Crack the Spine Literary magazine Issue 122
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Issue 122 August 6, 2014 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2014 by Crack the Spine
Cover Art: “Vision Tree� by Christine Catalano Christine likes to take photographs and play with them on the computer. She dedicates her work to her muse, Gary Iorio, a talented writer and lifelong friend who passed away in March of this year.
CONTENTS
Kayla Pongrac This Sentimental Way
David Pring-Mill We Are the Ignited
Christine Davis Fields of Heather
Shinjini Bhattacharjee Girl Rushes Out a Sweat
David Gialanella Broken Yolk
Amanda Barusch My Clan
Ettosi Brooks Wildflower
Kayla Pongrac This Sentimental Way
A stranger is telling me how to lick my lips and I am taking him seriously. Don’t ask. Okay, fine. I’ll take a brief moment to explain to you why I’m here, sitting in a crazy-uncomfortable desk, licking my lips as if someone had just Sharpie’d them a half hour before my junior prom. My best friend works at a community college that sometimes offers adult education classes that are open to public. This month, they put together a “kissing class” titled . . . and I swear I’m not joking . . . “Kissing 101: How to Suck Your Partner’s Face.” When Amanda texted me about this “awesome opportunity,” I laughed out loud and told her that there is absolutely no way on God’s sandy beaches that I would take the class with her, no matter how many gluten-
free chocolate chip cookies she baked for me. But when the cookies kept arriving on my doorstep with loveydovey friendship quotes and thoughtprovoking questions (“What are friends really for?”) taped to the plastic wrap, I felt I had no choice. So here I am, Week Freaking One, trying to make the best of this class not just because it is costing me $30 but also because Amanda is the most serious person in the world and, well, she wants to learn how to be the best kisser in the world. “By continuing to lick your lips in this sentimental way, you’re actively sending a seductive message to your lip partner.” Lip partner? I look at Amanda and give her my best I-think-this-guy-is-apsycho look, to which she reciprocates a just-relax-and-be-
patient-and-please-try-not-toembarrass-me-because-I-work-here look. “Great job on that exercise, everybody,” our instructor says before launching into his second topic of the evening: what our lips say about us. “Our lips are instruments. What they say when they’re performing and what they express when they’re idle needs to be examined so that we can better understand how to use and appreciate them. Now, if I may direct your attention to my PowerPoint, we’ll take a look at some of the best kissing scenes that appear in movies. We’ll watch each scene in slow motion so that we can see what other ‘instrument’ comes into play, if you will.” He pauses. “And by that I mean the tongue.” I pull my shirt up over my mouth to help suppress my laughter. I look over
at Amanda, who is so into this class that she’s taking notes. Can she really be enjoying this? Wouldn’t she rather learn to kiss “better” the oldfashioned way by making out with a pillow or her hand or something? Upon surviving my first slow motion sex ed. video and an equally awkward subsequent discussion, our instructor gives us our first homework assignment: study someone’s lips. “Observe your subject’s lips for as long as you can,” he says. “And be sure to take detailed notes that you can be ready to share with everyone next week.” While everyone is busy tucking their chairs under the desks, Amanda turns to me and smiles. “I’m really glad we’re taking this class,” she says. “Sometimes I don’t feel like we get to spend enough time together, you know?” I choose not to answer. Instead, I sit
in silence and study Amanda’s lips: their curves, their subtle glow, the way they gracefully open and close and catapult kind words toward me— words of friendship that I clearly suck at reciprocating.
David Pring-Mill We Are the Ignited We are the ignited and even after bursts of spirit they hear that final clap as we echo in the distance, and they huddle in quiet. The way you move your hips is so womanly and free; There is such a conscious presence over your own physicality, Controlled and yet thoughtless, informed as much by movement as by thought, or perhaps the thought and movement flow together in some way I will never understand, as I watch you dance, a Corona in my hand and the glimmer of you, forever in my eye until that dimming moment.
Christine Davis Fields of Heather
My girlfriend is afraid of minutes late for all of our icicles. She also fears driving, umbrellas, bridges, and probably many other things that I haven’t found out about yet. She sleeps with a plastic straw underneath her pillow. She also grinds her teeth in her sleep; the slow painful noise of bones rubbing together. I found out about the icicles on our first date when I picked Heather up from her apartment. She said that she would be waiting out front, but she was thirty three minutes late. She has been thirty three
dates. I plan accordingly now. That night was freezing; I could feel my eyelashes icing together every time I blinked. When she finally came out she stood on the porch looking up at the white eves suspiciously. Her black hair flirted with the tops of her shoulders, and in her red coat she stood out like blood against the white door behind her; for a moment, she reminded me of Snow White. A few seconds passed and she still hadn’t joined me on the steps. “Something wrong?” I asked.
“There was an article in the paper about a man who got impaled by an icicle. He had to be taken to the hospital,” she said. Flimsy puffs of breath mixed in the air around her lips. “He died.” I looked up; there were four trails of water frozen mid drip, stuck to her eaves. She eyed them with her wide green stare as if sizing up an enemy. “He died from an icicle?” I asked. “Well, from complications. He fell when it hit him,” she said. “How old was the man?” I asked.
“Seventy-eight,” she said. “I think you stand a good chance of surviving,” I said. I was hoping that she would take this as a joke, but her stare stayed fixed upward and she gave no indication of smiling. “Just the same I’d rather not leave the porch,” she replied. She trembled slightly, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or her fear; I wished that I hadn’t made the joke. I wished that I had brought a thermos with hot chocolate. If I had the thermos I would have lifted it lightly to her lips and watched her suck the steam in carefully
before the chocolate hit her tongue. I felt eager to impress her. My sister was right for setting us up. Heather was completely different from the girls I usually dated. She wasn’t trying to please me. She shifted her gaze from the icicles to me; she was sizing me up in the same way, judging how dangerous I was. I could feel her curiosity move over me. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. I told her to stand back and then I picked up the blue snow shovel that was leaning against the house. In four quick motions I executed the icicles. They fell to the whitewashed wooden
porch bleeding their liquid onto the steps. She clapped her gloved hands before carefully descending the stairs.
I found out about the driving when we were planning our second date. I wanted to take her to Benson’s, a local restaurant at the extreme high end of my budget. I knew that things were moving fast. Taking a girl to Benson’s when it wasn’t even our anniversary or her birthday or anything was setting the bar high. Still, I wanted to know what Heather looked like surrounded by the linen table cloth and the heavy silver flat ware.
Unfortunately, the only reservation for Friday was right after my last class. I could make it to Benson’s, but I wouldn’t have time to pick her up. I called to ask if she could meet me there. “Ok, hold on a second and I’ll ask Wanda if she can give me a ride,” she said. “Wait, I thought you mentioned having a car,” I said. There was a brief pause and the sound of air tumbling out in a sigh. “Well Ben, the truth is I don’t actually drive. It’s not like I didn’t pass the test, I’m just not into the whole automobile operation thing,” she said.
“Did you get into an accident?” I asked. “No. Look, it’s no big deal. I can always take a cab,” Heather said. I couldn’t drop it; the whole topic fascinated me. I couldn’t imagine having a car and not driving it. I tried to sound casual. “Well if you didn’t crash, what’s the problem with you driving?” I asked. She sighed, “I guess I’ll have to tell you eventually. But I don’t want to scare you off so early.” “You couldn’t scare me off,” I said. I hoped it was true. “It’s just that I see a person on the sidewalk
and I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to steer my car a little to the right. I think about the thud sound it would make. One time this woman walked in front of my car at a crosswalk and I had to bite my lip to keep from hitting the gas pedal,” she said. I could picture Heather’s delicate fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, her green eyes drifting off. “So, why do you keep the car?” I asked. “Because my car is the most beautiful thing in the world,” she said, and her voice was filled with the deep reverence of a believer.
On later occasions, she a little blue line to follow. edge of a field and let me drive Bernice. Her grandfather left her the powder blue, 1968 Chevy Camaro in mint condition, and I felt like a god behind the cream leather wheel. Her grandfather had named the car after his one true love, who incidentally was not Heather’s grandmother. The first time we made love I drove Bernice all day. Heather insisted that we couldn’t have a plan or the whole trip would be ruined. She wouldn’t even let me bring my GPS. We got in the car and she took out the same map that her grandfather had in the glove box and we picked
Bernice only had a cassette player and Heather only had one cassette, so we listened to the Beastie Boys on a strange loop that left us both restless and hungry for adventure. When I looked over at Heather on the passenger’s side, I wanted to ask her if she quit driving because she didn’t want to hit anybody or because she didn’t want to hurt the car, but I didn’t. We wound up on an exit with nothing but wheat fields. It was open America from sky to dirt and she was wearing this light purple dress the color of a baby’s room. We pulled over into the
started to run, legs stiff from sitting so long. The wheat was high and once I was in it everything was a toasty brown color and she was kissing me with her wide red lips and strands of her hair were getting in my mouth and I thought that I was finally home. Then the clear sky broke open and let every river out on top of us. We ran back to the car laughing and slipping and nearly choking on wheat. “We should have brought an umbrella,” I said once we were nestled in the roomy back seat of the car. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Umbrellas are
the most dangerous invention ever made. Why does nobody see this? They are made of metal. Metal is a conductor. Using an umbrella is basically waving around a lightning rod during a storm.” I was spread out across the seats and she propped herself up on one elbow on top of me. She smelled like rain and dirt and sweet sweat. “You sure are afraid of a lot of things, aren’t you?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “I’m fine with going out in the rain without an umbrella. Besides, there are many different types of fear. You live in one
kind yourself.” “What?” “Well,” she said. “Here I am on top of you and you are afraid to make a move.” “Lies. I was just about to do this,” I said as I slid my hand under her dress. “I am a fearless man,” I said, but I knew it was a lie.
The bridge didn’t come as a shock; lots of people are afraid of bridges. We were walking in the park by Mill Creek. It was just turning spring and little spurts of green were peeking out between the brick walkway. We got to the low bridge that crossed over the creek and she stopped when I
started to walk towards it. “Not bridges too,” I said, secretly glad. This was one fear I was sure I could break her of. “I’m not scared that I’ll fall off,” Heather said evasively. “What are you afraid of?” I asked. “That I’ll jump off again,” she said. Apparently, when she was six, her grandfather took her fishing off of a bridge that over looked a river. As soon as she set foot on the bridge she got jittery. When he set the buckets down, she climbed from them to the railing and jumped off. It wasn’t a very high bridge and she just had
swimming lessons, but the water was cold and her granddad scolded her about snakes the whole drive home. I told her she was getting on the damn bridge. She did, and then she jumped off. I had to fish her out of the creek while she gave me a look that said told you so. For a second, when she jumped off, I forgot how close the creek was and I thought that it would be the last glimpse I got of her alive. Her sandals fell off in mid air and I decided that the curve of her ankle bone would be the last part of her I would watch.
One night while we were driving in Bernice, or rather while I was driving since she still refused to take the wheel, I asked Heather how her grandfather had died. “An icicle,” she said. “It hit him smack in the middle of his skull and he fell. Just one of those freak things. They even wrote about it in the papers.” Ah, I thought, so there are explanations.
The first night I stayed over at her place, I noticed something odd under her pillow. I was enfolded in her long slender arms when I flipped her underneath
me and slid my hand around to get comfortable. She looked porcelain against indigo sheets. “What is this plastic thing?” I asked. “Ugh, is this a used straw?” “It’s not used,” she said. “It’s for protection.” She used to stay up all night afraid that someone would break in. I can imagine her sitting in front of the bedroom door, knees drawn to her chest, waiting on the inevitable. She contended that a straw was a perfect weapon. If she used enough force, she could break the skin and possibly hit a vein or stab the intruder in the eye, but if someone
broke in, they would never know to use it against her. She practiced by sealing the top opening with her thumb and jamming the straw as hard as she could into an uncooked potato. “Don’t tell me you have done this,” I said, laughing into her pillow. “Don’t say that you have killed an innocent potato.” “Don’t make fun, I’m practically an expert, I can almost stab the straw all the way through.” I tucked the straw safely beneath her pillow and traced the outlines of her knees with my lips.
We have been living together in our new place for a few months now. She has painted every wall white. They were white when we moved in, but she said you can’t live in someone else’s dirty walls. She planted red poppies in the window boxes. She still practices impaling the potato. I watch her sometimes at night; she breathes a heavy sleep in her baby doll lace nightgown. I want to think of myself as her night watchman, her protector, but I know better. Her teeth crunch irregularly. I know that this would bother her if she could hear it, but I won’t tell her about it in
the morning. Her long finger nails dig into delicate palms, and red half moons of blood rise to the surface. She has permanent scars on her hands from this nightly ritual. I know that she is holding something in. It is trying to get out through her clenched teeth and broken skin. One day it will escape and I will know why she is the way she is, and that is the fear that I live with.
Shinjini Bhattacharjee Girl Rushes Out a Sweat Watched you get up and steal all the hyphen words and stash them awayour un-clinging mess. Be brief, you say.
It feels good to see the freedom of the jellyfish colored light dancing inside your mouth when you clap your teeth into mirrors in order to grow darkness under your toesThe first rumor you composed with raw snow-slide.
Do not ask me how disclaimers learn to peel the eggshells in the dark.
Or why the leaves bite into bitter orange peels to bend the birds backwards inside the toothpick wind. Or why the skin slides the air from our lungs at night to store them in the box next to the washing machine. Why words forget. Why windows only listen at night.
Sometimes I try to forgive ourselves by tying our almond fingers together under water and let the knife sharp bubbles make them walk out of themselves. Turn them into wax like a telephone mumble.
Then I begin counting till the word purple becomes a commonplace hogback.
David Gialanella Broken Yolk
A broken egg yolk was what did it, pushed Seamus over. A slip of the wrist, and the gold ran all over the pan—hardened waxen like a yellow finger pointing right at him. Seamus broke the spatula in two, leaving a notch in the laminate countertop. The failed over-easy, pan and all, went to trash, metal hissing on melting plastic. For weeks he’d paged through his happiest memories – football in the schoolyard, play hunting with a plastic bow, shirt clinging wet after a day of planting – but felt nothing. In the bedroom, cussing all the while, he pulled on boots and snatched the unpaid medical bills stacked on the bureau, crumpling the thick bond paper. Into the camping backpack they went, along with the hard plastic case from under the bed.
The mattress springs hummed as he pounded, but the surface was too forgiving. His voice cracked in a growl, rang off the ceiling and drowned the muted thuds. The other tenants had all left for work. A bus, two trains and an hour on foot brought him to the woods outside the town where they grew up. There was an old friend on the train, but he looked different. Seamus didn’t say hello. In the forest leafless branches dangled in his path, footfalls near silent on the wet leaves, felled trunks smelling of rot after the rain. His breaths billowed and hung there like fog in the damp still. Eun pleaded with him not to come out here, the place to be alone. She attempted threats but couldn’t muster forcefulness. Grace had eluded Seamus before,
just as now. He’d thumped the doctor’s desk and questioned their competence. Nothing, nothing, they said. These things happen the first time out. Eun, silent beside him, dug her nails into his arm, nearly drew blood, as veins sprouted from his neck. She nodded, thanked the somber-toned nurses, saved soft crying for home. In the woods Seamus trudged ahead and finally saw the wooden structure leaning there precariously like a drunk. He drew out a hatchet and scanned for useable wood. Inside was littered with green and brown glass but curiously free of urine odor. He pulled a wad of trash out of the stove, scraped the surface inside. Then stuffed the bills in, lit three long matches. The hard case’s latches snapped. His fingers clouded the cold metal. He squeezed the grip, felt the weight, shook the box of shells, stared at it, set it back down.
Back in the marital bed that night he lay in the dark, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling plaster. Eun slept on her side, black mane down her back shining in the light of the digital alarm clock. Rumbling from within, Seamus crept to the kitchen. Eun had fished the pan from the garbage, washed it, set it back on the stovetop. The moon glowed full through the window. He took an egg from the refrigerator and lit the burner.
Amanda Barusch My Clan (terza rima)
In my clan the babies ride horses, snug between saddle and womb, manes flying loose in the coarse sea breeze. We fall. We lick our wounds. We tumble, again. Women shriek and beat the drums as echoes wash over. The men, starved and impatient, die young. But we know where to go when the wind shifts. We know which vein to tap. We know when the hawk descends on a twisted course, and the red pine bends to earth, that silence is at hand. Stars glare down on thin clouds and drifting sand.
Ettosi Brooks Wildflower Swish! Swish! was the wind song as June ran along Deanery Road. June wasn’t in any particular hurry; she just liked the feeling of the wind against her face as she ran. Deanery Road was one of the main streets in Vineyard Town, and neat little houses sat side by side, displaying their own unique character. Take Miss Audrey’s house, mint green with red bougainvillea growing along the fence. Ronnie’s house was a big, rambling old wooden house in need of paint, but the bushed fence grew tall so you could
hardly see the yard or house. On the other corner was Mr. Salomon’s, with flourished red polished steps leading up to the verandah. “Come ’ere, miss,” Mrs. Brown’s voice boomed. June stopped, turned back, hopping as she removed a “maka” from one bare foot, put down the foot, and raised her large brown eyes. Mrs. Brown was tall; she looked like a big red giant to June. Mrs. Brown’s hair was pressed and arranged in tight curls on her head. “Go comb you hair and put on shoes. You a gal
pickney, you know. Ah don’t know what kinda training you getting.” A bus, packed sardine can tight with tired workday faces, came to a stop as Mrs. Brown bellowed at her. June trembled with anger and shame. She walked back to her house tipping a little because the thorn had cut her foot. In her bedroom, she pressed her slight body against the dresser table as she examined her hair in the mirror. The three large plaits had become frazzled, and strands stood out all around her head, and one plait stuck defiantly straight up
from the middle of the crown of her head, fine hair curling in intricate waves around her head. She pulled at one plait, looking at her smooth cinnamon-colored face, and shrugged. June’s world was the open lot at the back of her yard filled with tall, stately East Indian mango trees, warm, dark Bombay, and the friendly Blackie—grapes, sweet cups, and a hundred secret places and treasures. The center of her world was Ronnie, a lanky Syrian boy. He was the leader of their “gang”: Steve, Ricky, Dennis, Ken, and June was the girl tagging along. Ronnie led them
through all kinds of adventures; he was Robin Hood, Zorro, Tarzan. They would all go swinging off the mango trees. Then they’d fall to the ground laughing and fill themselves with fruits. It was summer holidays and they were free from the drudgery of school. Those days, June always woke early, not wanting to miss one hour of the day. Ronnie’s low whistle would send her dashing through the barbed-wire fence and into the open lot. “No wonder her clothes always tear up so.” Her mother hissed the words. She was glad June was occupied and
within earshot. The huge, Hairy mango tree in the center of the lot was where the gang met. Ronnie and Steve were standing under the tree, and Dennis lounged on a
from nowhere, with the sun still shining brightly. Steve looked up and said, “De devil and him wife a fight.” They could hear her younger brother and sisters chanting. “Rain a fall, breeze a blow, chicken b…” They all started laughing as her mother shouted, “Ah don’t want unnu sing dat!” June fell back against the broad arms of the tree and looked up at the leaves of the Hairy mango tree. The broad limb. Ricky and rainwater had polished Ken strolled in from the the leaves to a delicious other end of the lot. They green, and a raindrop set up their usual seat, rolled lazily down the an old door on two large, cheek of a young mango. flat rocks, under the tree. Staring out of the Suddenly, a short, hard kitchen window at the shower of rain fell, as if
children, her aunt Agnes was telling June’s mother, “Marie, you making that girl grow up too wild. She getting a big girl now. She soon ten, is time you take her in hand.” June usually made herself scarce when Aunt Agnes visited. Aunt Agnes’ back seemed to be made out of iron, it was always so straight, and she always dressed in a crisply pleated skirt—a white blouse buttoned up to her throat, her hair swept back in a bun. She was always so serious. June’s mother smiled wistfully. “Mek de child run free, soon time enough for her to take on the troubles of
the world. Memba when we use to catch janga a river side and dive off inna de wata hole? You used to mek mischief go up!” Aunt Agnes started to smile and quickly turned her mouth down. “Mm hmmm, well, is a different time now.” “Ah have to go, Mama?” June wailed, tears coming down her cheeks and dripping onto the sheer embroidered collar on the front of her dress. Her mother didn’t answer but continued combing her hair, binding the braids with clips. June flinched at every twist of her hair. She hated dresses,
especially the ones with the crinoline slips underneath; it made her waist and legs itch. Her white patent shoes squeezed her feet. “Dat’s what you get from running up and down barefoot. Look how de gal foot broad!” June trudged along, lagging behind her mother all the way to the tea party. Her face “set up like rain” as her mother described it. To make it worse Ronnie and the boys passed them on the road and started laughing at June’s clothes and pained expression. The next day a craggyfaced old man with silver-white hair stopped
at the back fence to talk to her mother. He was the owner of the lot and had come to look at his property with a view to selling. “Is a lucky ting you wasn’t over there,” her mother said after the man left. Sell! He was going to sell their private jungle! June was horrified. A week later, tractors and dump trucks started rolling in, but they only cleared the far corner of the lot where the gang didn’t usually play anyway. They breathed a sigh of relief and watched the workmen excitedly. The big machines were plowing deep, turning the black
earth over. “I want to drive that dump truck.” Dennis looked at the driver tipping the back of the truck to unload the sand. His eyes had a faraway look. “You?” scoffed Ricky. Dennis was the shortest of the lot. “I know! Mission Impossible! We need a mission for today.” Ronnie walked back and forth, humming the theme from the show. “You did watch it last night?” Steve’s eyes grew bigger and rounder as his excitement started building. He continued. “Boy, ah would love to get even one of those gadgets.”
“Yeah!” Ken nodded. “All right, I have a plan. Let’s get Jangalee.” James, they called him Jangalee, roamed the streets, sometimes half naked and dirty. He lived just down the road from them with his mother and terrorized his family, breaking things and running out into the street. They took him to Belleview, the local sanitarium, but he always came back. June wanted vengeance for her own reasons. Jangalee had scared her badly recently as she walked home from school. She had used the back road, a lonely route. He had walked behind her all
the way down the winding road almost a mile long. He started off making weird sounds, then running up close behind her, stopping suddenly just before getting to her. All the way down the road, June walked with her back ramrod straight, never turning to look or flinch at his antics. Her heartbeat threatened to choke her, and sweat trickled down her back. The shirt of her uniform was now clammy and stuck to her skin. He started throwing pebbles at her. One hit her in her back. Just as she was about to start running the last few yards to the main road, a car turned
off a side road and stopped. It was Mr. James, her neighbor. “Want a ride, June?” She was saved. Mr. James looked at Jangalee. “What you doing out here troubling people, pickney?” “So it’s all settled.” They made camouflages from love bush vines. They were going to ambush and eliminate agent Jangalee. The next day they set up ambush on the same lonely road, three of them in trees and June, Ken, and Steve in the bushes on the other side. They were actually near the compound of the great house. It was the only
one of its kind in the town. The two-story house had arched steps leading up to the entrance on the second floor. It was set back on land that would have held three other houses easily. They were sure that the white witch lived there, although they had never seen the occupants of the house. Ricky was sure that under the curved stairs was a secret entrance that led to the dungeon where the witch tortured her captives. The gang decided secret agents were fearless, and anyway the witch only came out at night. Ronnie had sneaked out his father’s bullhorn.
He sat in the tree and when Jangalee appeared from around the bend, he signaled and waited until he was in their midst before setting off a barrage of sound from the bullhorn. Startled, Jangalee turned slowly in a circle, trying to locate the origin of the sound, but they all started making different sounds. Then they started to pelt him with the soft, overripe mangoes they brought with them. Jangalee was so frightened he ran down the road in the path of a speeding car. The driver stepped on his brakes, cursing as he just missed hitting Jangalee. But Jangalee just continued
running down the road. Later that evening Jangalee burned down his mother’s house.
and join them. She could feel the drumbeat connecting with her heartbeat. The audience rocked in their seats and INDEPENDENCE! laughed at the INDEPENDENCE! exaggerated gyrations of “You could mek up you the dancers dressed in face all you want, is dat sinless white robes tied you wearing.” with a red sash; their June knew better than heads were elaborately to argue and pouted her wrapped in white. lips, squinting her eyes. “Ah see de moon a raise “You going grow ugly bembele, follow de same way,” her mother morning star gone teased and the other home…” children giggled. The dancers circled At the national arena the stage in exaggerated they tried to find good postures with the brush seats. June was thrilled step of the Kumina dance by the drumming from while the audience sang the Kumina band, and and clapped, realizing the sinuous movement of they were leaving the the dancers made her stage. want to jump up on stage The Maypole dancers
wove rainbow ribbons— red, green, blue, yellow—into spiderweb patterns as the dancers’ hips dipped and dropped to the syncopation of the banjo from the Mento band. The audience erupted in laughter as the group of men came on stage dressed in khaki pants and shirts, holding their farming tools—forks and pickaxes—and singing. The men’s voices boomed, their faces looking pained as they chanted “Ooman a heavy load…” The men sang digging songs, and the audience laughed raucously at some of the comments of the lead singer and the answer
from the chorus. June couldn’t understand everything they said, but she jumped up and down excitedly, clapping and laughing. The grand finale of the evening started with the Bruckins group. “Blue Queen a come iiiiin.” The dancers bent backward in elegant ecstasy, gliding across the stage. All were dressed in full blue, the queen in a long blue gown with her golden crown perfectly balanced on her head. The Red Queen and her court also entered, and the men in the two groups engaged in mock battle. June was still ecstatic
Contributors Amanda Barusch A native of California, Amanda divides her time between Salt Lake City and Dunedin (New Zealand). She is an MFA student at the University of Utah. Her work has appeared inBravado, on her website (www.amandabarusch.com), and in other places (like walls and bulletin boards). And yes, “My Clan� is about her extended family and their relationship to planet earth. Shinjini Bhattacharjee Shinjini Bhattacharjee is a poet and the Editor of Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal. She considers herself to be a lexical photographer who loves to rummage through language to find words that smell like infinite spandex, and weave them into images to cloak her experiences and emotions. Her poems have been published, or are forthcoming in The Stray Branch, Metazen, Literary Orphans, Four and Twenty Poetry,and elsewhere. She is also the author of "Masquerading Fawn," a poetry chapbook. For more information about her, visit http://echolymph.tumblr.com/ Ettosi Brooks Ettosi Brooks is a multifaceted artist, creating stories and songs that reflect the rhythms and wisdom of the cultures she has experienced. She is the 2011 Independent Music Award winner for a single in the world music category. Additionally, she has created her own reggae musical and scripted the Afrik Nutcracker Ballet.
Christine Catalano Christine likes to take photographs and play with them on the computer. She dedicates her work to her muse, Gary Iorio, a talented writer and lifelong friend who passed away in March of this year. Christine Davis Christine Davis is currently an MFA student at Northern Arizona University where she teaches English 105 and 205, and edits for Thin Air Magazine. In 2010 she started Second Story Journal, an undergraduate honors publication at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. Her work has appeared in publications such as Atlantis Magazine, Swansea Life Magazine, and Sanctuary Literary Journal. In her spare time she roams the mountains of Flagstaff with her husband, Justin, and Molly the Adventure Dog. David Gialanella David Gialanella, aside from writing fiction, is an award-winning chili chef, outof-practice musician, impatient driver, lousy gambler, devoted consumer of beers of varying price and quality, and sufferer of sports fandom and other neuroses. His work has been accepted and is pending publication in Tropus Magazine and The Bookends Review. David lives with his wife in northern New Jersey, where he works as a journalist for a legal trade publication. Kayla Pongrac Kayla Pongrac is an avid writer, reader, tea drinker, and vinyl record spinner. When she's not writing creatively, she's writing professionally—for two newspapers and a few magazines in her hometown of Johnstown, PA. To read
more of Kayla's work, visitwww.kaylapongrac.com or follow her on Twitter @KP_the_Promisee. David Pring-Mill David Pring-Mill is a writer and award-winning independent filmmaker. His writings have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly, Sheepshead Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Eunoia Review, Page & Spine, Mad Scientist Journal, The Higgs Weldon, openDemocracy, Independent Voter Network, and elsewhere. His first poetry book "Age of the Appliance" is scheduled for publication in late 2014. Follow him online: @davesaidso, pring-mill.com.
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