Peter Slattery

Never One For Talking

by Peter Slattery

Lamarwas never one for talking. I waited on the street corner, surrounded by empty lots and morning snow in the shadows of an outwardly unpopulated neighborhood. It was one of those deceptive winter days that is sunny but frigid, where the cold creeps down your back from your neck to your heart and makes you wish you had the money or self-confidence to buy a scarf. But I was doing alright, my hands stuffed in a puffy blue coat, my belted blue jeans matching a fresh Cubs flat-bill. I supposed I was a little patch of blue sky in the gray cloud of a cold city morningexcept for the brown Timberlands laced over my feet, crunching softly on the broken glass and frost underfoot, moving up and down to staywarm. And it wasn't cloudy actually; the sun was out. Perhaps I was a cloud.

I had a bit of time for this frigid pondering as my associate had not arrived yet. It wasn't that Lamar was late (Lamarwas never late), I was simply always early. After a few more minutes of wondering about nimbostratus and cumulus condensation, I saw Lamar roll up in his maroon Cadillac, brakes squeaking slightly as he eased into a stop. I paused for a moment as was custom, looked to my right and walked the few steps to his car. Ducking my head through the open window, I saw him staring forward, wearing that same 'do rag with that same red jacket with that same glint of gold underneath it all. "Brakes need pads, I think," said Lamar, still looking forward, hands resting on the wheel. "Maybe so," I said. I looked right and left again and opened the side door. As it was only midday, my precautions probably weren't necessary but they were ingrained in my psyche, second nature. The exterior of the car felt iry, but inside was comfortable. No sound but the gentle hum of the engine and the muffled buzz

of the radiator. I felt as if l'd sat on this leather seat a thousand times before, even though I knew t d only worked with Lamar on a couple dozen jobs. He shifted into drive and we were offdown the road. His Cadillac slid smoothly through the potholed streets of the south side. Lamar didn't seem to want to talk yet, so I turned on the radio and was greeted by a staccato beat and the wheezing voice of some hallucinogen-filled rapper. "You ain't wenna be all out in the streets. Mouthfulla blood and a soulfulla heat ..." A few verses later, Lamar spoke. "Good one today," he said softly as he turned a corner with a relaxed hand-over-hand motion. "D wants us hitting a corner'round Fifth." 'Alright," I said. "Should be a little muscle plus a coupla shorties. Get the fat man but don't off him. Grab the stash and dip, simple as that. Nine-milli in the glove compartment." I nodded and found the pistol in the compartment in front of me. I felt the weight of the small black instrument in my hand;the cold impression of the metal on my palm was far from a fresh sensation, but it was poignant for a reason I couldn't quite find. After testing the trigger a few times I the felt the satisfliing clack of the magazine entering into the pistol. "Let's do it," I said softly, looking down at the dark mechanism. "Headfulla holes andya blood on my sneeks..." Driving past a few more hushed streets, we turned a corner and saw the men I was tasked to shoot. Lamar eased offthe gas pedal and we rolled toward the cornerwhere a few dark figures huddled around an old liquor store. In the center of their cluster was the fat man, berating two teenagers with sagging pants and bad attitudes. Two strongmen stood like icy bronzes on the periphery of the downtrodden corner, probably feeling much as I had minutes before. I'm sure I could have dissected their relationships further, but now we neared the group and I cleared my thoughts. "Get got on the spot, get shof in the lot ..." About halfi,vay down the block Lamar slammed on the gas and we sped toward the surprised group. The closer of the two strongmen drew his pistol, but my piece was already steadied on the rim of the car window and I blasted four shots into his chest as we passed the corner. I popped offat the farther man, my body out the window, but my shots went wide as Lamar slammed on the brakes. As the

Cadillac lurched sideways on the frozen pavement, I tumbled out the window, gun sliding away from my hand as I hit the icy asphalt. Shots from the second enforcer ricocheted off the pavement in front of me as I rolled for the dropped pistol, finally grabbing it from the gutter and discharging what was left of my round into the unfortunate man's leg. I stood up at the side of the street to find Lamar pointing a gun at the fat man's fleshy head, cornering him next to the liquor store. He stood, feet planted square with his shoulders, one arm stiffly holding his weapon aimed at the man as if it were an extension of that hand. His red jacket was open, revealing a wife-beater and a small gold chain. "Where's it at, fat man?" he asked calmly. "Fuck you," said the fat man. As soon as the expletive left the man's mouth the corpulent fellow screamed in pain, a shot from Lamar's pistol discharged straight into his foot. He fell on his side, clutching his injured appendage. Lamar leveled his gun back at his head. "Where's it at?" he repeated. "The ... boarded-up spot behind the trash can," grunted the fat man, wincing in pain. I hustled over there and pushed the trash can away to see a piece of pl1'wood covering a hole in the brick exterior of the liquor store. Three kicks with my Timberlands and the wood was shattered. Then I was on my knees grabbing the plastic packets of cocaine. I ran back to Lamar. "Got it, time to go," I said with nervous excite-

ment.

Lamar paused, looked at me, then turned and walked back to the car. "Fuckyou)'muttered the fat man. I kept walking, but after a second I noticed Lamar had turned around. Whywas he walking back? We had to go! We had the stash! What was he doing?

"What did you say?" whispered Lamar to the

man.

"You heard me," said the fat man. Lamar leveled the pistol at the bleeding man's head again. "What did you say?" said Lamar, louder. "Lamar let's go!" I yelled, looking around. "You ain't so different from me," said the fat man, coughing. He smiled at Lamar, whose face was now a mask of rage. "Matter-a-fact, you are me. And if you ain't, you will bel' Lamar didn't hold the gun steady anymore. Shaking with anger, he gesticulated wildly with the

pistol.

"You think so, fat man? You think so? Why don't I pop you right now and see howyou do?" "Do it," said the fat man, laughing. "You don't even understand." That's when I heard the sirens. "Lamar!" It was strange we hadn't heard them earlier, but the dialogue between the two seemed to be the only sounds anyone could hear. You always heard the police before you saw them, so we still had time to get in the car and leave. I ran over to Lamar and pulled on his arm. "Lamar, let's go!" He shoved me off and turned once again to the fat man. "Say it again!" screamed Lamar, firing his gun in the air. The fat man didnt respond this time, except for what could have been a groan of pain or a laugh at Lamar.

Then I saw the sirens. As I backed away from Lamar, three cop cars rolled down the block. Lamarwhirled around and looked at me. "Get out," he said to me, eyes wide open. I stared at him. He could have done anything in that moment. He could have run with me, he

could have run away from me, he could have even stayed with the fat man and talked with the police. But Lamarwas never one for talking. He turned to the oncoming cars and raised his pistol. I may have yelled something, but if I did, I can't remember what it was. Lamar fired at the cop cars, windshield glass exploding from the impact of his bullets. I turned and ran. I dropped the cocaine in the street. My hat fell off, my jacket fell ofl it was iust me and the wind and the cold and the sirens. I heard two more shots of Lamar's pistol behind me, and then only gunfire from other firearms. I turned around but I couldn't see Lamar. I couldn't see the fat man. I couldn't see the Cadillac. I couldn't see the bodies. I could only see the sky. And, like I said, it was one of those deceptively sunny winter days.

(Not Your) Tabula Rasa

by Caitlin Fallahay

I've given up on trying to escape this time, choosing instead to run and drown myself in drink and laugh, breathing my bitter breath in your toxic face. You will regret your words in time, but for nowyou keep me locked up nice and tight in your fancy stone jewelry box, just another piece ofcarbon you think with enough pressure and polishing you can create

a diamond. A precious stone, harder than even your will, but still slowly disin te grati ng spontaneously, without any interference from you or from him or fiom

any of those others you claim you want to save me from, afraid they'll taint your precious jewel that's already slowly falling apart. This r-carat diamond you want to keep forcing into the shining ring on the fourth finger ofyour left hand refuses. I will not be yours.

I am not yours to display, not the little gem you've been crafting for so long that you've failed to noticemy will is harder than yours. I matured and turned out to look like synthetic aquamarine, the color of a blue moon, the surface harder than a diamond, with a holey marshmallow center. Porous little holes getting bigger, destruction from the inside out, like the chemical enthalpy of a diamond breaking apart, like the fragments of Sylvia Plath's mind.

Rose

by Laura Brennan

rose -

1. noun. a breathtaking, renowned flower, / that is liked by everyone / and disliked by no one; / its petals layer themselves so softly / that they whisper. I z. adjective. the color in one's face / when emotions run high / or discomfort persists; / the color associated with / shame or anger or embarrassment; / the color flushed on one's face / as a sign for others. / 3. verb. the past tense form of the verb rise, or to rise; / the action taken when one / is given a challenge of some sort, / or one faces adversity; / one must rise to the challenge / in order to have any sense of / victory.

Haiku

by Paula Green

I have realized That summer's skin does not fit Winter's complexion.

4fdr'b

H.affi'xb E b{Lrj:vt"

4' I

by Richie Wheelock

Burn

by ConradWight

I'm just another fiend tryna stay clean Just another pothead tryna hop off that green It's amazing what the world is like without that silver sheen It's amazing how quickly I lost sight of my dreams And it's mental, how it messed with my mind a mirror of white lines or a fat blunt of that fine It's mental, how I daily committed mind-crimes arbitrary treason, mindless acts without reason It's mental, how I can't enjoy the change of season without partaking of brain-cell mental depletion and I burn, oh how I burn foryou I burn for the friction I burn for the peace I burn for the closure I burn for the lease I burn for the quick diction, composure, and release the soft heat and fast feet the indescribable feeling of finally being complete the jaws of that beautiful monster and her indiscriminate bite I burn for my propeller myengine my flight I burn for that feeling to last me all night and into the next day I never really cared whether the sky was blue or gray I burn for my monster to take the pain away But today, I thought I just might say I'm sober now through the grace of God and the Fellowship of NA.

Nature's Pearl

by Kristen Nassar

Water rushing under the calluses of my fingertips, life, as if I were God, gushing out from me, the forest around from the roots that also sprout my curls, the critters from beneath my pale, bare toes and the water from my hands.

On a rock yonder sits the lady with the letter, her eyes bright and focused on that burning soul beside. I take it in my arms and put violets in its hair, give it dainty wings like the bees on the white rose sitting with me, let it fly up to the clouds to be soothed.

I kiss the grass where I have sat and leap into the iniquitous branches of Hades' tree, leaves a sultry red as if in autumn, blushing in shame. They take me in and cradle me, dress me, speak to me in whispers.

You belong with me. You, daughter ofthe roses, cen rule theforest with the trees, if you promise. Vague network of life, what promise?

Stay. Terrified for my independence, I wrest myself free and spring-

as my heels touch the quivering, crying mud, my eyes touch a familiar red letter, sewn to my earth.

photograph by Nathan Landay

', 'i,i ,