into. And as for the people who actually know you exist, well,

they‘re too greedy to tell anyone else that you‘re around. All of those obstacles in this five-year-old girl‘s path, and she still tracks you down. At least listen to her, Mr. Machina. See if she can be helped. If you don‘t, you may just find yourself with a much wider clientele. DEUS: I swear, you‘re going to be the thing that‘ll get me off booze. Why have a monkey on my back when I have you? So when‘s her appointment? SHERRY: She‘s penned in to go right after Spielberg. (She sits down on a couch, jotting notes.) DEUS: Well, don‘t just sit there then, get up off your lazy ass and help me clean this pigsty! (He starts sorting papers on his desk, intermittently throwing away some.) SHERRY: (With dense formality hiding her annoyance) Yes, sir. (They both start to clean the office up. Curtain.) Scene 2 (The office again. It is tidied up, and there is an unseen person leaning on the inside of the door. DEUS calls to him as he leaves.) DEUS: Remember, Stevie! No Connery, no Indy five! And no damn lesbos! You directed E.T., for christ‘s sake! (The person nods and closes the door.) What happened to the days when directors had original ideas? Indiana Jones and the Sadistic Templar Lesbians of Narnia? Steve‘s really

phoning it in. (Looks at his watch.) Well, she should be here any time now. (The phone rings. DEUS picks it up.) Hello? Yes, Sherry, send her in. (He begins to fidget. The door opens. DEUS stands up. MADDIE walks in. She is five years old, and wears blue jeans and a pink blouse with a cartoon character on it. She has on dirty white Velcro shoes.) MADDIE: Hi, Demmy! ‗Member me? It‘s Maddie! DEUS: Maddie? Maddie? No… I don‘t think I remember a Maddie… Are you sure I know you? MADDIE: Don‘t be a poop head! You know me! (She runs to him and punches him in the thigh.) DEUS: (Plays it up) Oww! Oh, how could I forget you, you little meanie? MADDIE: I‘m no meanie, you butt face! DEUS: Go sit down, you little monster. (She sits at a couch, kicking her feet. He sits down next to her.) So how have you been, sweetheart? MADDIE: (Rapid fire) Well, Mr. Demmy, I guess I‘ve been okay, but daddy‘s still been bein‘ loud. He‘s always loud at mommy, and he‘s always mad at me. Mommy‘s

always keepin‘ me in my room when daddy is bein‘ loud in the front room, and he always breaks things. Then one time when I was watching Dora daddy came in and turned the TV off and yelled a lot at me. And then when I was having dinner I asked daddy for ketchup and he started to yell and he broke the salt shaker. And one time, when daddy put me to bed he put on the cop show real loud and I couldn‘t fall asleep. I can‘t watch Spongebob no more ‗cause one time I watched it and daddy wanted to watch something else. And then one time— (DEUS waves his hand. She stops kicking her legs, and folds her hands in her lap. She continues in a formal English accent.) My good sir, I am mired in a severe domestic dispute that is spiraling out of control. My father has become quite enamored by the drink, and rarely does a day pass when he is not inebriated. And when he is under the influence, he is a violent man. I have witnessed at least five different instances of domestic violence against my mother, and infer that many many more have occurred whilst I have not been present. My mother does do what she can to shield me from my father‘s drunken outbursts, but as their frequency grows and grows, she can do little more to protect me from harm. After our meeting in the mall, I informed my mother of what you said your abilities were, and told her that I was going to meet with you this afternoon. I am sure that she thought I was telling her of a dream or some silly story that we children are always making up, and I will chuckle heartily when she sees that I actually spoke the truth, providing you help us. You will help us, won‘t you, (She pronounces it wrong) Mr. Machina? DEUS: (with a deep sigh, heading to his desk)

Of course I will sweetie. Now you go outside and talk to Sherry. I need to make some calls. MADDIE: (Back to normal) Thanks a lot, Mister Demmy! I love you! DEUS: I… I love you too, kid. (MADDIE runs out of the office and slams the door behind her. At his desk, DEUS pulls out a rolodex. He flips through it until He finds a name he wants. He picks up the phone and dials. When it picks up, he puts it on speakerphone and begins to pace the office) Hello? Hello, M.?

M: Yeah, you‘ve got the Twister. Who it is? DEUS: It‘s Deus. M: Deuce, my ace in the hole! What‘s happening, bro? Any new ideas for The Village 2? Hey, I don‘t mean to toot my own horn, but, I had this awesome idea last nightDEUS: Listen, I can‘t give you my help on your new project, something‘s come up. M: What? What do you mean, buddy? This one‘s going to be great! Even bigger than the last one! Hey, if it‘s about compensationDEUS: No, it‘s not money. It‘s something very big that I can‘t talk about. M:

What could be bigger than the sequel to the greatest movie ever made about a village?! It‘s gold, I‘m telling you! DEUS: I said I can‘t talk about it. I just can‘t help you out on this one, okay? M: I can‘t believe it! I don‘t understand why you‘d pull the rug out on me like this. I figured after Lady in the Water you owed me something better! DEUS: What? What do you mean I owe you? It‘s not my fault I come up with something and instead of following it to the tee like everyone else does, you have throw in your own twist. M: Those are what I‘m known for, and they‘ve never steered me wrong! You may have thought that those were bad ideas, but my cat loved them! You know he‘s the last word on all of my important decisions! DEUS: Yeah, whatever, Mr. Twister. (Hangs up. He lays his head on his desk, and sighs deeply. He is pondering something. He decides. He sits up, and goes to the door.) Maddie honey, come here please. (MADDIE comes in.) MADDIE: Yeah, Demmy? DEUS: Alright, so here‘s what‘s going to happen… (Curtain.) Scene Three

(MADDIE‘s house. The window area from the office is now a TV, the desk is sideways, acting as a table for the two couches pulled up to it. The couches are in dirty slipcovers, and there is trash everywhere. The front door has its window covered to look solid, and there is an exit stage right, leading to a hallway. The garbage from the first scene is back, but there is more of it. A couple of nondescript family pictures hang on the wall. Many of the frames are broken or shattered. A few posters for 80‘s movies litter the wall as well, many in tatters, joining the rubbish on the floor. MADDIE, her FATHER, and her MOTHER are onstage. FATHER is lying on one couch, watching a wrestling program on TV that he is immensely interested in. It‘s obvious he‘s drunk. There is a beer can on his side of the table, with many more on the floor around his couch. MADDIE and MOTHER are sitting on the other couch, watching TV. MADDIE has a small cup in her hand, and has just finished drinking.) MADDIE: Mommy, can I have some more juice? FATHER: Shut up. MOTHER: Stop it, Jim. In a minute, honey, your father‘s watching TV. Wait for a commercial. MADDIE: Mommy, I want some more juice. FATHER: (cutting her off) Shut your goddamned mouth, Maddie! I swear to god, your big mouth is distracting me from the fucking match!

MOTHER: Jim, cut that out. She‘s just thirsty. Besides, what‘s there to hear? It‘s just a bunch of naked guys play fighting. FATHER: You take that shit back! This wrestling is real! You see how Macho Man slapped Hogan across the chest and he yelled like it hurt? That shit is all real! Don‘t you dare say it‘s fake! And are you calling me a fag? MOTHER: No Jim, I‘m just saying— FATHER: You are calling me a fag, aren‘t you? MOTHER: Maddie, go to your room, honey. (MADDIE gets up and starts toward the hallway) FATHER: (Getting up) Maybe I should show you just how much of a fag I am! (He stumbles across the table and grabs MOTHER by the hair) How big of a fag am I now? MADDIE: (gets to the hallway entrance and turns around, making a stand) Leave her alone! Stop it! Now! FATHER: Your mom told you to go to your fucking room! Now get! Let daddy finish talking to mommy. MADDIE: You‘re not talking to her, you‘re hurting her! Like you hurt me! I‘m tired of it! I

won‘t put up with you anymore! FATHER: Oh, you won‘t, will you? (Lets go of MOTHER) Maybe you need a talking to. (He starts toward MADDIE) MOTHER: (Jumping at him) Don‘t you dare! (They struggle. FATHER ends up throwing MOTHER back on couch, then starts toward MADDIE) FATHER: (Grabs MADDIE by the arm, preparing to hit her) Now maybe you‘ll learn how to shut— (The door flies open with a slam on the wall. A fierce wind blows and fog leaks in, creating a swirling haze. The garbage on the floor goes flying everywhere, swept back from the force of the wind coming from the now open door. DEUS enters wearing a long beige trench coat, rendering MOTHER and FATHER speechless. FATHER drops MADDIE‘s hand. MADDIE smiles) DEUS: (The wind dies, and in a booming voice) Leave her alone! FATHER: (Coming out of it) Who the fuck are you? Get outta my house! (He starts to go for DEUS. MOTHER starts to get off couch to run to MADDIE. DEUS waves his hands and both of them stop in their tracks. He moves to FATHER.) DEUS: This isn‘t your house. Not anymore. (DEUS touches his forehead. FATHER comes to, and heads for the door without a word)

And wrestling is fake! (FATHER stops at the door. He looks back at DEUS, and continues offstage, head down, shoulders sagging. DEUS goes to MADDIE and hugs her.) There you go, kid. He‘s all gone. He won‘t be bothering you anymore. (He crosses to MOTHER, taps her on the forehead, and quickly puts that hand at his side. She comes out of it.) You ok, sweetie? You seem a bit shaken up. MOTHER: I‘m alright. I was just getting worried about where you were. Were you kept long at work? DEUS: Yeah. I swear, Steven Spielberg has no idea what he‘s doing nowadays. It‘s like he made Schindler‘s List, and then his train of thought just derailed off a bridge or something. MOTHER: Well, that‘s why they pay you the big bucks, hon. You always think of something. Now, since it took you so long to get home, let me finally get dinner started, we‘re starving. DEUS: No need. (He takes his trench coat off and has a bag on his back. He turns it around, puts the bag on the table) I brought Chinese. MOTHER: Oh, my hero! (Grabs a box and a plastic fork, and sits down at a couch) Sweet and Sour chicken! How did you know?

DEUS: I‘m magic, baby. (He kisses MOTHER and takes MADDIE by the hand, they sit next to MOTHER ) Come on, you little monster. Let‘s eat. (He grabs two boxes and two forks, giving MADDIE her food.) MADDIE: Okay daddy! (They begin to eat and watch TV. A very short pause. DEUS grabs the TV remote from the table.) DEUS: What else is on? (Lights. Curtain.)

Shelley Wettergren Last Love I came here looking for food and found love. I never thought that I would be held captive, a puppet, and the object of his folly. He invited his friends to see and then he laughed, proud of having caught me. He boasted his patience, endurance and talent to the others. At first he was rough, rattling me until I was disoriented. He laughed and plucked me from where I rested to put a shackle around my neck. I was too weak to resist. Then, he stopped tormenting me and kept his distance. I gathered my senses and took the chance to leave. I willed my rattled body to push what strength remained and flew. Looking down at him, I smiled, free! Then he jerked me back, laughing as he held the end of the lead. I fell down, stunned and he got closer and snorted over me. He said he would have me forever. He poked me to get up as I lay at his fingertips, my body crumpled. The morning sun gently kissed my wings and awakened my senses, warming my appetite, and the bed beneath me. I fled before it got too hot. The urgent longing, the vibration deep within my body, aching for ceaseless attention, had diminished. I loved having children, but my tired body betrayed my heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s yearning. I began to sleep more and eat less. Sometimes I grieved the waning of desire, knowing that I would die soon. I thought about my mother, long gone. She had taken good care of us, laying us in the softest, warmest place to wriggle and giggle and grow in the sunshine, where we wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t be bothered. Except that once. A dog came to investigate our lair. We watched, horrified, as his nose sniffed, misting wetness

as he frantically exhaled. Then madly moved on, in search of less offensive scents: a mate he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t find, a meal he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t catch. When we were old enough to go out into the world on our own we unfurled our wings and bade her goodbye. I looked back, not sure if my mother was with the others below noshing on something. I never saw her again, nor any of my siblings, an isolated life proving better for survival. Sometimes I found friends and lovers at feasts. The aroma of food always wafted in the air as I frolicked to and fro, and it was just a matter of time before I was guided to its source. This time nature had played a cruel trick on an unsuspecting doe, paralyzed when she looked into the headlights. She was ripped apart and tossed lifeless into the ditch. We gorged until nightfall, the continuity of the circle unbroken. It was at this feast I met my last lover. My voracious appetite for food and passion were intertwined, and when I saw him I fantasized about licking some sweet confection off of his body. I beckoned him and he joined me in a frenzy. Like a soaring incubus he wove in and out of space, landing and then jetting off, urging me. His dark eyes shone translucent and when he felt our flirtation waning, his muscular legs catapulted him instantly into the air. Our dance heightened my hunger to feel him with me. After a while we rested, and I beckoned him to climb me, raising my wings, exposing the arch of my moist, hot back. I sensed him getting near and rose up. He teased, until finally I felt his strong legs straddling me, gently supporting his heaviness over my torso. I pushed back to join him, urging him closer, wishing to feel his weight on my body. Finally he grasped me, tighter, until we were one. Smoothly, we undulated. Then, there was darkness. I had thought it was part of my ecstasy, that I had been

pushed into another dimension of pleasure not meant to be seen. But my lover was gone. We were in the darkness of the boy‘s hands, captured in his cupped palms like dice. As he shook us, our bodies collided. Each time I hit the side, my senses faded. We tumbled, until finally he threw us down where I lay. I opened my eyes to see my lover off in the distance, fluttering with some others. They didn‘t flee. The boy mocked them. Why didn‘t they leave? What power did he have over them? ―Ha! Look!‖ said the boy. ―I bet you never had this many.‖ His wide-eyed friends stared openmouthed. He had managed to catch five. Four buzzed in the air near his head, each collared by a long piece of hair, the ends of which he had gathered together and taped down so that they bounced around like a bunch of circus balloons in the wind. For the last one he scribbled something on a piece of tissue paper, and attached it to her tether. ―Check this out!‖ She took off, starting in a circular flight like a damaged turboprop, weighted by her truss, then straightened out, staying low enough for the boys to see. Slowly she drifted around her audience, the hair dragging behind her with the tissue paper attached on its end. When they saw it they all fell about in giggles and hoots, snot-filled laughs and gawks, as they read the boy‘s declaration: This is Pete‟s fly

Anne-Marie Oomen An excerpt from Sewing Lessons: Love, Sex and 4-H I. The first lesson is the dishtowel. Then, an apron. These are beginning lessons, regular as a linen rectangle 15 by 30 inches, traditional as a yard of gingham check with a plain waistband. If the long road of ties looping at the back of the apron seems like extravagance—they are merely a small feminine extravagance. These lessons, dishtowel and apron, at first appear logical and clear, and no one questions them, no one considers them deeply at all, certainly not a child of eight. In the fall of 1959, no whiff of feminism or cultural unrest, let alone uprising, has yet driven down those long roads to the farms of Oceana County, a rural community on the coast of Lake Michigan. In our farmhouse, the fact of four females, a majority, means only that my mother must be more watchful of the dangers to her three daughters. My mother knows this, wants us, especially me, focused on good behaviors. She wants me to have practical skills, to know how to be useful, and someday to be an admired wife and mother. Perhaps most of all, I need to learn to be efficient and self-sacrificing. I have no idea what any of this means, but she knows already these qualities are not housed anywhere in my barely formed but already vagabond nature. Still, it can be done. And we might as well get started now so we‘ll just begin with that dishtowel, because maybe I am a little young for the apron‟s gathered waistband, but we‟ll see how it goes. Depends on how fast I catch on. As for me, I am just happy a 4-H Club is starting. On a rural farm where I am the first

born of five, our small tribe, I have learned this already: even though I am only eight, I am somehow separated by the fact of oldest-ness. Oldest-ness is a kind of unspoken loneliness. Though I don‘t have the words, I already know there are many kinds of loneliness and this one is mine. But now there will be a club, a whole clan near my own age—not this one-ness that is already a strange scent always near me. There will be a club, with other boys and girls, and we will do things together. And there is more news. Another reason I can start learning to sew even though I am so young is that my mother will guide me. This is part of her plan, as straight as a line of stitching, as square as the grid of a township, as comforting as an old hymn. No one speaks of how the looping ties of the apron can catch in the wind and fly loose. II. At night, I hear them kiss. The insomnia that will plague me as an adult, that I inherit straight from my mother, straight from the long line of women for whom the night is not simple, is already beginning to open the darkness for me. I wake in the upstairs bedroom with the blue and pink paper. Even though my sister Marijo sleeps in a crib in that room too (because baby Patti is downstairs in a bassinet), I am sometimes frightened, sometimes need to pee. I creep down the open staircase, holding tight to the railing. I cross the living room and slip into the bathroom. The bathroom has two doors: the one I enter, and a second door opening to a large closet which finally leads to a third door into my parent‘s room. This closet between the rooms is a tangled transition of hangers lumpy with Sunday clothes and winter sweaters, and the scent of old shoes, dry wool. Usually, the

closet doors are closed to keep the two rooms and their functions private. But not always. Sometimes, the closet door on the bedroom side is left open, and sometimes the bathroom door where I stand by the sink is ajar. I stand in the silence that is not silence and hear them. Kissing. It is a soft sound, a small almost-likeeating, taking-in sound, a pucker and bumble, lips and squish; a forwarding, a closing, a pressing, an opening—I know all this because we have been taught to kiss them goodnight, and they kiss us goodnight. We have seen others kiss: brides and grooms and couples in paintings and, just lately, we have seen kissing at movies—though not yet on TV, which is new for us. But here is something else. This kissing also holds sounds of questions so hard I cannot shape them, though I am already recognized as the ―most questioning-est girl.‖ I stand in the dark near the door, listening to them. What is this thing that has night sky in it, but also a bending of shadow, a sparkling wet—a flash of yellow. What is this secret of stars and bright spit they are keeping in each other‘s arms? No words for this, no answer. Sometimes they are asleep and I hear my dad snoring, and my mother‘s sigh, and then if I pee or flush the toilet, she will wake and call hoarsely, ―Anne? What‘s wrong?‖ This is always her first question, straight from her innate distrust of the world, her sense that something is always going to go wrong, it is to be expected, it is the way of the world. And because I already know she will not believe the word Nothing, I say, ―I‘m okay.‖ Then we will both be awake for a few minutes in those rooms that are separated by the thimble of closet. Her listening in the dark to see if I have told the truth; me listening to her breathing her worry.

But if I catch them—even then it has the cast of catching, even then it is like something I should not know even though I want to—if I come into the bathroom and hear the kissing, if I stand in the dark and imagine their room, a sacred room, one we are invited into, or may come to if we are sick or frightened in the night, but which we do not have the run of as we do the rest of the house— if I imagine the square bed, the square mirror over the scratched blonde dresser, their bodies under the old quilts, the mound and roundness, the hillness of them, I feel the kissing as a dazzling question, a curiosity so large, it makes me want to cry, or run away from them. Or toward them. To know. This is the essence: I want to know, and I know I cannot. What does it mean that they do this in the night? They are my father and mother, why do they kiss? They are not princesses and princes as in the fairy tales. They are married. They are who they are, busy and strong and doing the farm work, and talking and fighting and making food and plowing fields and fixing the tractor and trimming the spirea and picking beans in the garden, always picking some thing, tomatoes or crab apples or cucumbers, and always, always looking at the weather, and rarely, except at supper time when we practice listening to each other, rarely looking at each other, so why, oh why do they kiss like this, in the cool of the night, in the rounded shadows? It is the world I cannot enter. But listen, here is a thing I know: I am loved. I know this because if I stand in the bathroom, and she hears me, and she asks What‟s wrong, and I tell her I am sick, she will rise from the warm shadows and come through the closet into the light, and she will touch my forehead and if it is indeed hot, she will draw a glass of cold water and sit on the chair next to the diaper bucket and hold me. So if I

cannot know this thing of the dark, I can still call her into the light. And in that place of light, I can learn other things from her, things that may lead me to understand what happens in the dark, or that will ease the loneliness of oldestness. I can learn to sew. III. A sewing machine is a body of its own: its machine-ness belied by a spirit that may enter it, and then it becomes a gateway into the making world. Our sewing machine is inhabited by my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s other spirit, not the one that distrusts the world, but the one that would make the world visible for me. There was never a time before the sewing machine. It has lived here in our farmhouse since time began. But it is mysterious: it appears and disappears. At my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s will, it lives for days in our presence, then suddenly is gone, turned in on itself, becoming a different thing. On what Sunday of what year do I understand that if the Grandmas and Grandpas are come to dinner, then there must occur that peculiar bustle of transformation? All the pincushions are swept into sewing baskets, buttons are dropped into tin boxes, and spools slipped onto spindles inside the door and then the machine that looks like a pert dog is dropped inside its box, and the long fold out top is lifted and folded over to make a small table, a piece of furniture with a furnitureâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s silence. Then my mother covers it with a starched doily and if it is spring before the fields are too demanding for the indulgence of flowers, she sets on this crocheted field a green vase filled with mock orange blossoms or peonies or lilacs. Then she puts on her apron and hurries to the kitchen. The sewing machine sits, obediently

silent, careful of its manners, impeccably still, dressed in its prim lace until the Sunday dinner is done, until the wheat pattern dishes are cleared and the talk crumbles into small gossip, and all the company, the great aunts and uncles, lost cousins from Detroit, friends from Muskegon and beyond, rouse from their chairs and wander, hugging and goodbyeing, through the doors to the wide yard and climb into their old Buicks and drive the dusty roads to faraway places. All through this, the sewing machine sits to the side of that dining room, light from the cracked frosted window in the porch door falling quietly on its lilacs. Then it sits longer, there on the cool side of the room, away from the busy rush and gesture of the kitchen, sits in its contained squareness, a sentry for a great return. There are some hours, not many, when she could be working on…what? The dirty floors, unpicked beans, weedy cucumbers? But she comes here, stands in the cool light, slips off the lace doily, lays it aside. Here, she lifts the lid that houses the machine, swings open the door to reveal again the spool-dressed spindles, sharp scissors, tape measure. Here her rough hands open the wooden lids like book covers to reveal the secret, inner creature. She reaches into the box, lifts as you might lift an animal, a beagle—it is about that size— by its torso, then drops the lid into place so that as she lowers the machine, it rests on its own table, now alert but still and waiting. Its name is ―Singer.‖ Its metal is brushed brown, its single ear is a wheel powering a small but mighty motor, its levers are fingers that can shift the tension of threads. There is a foot with two toes pierced by that slivery needle, and the secret place beneath the foot, another tiny compartment, a womb. She slides the silver plate aside, and there the spiraling thing called bobbin gives up its single thread to the

needle from above, and the glittering bone reaches down and catches the bobbin thread and the two threads come together and there is the small violence called a stitch, and the stitches hold together pieces of color or one fabric to another or even a thing to itself. She sits. She sets the spool of flashing thread to match the dotted Swiss. She pushes the wheel to make it turn, because you know it sticks a little, the machine is old and must be coaxed to start. She slips the fabric under the foot, and the foot tongues the taffeta, the needle lifts and lowers, pierces the flannel. The motor hums its Singer song over the banging cupboards of that house and in that light that is hers alone, her face clears, her lips open a little, her eyes are intent as the statues at church on the tumble and fold of fabric, on the soft print of the unfinished thing. Here her long fingers feel the hum of good hours, of one thing moving smoothly under her fingertips, one thing that she can trust. This is what I see because I cannot see the yellow kissing. What is she making there at the machine, what is she shaping? Why is she not scolding that I have not done the dishes, or asking that the floor be swept or talking to my father about fixing the screen door that will never be fixed, or phoning the ladies of the Altar Society about the funeral lunch they must prepare? Why does she go there when there is so much crackling in the air and strange soup stirring all day in that house? What is she doing with this machine that she attends as closely as she does her babies? Why does she go there sometimes at night? She sets the spool again, lowers the foot, spins the wheel. She does not like to be called away. If we come into that dining room, crying about some slight or stumble, she will sigh and ask, â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s wrong?â&#x20AC;&#x2013; with a hardness like a small

stone in her voice. If the hurt is demanding enough, she lifts us into her arms, but while her arms take us in and our heads may tuck under her chin, her face looks back to the needle and its kin, back to the whirling ear and twirling bobbin with such longing that I can feel it in my skin, we all can, and we know something is being done there that is more important than we are. I stand in doorways in the worn out farmhouse and watch. She sometimes makes a tiny sound, like the yellow star I hear at night. IV. The first 4-H meeting is held at St. Josephâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s Hall, our parish church. The high fluorescents cascade gray light over a noisy bunch of kids sitting on the metal chairs. I sit in the front row, a bit away from my cousins so my mother can keep an eye on me, so I am still lonely. The Oceana County extension agent, who is in charge of all the clubs, stands in front and tells us about the projects. This is the big thing: we are to do projects, and if they are good, we can win a blue ribbon. We can win a prize. This floors me. Prizes. We are not the kind of people who win prizes. But she insists there are prizes for raising animals: cows and pigs and chickens, and even sheep, which my father refuses to own because they are too much trouble. And I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t figure out how kids can win prizes for doing something they already do; we already raise these animals, but then she explains that those kids who do the livestock projects will show their animals at the County Fair. The animals must be very clean, without any manure, and must take a lead and obey basic commands, and I think of the bull that my dad is actually afraid, the one that takes commands from no one. But there are other projects: the sewing projects, the jam

and jelly projects, the home décor projects, and I am interested in these projects because though I love the animals, I too am always a little afraid of them. And these are the projects my mother wants me to do. Then they are judged. For prizes. Before the crooked rows of noisy chairs, my mother stands in the too-warm gathering room with the ever-cool linoleum floor, my mother with her auburn gray hair coiled in a smooth roll around her Belgian face which is lifted a little and serious, my mother of many moods— what is this one? The agent lady is introducing my mother to the room of people. The kids don‘t notice her much, this is boring and they squirm in their chairs, but the other leaders nod, and my mother nods back and the woman who is the agent talks to my mother in a way that I have not seen before, not like neighbors or relatives, but more like she might be someone I do not know. I look at the other mothers who are being introduced. They are leaders. So, why is my mother…? Oh, my mother is a leader. And in that moment I put together that she will not only teach me but she will also be a leader. My mother will be my leader. Suddenly I don‘t want anything to do with the 4-H Club. I want my mother to go home where she will be impatient and fast moving through the house and will get supper on the table, and drink her coffee all day long, leaving cups half empty in every room where she works. I want her to steal hours at the machine and to kiss at night. I do not want her to be a leader. I kick the metal braces on the chair. I untie and tie my shoes. I know my mother as leader will keep me separate. What saves me is the pledge. It goes like a poem:

I pledge my head to clearer thinking, my heart to greater loyalty, my hands to larger service and my health to better living, for my club, my community, my country, and my world. I like the sounds of the 4-H pledge better than the Pledge of Allegiance, which we say for our country, because the H‘s are easier, and how they look on the clover helps keep track, one H in each petal. Together, we practice saying it aloud. We all pledge head, heart, hands, health, and there is all that breathiness in the room, though one boy says hell loudly instead of health—and everyone gasps but then the agent laughs and then we all laugh, and she says no, the H‘s all stand for good things, see how each H fits into the fourleaf clover, one H for each lucky leaf. As I mouth them into the light, I wonder what is loyalty, what is clearer thinking? I get a dirty look from my mother when I ask what larger service is. The agent tells us these are the things that make good fortune, good lives, good luck she says. Then I want to join the club again, because luck is something I know everyone wants more of. My dad will only nail the old horse shoes on the barn walls with the open end up because if you hang it with the curved end up, all the luck runs out. So 4-H is about luck too, and maybe places un-separate, joined as the H‘s are joined by the breath of their sound, by the stem at the center. They are not alone. Maybe luck will bring me a friend. Or maybe the questions that make me feel so alone will join at some stem and make a poem. V. What is order? How does the mind make it?

What is about to happen is the first imposition of order, and from it connection. What is about to happen is not the clearing of fog, but the loss of erasure, the end of your floating. Before dry goods the world has been multiple, manied, manifold as stars. A farm and its life is one point of light after another: it is Sunday dinner and butchering, it is calves learning to suck and running the hand through a wisp of candle flame to discover that the skin puckers; it is bean seeds spilled from the hand planter and the fever of measles, it is popcorn on Saturday night and cousins born blue and dying. It is holding new baby chicks and drowned pups and it is first communion in the white lace dress and burying your grandpa while the soldiers shoot their guns over the stones in the cemetery, the way the priest blesses you unexpectedly and says you are a good child or the way a mother cat kills her first litter for no reason. These are things to touch, these shining stones in a pocket, comforting or alarming, but always hard like learning prayers full of longing which have meaning though the sentences do not yet shape meaning for you. It is listening to kisses. All these things turn in your mind the way small starry fish surface, momentarily visible, then dart away into dark creeks. Experiences are small islands without association, and they rise, day after day more of them rise, and you swim among them and climb onto them and float a little and you have no idea there is an earth that connects everything. And if there is a moment when, caught in the middle of a dead run between the house and the barn, you suspect one moment is connected to another, that some thread might be looping in the night sky, still the one-thing-toanother is thin, a sheer filament in skies of

girlness, in your tangled fine hair and the random salvation of being lifted suddenly away from the cooking fire. Time is a series of lights in a dark that arches among everbrighter lights. But no lines yet connect the points of light to shape your gods. So, you play and cry and laugh and at the same time, you watch, you are the one always watching, and you are always a little separate, and this belongs to you, this separateness and this many-ness, this being among and watching stars. You have no idea that the stars shape stories. As you ride into the town with your mother, all that is about to change. You are about to encounter the story of the dishtowel. VI. ―We‘ll go to Gambles and get the material.‖ It is Saturday morning and she is staring at her grocery list and tisking into her cupboards and banging the refrigerator and rustling the newspaper for coupons and folding laundry in the back room and stirring soup for the men at lunch. ―What‘s Gambles?‖ ―You know, the dry goods store.‖ Bang the door. ―Dry goods? What are…?‖ Slam the drawer. I stop because I have been told I ask too many questions. I think about good. Goods are goods—it‘s good to say your prayers, to clean your room, to love even your brothers. These are goods. But then it eludes me. Dry goods? Are there wet goods? But she says, ―You know, the store right next to the dime store, where we get material, remnants from the bolts, patterns for your dresses, thread and …‖ And I do remember the store with the big hanging lights that is small at the front but pushes back forever from the street. I prefer

the dime store next door with its shining glass bins filled with coconut macaroons, which I love, though we buy only hard penny candy because that is what we can afford. The dry goods store is less in every way. So we will go to Hart to get the groceries, and we will stop at Gambles to buy the fabric, the material to start the dishtowel. And all the long miles, following the roads through the fields to the town we come to once a week for the things we can‘t provide ourselves, I think about these words my mother has begun to say to me: material, patterns, bolts. These things are dry goods. We are buying a dry good, cloth, material it is called in our house, for the dishtowel, my first 4-H project. Is this the first time, after she parks the old Nash on the side street, and we walk briskly because we haven‟t got all day, and we leave the brightness of main street, and I pull open the heavy door and the bell catches and claps its sharp call to attention—is this the first time that color as an entity to itself comes to me? Is this the first time, and only because it shows itself in such array, only because there is so much, that I am silenced by the onslaught of color? I follow my mother through print palisades of every harvest. I walk through columned walls of rainbow gingham, cottons with more shades than the largest Crayola box I have ever seen, which was thirty-six. Here is every bloom, from daffodil to bean, wound in intensity, spiraled and stacked, lined up and tucked side by side, one after another in rows, with a single yard left free to drift off the bolt, a skirt of sorts, a length I can touch and lift and hold to my face as long as I don‘t get caught, because god knows my nose might be running, and then I‘d have to buy it because I dirtied it. My mother stops to linger over the pink chiffon in its gauzy layers. She touches

it. I touch it. And I want it, I know I want this stuff, my first awareness of desire, a word I do not know yet but for this material of green the color new dill, the rust of squash, the rich indigo of plumâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and what is that, that rainbow of cherry and chocolate? And here are sky and clouds and the rush of wind through fog captured on a drape of cloth, all of them collected in palettes or textures and here are prints, dogs playing and umbrellas floating, and here, here is the world, in rows and rows, aisle and canyon, a spiraling order of fabric. She teaches me. Each of these is a bolt, she says, and two meanings run together; I think of my dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s nuts and bolts, but then another bolt, lightning in the mind. Sky to earth. And this too is a bolt. Connection. It is too much, and I think I might cry because suddenly I know one of these is for me. For my dishtowel, the first one I will make, and my mother will be there, and there will be more, maybe a million. I know this now because there is so much material, so many bolts of light for dishtowels. One of these is to be mine, oh, let it be the yellow, let it be the one with the suns spinning wildly.

Drew Bazini Lunch In the Custom House Restaurant inside the Hotel Blake, I‘m sitting at a table with no one across from me, not yet anyhow. The hotel and the restaurant, they‘re done up in that sort of generic, modern upscale. Dark bold colors, no patterns anywhere. The lights are dimmed, the furniture is modular and costs more than you can imagine. Modern art, the kind that‘s not really trying to say anything, hangs on the dark oak walls. Big windows look out onto Congress Avenue; at people walking by. The carpet is the color of wine. Soft, slow jazz plays over the speakers, giving the place that sort of 50s hipster vibe. A piano is in the corner, buffed to a reflective sheen. I‘m in one of the oversized booths waiting for my mother to arrive, drinking water and wondering if I‘m dressed okay. She said this place has a dress code. She said to wear something nice. I ask one of the waitresses when she passes by. ―You look okay to me,‖ she says. ―Why?‖ ―Just wondering is all. Thanks.‖ ―Do you want to order anything while you wait?‖ I tell her no thanks, and tap on my glass, making more noise than I want to. ―I have a feeling this will be more of a liquid lunch, anyway.‖ ―Something from the bar, then?‖ ―No, thanks,‖ I say. ―Only alcoholics drink alone.‖ The jazz piece stops and another one follows it, sounding mostly the same. The waitress, her name tag reads ―Jenny,‖ she asks me if I want more water.

I say yeah when I should be saying yes, please. She lifts the glass by the stem and says she‘ll be right back. Why they‘re serving water in what looks like brandy snifters is beyond me. My mother didn‘t tell me the reason for inviting me out. All she said was the time and place and the wardrobe suggestion. She said to meet her at three, a late lunch by anyone‘s standards, which is why the place is so empty. I‘m the only one here that‘s not an employee. Whatever the reason, it‘s nothing she wants to share with anyone. The waitress, Jenny, comes back. How she looks is black on black on black. The uniform for the place, everything- the pants and shirt and the little thing where she holds straws and napkins, it‘s all black. No color except for the logo, spelled out in white on the shirt on one side. The kind of girl Jenny is is the sort of safe-beautiful, the conservative attractiveness you find in weather girls and female newscasters. The kind of woman that‘s pretty but not threatening. The kind that keeps men interested, the kind that doesn‘t make women jealous. Her hair is dark, too, dark and long and straight, and the only color on her that‘s not black pokes out of the sleeves, juts up out of the collar of the shirt. She‘s got the water glass in one hand, full of fresh ice, a big pitcher in the other. Setting the glass back down in front of me, she gives me a look that says something, I don‘t know what, and backs away a little bit. What she does is she puts the pitcher next to the short, fat glass and starts to pour, slow and deliberate. ―I‘ll tell you a secret,‖ she says, slightly raising the pitcher. ―I‘ve done this a million times, and by now, it‘s like second

nature. Like breathing.‖ What she‘s doing, she says, is the trademark of the Custom House. The water trick, the big draw. The thing that‘s supposed to get people talking. There‘s no ice in the pitcher, that much I know. And now, she‘s raising the thing higher and higher, a stream of water almost a foot long pouring out of it, perfectly into the glass. How I must look is scared out of my mind. ―Relax,‖ she says. ―I told you, I‘m an old pro. They taught us how to do this, part of the training.‖ The water swirls around and moves the ice, making clinking noises against the glass, not one drop going where it shouldn‘t. She tips her wrist back and the last of the liquid drops in perfectly. ―Hell on the wrists, though,‖ she says, placing the pitcher on another table, empty like all the other ones except mine. ―Those things weigh a ton.‖ ―It‘s impressive though,‖ I say. ―Must have taken a while to learn.‖ ―Yeah, the first time I did it for someone, I was so nervous. The guy, he looked important, you know? Expensive-looking suit, real polished. I was afraid he‘d have me killed if I got him wet.‖ I laugh and she asks me if I‘m sure I don‘t want anything. ―No,‖ I say, checking my watch. It‘s quarter after three. ―She should be here any minute.‖ ―Who are you meeting? Wife? Girlfriend?‖ I‘m probably no older than this girl, and she thinks I could be married. ―Mother,‖ I say, a little embarrassed. ―Ah. You two close?‖ And before I can tell her no, before I can tell her that this is the fist time I‘ll be

seeing her in more than three months, the door opens and mom comes strolling in, late like always, big black sunglasses covering what I‘m sure are dark grey bags under her eyes. ―Speak of the devil,‖ I say, as she makes her way over to the table. Jenny steps back, and I get up out of the booth. My mother gives me a half hearted hug and one of those air-kiss things that she picked up in Europe fifteen years ago. ―Hi, Mom.‖ ―You just had to wear jeans, didn‘t you? Don‘t you own a nice pair of pants? You‘re wearing such a nice blazer, you should have the pants to go with it.‖ What she doesn‘t know is that I bought the jacket for thirty-two dollars because it doesn‘t have a lining. It‘s thin and cheap and hardly something she would normally call ―nice.‖ We both sit down and Jenny picks up the pitcher, puts my mother‘s glass right side up, and gets to doing the Custom House Pour. ―Anything I can get you?‖ she asks my mother. ―Gibson,‖ she says. ―Dry.‖ I‘m fixed on the water again, still worried that Jenny will make a mistake; even the best make mistakes. ―Three onions and an orange peel.‖ ―You got it.‖ She finishes pouring and looks at me. ―Anything for you now?‖ ―No thanks, still fine with water.‖ She goes to the waitress station and picks up two menus, long and sturdy looking. She places them in front of us, opening them to the small plates section. ―Small plate‖ is upscale talk for appetizers. I look down and see the least expensive thing is the Duck Quesadilla, made with brie and caramelized onions, served with some sort of garlic cilantro relish. It costs nine dollars and I bet my mother doesn‘t even

glance at it, nine being a single digit number. ―I‘ll give you two a moment to look things over.‖ We say thank you in unison and Jenny takes her leave. We‘re not sitting in the smoking section, but my mother still takes her silver cigarette case out of her purse, opens it and lights one, inhaling deeply, exhaling a thick grey cloud. Having nowhere to ash, she flips over a coffee cup and taps the cigarette against the rim. ―So how are you?‖ she asks, disinterested. ―How‘s school?‖ I tell her everything is fine. ―Good, good. You getting along with whatshername? Uh, uh… Vicky? How‘s she?‖ ―Me and Vicky, we…‖ And just then, Jenny comes back with the martini, a bigger one than I‘ve ever seen. A large toothpick pokes out of the clear liquid, several tiny onions impaled by the tip of it, fully submerged. A sliver of orange is shoved up near the top. I flip a few pages forward and see the martini costs seventeen dollars here. And Jenny asks us if we‘d like anything else. ―How about that Duck Quesadilla?‖ I say. ―That sounds alright.‖ ―Oh, yeah, it‘s excellent,‖ she says collecting my menu. ―Anything for you, ma‘am?‖ My mother is munching one of the pearl onions and swirling the toothpick around in her glass. ―No, not right now. A little late to be eating for me, I think.‖ ―Okay, then. Just the Quesadilla.‖ She leaves again and my mother takes a large gulp of her drink. She‘s still wearing the sunglasses, and I wonder how bad last night really was for her, wonder what she was doing. A fundraiser? A gallery opening? Or did she just sit home alone, drinking all night? I decide not to ask her, and she takes

them off anyway. Her eyes look bloodshot and tired, and I don‘t say anything. With Jenny an appropriate distance away, I finish telling her that me and Vicky broke up. ―Oh, please, can‘t you hold onto a girlfriend by now? ―I guess not.‖ ―Well,‖ she says, after another big sip from the glass that leaves it less than half full, ―that‘s disappointing. I liked her, you know.‖ ―Yeah, I knew.‖ After two more sips, the thing is empty, and I finally decide to ask what‘s going on. ―Well,‖ she says, ―let me be the first to say that your father really wanted to be here for this.‖ I haven‘t seen my father for I don‘t know how long. Six months, maybe. ―He‘s in London on business. Before that, Tokyo. After that, San Francisco.‖ ―Okay.‖ ―The reason I asked you here, there is a reason,‖ she says, dropping more ash into the coffee cup. ―It‘s to talk about the will.‖ ―The will?‖ ―Your father‘s and my will, yes. There‘s been some changes that involve you.‖ ―Listen, if this is about me getting…‖ ―Oh, calm down, no one‘s fucking with your money. This is different.‖ What I don‘t tell her is that I don‘t really care about the money, that I didn‘t want any in the first place. Being given money is the worst way to get it. ―Different how?‖ ―Well,‖ she says, after lighting another cigarette, ―you‘re twenty one now. You‘re a legal adult.‖ She takes another long drag and exhales. ―You can have extra responsibilities now, things you couldn‘t do before.‖ ―Like what?‖ Jenny comes by again, asks if my mother

needs another seventeen dollar drink. Of course she does. ―Like what?‖ I ask again, after Jenny has left. And my mother tells me she doesn‘t know how to say this. That it‘s hard to put into words. It‘s not something she really wants to talk about. ―I wish your father were here to tell you instead.‖ ―Tell me what? What‘s going on?‖ ―In the event that both me and your father die, die before Hunter and Jessica reach twenty-one, you‘d have to take care of them. Be, in legal terms, the custodian.‖ I sit back against the dark suede bench, stunned by what she‘s said, still digesting it. It‘s left a bad taste in my mouth that will be hell getting rid of. ―What do you mean, custodian?‖ ―Every decision that would normally be up to me or your father,‖ she says, ―would be up to you.‖ Jenny comes back with another drink, identical to the last one. ―Your quesadillas will be ready very soon,‖ she says. I thank her and she walks away again. ―But why me? At most I‘d be twenty-seven! What kind of age is that to have to make decisions about kids?‖ ―Why you? Because you‘re the only one.‖ ―I am not! What about Mark?‖ ―My brother,‖ she says, without a hint of irony, ―is a drunk. He couldn‘t take care of anyone, make decisions for anyone.‖ ―What about dad‘s brother?‖ ―Too far, he lives in Amsterdam for some weird reason. Listen,‖ she says, after another big sip, ―we‘ve been through this. It‘s has to be you. You‘re close by, you‘re responsible, you‘re reliable.‖ ―I am not responsible! I‘m nearly failing

out of school!‖ ―At least you‘re going,‖ she says, as Jenny comes back with a triangular shaped blue plate. She sets it down in front of me, and again asks if things are okay. ―Yes, we‘re fine.‖ I look down and see large triangular cut tortillas filled with dark meat and melted, gooey cheese that drips out the sides. The garlic cilantro relish is somehow orange. I take a bite, and it doesn‘t taste half-bad. ―But I don‘t want this,‖ I say. ―Isn‘t there something where I have to agree?‖ ―Well, yes, but then we‘d have to go take your name off the will,‖ she says. ―Which we‘re not going to do.‖ And again, she tells me I‘m the only one, the only one with my head on straight, the only one she can trust, the only one they even thought of for this. And again, I say I don‘t want it. ―Listen,‖ she says, ―the odds of something happening to both of us, they‘re low. Chances are you‘ll never be asked to do a thing.‖ The chance may be low, but it still isn‘t one I want to take. ―Because you‘re not a drunk‖ Like her brother. ―Because you wouldn‘t pick up and move to Europe.‖ Like my uncle. ―Because you‘re not a womanizer.‖ Like my father. ―How is that?‖ she asks, pointing her cigarette at my plate, nearly spilling ash into the garlic cilantro relish. ―It‘s good. Do you want some?‖ ―No, thanks. Ethnic food doesn‘t agree with my stomach.‖ And instead, she drains the second martini in twenty minutes, saving the onions for afterwards this time.

She starts to dig around in her purse, and finally pulls out a wallet, long and patterned with someone‘s initials. She fishes out two fifties and a ten, puts the ten and one of the fifties on the table, hands the other to me. ―Take it,‖ she says. ―So I know you‘ll have it. Put my mind at ease.‖ Even though I didn‘t ask for it, even though I don‘t need it, I still end up taking it, folding the thing in half, putting it in my jacket pocket. ―Think about this,‖ she says, standing up. ―I‘d hate to have to take your name off, without good reason, at least.‖ She says goodbye, leaves without doing anything at all. Alone now, I realize she‘s right. I‘m none of those things. I‘m not a drinker. I‘m not irresponsible. I‘m not the type to pick up strange women. I‘m none of these things, not yet anyway. Jenny comes by again, asks if my mother had to leave. ―Yeah, she‘s had her fill, I guess.‖ Pointing at the quesadillas, barely touched, she asks if I liked them or not. ―Yeah, they‘re good. Not really what I‘m in the mood for right now, though, I guess.‖ ―What are you in the mood for?‖ Thinking of the fifty in my pocket, I ask how much a whiskey and Coke is in this place. ―Seven dollars.‖ ―I‘ll have one of those,‖ I say. ―Why not keep them coming for a while, too?‖ ―I thought you said only alcoholics drink alone.‖ ―You‘re right, I did say that.‖ Thinking quick, I ask her when she gets off. ―Twenty minutes.‖ ―Well, why don‘t you come join me when

you‘re done, huh?‖ Jenny, she‘s not the kind of girl I would usually go for. But usual isn‘t what I‘m going for anymore. ―Sure,‖ she says. ―I‘d love to have a drink with you.‖

Danielle Gonzalez Flight or Flight Anna watched her grandmother as she leaned over the kitchen sink, washing her grandfather‟s hair. The late afternoon sun reflected bright red off of her grandma‟s hair as she hummed softly to herself, her fingers working gently over his scalp as he leaned into the sink farther, eyes half closed with what seemed to be a tender, blissful look on his otherwise stern face. The smell of “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific!” Shampoo filled the little girl‟s nostrils, mingling with the smell of a roast in the oven, potato and cabbage boiling on the stove, and the musty, yet pleasant and well lived in scent of that old house on Margaret Street. Anna loved that house; the house that her mother and all of her aunts and uncles had grown up in. There was history there, which gave her a distinct sense of comfort and belonging as an eight-year-old member of this family. Anna scooped the last of the oatmeal from her bowl and shoved it hastily into her mouth, washing it down with the last of her lukewarm black coffee. Still half asleep, she took the bowl to the kitchen sink, where her dog waited patiently for his food. ―Hey there, Beetle.‖ She scratched behind the beast‘s floppy ears. His tail thumped on the tile: a gentle demand for more. ―You want your breakfast now? Mama‘s gotta go to work, yes.‖ Anna reached into the cupboard above the sink and pulled down a bag of kibble. She filled the dog‘s dish and set it down beside a generous bowl of water. ―You be good now, you hear? Mama‘s comin‘ back in a while.‖ The dog looked sadly up at her as she walked toward the door. ―Bye now, Beetle. You be good. Love you.‖ She closed the door behind her, keys in hand.

Anna wasn‘t sure why her grandparents were floating around inside her head today, but imagined that it must have had something to do with the conversation that her and her mother had had over the phone before she went bed last night, and the eerie dream it had evoked about her grandmother. Grandma had gone in for some tests the week before, and the family was waiting with bated breath to hear the results, with the best possible scenario in mind, of course. Regardless, she decided not to fight this memory that was flooding both her head and her heart this morning. It was one of the many good ones that she had. She loved her grandparents very much, and often wished to find love and devotion that resembled theirs. She crawled into her sedan and turned the key in the ignition. She sat there for a minute, smiling softly to herself, half asleep in the dark, her mind idling like the car‘s engine. “Ed! I said hold still!” Grandpa squirmed a little, wincing and grumbling softly. “Yeh don‟t wanna get soap in yer eyes, do yeh, now?” Her voice lilted, slightly musical, carrying an accent that was unmistakably east coast Canadian. Back East (as she would refer to it), back Home. “Jesus Christ, Marg, I think it‟s a bit too late now, don‟t you?” Anna giggled at their strange display of affection, this gentle nattering at one another. “Oh, Ed.” She grabbed the small hair towel to her left and gingerly placed it over his face. He took it from her hand and held it there as she rinsed his hair clean of suds with the dish hose. He stood upright, moving the towel from his face to the top of his head as she reached up, standing on her toes, and helped him to dry off. “Better?” “Mmmm hmm.” Grandpa nodded in a state of blissful approval. “Good, dear. Now yeh get yerself inta

somethin‟ more comfortable. I‟ll pour yeh Johnny Walker.” “Mmmm hmm. Mkay, Marg.” Grandpa nodded. He turned to Anna, who was smiling up at them from the kitchen table and said; “And how was yer day, Turkey Foot?” “Fine Grampa, but I‟m not the Turkey Foot, you‟re the Turkey Foot!” She smiled, her young, crooked teeth glinted as her gigantic brown eyes darted over to where her Grandma stood, smirking at her. “Oh, we‟ll see about that, Turkey Foot.” Grandpa gave her a wink and shuffled off to the bedroom, chuckling. Anna pulled herself out of her daze and backed out of the driveway. The air was still quiet with sleep, and the country roads that were her route to work were scarcely traveled during these hours. She turned right at the end of the dirt road and onto the two-lane highway. She flicked on the radio to halflisten to the morning news. “Gramma, I love it here.” “I know yeh do, dear.” She wiped the remnants of shampoo off the countertop with an old tea towel. “I wanna stay here forever. You‟re the best Gramma in the whole world!” The little girl gazed adoringly at her grandmother who stood at the kitchen sink, observing a cardinal that landed on the branches of the old blue pine outside of the window. She ran her hand through the curls of fire upon her head and turned away, smiling to herself. She walked over and took Anna‟s tiny chin in her hands. “And yer the best granddaughter in the world. I love yeh very much, dear, but,” Grandmas eyes, which were the colour of blue topaz and as big and honest as Anna‟s young, still unscathed heart, stared down into her sweet, freckled face and finished softly: “don‟t yeh think yer mum would miss yeh?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But it‟s so much fun Way more fun than home, you know?” “Well, that‟s why it‟s called a vacation dear. Because if it were home, it wouldn‟t be as much fun, y‟understand?” Grandma began setting the table, reaching for the distilled vinegar above the stove which was contained in a strange, white plastic cow-vessel with a red and yellow painted-on apron, it‟s red mouth being the spout. Anna smiled. Grandma and Grandpa‟s place was full of these oddities of the elderly: like the Siamese cat salt-andpepper-shakers, and of course, the absurd Cuckoo clock that hung in the corner of their dark, wood-paneled living room, its tiny blue bird emerging and cuckooing relentlessly every hour, on the hour. “Hm. Hey Gramma?” “Mmm?” She shuffled across the floor, opened the fridge and pulled out a jar of bread and butter pickles. “I have an idea that would be really funny, I think.” “Do yeh? Let‟s hear it.” “Remember that whoopee cushion I bought at the store?” “Oh, yes. The one from the Five and Dime, dear?” Grandma‟s archaic references always tickled Anna. She smiled. “Um, yeah. Do you think Grampa would get mad if I put it on his chair at dinner?” Grandma chuckled. “Oh, dear Lord Anna, I think that would be a hoot! Go an‟ find it.” She looked at Anna from over her shoulder and gave her a big blue wink. Anna smiled, filled with the kind of foolishness that only an eight-year-old who was about to pull one over on her grandpa could be filled with, and ran into the guest bedroom. She emerged with a pink, flat-balloon shaped thing in a plastic package and handed it to her grandmother. “You think he‟ll laugh?” here.

“Oh, I bet he will dear.” Grandma looked down at the pink rubber blob and chuckled at the package: it pictured a cartoon of a man sitting on a cushion—much like this one—that produced the words “Pooh! Pooh!” inside of a cloud that shot out from under his bottom, looking all too surprised at himself while onlookers pointed and laughed. “I bet he‟ll look just like this guy here.” She pointed at the picture. They tittered quietly in unison. “Okay. When should I do it?” “Well, supper‟s almost ready, why don‟t yeh help me set the table, then we can call yer brother in from the backyard. We‟ll blow it up right before we call yer Grampee in for dinner. I‟ll fetch him his drink and get him settled in front of the T.V. so he won‟t suspect a thing.” “You‟re awesome, Gramma.” Anna giggled and hugged her grandmother‟s waist. Grandma smiled and shook her head. “Go put that away for now, and help me with the silverware.” They set the table quietly, exchanging the occasional smirk. Anna placed the forks and knives at each place setting as her grandmother arranged the plates and glasses. When the table had been set, Grandma began carving the roast and placing the cabbage around it on a large colourful platter that resembled a turkey. She diligently mashed the potatoes until they were light and fluffy, piled them high in an olive green bowl then topped them with a generous pad of salted butter. Anna‟s mouth watered in anticipation, while her heart fluttered with an eagerness to execute her master plan; a plan that would leave her loved ones hysterically gasping for their breath. “Now, I‟m not putting the food on the table till after we‟ve played our little joke, it would be rude to do it any other way, yeh see?” “Not really, Gramma.” Anna laughed at her

grandmother‟s sudden prudence over farting noises at the dinner table. Her grandmother chuckled. “I know, I know, it just wouldn‟t be right though. Go fetch yer brother now.” Anna turned down the news as she approached the second stop sign. She still couldn‘t pinpoint exactly why her grandparents weighed so heavily on her mind. She concluded that it must have been the dream that triggered it, more so than her and mum‘s conversation last night. She turned left onto the next twolane highway, letting her thoughts—like the road—unravel before her. She still had quite a way to go, and thoughts as encompassing as these were a pleasantry during her otherwise dull morning commute. Anna ran out of the back door and into the yard, where she found her younger brother in the garden, his face smeared with dirt, trying to attach two seemingly horrified snails by smashing their slimy bodies together. “They won‟t go.” Jonathan‟s tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth, his brow furrowed with a look of determination. “They don‟t like each other. They keep hiding.” Anna rolled her eyes, “You‟re such a nerd. Leave „em alone, Jonathan. Gramma says its suppertime.” The five year old looked up and clicked his tongue, dropped the snails into the dirt and sprang forth from the flowerbed. “Good! I‟m hungry. Maybe they‟ll wanna stick tomorrow. Hey you know what I saw? A cardinal.” His chest puffed out proudly as his mouth blossomed into a jack-o-lantern grin. Lilies of the Valley whispered softly in the summer breeze behind him. “Gramma said that the Cardinal was a sign that Great Grampa Burnett was watching over us because he used to…” “I know, Jon-o. He used to wear a bright red sweater that Great Gramma knit for him.”

Anna retorted, still naïve to the bird‟s significance. “C‟mon. I‟ve gotta joke. It‟s gonna be funny. You hafta get washed up first though.” “Mkay.” Jonathan wiped his grimy hands on his pants, dusty with summer soil. He toddled behind his big sister back into the house. Anna and Jonathan approached the table, smiling. Jonathan shouted excitedly: “Gramma I saw Great Grampa in the garden today!” Anna winced. Grandma laughed. “Whoa, a cardinal dear? That‟s right. He‟s watchin‟ over yeh. Now go wash yer hands and face. Good Lord, yeh look like the „Swamp Thing‟!” The blonde haired boy ran with awkward, heavy feet into the bathroom to wash up. He returned a few minutes later (looking only a little cleaner), as Anna was blowing up the whoopee cushion. She placed it on her grandfather‟s chair. Jonathan giggled; Anna put her finger to her lips, demanding silence from the dirty imp. “Okay, now Gramma.” The wide-eyed Anna whispered as her grandmother‟s head bobbed in an exaggerated nod, playing along as she marched to the living room doorway and called: “Eddie, supper‟s ready, dear.” “Kay Marg.” They heard their grandfather get up from his lazy boy and shuffle toward the kitchen. Anna and Jonathan seated themselves in hushed anticipation. Their grandfather emerged and shuffled leisurely to his seat. As he passed Anna, he touched the back of her ear with his index finger, giving her a shock. She jumped. “Grampa, Ow!” Anna put her hand to her ear. “Who‟s the Turkey Foot now?” Anna waited, smiling. She couldn‟t wait to give him the real answer. Grandpa absentmindedly pulled out his chair. Anna held her breath. She could have sworn that he saw the

pink cushion glaring up at him, but he didn‟t. He shuffled around to the front of the chair and teetered… BANG! Anna was jolted from her daydream and back into her car, where her windshield had been splattered with a gory mess of blood and feathers from a Mourning Dove. Startled, she nervously switched on the windshield wipers and hit the washer fluid button, which of course, only made the problem worse as the wipers frantically mashed the blood and feathers around, painting a sad and angry portrait across her field of view. She rolled down her window and drove carefully to the nearest gas station, where she, crying, plucked the feathers from her wipers and cleaned the blood off of the glass with the gas station squeegee. ―This can‘t be good.‖ She thought to herself, an impending sense of dread welled up inside of her chest as superstition began to overwhelm her. She plucked the last of the feathers from the rubber seal of the windshield. She looked up at the horizon and saw that the sun was beginning to rise; its first signs showing horizontal beams of bright red, then gradually melting into the indigo above it. A small bird flew across her line of sight and landed on a crude scribble of telephone wire draped over the street. It began to sing, and, momentarily relieved, Anna dried her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. She smiled softly as she listened to the urgent, sweet song that belonged to the little red messenger perched on the wire. Her phone began to ring. She dug it out of her pocket and saw that it was her mother.

Carmen M Mendoza King Las Cruces I. Where blood has almost run dry remembering the land of crosses, crossing desert dust. She carried bones through Sonora, unborn death through parched sun. sky thirsting to reach hands cold from nights far from land. II. She was found in Altar, becoming altars, prayers. candles & dried rose petals. her name on a list of dust bodies lost through the passage 79

between cactus and visions fading in morning rising between lands divided by thorns and mountains.

molly gail shannon [CHOTHONIC] A car on fire is the only sun smoldering on the horizon east of Wood- ward, south of 8 Mile: here is the shadowland where iron oars churn concrete into waves. Styx, Acheron, our borders burn. The city of cars is not under sky as other cities are above the ground: we are faces blueblack sweating in the red inferno of factory furnaces or not a car but bones of a car with a flaming belly, its flesh hanging off A dead car goes nowhere, it stays here, which is: no-

in shreds. that is: where.

Lasciate ogne motherfucking voi châ&#x20AC;&#x2122;intrateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. I flag down the driver turns his head

speranza, a feral taxi rolls around

like a ghostly owl, grinning with every tooth ablaze. He never asks where to? just drives. There is nowhere to. The license says his name is Charon and we roll for miles on the river of his ragged madman laugh until night falls on us,

staggers

as if drunk. 81

Only light: an ember of something that had burned and then burned out

HOMO SACER the grid of space bends around me i make footprints in the mud i am made of mud i am [Official Memo] WE HAVE INVENTED SUCH AGONIES AS THE WORLD HAS NEVER SEEN. A THOUSANDTHOUSAND EXQUISITE TORTURES. [List of Grievances] 1. They opened my throat using as knives the edges of legal documents, and, 2. They scraped away its residue of language until the muscle was made of paper, paper-thin. [Internal Documentation] WE HAVE PLUNGED MINDS INTO WATER AND WATCHED THEIR BODIES PULSE ON. THEY WRITHE, PRESSED FLAT AGAINST A BOARD, UPFACING. [For Example] Shrouded girl: i never was a sacrifice. Never given to the sea. Once i tried to dive but they fished me out again and drowned me back to life. Death’s a friend i’m not allowed to visit with alone. 83

[Rulebook] 1. The driftwood body is a shell 2. and may be undone by anyone 3. but not in the name of GOD. 4. in anyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name but GOD. [What It Means] You are meaningless therefore you have meaning. Try to live with what that means â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

Joshua Pippen gown fodder and little fingers scratched at salt stains on the cobblestones filing away their nails in the street— filing away the street excavate ex cathedra their fingers numb null skeletal bone harpoons the last meat dries and blood re-bleeds still they dig they were prepaid for the inaugural dig by pull string and talk warped dolls with Byzantine faces they were digging in Vienna gardens and Siberian permafrost and in front of gold and crimson silk crowns for Austria‟s ducal families and they were digging outside of my window across from the church into the cobblestone cortége it was a waste no time smile for souls international port faith anchored feeling less fingers fingering the typecast headstone induce sopping reptilian birth in self-dug puncture wounds and to stop digging an inspector‟s boot came to be on their little hands pavement pinch press down and slide back flesh raid each flesh less finger bone in the dirt was an unpleasant trumpet blow— an SOS flare lost on those not looking out the window of their mountain huts and those looking with their mother‟s eyes those little girls dig and are mute and their reflections are wooden they are donated for spectacle grown up as fingerless women with no room for rings self-blaming with no fingers to point and one will be crowned Miss World 2010

M.M. Wolfe One of these Mornings You‘re Gonna Rise Up Singing Early Sunday morning, Sam awoke to a noise like thin, furious wheezing. The sound, asperous and shrill, cut in through the bedroom window and crept up Sam's spine, tightening his scalp. He had been sleeping deeply and still held a dim image of his dream. It had been snowing, and a rattletrap ice cream truck, its garish coloring faded with age and blotched with rust, had been trundling languidly down Woodward Avenue. The speakers mounted to its shabby tin frame were beating out an old cover of ―Summertime", and thousands of Sam's neighbors, arrayed in oldtime silk suits and bright cotton sundresses, stood knee-deep in the soft white drifts of the sidewalk, singing along lustily. His father had been there, too, crooning a sonorous counterpoint. Sam opened his eyes and sat up. Macy lay on her stomach, purling faintly. Her breathing made the constellation of moles between her shoulder blades, lit by a spur of moonlight, rise and fall. He watched this for a time, and then rolled himself off the mattress, gently, so as not to wake her, and dressed silently in the dark. Through the blackness, Sam could just make out the contours of the living room. Dipping his hand into the ashtray on the coffee table, he traced his fingers along a graveyard of old butts, feeling for long ones. Macy had smoked the last cigarette only a few hours ago, but an obscure urge compelled him to recheck the usual places. The apartment was small and poorly furnished – a pair of folding chairs, a television set atop a stack of milk crates, a couch hemorrhaging feathers – leaving few spots to cache a loosie. He recalled now that, sometimes, when she was feeling flush, Mace

would stash a spare pack in the cup-holder of Word Girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s stroller. Arms outstretched to avoid knocking into the TV, Sam felt his way along the walls into the other bedroom. The cup-holder was empty, but in the pocket behind the canvas seat he found the gnarled stub of a Black n' Mild. Next to the stroller, Word Girl was sleeping on her inflatable twin, knees drawn up to her chest, sucking gently on the back of her hand. Her room had no windows, but some trick of acoustics amplified the harsh sound so it was louder here. Sam marveled at the child. Her real name was LaShondra, after Mace's aunt, but her likeness to the cartoon character was uncanny. She was smart like Word Girl too, a natural asker of questions. Sam loved her like she was his own. In the kitchen, the coils of the big burner glowed orange, painting the room in amber light. Since the weather had turned cold, they'd taken to leaving the stove on after dark, for the heat. Sam smoothed the Black n' Mild into a shape like his little finger and pressed it to the burner until it gave a soft hiss. He leaned against the refrigerator and took a few gentle pulls, easing into the sweet taste, hoping the sound might yet stop. He held the cigar close to his face and watched as a lick of smoke unfurled out of the plastic filter and twined itself around his thumb. He thought about saving an inch for Mace, but decided she could wait until tomorrow, when she'd cash her check. Closing the door of the apartment behind him, Sam clicked on the Magâ&#x20AC;? Lite and aimed it down the corridor, watching for the glint of little eyes. The rats nested on the first floor, stealing from the garbage cans in the back alley, but a few intrepid ones were known to venture upstairs. He made his way down the hall, rubbing his hands to warm them, his steps muffled by what remained of the moth-eaten

carpet. Most the units were boarded up or lacked doors at all. Sam didn't like to leave places where someone could hide. Passing 302, he heard the drone of flies and, above the musty smell of old air, sniffed something rank. He would have to check it later. Sam, Mace and Word Girl were the Roderick Arms‘ only tenants. Six months ago, Sam had been hired as the building's security guard. At the time, he had been living at his father's, and the Roderick, a crumbling pre‐ war tenement, had been empty just a short while. Its last resident, a municipal pensioner born in the neighborhood, had held out for many months, waving a copy of his lease at anyone from the management company who knocked on his door. Eventually, though, he, too, had surrendered to the encroaching emptiness, and fled to a ranch house in Warren. His departure was likely hastened by the metal scavengers, who hadn‘t waited for him to leave before beginning their pillage. By the time management came through for a post mortem, the scroungers had stripped out and hauled away most of the copper piping and the lion's share of the cast-iron radiators. To salvage what was left, the Roderick‘s owner had decided to invest in protection. While he lacked formal training in security, Sam was willing to work cheaply and under dubious terms. He had used his first paycheck, a letter envelope stuffed with soiled twenties, to move out of his father's and into the Pingree Apartments, which sat across the street from the Roderick and were still halfoccupied. Eight hours a day, he'd patrolled the Roderick and its sister building, the Roderick Arms Annex. If one of the windows got busted, he boarded it up; if someone looked to be casing the place, he shoo‘d him off. It was a position of responsibility, and Sam took pride in it, if only a little. A month in, he‘d asked the buildings' owner, Mr. Striabetti, if he

could move into one of the Roderick's old units, figuring he could use what he saved on rent to buy a car. After some thought, Mr. Striabetti had agreed to switch on the power to a third-floor double. There were craters in the plaster and the walls exuded an elusive chemical smell, but it was free. It had required Sam‘s most artful sweet talk to convince Mace to move in with him. Although he'd slept fitfully his first nights in the building, a small soul in a vast, echoing hollowness, Sam had acclimated. He‘d grown attuned to the Roderick‘s many sounds, learning to distinguish the ponderous creaks and groans of an aged edifice coming to rest from the quicker, subtler cadence of footsteps. Mace, however, still believed the building haunted. No matter how many planks of plywood Sam hammered onto the window frames, the wind always found a way inside, whistling through the hallways and slamming the doors in the vacancies, startling her. In a few units on the fourth floor, the ceiling, heavy with rain, had begun to buckle and collapse. The first time Mace heard a good-sized hunk of plaster hit the floor, she'd thought burglars were inside and had locked Word Girl in the closet. Nor did it help that the Roderick lacked running water. He and Mace took turns filling a plastic bucket at the Pingree and hauling it across the street. The front door of the Pingree was always open, the dope boys who worked the building having broken a key off in the lock, letting them come and go as they pleased. In exchange, Sam gave the boys the run of the Annex‘s basement, where they played cards and brought women. The two had nearly adjusted to their routine when Mr. Striabetti, concluding that his employee was now effectively guarding the building full-time, on the clock and off it, had pled poverty and cut Sam's hours in half. Sam was furious, but said nothing, believing there was nothing he could say. He had stewed

silently, and the Roderick had taken on a new bleakness. When he and Mace weren't fighting, they talked about moving down to Mobile, where Mace had people. Sam'd floated the idea of moving in with his father on the east side, but Mace refused: Samâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s father made her uncomfortable. For now, Sam tried to convince himself that there were worse situations than living in a rent-free hovel. Sam worked his way down the Roderickâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s creaking stairs and through the lobby, the sound growing louder as he approached the front entrance. He set his face against the doorâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s scratched glass and peered out into the murk. It was early yet, and the dope boys would still be slouched low in their cars, parked in the Pingree's lot, where they took shifts in the night. Around 8:00 or so, the boy on duty would rise and take his regular station in front of the building. Sam had always been cordial with the dope boys, if not out-and-out friendly. He would trade daps, ask them what was news, but never attended their parties or bought their product. Lately though, for reasons Sam didn't fully understand, nor wished to look into, the dope boys had grown protective of the Roderick and its twin. Other vacants on the block had been gutted down to their concrete skeletons, but the Roderick remained curiously intact. The boys publicized their preference for the Roderick through sudden and violent demonstrations of loyalty. A few months back, a homeless man had been sitting on the Roderick's stoop, trimming his beard with a pair of plastic safety scissors. Sam had seen him from the stairs and decided to ignore him. But the runner on duty, a child of ten, had spotted the man and hollered at him to get gone. The man had waved him off, and the boy had whistled for his colleagues. The dealers, a half-dozen of them, had emerged from the Pingree and descended upon the derelict at a half-run. Terrified, he had frozen, scissors in one hand,

a thick tuft of grey hair in the other. The boys had beaten the man for a long time, finally leaving him to crawl away, blood dripping from his half-cut beard. Later, Sam had felt obligated to cross the street and thank the boys for their intervention. The dope boys had nodded proudly, wearing thin, tight smiles -- citizens about their civic duty. Pieces of the Roderick's facade had started to slough off, and slabs of limestone ornament now studded the building's brown lawn. As Sam stepped onto the frozen grass, the crunching sounds under his feet were all but drowned out by the wax and wane of the wheezing, which had intensified to a piercing shriek. The sound, he heard now, was emanating from the alley between the Roderick and the Annex. Sam pointed the Mag-Lite at the ground, not wanting to give himself away to whoever he was about to surprise. In certain moments, he regretted not carrying a gun. Reaching the edge of the building, Sam let himself take a few breaths, and then turned the corner and threw up the beam. In the center of the flashlight‘s halo stood an old man, eyes squinting from the glare. Sam hadn‘t seen the man before, but knew, a small sickness gathering in his stomach, that he'd have remembered if he had: an immense, black mole, like a scrambled egg badly burnt, dominated the left side of the man's face. In the man's bony right hand was a hacksaw, which he was pumping furiously into the top of a curved standpipe. The pipe had once delivered water from the city's main line, and the hacksaw was now dug a full inch into the metal. The old man's arm paused in mid-stroke and the wheezing subsided. "Hey," Sam said. ―Fuck you doin‘?‖ The man's blinked in confusion. ―Fuck it look like? "You know you can't be fuckin doin that.‖ ―Why not?‖ ―Ain‘t your building.‖

The man snorted. ―Ain‘t yours either.‖ Sam looked the man over. His hands were swollen to the size of welder‘s gloves and his skin was ulcered with pink sores. A grimy silver track suit hung off his lank limbs. He looked harmless enough, a broken‐ down old dope fiend. Sam deepened his voice and tried again. ―You fuckin retarded? Move.‖ ―No.‖ The man spoke the word without irritation, only a simple, stubborn finality. Sam was unnerved. He had never received any kind of backtalk before. Most scavengers cleared out immediately, sometimes even apologizing on their way. This was uncharted territory. ―Look, you can move, or I can get my boys out here, have ‗em work your ass over.‖ The man laughed. ―Bring your boys. Hell, call the hook. Ten minutes, I‘m up and gone, with my pipe.‖ Sam bristled. ―You don‘t move, I‘ma check your ass in.‖ He raised the metal flashlight threatening, momentarily sending its beam into the night sky. ―Split your shit to the white meat.‖ The man‘s eyes narrowed. He adjusted his grip on the saw and made a beckoning motion. ―You feelin froggy, boy, you best leap. I ain‘t no babe in the woods.‖ For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then the man started chuckling. "Boy, the fuck you really think you protectin?‖ His sounded amused. He tapped the flat of his saw against the Roderick‘s wall, knocking loose a handful of dusty white pebbles. The man followed them down with his eyes. ―You bodyguardin a dead soldier." Sam flinched and was silent a moment. ―Fuck I care? They payin me.‖ The man nodded sympathetically. ―You right, you right. You just like me. You makin your money, I‘m makin mine. We both ain‘t fittin to hurt nobody.‖ He held the saw out in

front of him. ―So, just let me do what I got to and I‘m out.‖ Sam didn‘t say anything. Something about the man reminded him of his grandfather. ―You didn‘t see nothin, hear nothin. I won‘t be here long.‖ The man‘s face turned pleading. With his free hand, his rubbed his mole. ―I‘m hungry. I‘m homeless. I got no place to go. You‘d be doin‘ a good deed lettin me off.‖ Sam still said nothing. The man looked into Sam‘s eyes, saw something there, and smiled. ―When I‘m done, I‘m a hit the scrapyard for a minute, come back and tear you off somethin for your trouble.‖ The man‘s inserted the saw back into the gashed pipe. His eyes still fixed on Sam, his arm began slowly working back and forth. The wheezing returned, rising in pitch and volume as the man‘s pace quickened. Sam made no motion to stop him. Then, above the shriek of the saw, there came a sharp cracking noise, and the lower half of the old man's face exploded in a nimbus of red. The hacksaw falling from his hand, he toppled forward and slumped limply against the standpipe. Sam dropped the Mag-Lite, shrouding the scene in darkness. But, before he did, he caught in the light of the beam a flash of the man's head. What remained of his cheeks and jawbone trailed from his face like mangled cloth. His top row of teeth, its answering half obliterated, hung in space like misshapen stalactites, snaggled and black with blood. Sam turned and saw behind him, illuminated by a distant streetlight, a boy clutching a shiny silver pistol. From the man's throat issued a gurgling noise, like water bubbling up from a well. Leaning against the pipe for support, he raised a hand to his head and touched himself. There was a moment of quiet as the man took the measure of his new face. Then the man let up a

low, wet howl. Sam watched him, his silhouette just visible in the gloom, as he rose up from the pipe, a grim, deficient specter, and loped off down the alley in long, limping strides. The dope boy lowered his gun and shuffled across the street, the report of his steps resounding in the chill air. He swung his arms and his hips loosely, but his back was rigid and his face tight, the total effect one of militantly enforced indifference. The boy came to within an arm's length of Sam and stopped. The top of his head barely came up to Sam's chest. Sam heard him breathing heavily. The shoulders of his bulbous parka were heaving and white vapor was pumping from his hood like a fog machine. "You see that?" His voice was soft and trebly. The boy swiveled his head in the direction of the man's escape and sucked his teeth. "I aim for his dome, but it dark as a mufucka." He sounded almost apologetic. Sam hoped it was dark enough that the boy couldn‘t see that he was trembling. The boy, having not yet met Sam's gaze, lowered his head and studied the laces of his boots, his breath slowing. Without warning, the boy snapped his head up and glared at Sam's face. "Why you let a fiend disrespect you? Fuck is on your mind?" He fixed Sam with a look of consternation. "Fiends be slapped on sight. They get out of pocket -no hesitation.‖ The boy snapped the fingers of his left hand, the one not holding the gun. Sam didn't know the boy by name, but recognized his face. It was a pretty face, slim and drawn in smooth, clean lines. He couldn't have been more than 13. "You can‘t let no fiend disrespect you." The boy's voice cracked slightly, and he spat. "That shit get out, you done.‖ Sam was silent. "Don't let no one devo your shit." The

boy shook his head angrily. "And get yourself somethin before someone run up on you again." He tapped the barrel of the gun. ―Guard a whole mufuckin apartment complex with no burner? Fuck is you thinkin?" The boy sniffled. Sam wanted to say something, but found his mind as empty as the Roderick, a small place for Mace and Word Girl and nothing else. He felt out of time, like all the things around him were not things, but ghosts of things, their referents far away. Sam looked at the boy. The boy stared blankly back. In a small voice, Sam said, "You think police‘ll show?" The boy shrugged, then shook his head. "The hook ain‘t gonna come." He laughed loudly. "Shit, Sunday morning, I‘m rebukin the devil. The hook not gonna knock you for that." The boy slid the gun into his waistband, slipping the hem of his parka over the handle to cover it, turned and jogged lightly across the street. When he reached the other side, he looked back at Sam. "You gotta be on point with that shit. That your building." Sam nodded. The boy gave him a long, meaningful look, and disappeared into the parking lot. Sam heard a car door open and slam shut, and then there was silence. Sam stood still. After a while, he picked up his Mag-lite, which lay on the grass, shining a halo onto the Roderick's dingy stone walls. He clicked it off and walked inside. In the apartment, he found Word Girl sitting on the living room couch, hands folded neatly in her lap. The bare bulb of the floor lamp carved deep shadows into her smooth face, making her appear many times her age. Mace liked to keep Word Girl's hair knotted up in four tidy buns, one for each corner of her skull. Word Girl despised the buns, complaining they hurt her head, and wrested the bands out whenever her mother wasn't looking. During the

night, she had removed one, making the hair by her right ear swell up into an angry thundercloud. Sam looked at Word Girl, and she looked back, her eyes still milky with sleep. He couldn't bring himself to touch her. "Damn, Word Girl," Sam said. He bit his tongue to keep his voice from shaking. "What you hate about them hair ties so much?" Word Girl stared up at him, head cocked. "I heard something." "Go back to sleep, Word Girl." The little girl rose from the couch and tottered back to her room, shutting the door gently behind her. In the bedroom, Macy lay on her stomach as before, her arms cast out in front of her in a gesture of surrender. Sam took off his clothes and knelt on the mattress. He stared down at Mace, unsure quite what it was he was looking at. He'd never tell her this, but if there had been room for it, he would have liked to sleep in separate beds. He loved her dearly, but the truth was he would have preferred his own space. Naked, Sam lowered his body to her, buried his face in between her shoulder blades, and began to sob. Mace murmured something and reached back a drowsy hand to rub the nape of his neck. As the sun rose, its first light seeping through the bedroom window, Sam returned to sleep. In his new dream, he was hitting someone, a friend he had known in high school. The boy was laughing, and Sam wanted to hurt him, but he couldn't. Sam put all his strength into his blows, but his fists could gather no force, as if he was swinging through water. His punches only tickled the boy, who collapsed in a fit of giggles. And as Sam slept, the snow fell, as it would all through the morning, settling on the roofs of the houses and on the roads and lightly on the heads of all who had business out of doors. And by the afternoon, everything lay anointed with a fine powder, and

all who saw it thought the city lovely in its whiteness.

Alan Harris COLORS The crayons in the crayon box have issues with each other. The Orange does not like the Green; Black and White hate one another. Scattered across the dirty floor as the child stops her play, the crayons gather secretly to plot a different way. The Blacks can have their own box, The Greens and Orange too. And the Whites can hang together away from Beige and Brown and Blue. As they all agree to separate the family dog arrives. Now theyâ&#x20AC;&#x;re reconciled in the yard in colorful dog pies.

Ana Gavrilovska A PERSON/ A WOMAN/ A BODY/ A BED I am a woman alone. I am a woman alive. I am the only woman I know. I am not surprised.

I was a girl alone. I was a girl afraid. I was the only girl I knew. I was not ashamed.

I am a body to you. I am my breasts, hips, those curves. I am soft flesh, I am ghost skin. I am a body for you

In yr bed I am not alone for one hour or two or until you wake, grab me, say (baby) get up, you have to go.

In my car I am alone, driv(ing) home, lonesome alone.

in my head I am a woman; in your bed I am a girl.

Malcolm Moorer Soul Searching I‟ve always sought the easy life after the way I grew up could‟ve been better than seeing Drugs, violence, death Lost, vexed and stressed from birth to my first decade is how it began I look back at the start of the road, down the path I think I wasted enough gas So the thrust of time permits me to follow through, march forward, toward my ambitions My thoughts of love and success catch the peak of my attention That feeling in my body is beyond my comprehension, but relieves my tension. But then I become submissive And the temptation is massive, my spirit is misplaced. I once told my deepest fears to an empty beer can The measures I have seen as a child shouldn‟t be the views of a grown man A normal childhood was not of my attention span So I read and write. I trace words with my eyes and drop tears through my pen The dreams of a successful gentleman is the dream of an orphan A young man who listens from Anita, and peace from Luther King I made my life better. Separated myself from the people who tried to bring Hate and pussy and power and don‟t forget them diamond rings Chances no bigger than a string; once again it‟s the pain. Pain that would strain a boy to change without a complaint I contemplate my sins and embrace my blessings. But wait, I lost something, So I got to retrace my steps and start from the beginning I got to find myself and trust in a happy ending.

100

Chapters I can flow out with the dope; I can float without a boat The city take care of the city, but not the people Construction is taking place, we driving, they don‟t even know how to treat you Put the money back to the victims so they can be grateful, You act like it‟s not coming back, money goes round, a circle You‟re not listening because it‟s not about diamonds, narcotics, and female dogs You want to abuse, you can be reserved or you can be used Choose, for the moment. Those difficult chemicals bubble through a pulse in your veins; no antibiotics. It‟s the future of your life don‟t end up defined as remains I‟m sick of this rap that, diss, diss this, diss that person and their enmity You‟re mad because it‟s not compatible with your ability They talk about the same thing the rap game done changed It went from Public Enemy, Doug E. Fresh, M.C. Lyte, Common to Kanye West Changed E-V-E, Pac and Biggie, Eminem, to New boys Soulja Boy, and what the hell is a Guicci man You silly man, and I‟m not discriminating against the currency Believe it or not, I got kids too. Their names are Bills and food and they need to be fed, too These lines, these rhymes, I‟m just giving my point of view Show what you know, tell them big and bad people the facts, put that on the spot. People tell the secrets of the body when nobody even cares what you got But if you only know the streets, then I guess that‟s what you all about Well sit back and start to simmer, blaze up a focus feeling. Take a look at the house of crack across the street, hear the clap of the smack that echo When your homeboy bring his wife in the back You thought it was an expression of love until you saw her face missing black. These days are real, some of the people are wasting time with no effort Death comes by your lungs without a gesture I‟m a need you to go all-out for the best, take your mind off her breast, be lustful for that sweet lovin‟ success, rise up to the rest of them appreciated sophisticated gifted able African ancestors, I want to visit Egypt where it first started, then come back with stories of how the waters parted or maybe learn a secret that will mend the broken-hearted.

101

Joseph D Williams The Wolves He‘d been home three months when the nightmares began, and that might have been a blessing if they didn‘t stay long. But once they came, they wouldn‘t stop. They were like vultures, scavenging for what little life could be drawn out of him once time and distance had taken their fill. They were eager to stain their mouths, to pick through the meat of him and growl in his face, and then to drink him up all senseless and savage until they had full mouths and full bellies. But first, they waited, because it would be better for them that way. They waited to see his hand limp with submission so they‘d know he was ripe for the plucking. He would wake in a cold bedroom on the second floor of his childhood home with his knuckles powder-white and his stomach clenched, sure beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was thousands of miles away, and even more certain that the wolves were coming to pick him clean. He could feel them watching him from the shadows. Most nights, he was able to stand up, take a deep breath, stumble out to the bathroom in his pajamas, put his mouth under the faucet for a drink, and then drift his way down the hall and back to bed. By the time he laid his head down, the nightmares were usually forgotten, and he would be able to fall asleep so long as he didn‘t catch himself in the mirror. But if he did, it would be days. After he saw his reflection, he thought about nothing but the faces watching him sleep from the shadows, waiting for him to ripen. He usually let Annabelle sleep, partly because he was terrified to acknowledge the stalking predators in his bedroom, and partly because they had only been together for two

102

months. He envied the way she slept. He liked to watch her and imagine that he was the one with careless, quivering eyes, dreaming that he was late for class though school had let out many years ago, or that he was reuniting with a lover he‘d somehow lost along the way. Sometimes watching her sleep so peacefully like that was comforting enough that he wouldn‘t have to leave the room at all to shake his nightmares. He just closed his eyes and he was gone again. It was his secret. When she stayed over and he woke with the wolves closing in around him, their cool breath gripping his neck and their drool simmering over his crumpled sheets, he would go down to the living room and look out the window at the foggy pre-dawn, rocking back and forth in a chair his parents had bought for his nursery before he was born. It was comforting to have the chair there to cradle him, but he was indifferent to his parents. They seldom woke from his footsteps or his rocking over the creaking wood of the old house, and when they did, they didn‘t seem to notice or care that Annabelle was over like they would have before the wolves found him. He was old enough to make his own choices, and it had nothing to do with his age anymore. She was always gone in the morning before his parents had a chance to inquire of her, and he didn‘t talk to them much anymore, anyway. They didn‘t want to be bothered by his nightmares and he‘d always held back from her because he assumed she felt the same way. Tonight was different. He‘d fallen asleep heavily, his blood thick with alcohol, Annabelle thick with sharp perfume and vodka on her breath that had washed over him so completely he‘d felt like vomiting. They‘d had a fight at the bar because they drank too much and he tipped the bartender a little too handsomely, which on most occasions would have been encouraged because Annabelle

103

had been a bartender herself in her early twenties and she knew how hard it was to pay bills. But they‘d both been drunk, irritable, and the bartender happened to have been an attractive young blonde. Annabelle was no longer young, and her hair was stubbornly brunette no matter how many times she highlighted. They‘d made a scene of it in front of the whole Thursday night crowd, and he didn‘t usually make scenes anywhere. Eventually, Annabelle had broken down into tears and he‘d apologized, more because he felt bad that she was crying than he actually believed he‘d done something wrong. ―It‘s all right,‖ she told him. ―I‘m just drunk.‖ He thought he loved her for that. He‘d been afraid to tell her so. He‘d only been back for three months, and he thought he might be confused because she was the first woman he‘d been with in more than three years. They‘d walked back through the streets of the small town until they reached the first line of houses. Johnny kept the two of them as steady as he could. By then, the alcohol had begun to wear off, from the fight and from getting his blood flowing, and he was embarrassed enough to take her hand beneath the orange streetlights. Annabelle did not speak because she was drunk and focused on making it back to the house without vomiting or saying something she wouldn‘t say otherwise, and she‘d almost laughed in spite of herself when she‘d realized that both were really the same thing, deep down. The wind was light and stuck to their skin like sap. An orange half-moon blended gracefully, seamlessly, with the orange streetlights, and Johnny wondered if the moon and the air and the woman would look just like that anywhere else in the world, or if it was just in that small town on that night. He‘d

104

shivered because the alcohol was wearing off. She‘d stumbled because it hadn‘t. Once they reached the front-porch of his parents‘ home, he stopped Annabelle before she could step any further. ―What is it?‖ she asked cautiously. He exhaled. ―Johnny, I‘ve gotta get inside. I‘m not feeling so good.‖ Annabelle winced and bent over anxiously, as though that alone would keep her stomach from spilling all over the summer night. He nodded and straightened her up. She eyed him, unsure of his intentions but not entirely alarmed. He brushed her hair from her mouth and kissed her softly, letting his lips linger on hers until he saw that her eyes had closed, and then he pulled away. ―Okay,‖ he whispered, and led her up the steps. She‘d stared at him thoughtfully as he held the back door open for her, but Annabelle had said nothing then, and she wouldn‘t for hours. She was asleep as soon as she‘d hit the bed, not bothering to change, brush her teeth, or even slip under the covers, and he‘d followed not long after. In his dream, he was on the other side of the world and it was very cold. The hills sloped and wrinkled the landscape around him and the same orange half-moon of the small town hung precariously close to the edge of a cliff overlooking an ocean of sand. He was all alone out in the wastelands, with no streetlights and no weapons and no clothing to guard him. It was worse than the memory. He curled up into the fetal position and tried not to groan. He‘d always hated being naked in that biting wind, and yet it was waiting for him every time he fell asleep, waiting whether he was ready for it or not. It sank its teeth in wherever it wandered, be it arm or leg or face or thigh, and now he could feel that the wolves

105

were somewhere in the great expanse of black and red and orange, baring their own teeth and waiting for their turn; waiting for him to let his guard down for just a moment, or to fall asleep so they could see his hand limp with submission. They always worked quickly. They hated to see him spoiled by the wind. He stayed that way because there was nothing else that he could do. Eventually, he knew, they would be bold and circle around him as they‘d done countless times before, growling, showing their incisors, their ears straight and their hind legs locked. The wind would pick up and the moon would topple over the edge of the cliff, shaking the earth like Atlas had thundered an Olympian sneeze. Then, they‘d come. He‘d tried to outrun them before but it had never worked. The landscape was a long plateau with nothing but craters and subtle rises that formed barren hilltops. There was no place to hide. They‘d be on him before he reached the first rise. Already, they were beginning to close in. He trembled and felt tears threatening to stain his cheeks, but he made sure they didn‘t break because that would only bring the wolves closer. That would only admit defeat. He cowered into himself and was dully ashamed, but it still seemed better than lying on his back and showing them his underbelly. The sand prickled like whiskers against his bare skin. The moon climbed back up to the top of the cliff where it resumed its peculiar perch. The wind died and rose once more like a new rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouching towards Bethlehem to be born. He shivered. The wolves came. He heard their paws pattering along in the sand no more than a dozen meters away from him and he wondered how they could have made it so far from his childhood home, half the world

106

away, without the benefit of dreaming. The sounds arising from their chests touched him everywhere. He was afraid to even glance up at them, terrified that he‘d end up looking straight into their eyes. He wasn‘t sure what would happen if he did, but he had a dreadful certainty that it wouldn‘t be a dream anymore if he aligned himself with their hungry stares. Their steps were slow at first, but the closer they came, the bolder they were, until he could hear them wrestling each other, ravenously, for the first go at him. The winner crashed into his side too quickly and the others were able to leap onto its back and pin it to the ground without much trouble. They took his spot at the table and were likewise replaced by those who followed. There was an endless chorus of growling and whimpering and slathering all around Johnny that chilled his heart, and that was all there was before the first bite sank into his back, then his leg, then his forearm. They always went for the same spots. They always went for his scars, as though nowhere else on his body had been opened for them. For an incalculable amount of time, they‘d taken their turns, ripping the flesh from his bones and picking through his muscles, at first voraciously and then with more reserve and speculation, which was even more terrifying than the rage that had first set them on him. He‘d cried out over and over again, but the pain had been more of a dull ringing throughout his body than the localized, piercing tears he was used to, and it had felt wrong to scream without the tears. He‘d known he would still feel the ringing when he woke up. He wasn‘t sure he preferred it. Once they‘d finished, they skulked away into the darkness with their tails swishing contentedly across the sand, wiping away their tracks. And then, he awoke.

107

It wasn‘t a violent lurch that sent him upright, gasping. He wasn‘t in a cold sweat and breathing heavily, like people always were in the movies after a nightmare. He was just cold. It was a slow waking, and that was almost more terrible because he was thinking clearly by the time he opened his eyes, and that was when he saw their shining teeth in the mirror, their glowing eyes, in the shadows all around him, ready to turn his nightmares and his memories into a new reality. They were ready to reopen the scars up and down his body and mind in case he ever forgot where he came from; in case he ever forgot that they would always be watching him from the shadows and the mirrors. Most nights, he could walk out and put his mouth under the bathroom faucet to make them go away. Most nights, he could go sit in the rocking chair and watch until the world lit up around him. Most nights, he didn‘t need anyone. But tonight was different. Tonight, he did. ―Anna,‖ he whispered. She did not wake. He gripped her shoulder and nudged her gently, his eyes nothing but slits lest they catch sight of one of them again. ―Annabelle,‖ he said. She did not wake. He heard a growl building from the closet and the blood retreated from his toes and fingers. The dull ringing echoed throughout his body. He swallowed back tears. ―Annabelle!‖ he pleaded. She woke. There was a moment as she looked around the bedroom in an impermeable fog when he thought she would fall right back asleep and that he‘d be all alone to face the wolves just like before, but then their eyes met and she‘d touched his face with clumsy, swollen fingers. ―What‘s wrong, Johnny?‖

108

His tongue froze in his mouth. His eyes were wide. ―Did someone break in?‖ He shook his head. It was difficult to hold the tears back now that she was fully awake and consoling him. ―Have a bad dream?‖ she mocked. He nodded slowly, feeling like a child. Her thin smile evaporated and she nuzzled into his neck. ―It‘s all right.‖ She kissed his cheek. ―I love you, Anna,‖ he said. She sat up in bed with her eyebrows raised. After a few moments, ―I love you too, John.‖ She looked down into her fingers. ―I‘m sorry about before.‖ He did not smile, nor did he act surprised. He pulled her back down to the bed and wove their hands together. ―Stay with me every night. Don‘t leave me alone.‖ She shuffled a few inches away from him, still gripping his hand tightly. ―Really?‖ He paused and looked into the dressermirror at the foot of the bed. ―Yeah.‖ ―Every night? At your parents‘?‖ she asked again incredulously. Black eyes stared back at him. The wolves of the silences whispered from every corner of the room. They were closing in again. He swallowed. ―Please. Until the wolves go away.‖ She was quiet for a moment, considering. Then, ―Okay.‖ She watched him struggle back into the sheets and turn away from her, then she kissed his cheek and held him until he fell asleep, not sure exactly what he was talking about or whether or not he really meant it, but not too

109

concerned either way. She knew well that men said strange things in the night, in the dark, surrounded by nothing but wolves and mirrors.

110

Michael Green An Excerpt from Case Log A distinct and as yet inexplicable case. The patient shows typical symptoms of retrograde amnesia. Mr. White is suffering from a dissociative fugue. He knows nothing of his past (excepting the issue which I will come to in a moment), nor of his identity, nor that of his family. He retains the ability to form new memories, and his intellectual processes have remained intact. However, there is an exceptional element here, an anomaly for which there seems to be no immediate explanation and, again, no known predecessor in documented medical history. Mr. White, with incisive clarity, can recall, without error (at least concerning the reference material we have at hand), long journal passages he had written before the incident. He has no memory of writing, nor of the three notebooks of which he was in possession at the time of his discovery. But yet, when asked what he knows, what he can remember, he conjures the words, which have no apparent significance to him, precisely and effortlessly. The writing in the notebooks is quite strange. It is what appears to be something of a journal of ideas. As it seems, there is no explicit information concerning Mr. White's life or past, but rather a number of seemingly disconnected entries. Perhaps indeed a connection may be made, and possibly pertinent information drawn. However, as only a superficial reading has been done thus far, that being a comparison of the written text on just a few pages to Mr. White's recital thereof, nothing concrete can yet be said of the words. Mr. White was discovered unconscious and without identification on the tile of the first floor bathroom at the Amtrak Station in Royal Oak and was brought to us after his release from Beaumont. Mr. White is the name he has chosen for himself. He appears to be in his mid-twenties. Upon full examination at the emergency room, the patient was found to be moderately malnourished. The blood and urine tests revealed that he had ingested a substantial amount of amphetamines. Dr. Warshaw's analysis of Mr. White lead him to believe that he had fainted, which explains his backward fall. He landed heavily against the wall, striking the back of his head on the wall and also the metal piping of one the urinals; blood was found on both. An MRI showed nothing unusual. For a patient whose identity and provenance are unknown, the state assumes responsibility of care, and in this instance, due to the

111

specific and unprecedented nature of the situation (Mr. White is not comatose, and in good health, but with nowhere to go), he has been released from the hospital and put into our care. Because he is coherent and lucid, he is under no legal restraint, but has been strongly advised to remain here until necessary revelations surface. With the aid of local law enforcement and local and national media, a search for friends and relatives has begun. I have started this log to document this particular and peculiar case. A precise record of progress and revelation is of utter importance. 9 October 2009 In order to begin getting a grasp on the situation, it is important to begin with what I know of the patient, and what he indeed knows of himself - specifically, the writing. A process of inductive interpretation will be useful in making our way toward revelation, and may in fact be all we have to work with to determine the patient's identity - as yet, there has not been any response to the public notices of Mr. White's discovery. The final entry is where I have begun. I am unsure of the chronology here. However, the last entry is dated, as random entries are. The date is 3 October 2009, the day before Mr. White was discovered. In order to direct Mr. Whiteâ&#x20AC;&#x;s mind to the paragraph at hand, the first two words were read aloud. He proceeded to quote the passage in its entirety, without error. I will transcribe the entry here exactly as it appears in the notebook: freedom, please. heckling from the clouds. associate freely. unscrupulously. dew and leaves and the space between the branch and the grass. blades of green like spikes to split my toes? just wondering about how so much can be. please, freedom. heckling from the treetops, singing and soaring like some opiated eagle. how the rain isn't more painful, i'll never know. Tchaikovsky conducting as the eagle soars, puffs a pipe, sits in a field, poppy seeds and slow motion relaxation. just once, freedom. just once. and make no mistake, i use the eraser. heckling, i'd get a gun if i had more energy. please, just once. undulating the earth. the air vibrates from the grace of the wings, sends a column of something like a hurricane down, knocking me off balance. associate freely. freedom, please. just once. this trip must end.

112

It is important, first, to note the affect and inflection with which this was delivered. Monotone, uninterested, yet spoken very quickly. He spoke as if to no one, keeping his eyes focused on the tile below his feet. Once finished speaking, as though he was waiting, he leaned down to tie his shoe. When asked to recite the same entry once more, he said, “No, I think I‟ll take a little walk.” I managed to persuade him to remain seated for just a few more moments so that I may feel satisfied with the work of our session, and thus his own progress. He then sat far back on the bed, leaning his head on a pillow against the wall, and fixed his gaze out the window. His indifference is baffling. When asked what he thought the passage meant, he said, “I don‟t know.” When asked to venture a guess, he said blandly, “Probably nothing. Free association.” Because Mr. White‟s interpretation of the text, especially something as cryptic as this, is pertinent to making some progress in piecing the situation together as best we can, I pushed further, reminding him that he had written it, hoping to elicit some personal or intellectual examination. Thereupon, he found it fitting to recite another passage, saying indeterminately, "I do not believe I am a writer." A vague statement, but before I was able get some clarification on what he had meant, he began (again, transcribed exactly as it is appears in the notebook): a note i felt good yesterday. infused with the electricity of confidence that sustained me in childhood. a very delicate combination of brownish, stale weed, light beer, and 30 milligrams of Adderal, all ingested regimentally. the result something resembling happiness. ha! by god, with some work, albeit ingestive, it can happen! what a beautiful thing. today was different. and so i leave you with this. it is, if we are to condense this thing, the "reason": wisdom defeats childish reverie, and though the wisest of men questions wisdom itself, the majesty, mystery, and love in childhood may never be regained. and writing is not peace enough, especially when you are compelled to but cannot do it. with all my love, goodbye The subsequent conversation went as follows: "The correlation?" I asked him.

113

"It's all drivel," he said, half smiling. "Possibly," I admitted, then quickly added, "It seems you had a pleasant childhood." "I wouldn't know." "Of course not. Nor would I. It seems that way, though, wouldn't you agree?" "I couldn't." "It's quite plainly written." "By whom?" He paused, staring through me, then added, "I think I'll take a little walk." "By you, Mr. White," I insisted. "Would it not be a fair assessment of the passage you've just recited to say that you had a pleasant childhood?" "I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t know." At that, I decided to withdraw. "All right, I suppose we've done enough. Ms. Linen will be coming by in just a few minutes with your dinner. Shall I tell her to wait?" "Please." Oct. 10, 2009 Dr. Ethan Black. His eyeglasses turn black in the sunlight. I feel as though I won't stay here very long, though I'm not sure where I'd go. He comes in every few hours during the day to ask me the same questions - emerging memories, recitations. I recite for him as quickly as I can manage in order to get him to leave. He is quite astonished by me. I am myself, of course, mystified. It is as though a carousel is running inside my brain, and the words are right there in perpetual revolution for me to read whenever I choose to turn and look. And mostly I choose not to look, but the twinkle of the carnival music remains, echoes behind me. The words themselves are often odd and difficult to interpret, and I have trouble believing that I wrote them - I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t know why. I am, however, continuing them here in the clean notebook Dr. Black gave me, but in more traditional fashion. I have nothing else to

114

do. Of course, I cannot imagine how this has affected me. And I cannot even be sure that it has in any way affected me, that is, beyond the obvious. I am here instead of there, wherever that may be, and I am alone - these things I am sure of. I do think that my father is alive. I wrote him letters that I apparently never sent, nor possibly ever had the intention of sending; they are stuck in the pages among all the other blathering without any more separation than a few lines. I would surely have dedicated a clean page to be torn out if my intention was to write and mail a letter. Maybe he is not alive. The letters to my father are actually quite revealing, and I suppose I may begin to sort this out by starting with them. It seems quite obvious that I am indeed the writer, here. Why else would I have these notebooks? And, though Dr. Black has not yet thought of it, perhaps because he needs no convincing, I have, as a consequence of writing at this very moment, done a comparison of the penmanship, and though I am (probably) not an expert, I see there is definite resemblance. Regarding a relative comparison of my mental state now and the best image I have of myself before the incident, there is only one thing to be said, at least for now - it seems I felt occluded then. I seem to feel the same now. That is, at least, what the tone and the language of the letters to my father imply, and in fact what most all of the writing implies. Now, it has simply undergone a strange sort of transmutation. That is, if the letters, and everything else in the notebooks, have any foundation in reality. It may all be fiction, for much of it, in fact, obviously is. Take this, for example: Guy-

everything

sounds

else

115

something

Girl- I don‘t think I sound like something else Guy- who do I sound like to you? Girl- no one. Guy- everyone sounds like someone else Girl- I don‘t. Guy- well, someone else sounds like you Girl- so, if everything sounds like something else, what does your poetry sound like? Guy- you know that sound when a small fish jumps out of the water to get an insect.. Girl- it sounds like that? Guy- only if the fish misses the insect -Short pauseGirl- do you write anything other than poetry? Guy- addendums to scripture Girl- any examples? Guy- no Girl- why not? Guy- because I don‘t really do that Interpretation? I have none. It may in fact be a real conversation, recorded verbatim. Probably not. And about this place - it is a place, at least, with people and walls and I have my own room. There is a man named Dave who‘s next door. He wears a big blue and green holiday sweater he says Mama knitted for him. He calls me Lawrence, which is okay. I‘ve seen him speak to only one person besides me - Laura, who is small and darkish; deep green eyes. She counts every step she takes aloud. Dave howls along whenever he‘s in earshot. Their two voices join and ring in semi-harmony through the halls every so often, like a grandfather clock. She takes frequent trips to the drinking fountain, twelve steps there and fourteen back. Oct. 12

116

I cannot explain this. A mountain looms, mist surrounds, it is night, a half crescent hangs indifferently above, and there is a woman. She plays the harp, and I cannot see her face. She wears a veil. She is in the distance, yet I feel close to her. I can feel her breath. It moves the mist past my ears. She sings. I listen for the words, but it is hopeless. I cannot understand her. She knows me. I look to the mountain. I wonder. There is nothing. Only her. She is magnificent. When she stops singing, she turns to me. Her harp is growing, heaving, taking her breath, she is disappearing. As the strings grow they sound, vibrate beautifully, as they were made to do. She is translucent now, glowing. Now gone. I am alone. It was a dream. I wake sharply, confounded, enchanted, alone. Heavily, I walk to the window. There is a dark, deep fog. The courtyard below is vacant, save one person. A woman. The moon above is almost full. She sits, gazes up at me. Then turns away. Ms. Linen, mother of the ward, knocks, then enters. I turn to see her, then turn back to the window. She is gone. I wonder. Ms. Linen seems frightened. I do not seem to myself to have done anything alarming. Simply gazing out the window. But before I can say anything, she swings herself back out into the hallway and yells for help. It is then that I notice it. The blood leaking through my white t-shirt, down my arm. And then the pain. Like a thousand needles, stabbing, injecting some awful poison. The blood is pooling on the off-white tile below me, staining my socks. She is with me now. I have fallen to my knees, now back against the wall. More of them enter, nurses, doctors, large men whose work it is to restrain. On my back now, my shirt is cut away. I try to tell them about the pain, and the blood, and about the woman in the courtyard, but I am too weak. They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t seem

117

to pay much attention. Their focus is on the wound, and on my eyeballs. It is bad, I hear them say. What did he do? They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t address me directly, I am too weak and unable communicate. Now I am gone. I am stitched and bandaged and sore, and left wondering. They found bloodied scissors on the floor.

12 October 2009 Mr. White has sustained what we believe to be a self-inflicted wound, a stab with a pair of scissors, in the crotch of his shoulder. Ms. Linen found him last night. I spoke with him this morning: "What do you remember?" "I remember specifically not stabbing myself." "Who do you believe did?" "Anybody," he said, almost philosophically, then added, "You." "I was at home, Mr. White." "Sounds nice." "I'm not accusing," I said assuringly. "I think I'll go for a little walk." "Please, this must be attended to." He nodded, adjusting the sling. "Very well. Now, you mentioned you were dreaming. What of?" "You." He smirked. "Okay," I humored. "What was I doing?" "Pleading with me to give a speech." "A speech?" "Yes. All your doctor friends were there, gathered around a campfire, chewing on pencils." "Okay, let's move along," I responded. "You said something of a woman." "Yes. She was there, too. Carving hearts into trees." "Who was she?" "I'm amnesic, Dr. Black." "Very well. What were her features?" "What did she look like, you mean? About 6'2, 330, dark curls." "Please, let's try to be reasonable, Mr. White. I have done nothing to

118

you." "You may have stabbed me." "I can assure that I did not." We fell silent for a moment, then Mr. White cleared his throat and, in unison with the voice of a patient in the hall, began counting loudly, prompting yet another voice (Dave Morse) from the room next door, making three. First they counted slowly to twelve, then to fourteen. After a minute, they had finished, and Mr. White said, "You were saying?" I began, "We must try to make progress here, Mr. White. As long as you're here, it is my responsibility to work for you. Do you not wish progress?" "Max, let's regress to progress, recede to proceed to succeed, feed the flowers, feed the bees, huggin' treeeeeeees.....jesus." This is a recitation, quoted verbatim from the text of the notebooks. Max is a recurring character in many random, unfinished passages. I have found that Mr. White, seemingly without initial intention, with vacant stare, has a tendency to, triggered by certain words or phrases from the text, begin reciting. He appears to become aware of this midway through, judging by eventual eye contact and wry smile (as though he‟s joking), but continues until the passage is complete. I may be mistaken here, and he may in fact be doing this to disrupt things, as is his apparent nature, but in my estimation, it rather seems that, once awareness returns, there is impulse to cover, to continue on as though it were an act, due either to embarrassment or denial. What followed here, after his mention of Max, proved to be the first receptive and reciprocal conversation we have had yet, despite its brevity. "What do you think of Max?" "He seems to be doing well." “Okay. And what do you think of him?” “Is this relevant? I think an investigation is in order.” “Very well, we‟ll begin at once.” I chose here to match his sarcastic tone. He glanced toward the window. “Any word from the outside?” “Not yet, but give it time, it hasn‟t yet been a week.” “What do you suppose is the process here, Doc?” “We must continue as we have. Cooperation is important.” “You ought to be studying my head. Hook me up, wires, tubes, electroshock.”

119

“The notebooks. I believe your past must be in them. Beyond diagnosis and potential treatment, the end here is retrieving your life.” “The end is my life,” he echoed. “In a matter of speaking, yes,” I said. “You wrote to your father. Those entries are the only ones with any mention of family, or friends for that matter. What do you make of them?” “Not much.” “Do they invoke any images?” “Only of the words. The text is all I see.” “The written text?” “Yes.” At that moment, Dave, the patient in the adjacent room suffering dementia, bellowed, “Hey, Lawrence!” Mr. White smiled at me. “Who is Lawrence?” I asked. “I am,” Mr. White said, then to Dave, “Hey, Dave!” “Is your leg still bloody?” Dave yelled. “My arm is okay, pal,” Mr. White responded. “Is your leg okay?” Dave insisted. “It‟s all okay, pal. Thank you.” Dave, in the five years of his residence here, has not spoken a word to anyone other than Laura, a fellow patient, and himself. He arrived with a napkin pinned to his sweater on which was written all the pertinent information. Some research was done regarding his personal history, and it was discovered that he is David Morse, the local poet and novelist, who had been in hiding, or so it was thought, for more than eight years. Having published nothing for more than ten years, and having been in complete reclusion for nearly the same amount of time, public curiosity and speculation grew, fueled especially by his most recent work, a collection of poems entitled, Eye of the Fractal, which was hailed by many as a masterpiece of unyielding, yet maniacal hope, while many more found it trite and repulsive - a degradation and underdeveloped parody of faith. I find myself of the former opinion, and it has thus been quite disappointing that he has spoken to no one, saving himself and Laura. Tragically, not one visitor has arrived to see him in his five years here. His daughter calls periodically, but lives in California. She speaks with the nurses or with me because her father, steadily gazing out the window muttering to himself, as he does most of every day, obstinately refuses the telephone with a look of indifference that one working diligently and in deep thought may give when bothered with something peripheral and irrelevant. Thus, it was quite surprising, to put it mildly, to hear David speak so easily, even eagerly, with Mr. White. It is my opinion that

120

David's relationship with Laura is fostered by her striking likeness to his late wife, of whom he has a photograph taped to his wall. However, there is nothing explicitly apparent to account for his taking to Mr. White. Following their exchange, it occurred to me that the possibility exists of some past relation or acquaintance between Mr. White and David. And that, for Mr. White's sake, it is worth delving into. However, the responsibility here lies with Mr. White himself, for David will speak to no one else. I therefore suggested to Mr. White that he indulge the situation, and attempt to draw information from David. Mr. White seemed to have little faith in the possibility of some past connection, but nonetheless exuded a sort of curious pride about the situation when David's identity was revealed to him. "I'll see what comes of it," Mr. White said, grinning. If nothing else, the two will gain something from some reciprocal human communication.

Oct. 13 Dr. Black may be right. Actually, he is absolutely right. I had a conversation with Dave just now. ―Hello, Dave,‖ I said. ―Lawrence, hello.‖ He was busy scribbling something in marker on the windowsill. ―How‘s everything?‖ ―Strong eastward wind, Lawrence. Trees are bending,‖ he muttered. ―We‘ll take care of it tomorrow.‖ ―Of what?‖ ―Be reasonable, please. I have little tolerance now for your nonchalance. How is your leg?‖ ―My arm is fine.‖ I said tentatively. Baffled, he gazed up now, and it became apparent that he knew nothing of my shoulder injury. ―What‘s this?‖ He barked, enraged. ―What happened? You must tell me of such things, you

121

know this.‖ ―I‘m sorry, Dave. Just an accident. I‘m okay now.‖ ―You know not to call me that,‖ he said, glaring at me. ―What may I call you?‖ To this he said nothing, but continued to glare, and I got the feeling that I know damn well what to call him. But I do not. ―Yes, sir,‖ I said, and he went back to his scribbling. ―What are you writing?‖ ―Come and read for God‘s sake. It is ours, isn‘t it?‖ ―It is,‖ I said obligingly. What I found written there was astounding. In surprisingly neat hand were, word for word, the first sentences in one of my notebooks: Killings and satisfactions and frustrations of the mind have no place here. No longer can the abstract be abstract, and the real be real, nor can the real be abstract, and vice versa. Dr. Black has arrived. I‘ll continue this later.

122

Josh Olsen ―YOU BURN ME‖ In white spray paint, lengthwise upon the green overpass, the words, “I apologize,” and over it in dripping pink brush strokes, “YOU BURN ME.” There‟s a man dropping garbage onto traffic below. An overripe pineapple explodes on the windshield of a Dodge Caravan, while a sticky nine of spades with a pink fingerprint in the center adheres to mine. “Is this your card?” I imagine the man on the overpass asking, but before I can respond he jumps.

123

There‘s nothing There‟s nothing but snow and the breath of wolves fogging up the glass. I‟ve been feeding on olives, lemons, cucumber vodka, and ball lightning, but it won‟t be long before I resort to books. Page after page after page melting on my tongue like the host.

124

125

To ML, all the authors, Nick, Steve and Erin, Thank you for making this an amazing experience, one I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t soon forget. Sean M Davis

126

[ashton kramer] [bill harris] [tamara holland] [jennifer erny] [ricardo casta単o IV] [shelley wettergren] [anne-marie oomen] [drew bazini] [danielle gonzalez] [carmen m mendoza king] [molly gail shannon] [joshua pippen] [m.m. wolfe] [alan harris] [ana gavrilovska] [malcolm moorer] [jospeh d williams] [michael green] [josh olsen]