UFM
issue10 / 1
CONTENTS Prose:
June 2012 Umbrella Factory Magazine Issue 10
John Matthews The Wall 11-15 Arthur Diamond One Morning in Walker County, Georgia
8-10
Poetry: Ezekiel Black “Phalanx” “Taghairm” “Prospective Titles”
21 22 23
S.D. Stewart “Panda” 24 “Perched on the precipice of the week’s end” 25 Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas “Things I Noticed, while You Laid Dying” “Shades of Her” “Insert the Current date and Time” “Turning the Pages of your Photo Book” “Raincheck Prayers”
26 27 28 29 30
Art:
2/
Gregg Chadwick “I Canti (The Cantos)” “Engine Company” “Call and Echo” “Red in Rain” (cover art)
16 17 19 18
Editor’s Note About Us Submission Guidlines BIos and Credits
5 4 6-7 31
issue10 UFM
UMBRELLA FACTORY WORKERS Worker in Chief
Anthony ILacqua Fiction Editor
Amanda Bales Poetry Editor
Julie Ewald Copy Editor
Janice Hampton Art Editor/Design
Jana Bloomquist Nonfiction Editor/Web Developer
Mark Dragotta
UFM
issue10 / 3
Umbrella Factory isn’t just a magazine, it’s a community project that includes writers, readers, poets, essayists, filmmakers and anyone doing something especially cool. The scope is rather large but rather simple. We want to establish a community--virtual and actual--where great readers and writers and artists can come together and do their thing, whatever that thing may be.
Umbrella
Maybe our Mission Statement says it best:
Factory
isn’t
just
a
We are a small press determined to connect well-developed magazine, it’s a community readers to intelligent writers and poets through virtual means, includes printed journals, and books. project We believe that in making an honest writers, readers, living providing the best writers and poets a forumpoets, for their essayists, filmmakers and work.
anyone doing something
We love what we have here and we want youcool. to love it The equally especially as much. That’s why we need your writing, your participation, scope isWerather large butTell your involvement and your enthusiasm. need your voice. everyone you know. Tell everyone who’s interested, everyone who’s not interested, tell your parents and your kids, your students and your teachers. Tell them the Umbrella Factory is open for business. Subscribe. Comment. Submit. Tell everyone you know. Stay dry
4/
issue10 UFM
hello there
Welcome to Issue 10, June 2012 I am very fortunate to be a part of Umbrella Factory Magazine. The fortune is simply that every ninety days I play a part in curating the kind of magazine I want to read. I read several other literary magazines a month, many of which I’m immensely fond, but there is something especially great about UFM. Perhaps the fortune is in the reading of the prose submissions we receive. No. The fortune comes with the process: we read, we reject, we argue, we accept, we curate, and then we come to this: another issue. Then, we take a week off. This happens every ninety days. The one aspect I left out of course, is the staff at UFM. When I think about our work and working together, a fella just doesn’t get any luckier. Thank you Amanda, Jana, Janice, Julie and Mark. Our Issue 10 contributors have helped us to carry out our mission of connecting well developed readers to the best writing available. Ezekiel Black’s “Taghairm” and S.D. Steward’s “Perched on the precipice of the week’s end” rank two of my favorite poems. And of course, the set of poems by Lynn Stevenson Grellas are potent when read individually, but more impressive as a whole. As for our writers of prose: John Matthew’s object lesson in “The Wall” raised my eyebrows. “One Morning in Walker County, Georgia,” well, it’s one morning in Walker County thanks to Arthur Diamond. Find us on Twitter. Subscribe. Comment. Submit. Tell everyone you know. Stay dry. Anthony ILacqua
UFM
issue10 / 5
submissions
Submission Guidelines:
Yes, we respond to all submissions. The turn-around takes about three to six weeks. Be patient. We are hardworking people who will get back to you. On the first page please include: your name, address, phone number and email. Your work has to be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please notify Umbrella Factory if your piece gets published elsewhere. We accept submissions online at www.umbrellafactorymagazine.com
ART / PHOTOGRAPHY
POETRY
Accepting submissions for the next cover or featured artwork/photography of Umbrella Factory Magazine. For our cover we would like to incorporate images with the theme of umbrellas, factories and/or workers. Feel free to use one or all of these concepts.
We accept submissions of three to five poems for shorter works. If submitting longer pieces, please limit your submission to 10 pages. Please submit only previously unpublished work.
In addition we accept any artwork or photos for consideration in UFM. We archive accepted artwork and may use it with an appropriate story, mood or theme. Our cover is square so please keep that in mind when creating your images. Image size should be a minimum of 700 pixels at 300 dpi, (however, larger is better) jpeg or any common image file format is acceptable.zz Please include your bio to be published in the magazine. Also let us know if we can alter your work in any way.
We do not accept multiple submissions; please wait to hear back from us regarding your initial submission before sending another. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but please withdraw your piece immediately if it is accepted elsewhere. All poetry submissions must be accompanied by a cover letter that includes a two to four sentence bio in the third person. This bio will be used if we accept your work for publication. Please include your name and contact information within the cover letter.
SUBMIT YOUR WORK ONLINE AT WWW.UMBRELLAFACTORYMAGAZINE.COM 6/
issue10 UFM
submissions
NONFICTION Nonfiction can vary so dramatically it’s hard to make a blanket statement about expectations. The nuts-and-bolts of what we expect from memoire, for example, will vary from what we expect from narrative journalism. However, there are a few universal factors that must be present in all good nonfiction. 1. Between 1,000 and 5,000 words 2. Well researched and reported 3. A distinct and clearly developed voice 4. Command of the language, i.e. excellent prose. A compelling subject needs to be complimented with equally compelling language. 5. No major spelling/punctuation errors 6. A clear focus backed with information/instruction that is supported with insight/reflection 7. Like all good writing, nonfiction needs to connect us to something more universal than one person’s experience. 8. Appropriate frame and structure that compliments the subject and keeps the narrative flowing 9. Although interviews will be considered, they need to be timely, informative entertaining an offer a unique perspective on the subject. Please double space. We do not accept multiple submissions, please wait for a reply before submitting your next piece.
FICTION Sized between 1,000 and 5,000 words. Any writer wishing to submit fiction in an excess of 5,000 words, please query first. Please double space. We do not accept multiple submissions, please wait for a reply before submitting your next piece. On your cover page please include: a short bio―who you are, what you do, hope to be. Include any great life revelations, education and your favorite novel.
UFM
issue10 / 7
One Morning in Walker County, Georgia Arthur Diamond
The
manager of the diner figured it this way: if people had known about it, it would have been found out. And because no one found out over the span of years, why, that proved no one knew about it. This was all he would have to say when anyone asked. He’d look careful-smart and they’d likely leave him alone. He’d worked himself up from busboy over the course of five years and always looked for an opportunity for people to notice he got paid for thinking. 8/
issue10 UFM
prose The manager had the morning paper and was standing in the pre-dawn looking out the front door when the dishwasher, an older black man, joined him. The dishwasher was late and came in through the back, and the manager didn’t look at him. If there was one thing the manager didn’t want to be known for, it was wasting time. The dishwasher lit a cigarette and offered one to the manager, who politely refused. He was looking out the front door. A fly circled overhead in the dark and then trailed off towards the lights of the kitchen. “You got a lot to do,” the manager said softly in the dark. “Why you wasting time here?” “Had the radio on.” “I ask you again: why you wasting time?” The dishwasher pointed. “What you’re lookin’ at.” Outside on the corner across the street the waitress was talking to the sheriff, who was in his patrol car with his hat on. The waitress was supposed to be in the diner already setting up. She was pointing this way and that and kept a distance between herself and the sheriff like she was a little girl giving directions to someone she didn’t know. With his hat pressed against the ceiling of the car the sheriff didn’t move his head much. “She’ll be all right,” said the manager. “You getting paid to stand here?” The dishwasher folded his arms and let his cigarette hang from his mouth. “You know he’s involved.” “I don’t know that for a fact.” “You think a sheriff don’t know what
goes on in his county?” The manager rolled the newspaper and stuck it in a back pocket of his slacks. He was a tall, pocked man with close-cropped hair and wore a white shirt every day to work. He often put his hand to his mouth when he talked to hide a gold tooth that wasn’t put in well and interfered with his speech. He thought he might do more talking than usual today. “What did they say on the radio?” “Numbers. 344 unburied corpses on the crematory grounds.” “My God.” He was truly impressed. “Yesterday it was 200. The number keeps changing up. It changed up three times in less than an hour. We could keep count on a placard in the window.” The manager looked at the dishwasher and then away. “They’ll probably be in here today asking questions,” said the dishwasher. “Let them ask. I had no idea about any of it.” The dishwasher was looking at him. “They’re going to find out that Bennett character was a regular in here.” “Let them ask. I never talked to him except hello and goodbye.” “Maybe not,” said the dishwasher. “But others talked. People knew something was going on.” “I had no idea about any of it.” “I guess maybe you should visit the doctor.” The manager glanced at the dishwasher. “Your ears might need checking.” The manager turned to face the dish-
washer, who sniffled and looked out the door and drew long on his cigarette and exhaled. “Or they could be all right.” “My ears aren’t your business,” the manager said. “We need Sharon in here already. Go out there and call her in.” “That’s a good one,” the dishwasher chuckled. Outside the waitress and the sheriff looked to be discussing something pretty hard now, both of them agitated, the sheriff with his hat off. The manager was debating whether to switch on the overhead lights when a van went by. It had the name of a news organization and parked up the street across from the police station. The van kept its lights on. “Going to be a busy day,” said the dishwasher. “Lotsa bodies in here.” The manager scowled in the dark. Then he caught a smell he didn’t like. He wondered what the dishwasher would do if accused of not changing his clothes often enough. You expected that when you hired vagabonds. Though this one was a good worker, not consistently moody, a temperate old wiseacre. The waitresses liked him well enough. It would be good if he stayed on awhile, though he had a mouth. The manager used the newspaper now to swat at the returning fly, giving him the excuse to step away from the dishwasher and his smell. The paper the manager was holding was yesterday’s Atlanta paper, where the story broke. He had carried it with him almost everywhere since yesterday. Every chance he got he sat down with it alone and poured over the two articles on the front page that continued to the middle of the front section of the paper.
UFM
issue10 / 9
prose It was hard to believe the number of dead and the way the paper said they had been treated, or rather not treated, left to rot in their coffins, stacked up like crates in buildings on the grounds of the crematory. Many of the bodies weren’t even in coffins. They’d been in stacks like woodpiles on floors and machinery and outside next to a barn. If asked, the manager would have to say that Bennett, the young man who ran the crematory, was in here just about every day. Not much of a talker, but nice enough, always left a solid tip. Everyone knew his parents who ran the business before him. Pillars of the community, townspeople would agree. The dishwasher was scratching his neck, looking out through the door. “If I saw what she saw I don’t know if I would be talking to anybody right now. Don’t know if I could.” “You were in the army.” “But I ain’t no girl.” “She was the one who called the police.” “Darn right. And I told her I’d go out there with her, right after my shift. But she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to return that Bennett man’s hat to him.” “She should have waited for you.” The dishwasher shook his head, over and over, looking out the door. “She came upon it all alone. All by herself.” “Maybe we should go out and see what’s holding her up,” said the manager weakly. The reddish sky was lightening over the eastern hills. Standing with her arms crossed by the patrol car, the waitress kept shaking her head.
10 /
issue10 UFM
“She don’t look happy,” said the dishwasher. “He don’t either. I’ll be right behind you.” As they watched the waitress suddenly stepped away from the car, whose taillights flickered; there was a puff of tailpipe smoke and the car rolled away. From the opposite direction came another car, brights on, and it stopped and the drivers conversed, heads out their windows and inches away from one another in mirror silhouette. Then the patrol car proceeded on. The waitress was alone on the corner, just standing there. “You can go bring her in,” said the manager, and went back to his office. He didn’t put the light on. In the cramped room above a file cabinet was a small window looking out on the lot next door and the street, and he stood there. News vans with their tall white dishes proceeded in halting procession, veering off to idle confidently in cramped spaces before the police station and beyond it. He had a television in the office, a small black and white. He thought that if he turned it on right now there was a good chance he’d see the scene he had just seen looking outside the window. Suddenly there was a racket out front. The dishwasher appeared in the doorway and flicked on the light. “Well they’re streaming in and asking questions.” The manager’s hand went to his mouth. “Sharon?” “She came in with the cook. She’s pretty shook up. They all crowding in on her, microphones and cameras. I guess it’s better than being ignored.”
“Tell her she can come back here. I’ll phone Dolores to come in.” “She’s out of town today. It’s her birthday.” The manager had the phone in his hand and hung it up. “Hell what are we supposed to do?” The fly from the lunchroom entered, circled the room once, exited the way it had come in, same speed, same numb buzzing. It was noisy out front. “I’ll kick them out,” the dishwasher declared. “Me and the cook. Have us some exercise. We’re not supposed to open anyway for another half-hour.” “Good. And tell Sharon to come back here. We’ve got to figure out what to tell them.” “What to tell them? I thought you had nothing to say?” The manager looked at the dishwasher. He realized that this old boy might be trouble. He had a mouth on him. That might be a problem. The dishwasher stood there looking at him. “Well we got to talk anyway,” said the manager. “Go on.” The dishwasher stood there. “Well?” “Lunch special,” said the dishwasher. “Any ideas? I’ll tell the cook.” The manager squinted at him. “Maybe go with something vegetarian,” said the dishwasher, and vanished. The manager went to the door and shut it angrily, thinking it’s always trouble when you hire a vagabond.
THE WALL John H. Matthews
UFM
issue10 / 11
prose
It happens overnight, or seems to. When Packer-Shore sells our retirement community to Spetz Development, I read about the deal in our newsletter, The Daily Sunshine. Not two days after the hand-off is official, a man in a suit comes to our door. He has jet-black hair, a doll’s head and a taped-on smile. He could be forty; he could be twenty-five. He introduces himself as Jim Score, CEO of Spetz, says he’s making the rounds of the community, meeting the residents and taking an informal survey to see if folks are satisfied with the present security in our neighborhood or if they’d welcome an adjustment on that front. “We’re testing the waters, in case we decide to go out to bid,” Score says. “I’m letting everybody know that at Spetz, your safety and security are our number one priority. Can I put you down as an interested party for enhanced safety?” “How much will this increase our association fees?” I ask. “Oh, nothing. Absolutely nothing. This would be done on Spetz’s dime, completely.” “Well, I’m not sure it’s needed. Things seem pretty secure to me.” “Fair enough,” Score says. “At present that may be true, but with an eye to the future, the way the population is growing over in Arbor Heights, that could change. We all might be glad we took steps sooner rather than later. An effective security team in place early would help to curb certain undesirable elements from making criminal overtures in WellSprings. I’ve already spoken to several of your neighbors—Candy Dimond, Chad Blackwell and Norv Davis, and they’ve all signaled interest in this initiative.” To me this added security will be a waste of money, like buying a padlock you intend on keeping in a junk drawer, so I’m not inclined to “signal interest,” but since it’s not my money, and I have a dinner plate cooling in the dining room, I tell Score that it can’t hurt, go ahead and put me down. “Thanks, Mr. Fincher,” he says, his smile growing exponentially. “Do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” He hands me his business card and bids me good day. Goes down the walk to a gleaming black Cadillac with the vanity plate SPETZ 1 on it.
12 /
A week later I’m on the nine hole with my buddies Todd and
issue10 UFM
Ollie, and we see a trio of men in mud-grey uniforms strolling along the perimeter of the course. Their aviators mirror the sun as they pause to observe our round. Todd tees off into the brush. “Goddamn it,” he says. “I can’t play with an audience watching!” He stands pat and stares back at the men until they finally resume their walk. “Who are those guys?” Ollie says. I’m wondering that myself, but I think I know. “That’s the new security,” Todd says, taking a mulligan on the swing and grabbing another ball. “I saw them over at the gate house the other day. They had some vans there unloading equipment.” “What kind of equipment?” “I don’t know... High-tech gadgets and such. Satellite dishes... Who knows?” “Oh yeah, I heard about that. Frieda told me a guy come to the house and surveyed her about security,” Ollie says. “We’re not paying for it. That’s what the paper said,” Todd says. “So they say. But I betcha there’ll be some new fee. They’ll finance this from our pockets somehow,” I say, regretting giving Score my consent. A couple days after our golf game, I’m going out to the Meier with Mel and we pass by the gatehouse and see some of the equipment Todd referred to. There looks to be three antenna-type things on the roof, a couple satellite dishes, a new steel door and windows replaced with tinted stuff. We roll by slowly, our eyeballs capturing this in snapshots. “What are they up to here?” “That must be Kleig security,” Mel says. “Phyllis and I saw some of the men over at the Rec Center when the girls and I had sewing class.” I stomp on the gas and take our white-fenced, curvy road at a speed not meant for it. “Score didn’t say anything about equipment,” I say. “Or anything about outfitting our gate house to look like an Army command post.”
“Looks like they’re going to have people in it, huh?” Mel says. “I can’t imagine why,” I said. “What were they doing over at the Rec Center?” “I don’t know. We just saw them walking along the pool watching people swim and then later on they were talking to Kurt Winter. He was taking them around with a set of keys. Kathy mentioned seeing a bunch of the security guys over at Nikko’s having lunch. She said they looked like a sullen bunch.” Down at the Center Bar on Sunday with Todd and Ollie, having our usual black and tans and watching the Bears lose, I notice a small black tube. It’s high up in the corner and when I get up to hit the head, it follows me, or seems to. When I finish business I ask Frenchy, the bartender what that thing is up in the corner. Frenchy frowns and squeezes a rag out in the sink. “Camera,” he says sourly. “The new security talked to Doyle, and he let them put it in. Don’t know what interest it is to anyone to watch a fella pour drinks and watch others drink ‘em, but then I ain’t the boss...” “That pick up sound?” Todd asks. “Not as far as I’m aware… But you know, I didn’t think to ask.” “Doyle in?” I say. I want to talk to that Irish bastard right now. “On vacation,” Frenchy says. “Wife and him on a month-long cruise.” “I’ll speak to him when he gets back,” I say. “I’ll come with ya,” Todd says. Ollie’s got his head in the game and doesn’t seem to have heard much of this. He cries out when our QB almost gets his head torn off and used as a hood ornament. I finish up my beer and try to enjoy the game, but I can’t keep my eye off the eye. Frenchy seems sorry about it, but it isn’t his fault. Instead of finishing out the game, when half time comes, I tell the fellas I’m out of here. “Yeah, I think I’ll do the same,” Todd says. “You guys are going?” Ollie says. “You’re not gonna stay and watch the rest of the game?” “Not when the game is watching us,” I say, pointing to the camera.
“Anybody come for my TV, they’ll have to speak to my Glock or my Luger... I’m not worried about that. I may be old but I can still pull a trigger.” When I tell him about the camera in the bar, he doesn’t see the harm. Says there are cameras everywhere these days. “Yeah, but does anybody watch them? Not unless something happens. I get the feeling there’s somebody watching us over there.” Chad shrugs and whips open a leaf bag. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says. “Probably just a deterrent.” Next weekend Mel and I go out to Prairie Forks to visit our daughter Susie’s family, and we get back after nine. As we get close to the gatehouse, I see something new—a row of large cannon-shaped lights slashing down at the entrance and an actual gate blocking the way. “What the shit is this?” I say, not believing my eyes. I pull close to the guardhouse as far as I can go and a black Plexiglas window slides to the side, revealing a young man with a severe buzz cut. “Good evening Mr. Fincher,” the young man says, looking at a monitor just out of view. “Should I check you in for the evening?” My mouth will hardly work to form words. “Check in? What? What’s this gate for?” “It’s just for after sundown, sir,” the guard says. “Just a precaution. If we know your vehicle will be here for the night then we’ll know to question the driver should it attempt to leave later.” Mel has the same rage going as I do. She leans over to square eyes with the kid. “No one is going to take our car,” she says. “Great, so I’ll just check you in for the night then.” “That’s not what I meant,” Mel snips. “No one is going to steal the car.” “No check in is needed. Put us down as ‘questionable,’” I say. “Now lift this gate!” “Sir, the gate is just for your safety.” “The hell it is,” I say. As soon as it ratchets up, I pull through, cursing. “Well that’s the limit,” Mel says. “I didn’t hear anything about this... What do we need a gate for?” “We don’t.”
From what Mel and I hear, people are divided over the new security. Some find comfort in those men with the mud-grey uniforms. They buy Score’s theory that one day Arbor Heights population is going to overflow with gangs and then we’ll see police blotters containing stories about TVs stolen in WellSprings. Others, like me, Mel and Todd are starting to feel hemmed in. When I tell my ex-military neighbor Chad about the changes we’re seeing, he agrees that it seems unnecessary, a bit overkill.
The next morning I’m working on an email to Score, telling him what I think of this new gate, when Mel comes back from sewing class. “Back so soon?” “You’re not going to believe this,” Mel says. “They cancelled my class!” “Rain check for another day?” “No, I mean they cancelled it. In fact, they said that all classes are cancelled for the immediate future while they do some reorganization.”
UFM
issue10 / 13
prose “Getting your money back?” “Yes, but that’s not the point... We like our instructor, Kira. We were in the middle of a project! We complained at the front desk, but the girl there didn’t know anything. She just said the only class available at this time was this.” Mel shows me a flyer for a one day exclusive event called Safe and Secure—Protecting Home and Family. At the bottom there’s a photo of the doll-headed Score smiling so wide his face could split. The flyer lists things that will be covered in the session including safety in the home, at the gym, in the car, online and in the backyard. It seems like ten bags of bullshit in a two-pound bag. “Did anyone sign up?” “We all signed up just to see what it’s about,” Mel says. “You did what?” “We want to find out what these people are up to. We’ll meet them on their own turf if we have to.” Mel is flushed she’s so fired up. “When is this thing?” “Next Thursday.” “You’re not going.” “Why not?” “It’s brainwashing, that’s why.” “But all the girls are going. We want to see what it’s about.” “No further discussion,” I say firmly. “You’re staying here.” Thursday comes and goes and we hear from some of our friends, Ollie and his wife Frieda and Cal Johnson and his wife Tammy. They say they went in skeptical of the changes, but Score convinced them what’s going on is for everyone’s benefit. It’s just what I thought would happen. Score is gassing everybody with his flowery talk. At poker on Friday night, Ollie mentions the wall. “What wall?” “They want to put an eight foot cinder block wall around the perimeter,” he says. “What in hell for?” “To keep out the undesirables,” Ollie says. “Thugs. The criminal element.” “You see any crime here?” I say, incredulous. “We’re preparing for the future.” “First the new security personnel, then cameras watching us, then a gate and now a wall? This is out of hand,” I say. “When’s it going to stop?” “No, really,” Ollie says, turning the river card, a three. No help. “He showed us the stats. We don’t do this now and one day we’ll be overrun. They’re already seeing some gang graffiti on the post office wall downtown.”
14 /
issue10 UFM
Then Ollie goes on to tell us Score has another proposal in the offing to allow residents to have outside visitors on designated holidays only as well as five additional, pre-arranged days a year. “Where did you hear about that?” “Daily Sunshine.” I realize I haven’t seen the paper lately. I’m sending another email. The next day the doorbell rings. It’s a man in a blue suit with a gold tag on his breast pocket that IDs him as a Spetz employee. “Yes?” “Good day Mr. Fincher,” the guy says, another young/old type. “I’m collecting signatures for the Community Defense Project Proposal.” “The what?” “Perhaps you’ve heard there’s an initiative to construct a barrier?” “Yes, I did hear,” I say. “And I think it’s a bunch of horseshit.” “It’s a decorative barrier,” the man says. “It serves to both protect and beautify the community as well as to reduce noise from the highway.” “There is no noise from the highway,” I say. “Stand in the yard out back a minute and tell me you can hear a single car.” “While you may not have a noise problem, sir, there are others in the community who—” “I’m not signing it!” “It’s for the community interest.” I slam the door shut. I don’t consider what effect this act of civil disobedience may have, but the following day I start to find out. Kleig men start driving by at all hours, sometimes stopping to stare at the house. Next thing is I get a violation notice in the mail for a tree I planted in the backyard last spring. The three foot high Kwanzan Cherry is not on the list of “approved trees” for our community. A lengthy note attached to the bill informs me that application for tree approval can be submitted, but any adjacent neighbors must agree to the planting in a sworn affidavit. Since appropriate registrations have not been met, I owe two hundred dollars, payable in ten days or it goes up to three hundred. Mel, already on edge with the men staring at the house, urges me to comply, but I’m not having any of it. I tear the bill in two. I do this on the doorstep in full view of the Kleig men idling on the curb. This action perhaps causes the next—I’m cited for an “improper stone” on the front lawn. This is a flat, circular stone with our last name etched into it and is apparently not “code-approved.” Another bill is at-
tached for having an “animal-themed lawn ornament” (a tiny ceramic rabbit) on display. Both violations are for seventy-five dollars apiece. These bills are also shredded, but this time done so on top of a Kleig vehicle. The man drives off and nearly over my foot. The next day I’m back from the grocery and find Mel having coffee in the breakfast nook with Jim Score. It’s like discovering a rattlesnake on the linoleum. Mel rises quickly to calm me. She says she invited Mr. Score over so we might work out a reasonable agreement to the fine business. “—and I was telling your lovely wife, Mr. Fincher, that we are certainly willing to disregard the fines in question if we could only obtain your compliance and consent on our building project.” “The wall,” I say. “An ugly term. Most ugly. I don’t like barrier either. I prefer to call it a separator. Or landscape line. Much better, don’t you think?” “Eight feet of cinder block is not a line,” I practically spit. “It’s a wall. I refuse to sign any consent form and what’s more, you can take your violation notices and put ‘em where the sun don’t shine. Now please, remove yourself, sir. You are intruding in my home.” This of course, upsets Mel to no end. Here she thought she was making headway with Score, and now I’ve dashed the whole thing to pieces. “We’ll consider your offer, of course, Mr. Score,” Mel says as he rises and takes his leather trench coat off the back of the chair. “We’ll do no such thing,” I say through my teeth. Score leaves, careful not to brush into me on his way out. When he’s gone, Mel and I have one of the biggest arguments of our thirty-four year marriage. The upshot of it is, I won’t be blackmailed into signing something I don’t believe in. “Well then just pay the stupid fines,” Mel says. “Honey, this is where we live... We can’t be at odds with the community.” After some time and considerable back and forth, I agree to this since it’s the wall I’m really against. The fines are paid, the stone, tree and rabbit removed. The Kleig men disappear and for a little while, we’re left alone. Then one Monday afternoon I get a call from Frenchy at Center Bar. He says I won the drawing for the free dinner for two at Nikko’s, can I come down to collect? I say sure I’ll be right down. But when I arrive at the bar, I have to knock on the glass since the door has a sign that says it’s closed. Frenchy opens up but doesn’t look like a guy about to give another guy a prize. In fact, it looks the opposite. He takes me into the back room where I supposedly need to sign
something, and he’s pushed aside by two Kleig men who are wearing ski masks. One of the men has a German Shepard on a chain, and it doesn’t look too friendly. When they move to restrain me, I try to get a lick in on the smaller one, but I’m brought down by a truncheon strike to the back of my knees. My hands are wrenched behind my back and cuffed tightly. I’m blindfolded and a rag is stuck in my mouth as I’m ushered out the back way and thrust violently in a vehicle. I’m told that sure as Christmas is December 25th, I will sign a document sanctioning the wall-building. I will start abiding by the code. I will not get in the way of the common interest. After several dizzying turns, the cuffs are removed along with the blindfold and mouth rag, and I’m deposited roughly onto the asphalt parking lot in back of the driving range. No one is out today with the blustery weather. Just as I’m straightening up, a Cadillac with the plate Spetz 1 pulls up and stops. Score’s inside with an attractive, empty-eyed blonde. Both are dressed for church, or dressed up anyway. “Sort of a bad day for the range, wouldn’t you say?” Score says, smiling across the blonde. “But you know, I’m glad I ran into you Mr. Fincher... I was wondering if you’d had any more thoughts about the separator?” “Hadn’t really thought of it,” I say. “That’s a shame. In any case, we obtained the needed amount of signatures, so yours won’t be necessary. Nonetheless, in appreciation of your input, we’ve decided to waive those fines we discussed earlier. Your money will be returned and your lawn offenses. Well, the way we figure it, everyone’s entitled to a little individuality now and then.” “So kind of you.” “I hope you come to appreciate the separator. I hope you’ll find it makes a more cohesive community in the end—one big safe and happy family. Good day, Mr. Fincher. Be seeing you.” With a smile and an odd salute, Score drills up his automatic window and tears off the lot and down the curvy lane bordered by white picket fence, the same fence Mel and I dreamed of having one day. It was a factor, one of many, that convinced us that WellSprings was the place for us to live out our golden years. But looking at the fence on this damp and windy day, I don’t see the allure any more. I see something else. On the hill are day laborers, their heads bowed to the falling rain, with pick axes and shovels going at the dirt. Oblivious to me, they’re bent in repetitive motion, standing near a battered red pick up truck beside an expressway that doesn’t make a sound.
UFM
issue10 / 15
Gregg Chadwick
16 /
issue10 UFM
UFM
issue10 / 17
Gregg Chadwick
18 /
issue10 UFM
UFM
issue10 / 19
POETRY
20 /
issue10 UFM
Ezekiel Black
Phalanx Under the wardrobe, you find a nest of fingers, Which twist and twiddle and inch from the light. You ransack the garage, but the bucket and shovel Are gone. The fingers warp and writhe in your room. You rifle through the kitchen cabinets, the pantry, And grab a tool as the fingers gnarl and gnash. A finger is bone and sinew, a nail that scratches The hardwood floor; their nest is a pock therein. While you fork the fingers into the garbage, they Bore into the nest, like a pestle into a mortar. The fingers begin to climb the fork, your hand, Until they cover your arm. They are territorial. The fingers rend your skin and pry into your quick. You run but slip, landing beside a smeared digit. Once awake, you find a note pinned on your shirt: “A requisite tithe of your fingers is our recompense.�
UFM
issue10 / 21
Ezekiel Black
Taghairm They battle the boredom Of a barrack, not the host Behind the hill. The men Tie two cats together, tail To tail, hang them across A clothesline, and watch: The cats absorb the novel Horizon, rush with blood Or disgust, and scapegoat The other. One swat, two Swat, the pit fight begins; The men boil with mirth. The cats flay and ribbon Each other’s skin, rupture Each distended gut, yet No man stops the exhibit. The soundscape resounds A foursquare caterwaul. An officer is en route, And the men flee, sabering The cats from the clothesLine. Under the artillery, The bobcats hide, their Tails asleep on the ground Like yesterday’s serpent.
22 /
issue10 UFM
Prospective Titles Cat-a-mountain Cat-o’-nine-tails Jinx Null Theoretical Entity Blight’s Orchard Chrysalis Mantis Key and Coin Trumpet or Doomsday Whistle? The Liquid so Poured 1350 Schadenfreude Sadomasochism Bloodlust Australia is Post-apocalyptic Felix Culpa
(Keeps you guessing.) (Always fun.) (Word-economy at its best.) (It’s trying too hard.) (Philosophy, not Tony Tost.) (Not Gravity’s Rainbow.) (Great ring.) (Good entomology, better etymology.) (Is my dad coming?) (Don’t push the red button.) (Sounds archaic and/or profound.) (How often are numbers used?) (Like sadomasochism.) (Might attract a new audience.) (It’s getting dark.) (In good humor, of course.) (That cartoon cat.)
UFM
issue10 / 23
S.D. Stewart
Panda A large stuffed panda rots in the alley behind our house. It has no eyes and proffers to the world an amorphous bulge at its crotch. It migrates along a 10-foot square perimeter, its dark purple fur wearing thin at the limbs. At night I lay awake and pretend I cannot hear the couple next door screaming at each other. In the morning we all make nice outside and pretend nothing happened. I like their cat, but we share a wall and nothing else in common. This morning I left the house and the panda was sitting upright against a concrete wall, facing a tiny firing squad of ants. When I returned, the panda was gone and so were the ants. Someone had dragged the body away and left no evidence behind. In my attic bedroom is a built-in wardrobe. Inside the wardrobe is a tiny door. When I open it I see into the couple’s attic. A stack of dusty paperbacks sits in view, mostly thrillers. I thought I’d find darker secrets than this. Life in the alley is hard. I peered out the window one day last week and saw a guy pissing on a telephone pole. It’s no place for a stuffed panda. A week later the man next door moves out. He takes the thrillers. Now I lay awake at night staring at the stars out my window, listening to the woman cry in her attic and hoping the panda found its peace.
24 /
issue10 UFM
Perched on the precipice of the week’s end Thursday night I drink from your dirty trough. Arms elbow-deep, head drenched and nodding, I watch the filmstrip rattle on, a string of silver faces. I scuttle past on spider legs, desperate to stay in view. The trough fortifies even as light widens eyes. The cameraman drinks and lurches; figures blur and fade. Unfinished scenes scatter the cutting room floor. Revival night brings out the crowds. The film flips and snaps to a slow stillness. In the front row, on the edge of our seats, we look away in shame.
UFM
issue10 / 25
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Things I Noticed, While You Laid Dying The loneliness of suffering in the midst of bedlam, one cluster of snapdragons smothered in greying paper abandoned waterless in the sink, the certainness of ice cubes melting in an upturned bell-jar, your makeshift glass, the barely audible beat of a timeworn watch on the table, unable to wake you despite its determined tick, the warning taped above the hospital clock about a scofflaw thieving handbags from unlocked cars and my purse mislaid in the haste of it all, the need to call my mother with no phone number accessible for the place she lives now, the unbroken ringing in the next room continually unanswered, my old dog at home wandering alone through the halls with no one there to keep her from peeing on the dining room rug, the frailness of the woman towing an IV down the corridor, cold and covered in a sweater pilled from wear, a catheter bag the shade of whiskey overfilled, dangling by a silver bar, the absolute silence of fear wherever you are when language seems trivial and nothing said matters, the stunned half-stare of a bystander in the midst of a crisis− my own reflection from the mirror across the room ................................where I saw you breathe.
26 /
issue10 UFM
Shades of Her She was familiar in a motherly way and I wanted her there like some midnight death come back again passing beside me, deliberate yet wary, the way the twilight creeps over rooftops, a sliver of daylight still hemmed to the front door I watched her pause, one foot then the other, the scent of flowers and cinder combined, a barricade of memories imploding into a procession of years gone by. She was a truth I’d lost too early, her hands brushing against my hair, the air of blued infinity haloed above, her arms outstretched from beyond the dreams of dying where spring waits in its most abundant form, devoid the hardscrabble days of winter. a place where the wind stops and the eucalyptus helix their way through untold clouds, a place past language and the motion of eyes and for one moment in time I remembered the sacredness of being loved.
UFM
issue10 / 27
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Insert the Current Date and Time If you ever leave me, blame it on the way I said your name; the irritation that came with being sweet when loving has exhausted the soul from too many losses. My self preserving vigilance anointed to you, as aging days accrue. If you ever leave me, open the windows to the gusty dark. Let the wind yowl through the room to the sound of a downpour; an unstoppable gale that drowns the muffled song of any skylark that sings for you. Within, this weighted farewell I carry the burden or a hidden sin, removing virtue, fearing the unbearable silence of goodbye, inaudible as feathers of a flying thing in rain.
28 /
issue10 UFM
Turning the Pages of your Photo Book I recall the days but only in fragments taken on gusty afternoons‑ you can see the cherry trees in full bloom; petals like soft tulle floating in a yellow haze of distance, bands of ripples on the face of water where feathery creatures skimmed the surface. She told me shadows are proof that people never die; a prelude of surviving watery darkness. I remember a mermaid moving below, brushing against me, towing my body through a trance. I wanted to follow but redemption is a solitary struggle. I’m not certain what is true But these photos are not me, of that I’m sure. They are images of an imposter; someone made in my likeness by a mother who needed a child, by a child who needed a mother. She saved the experience; glued the corners to black paper, proof the camera did its trickery. I miss the dependence that kind of faith created evidence of the past proving a lifetime framed.
UFM
issue10 / 29
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Raincheck Prayers Thank you Jesus, for 409 with its bleach scented lime. When my blind dog soils the floor, the way it masks the stench of urine is almost sacred. Just don’t open the door− the image of being that feeble will surely do you in.
Thank you Jesus for the feeding of fish I gave my daughter, dropping pellets through sullied water as Beta bubble their way to bliss through mercurochrome seaweed;. I take my hormones; two a day; never miss.
Thank you Jesus, for my robe wrapped tight, the morning’s light and the hope that it will be years before I need a caregiver. I’m planning to lose my mind before I know the difference.
Thank you Jesus for a list of tasks as I remove my husband’s hat tossed on the bed in haphazard style remembering some cock and bull story about fedoras and bad luck and who knows what but, your guess is never as good as mine.
Thank you Jesus, for ten steps to the pot of coffee, grounds perfumed with a hundred years of mocha java blend, hands scooping sunrise- medicine, too early for dirty martinis, and the urge to say “frankly I don’t give a damn” Thank you Jesus, for a thimbleful of jam in its strawberry redness on toast before it seems morose with its buttery spread holder, colder than cold inside a two piece glass-like coffin for a tub of lard; better off dead, ‘nuff said. Elivs has left the building.
30 /
issue10 UFM
Thank you Jesus for each hour’s timehow that unseeing creature is howling from a far-off room to mine as I say these prayers and muster up strength to mop up another round of urine, no good deed goes unpunished.
John H. Matthews’
writing has appeared in Wisconsin Review, Pindeldyboz, Opium Magazine, Cellstories, The 2nd Hand and other publications. He lives near Chicago with his wife and their American bulldog. Visit him online at www.sixslug.com.
Arthur Diamond
was born in New York in 1957. He received degrees from the University of Oregon and Queens College and has published 12 non-fiction books used as school texts. Diamond’s short stories have recently appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, From Here and Global City Review. He lives in Queens, New York.
Ezekiel Black
is a lecturer of English at Gainesville State College. Before this position, he attended the University of Massachusetts Amherst, where he received an MFA in Creative Writing. His poetry and reviews have appeared in Verse, Sonora Review, GlitterPony, Skein, Invisible Ear, Tomfoolery Review, Tarpaulin Sky, InDigest, Drunken Boat, CutBank, iO, Four and Twenty, and elsewhere. He also edits the audio poetry journal Pismire. He lives in Duluth, Georgia.
S. D. Stewart
reads and writes in a cramped city while his mind roams open spaces. When not walking in the woods, he works as a librarian. His poetry recently appeared in Stone Highway Review and Gone Lawn. Read more at www.thoughtworm.com.
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
is a six-time Pushcart nominee and Best of the Net nominee. She has authored eight chapbooks along with her latest full-length collection of poems: Epistemology of an Odd Girl, newly released from March Street Press. She is a recent winner of the Red Ochre Press Chapbook competition for her manuscript Before I Go to Sleep and according to family lore she is a direct descendent of Robert Louis Stevenson. www.clgrellaspoetry.com
Gregg Chadwick
Cover Art “Red in Rain” creates his artwork in an old airplane hangar in Santa Monica, California. The recurring sound of airplane take-offs and landings from the active airport runaway outside his studio reminds him of his own history of travel. Chadwick has exhibited his artworks in galleries and museums both nationally and internationally. He earned a Bachelor’s Degree at UCLA and a Master’s Degree at NYU, both in Fine Art. He has had notable solo exhibitions at the Manifesta Maastricht Gallery (Maastricht, The Netherlands), Space AD 2000 (Tokyo, Japan), and the Lisa Coscino Gallery (Pacific Grove) among others. He has participated in a variety of group exhibitions including the LOOK Gallery (Los Angeles), the Arena 1 Gallery (Santa Monica), and the Arts Club of Washington (Washington DC). Chadwick is frequently invited to lecture on the arts; in 2011-12 he spoke at UCLA, Monterey Peninsula College, the Esalen Institute, and at the World Views forum in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Website is at www.greggchadwick.com. Gregg’s blog, Speed of Life, explores the intersections between the arts and society: http://greggchadwick.blogspot.com/ Chadwick’s flickr page, which is often updated with new paintings and work in progress, is at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ greggchadwick.
UFM
issue10 / 31
stay dry.
32 /
issue10 UFM