Crack the Spine
Literary magazine
Issue 154
Issue 154 June 22, 2015 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine
CONTENTS Mitchell Waldman
Figment
Laurie Kolp
Relinquishing Control
Ean Bevel
A Bumpy Ride and a Gloved Hand
Ana Prundaru
Reverse Telepathy
Andrew Rhodes
WMD
Richard King Perkins II Petty Offense
Glenn H. Mitchell
Healing the Koi
Mitchell Waldman Figment
I am a stereotype fighting against myself. Am I real or just a figment of some writer’s imagination? I’m an artist, with all the characteristics of the two-dimensional typecasting of an artist you might imagine – I like to drink, do a few drugs, don’t like responsibility or money. I don’t wear a beret, I’ll give you that. But who does that anymore? Like a child I walk through life, my needs seeming greater than anyone else’s, walking around saying, “It’s all for my art.” (Taking my daddy’s trust fund money all along, but pretending I’m broke). When you’re an artist you think you can get away with things just because you are an artist. And what does that mean? That you’re fitting yourself into the stereotype of your own making? It’s like I don’t want to do the work, just want to live the lifestyle. So, am I real, or am I not? Am I
some two-dimensional caricature of myself? Or what I pretend to be? Or am I just some made up character portrayed in words by the fat fingers of some sloppy anonymous writer? If I don’t exist, tell the writer – I need some unique characteristics, background: INSERT HERE. Dirt under my fingernails. Maybe an accident, like in third grade when I fell off the slide, broke my leg in two places. Sitting around in bed in a cast in the middle of the summer, flies buzzing around the room and my leg, my little sister, Dani, driving me crazy, “Play this with me, play that.” Or the time I fell out of the tree house (that would be a good one). The time my “Uncle” Bill wanted me to show him my “thing.” (Better yet. Pain builds character. That’s what a character needs). The trust fund angle, though. That
keeps me from working, from having to work. Keeps me from having to describe to you my daily tedious adventures at my job in the… factory… the restaurant… whatever. The trust fund thing works. (But fits right in with the stereotype, doesn’t it?) Grew up with a nanny, hardly ever saw my mother who was always doing good here or there, blah blah blah. (You’ve heard that one before). She seems to be so good, loves everyone except her one and only son whose nanny is more of a mother to him than the mother he’ll ever know. I sleep with women. A lot of women. They seem to like artists. And I like them liking artists. So, who’s using who? I don’t like Corporate America, where the money comes, but do I give it up? No. Then I’d have to work in Corporate America. My father runs a large paper manufacturing company. I never see
or talk to him. We both like it better that way. I’m a failed (or failing) artist. My work is basically crap. (Low selfesteem, too, you see). Had a couple exhibits in posh art galleries. (I think my father paid someone off). Anyway, the reviews were tepid. I work in stone. Chipping away at it. Trying to make something real out of it. Nothing real that you would understand. Abstract some call it. My girlfriend, Nina, left me about a month ago. She found out about me sleeping with Sheila or Sherry…I forget which. She said I was a selfindulgent, irresponsible selfish prick who uses people, suffers from a Peter Pan complex (she was studying to be a psychologist or self-help writer, I’m not sure which) and never wants to face the real world. Damned straight. Sounds like the Artiste all over, doesn’t it? I once stole a pea coat from a ritzy
store downtown. They caught me. My mother, Lucy, had to come downtown and bail me out. Irresponsible. A louse. I miss Nina. I want to call her. Tell her I’ll be true. Grow up. Face the real world. Even clean the place up. Do my art on the side. Not live in my studio. Not go out boozing every night. Maybe work at McDonald’s or something. Anything. I want so much to be real. This hangnail hurts like hell. You think that would prove it. My complexion in the mirror is pasty from working all night (when I do work and don’t go out on a binge). I’ve got a scar over my left eye from when my father hit me in the forehead with his driver, shagging balls on the back lawn (near the pool) when I was two. Having a name would be helpful, I guess. But,… I don’t want to tell you. Or…maybe I don’t have one, it hasn’t
been born yet in the writer’s feeble imagination. (I’d like to tell that guy a word or two if he’s the one pulling the strings – lay off the scotch, get more sleep, make me a better man. I don’t know. Even I don’t know what I am. If I’m here or there, or only on the page, this page.) I sit on my unmade bed and my “life” or pseudo-life crashes around me. Images. College days, in the dorm, getting wasted, listening to Led Zeppelin records with my hairy roommate. Me driving my red MG Midget too fast, tires squealing, crashing into the side of a building. The image of a stilled face, glass and blood, her body laid out on the road. I can’t break out of this box, this mold of my own making. Am I real or am I a figment of the writer’s imagination? And if am merely a stereotype, will you still feel the wind blowing against me violently, flapping me, against my will, like a flag in the
warm dark night, as I stand on this window ledge, staring down? Will you hear me scream as I take that step, freefalling down? Will you feel the impact when my body crashes against the cold hard surface of the street below?
Laurie Kolp
Relinquishing Control Wading through an apocalypse of fallen dreams, asphalt grinds my toenails to the quick relentless agitation I’ve grown accustom to your penny slaps upon my thigh, attempts to lure me back, as if a gale force wind might swoop down from the scribbled sky and swoosh my faults into a maelstrom. Embalmed beneath your skin— you rub it in, you rub it in. Estrangement is my holocaust no more. I relinquish all control dear demonizing mind of mine, goodbye.
Ean Bevel
A Bumpy Ride and a Gloved Hand
I worked for the State as their Agrostological Specialist. I mowed weeds. The State dictated that all ditches along county roadways, which included the interstate, asphalt roads, and rock lanes be mown because when it snowed the plows needed to push the excess snow into the ditches, and, of course, two tons of hardened snow is no match for dried-out ditch weeds. I guess the highway department thought the weeds may revolt, recovering cleaned roads with tarnished snow. We made a circuit, mowing weeds, starting in one corner of the county and then worked from a grid following every road, clearing ditches. By the time the bush hogs made it to the far end of the county, their point of origin was overgrown again, so they’d start all over. Padding had to be added to my seat at the end. I’d bounce on the John Deere all day until I could barely walk. When winter showed up all the ditches were full of knee-high weeds, which is as high as they would ever grow, regardless of mowing. We switched from orange baseball hats to orange stocking hats and donned neon vests over coveralls instead of short sleeves, mounting plows instead of tractors. When the plows pushed the snow into the weed-filled ditches, which had not heard of state logic, the weeds succumbed. Over the twenty years I worked for the State, as is often the case, I developed a friendship with a coworker, my supervisor, Brandon Price, who went by the nickname Bone, awarded because of his familial inheritance. We shared the same birthdate, Bone one year older with one year seniority at the DOT.
Communal weed mowing can build lasting friendships because while at work the mowers never talk to each other outside of the obligatory mornin, night, and bullshit-filled lunch breaks, so they could remain friends in the civilian world. Staties, as the locals called them, had it made, as the locals said. On weekends Bone and I’d go boating or fishing or camping—the trifecta when we accomplished all three; two was par. There were never any women involved. This was boy time, plus I was married and Bone took care of his female relationships during the week. Bone would pull up to the house in his new ¾ ton pickup with either his new fifth wheel camper or his new bass boat in tow. I’d walk out with my coffee. Me: “Got the Bass Tracker, huh? Guess I’ll hook on to my new camper.” Bone: “Just hurry. I’m gettin thirsty.” Or, Me: “Got the camper, huh? Guess I’ll hook on to my new ski boat.” Bone: “Just hurry. I’m gettin thirsty.” We drove away pulling $150,000 down the road, the wife staring out the window. Job security from the State’s perspective. Fifteen miles to the lake, set camp, launch the boat, drinking the whole time. Sheila always stayed home to “catch up on laundry,” or “read a good book,” which both meant getting wine drunk and binging on saltless, butterless popcorn while watching silent films on TCM. Depending on the weekend’s boat selection, decided Friday on lunch break, we’d fish from Bone’s Tracker or ski behind my Four Winns. Drinkin. We’d play a game where one person would drive the boat to a set speed, always above forty, and then the other would bail off the back of the boat, over the prop, no lifejacket, because only “pussies,” according to Bone, wore them. First
time I jumped feet first it felt like half the lake went up my ass, so we learned to jump head first. We should have died several times. Once back to shore our legs wobbled, used to the boat moving, but the ground wasn’t moving. Sea legs. It may have been the beer too, or both. At camp, the first responsibility was fire. Campfires. I love fire, really, moreso, love the lunacy of the conversation surrounding fire. “Boob talk.” “Charley mowed over a hubcap today.” “Sports teams from the region.” “Mexican labor.” “High grocery prices.” “Livin like kings, Mike.” “If I ever die, take care of Sheila.” “If I ever die, won’t be anybody left to take care of any of em.” “Gas prices.” “Arabs.” “State retirement account returns.” “Boob talk.” “New Deere at work.” “Hit a deer the other day.” “Bigger truck payment?” “Bigger boat payment?” “Bigger mortgage payment?” “Bigger camper payment?” “Livin like kings, Bone.” “Domestic beer varieties.”
“Did you see that chick on the lake today?” “The one with the boobs?” By this time in the evening the mosquitoes had stopped biting and we were slurring so bad we couldn’t understand ourselves or each other. Fire light was meeting daylight when I went into the air conditioned trailer for some sleep. Bacon woke me. At 7:30 Bone was frying the fat in a cast iron skillet over some glowing coals. He hadn’t been to bed. After breakfast we were drinking by 8 and skiing or fishing. Sheila hated bacon.
Bone came over for supper at least once a week, sometimes three to four times. Sheila always made some type of pasta. There was always garlic bread too, Bone’s favorite. “Fucker’s Johnson is bigger than that loaf,” I told Sheila before Bone showed up. Everytime. “He gets god’s best blessing and I get swollen everything.” As the last syllable left my mouth, Bone rang the doorbell. Sheila tossed a salad, iceberg and croutons. We heard Bone come down the hall and Sheila dropped her wooden salad spoon when he came into view. He cradled a bottle of wine in his right arm. On Bone’s left arm he escorted Nadia. Nadia. The first thing I loved about Nadia was her teeth. If tooth beauty were measured, hers would be the ideal. The front two were gapped about the width of two stacked baseball cards. They were a 9.5 on the whiteness scale. Used and aged, but not bleached. Real. It didn’t hurt to look at her teeth like it does a 10. When I zoomed out I noticed she was two inches taller than Bone’s 6’2;” she was wearing three inch heels. She was dark everywhere. Black hair, brown
eyes, tanned skin, little black dress. She wasn’t from the county. Bone must have found this one in the city. I handed Bone a beer as we walked outside onto the deck which flanked a weed-filled ditch. In the kitchen, Nadia started small talk about bean fields with Sheila. “Saw you standin up on the tractor today, Mike. Ass that, uh, sore?” “Some days, Buddy. Some days I can’t hardly walk.” “What’s the prognosis? Or diagnosis? Or whatever? What are they gonna do, the doctors?” “Ain’t much they can do at this point. Grown too much. They don’t know nothin about it. I’m their fuckin guinea pig.” Bone lifted his beer to his face. “World sucks, Bone.”
Toward the end, Bone made my on-the-clock time tolerable, perhaps out of gratitude for years of familial affection, where he was short, or perhaps because he was kind, or perhaps… “Mike, we gotta talk before we mount up,” Bone said in his office. “Somethin wrong?” “No, Mike, No I, uh…have a seat, uh…I’ve been thinking,” “Oh shit.” “Well, what I’ve been thinkin is we need to get you off that tractor.” “You shittin me, Bone, Brandon? You firin me?” “No, no, not at all. I’m trying to find a position for you that, uh, requires less sitting and no walking.” “Sleepin? Just fuckin with you, boss. What’ya have in mind?”
Sheila also used to work for the DOT where she scheduled visits for elected officials, like the county clerk or the county clerk’s assistant. Half the state applied for these jobs when they opened, but we had an advantage. We were both veterans. As soon as we checked that box on our applications, the state’s hiring managers started calling. Sheila never left her cubicle until she quit from boredom. “You can only play so many games of solitaire before you go insane. If the state paid people to play solitaire, and they do pay people to play solitaire, there would be a lot of rich people around here,” Sheila told me when she got home from her final day. The logic in her statement demonstrates her indoctrination in transportation bureaucracy. My income was sufficient already, plus I’d need an in-home caretaker soon. Sheila figured we could get money from the state for that too. What was difficult for Bone was finding a job I could do without sitting or standing, so solitaire was out of the question. There was one. “You just want me to lay here? You’re shittin.” Bone had a brand new hide-a-bed couch moved into his office the prior night, along with a 50” HDTV and a bed pan. “What about my pay? I need the money; I have bills.” “Your pay won’t change, just your job description. Make sure no flies get in here. Lay there and swat flies. If some flies get in though, that’s okay. Call me on the CB if you need anything.” “I can’t take a check for doing shit, Bone.” “Sure you can. Just pretend you’re the Governor.” This position lasted several months before I was too weak to drive to work and needed hospice. The community had a benefit: fried chicken, beer, and the
music of the Polka Allstars. It netted about four hundred bucks, which was what it cost to move a cot into the house, where confined, I lost my hair, my mind, my erections, and my slippers.
We finished our beers and entered the kitchen through the sliding glass door adorned with hummingbird decals. Bone smelled the cheese bubbling on the garlic bread in the oven and informed Sheila he was once again grateful for the invitation. She pulled the baguette out of the oven and presented it to Bone with her customary “Ta-da.” Bone moved closer to the baguette and wafted. So close he inhaled heat. He closed his eyes. Sheila set the bread pan on the table atop a metal trivet, a butterfly. She added a Dutch oven full of penne with alfredo and slices of seared kielbasa, all homemade and cooked on the wood stove. She instructed Nadia and Bone to sit down before she retrieved my inflatable donut from the living room. She placed it on my chair and sat down in her chair, starting weather talk to distract our guests from my struggle. I spoke first to get rid of the uncomfortable miasma, I learned that word on my word-a-day calendar, floating in the room. “Can you believe a grown man needs a plastic fuckin donut to sit down and eat? Ain’t like I’m ninety, either.” “Now, now, hun. Hun, we’re just lucky we found out.” “Don’t matter. It’s there. Done. I think findin out’s what done me in. If I never would’ve learned about this, I sure wouldn’t be usin a rubber donut, and at least I could be happy, probably dead by now.” “That’s no way to talk, Mike.” “Wanna switch spots with me, Babe?” Sheila didn’t like this idea, nor did she have a prostate.
The kielbasa was a little salty. “How did you…uh…find…uh…out?” Bone asked. “Sheila made me.” “She made you?” “Listen. On my 52nd birthday Sheila prepared herself to reward me for living another year by allowing me the opportunity to get naked and bounce on top of her for a few minutes.” “Keep it G, Dear. Virgin, um, fresh ears in the room,” Sheila said, twirling the golden crucifix on her necklace between her fingers, indicating Nadia with a nod. “It just wouldn’t work. I’m sure you never have that problem, Bone, but you will. Sheila tried to help in every way, and I’ll leave those details to your imaginations. I was humiliated. This was my manhood, man. I went to the bathroom to give him a pep talk hopin he would respond to verbal cues since physical ones produced nothin but frustration. Happy birthday to me.” “You gonna get through this, uh, introductory cock talk and onto your illness?” Bone asked. Nadia arched her perfect eyebrows above her perfect eyes. “Yes, yes. I’m gettin there. I was naked in the bathroom. Hey friend, I said, using a flat tone lest he think I was talkin down to him. What’s wrong? Don’t you wanna stand up strong? He didn’t say anything. He just stared at the ground like I was scoldin him. I touched him a little considerin I had more experience than Sheila at handlin him. Nothin. Broken, just broken. I cried a little and then slapped him against the sink. I told Sheila about our bathroom talk and then we fell asleep after eating a few pieces of ice cream cake.” “I love ice cream cake,” Sheila said.
And there was Nadia too, smiling and laughing at all the wrong times. “Listen. I went to work the next day to talk to Charley, the oldest man on our crew and the newest hire, a Navy veteran. I asked him if he had any little blue pills at home for performance reasons. “At home?” he asked, laughin. “I’m married; why would I need em at home? I keep em in my glovebox. Never know, by god.” We both laughed, but it was an uncomfortable laugh, for me at least. He seemed to be at ease. “Havin some problems, Mike?” he asked. The laughin stopped. I told him they were for Sheila because she had read online that women can benefit from the pills too.” “Thanks, Dear.” “You’re welcome. At lunch Charley dropped two tic-tac sized pills in my hand. He was wearing a too-large smile, which I wanted to punch off his face, but I wanted an erection more. “I swallowed the pill with my tall boy on the way home. By the time I drove the fifteen minutes, nothin. Sheila told him it was okay. I was far from okay, so I took the second pill. I’m not sure if the pills, or the sugar, or the beer, or Sheila’s exposed breasts interacted with Charley’s pills, but after my third slice of ice cream cake, he decided to work again.” “Keep it G, Dear,” Sheila warned. She didn’t have to say anything. Her eyes said my discourse was growing precarious. I was talking to Bone though, so it wasn’t anything he hadn’t already heard at work. “Sheila hated me. Those pills work. And, Bone, if you ever need one, only take one. Have you seen the commercials, Nadia, the ones where two silver foxes look at each other over a picnic table at the city park? Or while paintin a fence? Or while row boatin? “Get home before you pop that pill,” I yell at the screen now. Anyway, at the end of the commercial, the guy who disclaims the
manufacturer’s warnings says, “If you experience an erection that lasts longer than six hours, consult your doctor immediately.” I used to think that would be desirable. It’s not. Sheila and I started…oh, yes, G, Dear, G. Hmmmm… When Sheila tired she told me it was over and then ran to the shower. I lay in bed with my fingers woven behind my head, pointin at the ceiling.” I stopped the story for a laugh, but the look on Sheila’s face was horror, not amusement. Bone chuckled. Nadia looked sad. “Sheila came back to the bedroom smelling of cucumbermelon and told me if I ever intended to use that thing again that I had to go to the doctor. Well, I figured I would like to use it again, so I scheduled the appointment the next morning. I called twice before they opened.” “Now we’re getting to the point,” Bone said. “Yes, patience. I want to tell the story right. Sheila went with me to the doctor’s office. I knew what I was going to be subjected to. I googled my symptoms and had a diagnosis from WebMD, but I wanted to see if what a human with medical training would say would match up with what the computer told me—and that other reason too, the ultimatum. “We sat in the exam room for fifteen minutes, me sweatin, Sheila readin Better Homes & Gardens. Dr. Suzuki was a dainty, Asian morsel. Everything about her was miniature. She carried a clipboard cradled in her right arm, her fingers curled around the side, so knuckles and the back of her hand were all that I could see of her digits. Her left hand was in her smock pocket. She sat on a round, swivel stool. My eyes never met hers. My eyes stayed with her fingers, that once revealed, turned out to be dainty stubs, no bigger than cocktail wienies. She asked questions. I watched her fingers move her pen over my chart. She talked to Sheila. I watched her fingers. She asked about the tic-tacs
which Sheila made me mention on my health history. I watched her fingers. She asked about rectal pain. I watched her fingers. It was time. “We’ll,” Suzuki said, “know more after a digital exam.” The doctor gloved up her right hand and reached into a drawer attached to the exam table for lubricant. Do you know how they check the prostate, Bone?” Bone nodded. Nadia laughed; I watched her teeth. “Before the exam Sheila told me that one marital mishap didn’t signal trouble for her, so she thought this was a routine checkup. Well, the clear lubricant being extruded toward Suzuki’s tiny pointer finger never moistened the glove before Sheila objected. I’m huggin my knees on the exam table, starin at the wall, ass hangin off the edge, butthole eyein the doctor, and now Sheila wants to start a conversation. “Before Suzuki can reply, the door swings open and a man in a blue jumpsuit appears, Carl sewn onto his breast, holdin a mop. He just stares at my asshole for a few seconds and then apologizes for not knockin.” “He’s the hospital orderly,” Suzuki explained. “Not an orderly orderly at all. Fucker. Mom continued after Carl left.” “I don’t think so,” she told Suzuki. “Is there a problem?” Suzuki asked. “I ain’t gonna sit here and watch some woman stick her finger in my husband. What if he gets an erection?” Can you believe she said that? Figured she’d say hard-on or boner, but erection? How scientific, Sheila.” “Erections happen a lot,” Suzuki told Sheila. “It’s normal. I perform the DRE with clinical precision. You can sit outside if you can’t watch.” “No. I’ll stay, thank you, but you’ll get someone else to perform the exam. Aren’t there male doctors in your practice? What about Carl?” Mom laughed.
The rubber glove snapped off of Suzuki’s baby hand as she said, “Okay. I’ll get Dr. Panjawani.” I watched Suzuki leave, her fingers delicate as lace. Once we were alone again in the exam room, I asked Sheila what her outburst was about. She explained that she had done some research too, that according to the internet, some men like that sort of thing.” “Your copay is paying for prostitution. Some men pay to have women do that to them. Sickos,” Sheila said. “You didn’t have to yell at the doctor though; I think this is a matter of your insecurities. Suzuki was just doing her job. Plus, I don’t blow a gasket when you go to the gyno and a male doctor sticks the duck bill…. I had to stop when I saw Sheila’s eyes. They looked like they look now. Sheila explained that her appointments were different, but never gave any explanation as to why. She did explain proper nomenclature, speculum. “Well at least Panjawani sounds Indian. They’re typically small-framed too.” “What? What does that have to do with anything?” Sheila asked. “Well…well was all I got out of my mouth before we heard a knock on the exam room door. Whoever was knocking either carried a ten pound brass door knocker with them everywhere just in case they needed to give a castle door like knockin, or they had medicine balls at the ends of their arms. Maybe it was Carl, knockin with his mop handle. “Come in,” Sheila said. The door cracked. Its movement would have been imperceptible without my heightened fear. Once Panjawani, it was Panjawani, opened the door enough to slide his hand through, his fingers wrapped around from the outside and touched the middle of the door on the inside where my chart hung in a clear plastic box. He removed my chart with his left hand before I ever saw his face.
“Are you shittin me?” I pleaded. The doctor entered carrying his own box of gloves because “None of the normal sizes fit my hands.” He was Indian all right. He had beautiful brown skin, much like yours, Nadia, and the glued on forehead dot. Do they glue those on? I can’t remember what color it was. Do you remember, Sheila?” Sheila couldn’t remember. “Listen: Panjawani’s mother must have mated with an elephant. This guy was at least 6’ 6”, and his fingers were not cocktail wienies, but swollen bratwursts. “Need an exam?” he asked. I don’t know that I needed one, but I was gettin one. Sheila smiled in the corner after gettin her way, oblivious to the fact that this giant could maim me. You think that’s funny, Bone? You ever stick a brat up your ass? It ain’t comfortable. “Panjawani finished the exam in a few seconds, according to Sheila. If I had a stopwatch on the exam I would say it was closer to twenty minutes. At one point I turned around and said, “what the hell you doin back there, doc?” Fucker smiled. Probably gay or some shit. Thought he’s gonna grab onto my shoulders. When the doctor’s glove fell from his bratwursts into the trash can, I asked, ‘is it cancer, doc?’ He laughed, the fucker laughed. “I don’t know,” Panjawani said. “What we know right now is there is some serious swelling, and we’ll have to do a biopsy to find out any more.” “But it’s not cancer, right, Mike?” Bone asked. “No, Bone, it’s not. After the biopsy and tests, I asked the doctor, Suzuki this time, what they learned under the microscope. Is it cancer, doc? Suzuki told me I wasn’t that lucky. Nobody in the practice had ever seen anything this invasive and progressive.”
“We know a little bit about cancer. This we know nothing about. It’s like you won the prostate lottery.” “They told me I wouldn’t last long and that I would soon be fully dysfunctional, even with the tic-tacs. Just as Suzuki told me, the swelling claimed my erections, which was a bonus for Sheila.” “Least I don’t get prodded with that thing anymore. Too old for that,” Sheila would say. “Prostate lottery? You believe that shit, Bone? Can you believe a doctor would say some shit like that?” Bone couldn’t believe it. “Listen: they have no way to treat this because they don’t understand it. I’ll be dead before the end of the year.” And I was.
Ana Prundaru
Reverse Telepathy My heart is a revolution of want and have. I look for you between chopped birch trees and finger-stained knobs. In my dreams I find you. We settle into an empty barn, where you fold a drafting table out of your gut and pull sparkling colors from your palms. I steal a glimpse, while you scrape my incandescent reflection on canvas. I watch in awe how the colors proceeded to mingle. In the morning, I tiptoe outside, to see if maybe, you are standing by the door. The lady sleeping next to me pats my back and says: Someday, someday.
Andrew Rhodes WMD
Our alarm system needed a code word that we could use in case we accidentally set it off. I figured if someone was going to go to enough trouble to break into our house, they would probably be smart enough to figure out our dog’s name. So instead I chose the word Empurpled. Years later, we had kids and got a swing set. The swing set was Donald Duck themed. Yes, the beloved character that had brought joy and tears into the lives of so many. A character that, in simpler times, had uplifted souls into their rightful altocumulus homes. In the novels of Walter M. Disney—those epic tomes from which we often worshipped but seldom read—the duck-who-wouldspeak had uncoiled our dreams. The writings of WMD stirred hearts and loins, and had become inextricably
woven into the daily fabric of our homes and gardens. It was Donald Duck, he of the misunderstood intention, who was knighted, galvanized, stripped of his knighthood, murdered in his sleep, reanimated by a primeval wizard, and ultimately, regurgitated throughout space and time. Our hearts still rise and fall with him. So one day I went to the library to get one of these books for the children, and when I came home I saw something extraordinary. My son was quite a climber, and he had tremendous balance. Well, he had learned to climb the stop sign next to our house and stand on top of it. I asked God if this was significant. A Stop Sign on the street just means to stop your car. But your child on top of a Stop Sign? That probably means
something more existential. My life eventually turned inside out. I found a hole at the bottom of my embroiled mind.
Richard King Perkins II Petty Offense
Because I know indifference is harsh, I’ve forgotten that you were fearful that I’d intentionally contaminate your water bottle when you asked me to fill it. Unfortunately, an unexpected pollutant had gotten into the tap supply and made you sick at one point in your life. That one was not my fault. Rarely would I bring you something that was right. It was usually burnt or a bad color, the wrong texture or design, too wet or uncomfortably snug. I once ran into the store to buy you pantyhose for a wedding ceremony we were late for. I brought you out control-top hosiery for a woman three times your size and you broke down in tears because you believed for a moment that I thought you were that big.
I told you I thought they were being sold by tensile strength, and the bigger the number, the stronger the hose. You laughed through tears and at that moment, I apologized to you, not for buying the wrong size, but for filling your water bottle with toilet water the week before for some petty offense I now can’t recall; and which I didn’t remember even then.
Glenn H. Mitchell Healing the Koi
Walking along the main strip, he zigzagged from the edge of the sidewalk to the display windows. Sometimes he’d slip over the curved edge of the gutter and fall to his knees, becoming an obstacle for swerving cars. They’d issue aural protests with honking horns or verbal abuse trailing behind their fishtailing forms. Other times he’d joyfully smack his head against shuddering windows. The pain reminded him of those crunching tackles on the football field that adjusted his spine like a chiropractor. He stopped to lean against a metal gate. The bottle was slipping from his grip so he casually threw it over the fence of the Mercedes Benz dealership and watched it land with a loud thud on the bonnet of one of the many glossy sedans. On cue, a police car slowed to monitor him and the passenger’s window wound down. A woman in uniform frowned at him. ‘I’d fuck you,’ he mumbled, only glancing at her for a moment. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘I’d fuck you!’ he shouted without looking at her. ‘Jesus,’ she said before turning to comment to the driver. He could hear the driver laughing, and when he looked at the cop again, she was hiding her amusement. ‘You going to be alright?’ she asked.
‘I hope not,’ he answered. The car shadowed him for a minute without any comment. Then the driver said something—too quietly to be heard through the swish of traffic and rain. ‘You’re a lucky boy,’ the woman said. The car accelerated and a few seconds later it was dressed in flashing lights. Standing in front of the security door of his building, he tried to get his hand into his pocket but missed a few times. Then he patted his jeans, realised he didn’t have keys, and looked up at the black sky, laughing. He’d punched the tiny window enough to clear the glass. At first the pain was quite sharp but was replaced by a heavier, more sickening brand of discomfort, like his hand was made of heavy wet rubber. When the bare bone of knuckles kept hitting an unseen force field, he realised there was a layer of metal mesh. The lights of neighbouring houses began to switch on. The woman who lived directly across from the building opened her door and stood there in the light, wearing a bathrobe. He turned and waved his bleeding hand at her. ‘It’s the hand or the grill, babe!’ he shouted. ‘Something’s got to give!’ He heard the sound of a window sliding open and looked up to see a familiar face with a number of phantom versions floating around it. He tried to pull the phantoms into one shape but floundered, falling back on his arse. ‘Jesus, Casey,’ the shape said. ‘Why didn’t you just text me? I’ll come down.’ The woman across the road mumbled and the shape above answered: ‘Sorry Jenny, I’ll sort him out’. The door opened and he felt his weight suddenly reduce.
‘For god’s sake, get inside before they ring the fucking police,’ his neighbour demanded while acting as puppeteer, nursing Casey up the two steps to his front door. ‘You got a credit card?’ Casey asked. ‘So now you’re going to break into your own home?’ ‘You don’t think I can?’ “Jesus,’ his minder said, fishing for his wallet and fishing for a card. Despite his lack of coordination on the street, Casey had no trouble wedging the card into the opening. The door clicked open. ‘You’re too good at that,’ his neighbour said, and they both laughed. ‘Seriously, Casey, you can’t keep doing this.’ ‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’ Stumbling through the door, he threw it back behind him, hearing it slam. Then came the muffled voice of his saviour yelling: ‘you’re fucking welcome, you bastard’. When Rebekah came over a few hours later, she didn’t hesitate to get straight to the point. ‘I assume that was you.’ ‘What, may I ask are you referring to?’ he asked. He was sitting in a recliner with a glass balanced on his naked stomach. The door clicked shut and she looked at him across the large expanse of the studio. ‘Aren’t you going to ask where I’ve been?’ ‘No.’ ‘I did try to call you, you know? Where’s your phone?’ ‘Who knows?’
‘I was calling you to see if you wanted to meet up somewhere.’ ‘I was pretty busy.’ ‘Getting fucked up.’ ‘Getting fucked up,’ he confirmed. He could hear that usual exhalation. He’d always hated sighs. ‘So what are you going to say about that mess outside? Will you tell the real estate people that it was kids again?’ ‘It’s a terrible neighbourhood, sweetie. Break-ins happen all the time.’ There was another silence but he could hear her breaths becoming shorter. ‘Jesus, what the fuck!’ she yelled. ‘What?’ he said, startled. ‘What’s wrong?’ He suddenly looked around, shocked sober for an instant, trying to find what triggered her outburst. Her footsteps pounded on the floorboards, increasing in volume until she was hovering above him. ‘Where are you bleeding?’ He felt her hands on his chest, then she realised that’s where the blood had been dripping, and her fingers crawled up his neck and down his arm until she grabbed his wrist and studied the hand that was holding the glass. ‘Give me that!’ she ordered, and he reluctantly let the glass go. Then she was clutching his damaged hand and twisting it. ‘Hang on,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ll get my kit.’ At least she wasn’t angry anymore. He drank with his left hand as she sprayed the saline solution over his damaged mitt, and he only winced when she started picking the tiny fragments of glass from the ripped skin. ‘Casey! This is useless. It’s like you’ve rubbed glass all through it.’
‘We’ll have to amputate,’ he said, deadpan. She almost grinned but stopped it before it took hold. ‘It’s serious, you arsehole. I couldn’t think of a better way to breed infection.’ ‘Totally serious.’ It had been convenient, having a nurse as a girlfriend, especially during the first few years recovering from the assault. ‘I’m going to stitch this,’ she said, tapping a cut between his knuckles that ran in a straight line down his index finger. Again, it reminded him of football. There’s nothing like the stitching of a cut to connect you to someone. How many procedures give you the opportunity to look your healer in the eye and watch their concentration and care? At his football club, the doctor shoved shoulders back into sockets, tested for breaks and stitched wounds. Casey could remember winking at a younger player who watched, transfixed as the doctor counted down to zero, poised to pull Casey’s mangled finger straight. Then he’d feel his hair ruffled and the assistant coach would give him a friendly shove to send him back onto the oval. When Rebekah had wrapped gauze and tape around the wounded hand, she tenderly placed it on his chest. She lightly stroked his face with the back of her hand while looking at the many scars on his body: the evidence of stitches, the self-inflicted branding on his chest and the old tattoos. Tearing gruesome paths through all those faded trails and lines were the scars from knife wounds. ‘It’s good,’ he judged, turning the hand to the overhead light. ‘Thanks.’ She let out a sharp exhalation. Then she stared at him for so long that he couldn’t help glancing at her. ‘What?’
‘You’re killing us both.’ He frowned at her. ‘As you know, people have tried to kill me. No one’s done the job yet.’ ‘That’s it,’ she said, sarcastically, ‘Just turn on the bullshit bravado. That always helps.’ He could see her glance at the main scar—the one embossed diagonally across his rib cage. Deciding to ignore it, she leaned closer to his chest. ‘I can’t even see where this used to be. Remember? There was one here. I can feel it but it’s nearly healed. I mean, it’s almost invisible.’ ‘What are you doing?’ ‘What? Don’t you think most of them are nearly gone—all the little ones?’ ‘So?’ She sighed again. ‘So it’s time to just stop thinking about it. How many years? Eight? When is it going to be enough?’ She grabbed the glass from his hand and swallowed the rest of the whiskey, then leaned over the chair to where she rightly expected to find the bottle. ‘What about the things you got to do, Case?’ she asked, half-filling the glass. ‘Never mind the things you didn’t get to do. Everyone knew how good you were. You won premierships, didn’t you? You played for the state. You won awards. You’d already proven how good you were.’ ‘Rebekah?’ ‘And who’s to say you wouldn’t have been injured anyway?’ ‘Bek!’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Stop talking now, huh?’ Oh God, he thought, Here she goes again.
She began sobbing very quietly, placing both hands on his chest. She slid one hand over the Koi that leapt from the tattooed water inked on his chest, and rubbed her fingertips over a short but jagged scar that marred the eye and gills of the otherwise beautifully drawn fish. ‘That bitch even ruined your tattoo,’ she cried with a pitiful, pained wail that made him roll his eyes. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, patting her arm affectionately. ‘None of this should have happened,’ she said, drawing the outline of the tattooed fish. She was thinking about their relationship, hoping he’d realise that some good had come from his misfortunes. ‘I’ll get you to bed,’ she decided. ‘Just stay there for a minute and I’ll wash the blood off. You’re caked it in.’ She brought a bowl and washcloth. The water was boiling hot but after initially jutting his chest out, he accepted it. ‘You’re the big man, aren’t you,’ she said, condescending. She walked him to the bedroom and leaned over to adjust the sheet and blanket. As she tugged and stretched the bedding, he reached under her skirt. ‘Don’t,’ she ordered. She stayed rigidly in the same position. ‘You’re wet,’ he said. ‘Don’t,’ she repeated. ‘I’m going to fuck you within an inch of your life,’ he whispered. As he did, he threw her legs to the side, ate her pussy like it was fruit and half-choked her while he relentlessly pumped slowly and deeply. They lay side by side on the bed, propped up on pillows.
‘How long are we going to do this?’ she asked, breathing out the smoke of a cigarette. ‘Forever,’ he said. ‘I can’t do this forever.’ ‘You’ve done it for eight years. Just think, you only have to do it five times that amount and one of us will surely be dead.’ ‘You won’t last that long.’ ‘In that case, your question is moot.’ ‘Don’t be a fucking smart arse. I’m serious.’ He grabbed the bottle from the dresser and took a swig. ‘That’s so classy,’ she said, and after watching him smile she asked: ‘Do you even love me?’ There was only the sound of him swallowing but she waited for an answer. ‘If I hadn’t been attacked that night, we would have never hooked up,’ he suddenly said, changing the subject. ‘You ever think of that?’ ‘Of course I do,’ she said, turning to press her face against the largest scar. ‘I knew you’d lost so much. I just… I don’t know, I felt like I had to tell you that I was sorry.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘Sorry that such a horrible thing happened to you. Everyone knew you were going to be a star player.’ ‘Maybe not. Nothing was certain.’ With her throat against the curve of his chest, he felt her swallow. ‘That’s what everyone said. Didn’t all the clubs talk to you?’ ‘I just loved playing.’ ‘So play.’
‘With one kidney?’ ‘The way you’re going, you’ll kill yourself anyway.’ He didn’t have an answer for that. “I feel like everyone should be allowed to take one day back, you know? Wouldn’t that be a fair thing? Like, if there’s a God, shouldn’t he allow that? Some people might want to take back something they said to their wife, or decide to not to go for a drive the day they hit that kid crossing the road, or back over their own baby, or take a flight in a plane that crashes.” “Nine lives?’ ‘No, just one chance. If you fuck up after that, you’ve had your chance. Imagine if I had that one night back? Fuck it, I’d be happy if I just knew what happened. Who it was and why they did it. ‘ ‘You know who did it.’ ‘It’s bullshit. There were more than two girls involved. I may have been tripping like crazy but I know. I don’t remember what they looked like but there were people—other girls—watching. I remember voices. They didn’t do anything.’ ‘It was psychosis. They were crazy. Maybe they didn’t want to do it.’ ‘No, you’re wrong,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘They’d planned it. They led me from the party. It was like it was rehearsed.’ She separated herself from him and propped herself up. ‘You know, it wasn’t the pain that was terrifying,’ he explained. ‘I was numb. Even when they started stabbing me, it took a little while to realise what was happening. No, it was knowing that they’d picked me out. They’d planned it, targeted me. The evil of it.’ She’d never heard him talk about it like that before.
‘They didn’t know me,’ Casey continued. ‘They had some idea about me. I didn’t deserve that.’ ‘I don’t know if I want to go over this ground again with you, babe.’ ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘I’m finding the rest of them, one by one.’ ‘What?’ ‘People can’t keep secrets like that forever. Guilt catches up.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘That’s why I got so fucked up tonight. You remember Suzie, don’t you? You were mates.’ ‘I wouldn’t say we were mates. I knew her.’ ‘Well, I saw her down on Broadway. I didn’t think much of it but then I went into a pub and her crew rocked up about half an hour later. Whenever I looked over, she was looking at me. At first, I figured she was keen on me.’ ‘Typical,’ Rebekah said. ‘Suzie was always a bit of a slut. She was needy.’ ‘Yeah but I got the feeling it was different,’ Casey explained. ‘Turned out that Suzie was drug-fucked. She ran off for a while and brought me a pill. They were good ones—you know, like the old days? Obviously she had another one too. Jesus, when that second pill kicked in for her—holy hell, it was the ultimate truth serum. The floodgates opened.’ ‘Like what?’ Rebekah asked, climbing out of bed and putting her clothes on. ‘Well, let’s just say that I found myself with both hands around that bitch’s throat and the bouncers beating me until I couldn’t hold on anymore.’ ‘Jesus!’ she said, turning suddenly. ‘What did she say?’ ‘Where are you going?’ Casey asked, suddenly losing interest in his own story.
‘I told you, I don’t want to go through this again. It’s horrible. I don’t know why you have to dredge it up.’ ‘Well, it turns out that the bubbly Suzie, who I would have thought couldn’t hurt a fly, was there when I was attacked.’ ‘She told you that?’ ‘Sure did.’ ‘Well why didn’t she help you? Did she explain that? ‘That slag—the one they jailed—apparently she pulled out that little pen knife and started stabbing me, and the others, well they were in shock. Then they were scared that if they tried to stop her, they’d cop it.’ ‘Maybe that’s the truth,’ she said, stopping for a moment and holding a highheel shoe in her hand. ‘Do you really think a bunch of girls that hardly knew you would try to kill you? One crazy bitch went nuts. Imagine if you were there, huh? Would you jump in front of the knife or try to wrestle her?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘How will it help you? How will this help you? That’s what I don’t understand about you. How are you ever going to move on from this? That’s all anyone who cares about you wants, you know?’ ‘Anyone who cares?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Like you?’ ‘Yes, like me.’ Casey watched her pull her panties up over her thighs, lifting her skirt. He savoured it. As she left, she took a few items that were permanent fixtures: a make-up kit that usually sat beside the bed and a robe draped over a chair in the corner.
Getting up to follow her to the bathroom, he noticed how rigid her posture was as she emerged with her hairdryer. He didn’t ask why she was retrieving it. Walking to the front door, she was stiffly upright and he could tell she was using her peripheral vision to keep track of where he was. ‘Did you think you could make it up to me, sweetie?’ he asked. She stopped and he could see her legs shaking. Then her shoulders slumped. She reached for whatever she had in her hands to cradle and only found the cold hard surface of the hair dryer to press to her face. She nodded. ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she begged, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know it would go that far. She said she was just going to scare you. We didn’t know she’d use the knife.’ She stumbled to the door. He calmly watched her open it and walk through, before opening the security door. He followed at a distance and when he felt the cool air, he saw that she was running.
Contributors Ean Bevel Ean Bevel lives with his wife in St. Louis, but dreams of living on the road. When he is not chasing his toddler or teaching English classes or swinging a hammer, he puts pen to page. His work often contains the grotesque and/or magical realism. He began collecting rejections a few years ago, then completed his MFA in writing, and continues to collect rejections. His fiction has appeared in Bartleby Snopes, Literary Orphans, and BareBack Magazine. His CNF has appeared in Lunch Ticket. Laurie Kolp Laurie Kolp, author of “Upon the Blue Couch” (Winter Goose Publishing, 2014), serves as president of Texas Gulf Coast Writers and gathers monthly with other local members of the Poetry Society of Texas. Laurie’s poems have appeared in more than four dozen print and online journals, including the 2015 Poet’s Market and Diane Lockward’s The Crafty Poet. Recent and upcoming publications include Scissors & Spackle, Blue Fifth Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Iodine Poetry Journal, North Dakota Quarterly, Turtle Island Quarterly, Hermes Lit Journal and Absinthe Poetry Review. Her website is lauriekolp.com Glenn H. Mitchell Glenn H. Mitchell studied journalism and scriptwriting before launching a career in television, producing and writing programs for the ABC, Foxtel and SBS including co-writing the infamous Australian comedy, Pizza. After touring
Australia in punk bands and producing shows for cable music channels, Mitchell became a popular columnist and journalist. During 2014, his first novel “Nowhere” was published. The book topped Amazon Kindle charts for ‘First Contact’ and ‘Metaphysical’ science fiction. Mitchell is currently based in Phnom Penh where he writes fiction and works as a freelance scriptwriter, blogger and journalist. Anna Prundaru Ana Prundaru’s writing and art have appeared in The Citron Review, Litro Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, CutBank Online, SmokeLong and elsewhere. A poetry chapbook, “One Lover, Four Sinners and Three Time Travelers,” is forthcoming fromEtched Press. Richard King Perkins II Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in longterm care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in hundreds of publications including The Louisiana Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Roanoke Review, The Red Cedar Review and The William and Mary Review. He has poems forthcoming in Sobotka Literary Magazine, The Alembic, Old Red Kimono and Milkfist. He was a recent finalist in The Rash Awards, Sharkpack Alchemy, Writer’s Digest and Bacopa Literary Reviewpoetry contests.
Andrew Rhodes Andrew Rhodes is a fiction writer from Mississippi. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in publications such as New World Writing, The Laurel Review, upstreet, Gravel, Star 82 Review, Crime Factory, and Punchnel’s. Mitchell Waldman Mitchell Waldman is the author of the story collection, “Petty Offenses and Crimes of the Heart” (Wind Publications, 2011) and the novel, “A Face in the Moon”. His fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. He is also the Fiction Editor for Blue Lake Review and was coeditor (with his partner, poet Diana May-Waldman, author of “A Woman’s Song”) of the anthologies Hip Poetry 2012 and Wounds of War: Poets for Peace. For more information, check out his website.
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