Issue 9v4

Literary Magazine

Issue 9 1

Rind Literary Magazine Issue 9 November 2016

rindliterarymagazine.com

All Works Š Respective Authors, 2016

Cover Art and in-magazine graphics By: Collette curran

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Editor in Chief: Dylan gascon

Fiction Editors: Johnathan Etchart Jenny Lin Melinda Smith Stephen williams Shaymaa Mahmoud

Nonfiction Edit ors: Collette Curran Owen Torres William Ellars Anastasia Zamora

Poetr y Editor s: Shaymaa Mahmoud Sean hisaka

Webmaster: Omar Masri

Blog Manager: Dylan Gascon

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Contents Acknowledgements

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Contributors

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Fiction: Diamond Back B yway/ Andrew James Woodyard

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Game Misconduct/ Jess Simms, Ken W. Simpsons

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Non-Fiction: The Orange/ Ella Remmings

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Poetry: A Might y Oak/ Milt Montague

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Monuments to Mediocrity/ Ken w. Simspon

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Acknowledgements Thank you to all of our contributors, past and present, for helping us get this thing moving. Thank you to the creative writing faculty of the University of California-Riverside, Mount San Antonio College, Rio Hondo College and Riverside Community College for your continued support of this magazine.

Rind is on the look out for original artwork and photography for our upcoming issues. If you or someone you know might be interested in contributing, send us an inquiry for more details.

Please support the San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival; find them at www.sgvlitfest.com. We’ll be there, and so should you.

Check out our listing on Duotrope. We’re also on Facebook and Twitter. Regular updates on RLM and other fun and interesting things can be found at our affiliated blog site: www.thegrovebyrind.wordpress.com. If you would like to contribute to Rind, send your manuscript to rindliterarymagazine@gmail.com.

Cheers!

–The Rind Staff

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Diamond back Byway Andrew James Woodyard

A rattlesnake slithered across sizzling desert pavement. Sand dunes, sagebrush, tumbleweeds and Joshua Trees were scattered from one mesa to another, and the Santa Anna’s wailed across the West. Around the bend a growling black beast charged toward it.

The beast's eyeless grill glinted and grinned in the sunlight. Smoke billowed from its tailpipe and sparks trailed in its wake. The rattlesnake rattled.

Thump thump thump. …

Betty the Bitch wet her whistle to the taste of Jack Daniels, then tossed the bottle out the window. An angry metalcore breakdown made of deep, double bass drumming screamed in a rage from the stereo. The windshield was cracked asymmetrically, and a pair of cheap fuzzy dice dangled down from the rear view mirror. The steering wheel was a hot mess of chains and black leather. The floor was littered with half smoked cigarette butts. The shifter head was a snarling silver skull – and the clutch ground in pain when she shifted. All Hell had come loose; bad mojo.

Thump thump thump.

A cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

“What?” Betty bitched.

Terrible noises screeched from the earpiece.

“Life’s a bitch, honey,” Betty replied, “you want him back so bad, try and find him.”

Thump thump thump.

Stop signs, speed limits, and sudden dip signs zipped by outside. The beast raced through the stop and straight into the dip. It bounced up and down, something heavy and muffled slammed about in the trunk, and then the car leaped off the pavement. The springs sprang, and the shocks were shaken when it landed. The tires squealed and struggled to grip the asphalt as it zigged and zagged from on from switchback to another.

Thump thump...

The rattlesnake rattled and struck at the wheels as they ran straight over it. A thud and 6

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one last thump followed. The screaming breakdown faded. The tailpipe ground against the roadway and sparked as the beast swerved on down the diamond back byway.

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The Orange Ella Remmings

Poland used to be a gray place. Perhaps it was due to the climate, with its wet autumns and winters so cold that it hurt to breathe? Or was it the darkness that enveloped us on the way back from school for several months of the year? The lack of billboards or colorful street signs? Or the people who always looked gray, whether they wore a gray outfit or a red one?

There was something about the country and its communist atmosphere that made everything blend into a dull, smoky monotone.

With grayness as a backdrop, any product in an attractive, multi-colored package—you knew immediately it was imported from the West, outside of the Iron Curtain—stood out like a bride in a fuchsia gown. At Christmas, the only time of the year when it was possible to buy oranges, I loved looking at their bright, happy-looking rinds and biting into the fragrant flesh.

What was it like where they came from, I wondered. Was it colorful, warm and sunny? Did it smell different? What were the people like? Could the children there eat oranges all year long?

One time when I was nine, my family went on vacation to the Tatra Mountains in southern Poland. We boarded the train in Warsaw and chug-a-chugged for an interminably long time, stopping at every station along the way. A screechy loudspeaker voice of a bored, groggy woman—perhaps just awakened from shallow sleep—announced the long string of names: Opoczno, Kraków, Chabówka, Nowy Targ, Zakopane.

At one of the stations, our stop was long enough to get out of the train and go to the buffet. My mom wanted some hot tea, and we the kids were hoping for a piece of candy. The assortment at these buffets was usually limited: sometimes you could get bread by the slice; there was tea, and occasionally vodka or beer.

We walked into a gray room with peeling paint, cloudy windows and stain-covered tables.

Several customers were drinking their tea from tall, thick, same-as-everywhere glasses.

Cigarette smoke filled the room, floating in the air like a shapeless genie. A few flies danced around the bowls of clumpy sugar.

We got in line and waited our turn. When we approached the counter, I took a closer look 8

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at the items behind the glass and… I almost screamed. Among a few dusty bags of candy, there was a single, colorful, perfectly round orange. It wasn’t Christmas, and it certainly wasn’t a place of any importance, yet here it was, this wonderful gift of nature, looking at me, ready to be bought.

“Can I have the orange, mom?”

“I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t afford it,” she said.

I knew it was true, for the orange cost 40 złoty—an astronomical sum that could buy you more than twenty pounds of potatoes. I swallowed hard and we went back to the train.

There were eight people in our compartment. One of them was a middle-aged woman seated next to the window. I also had a window seat directly across from her. She asked me a few typical questions: “What grade are you in?” “Do you like school?” Then she proceeded to eat lunch. First, a sandwich wrapped in rough, brown paper. Some tea from a thermos, the steam made her face shiny. Finally, she dipped her hand into the travel bag, and pulled out a paper-wrapped object. She crinkled it open. It was the orange.

She didn’t try to hide it; instead, she held it in her hands for everyone to see, played with it as if it were a precious toy. Very slowly, she peeled the rind, one piece at a time, placing each in the brown paper on her lap. When she separated the first section of the orange, a wave of tiny droplets splashed out against the window, and a delicious, citrus fragrance filled the compartment. She placed the piece in her mouth and began to chew it slowly, obviously enjoying the flavor. My stomach churned as I watched her break off every wedge, globules of juice bursting in the sun.

I hope she offers me some, I thought.

I swallowed my saliva as each morsel went into her mouth. She took her time with it, looking at the snowy landscape outside.

Just one piece, I silently implored as I watched the orange get smaller with every bite. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, rolled up the brown paper that held all the rind, and placed it in her travel bag. The orange was gone.

To this day, I love oranges. There is something about them that makes me smile, whether I look at them, put them on the table, or cut them into pieces to eat. One of the most beautiful 9

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sights I’ve seen were orange trees in Florida, spread across hundreds of acres of land.

Although today I can have as many oranges as I want, each time I’m about to have one, I pause so I can fully enjoy their sunny flavor, as if I still were a nine-year-old girl in a remote station in Poland.

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A Mighty Oak Milt Montague

A mighty oak has fallen An ancient survivor Of countless storms Has succumbed to his eventual.

Gone as it never existed, Leaving but a small hole, In which it once stood Securely rooted to the ground.

Massive and proud For generations, With crown majestically Grasping at the heavens.

Now just a pile of “Free firewood�.

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Yosemite Image by Max Kenshalo

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Monuments to the Mediocrity Ken W. Simpson

Threats from flying insects The blush of dawn Frowns from furrows in the ground Gaping with angry eyes At legacies of promiscuity Preposterous as peacocks That disappear Until resurrected.

As floating thoughts, Ill-conceived attempts To comprehend.

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Game Misconduct Jess Simms, Ken W. Simpsons

Jason Heater turned his cap backwards and braced his elbows on his leg pads. Down the ice Alex Boulanger hunched in the Washington net, glove up as play shifted into his end.

Heater tensed watching Pittsburgh’s top line break into the zone, the puck deftly handled by their star center, Devon Young, who juked around his defender and snapped off a quick shot.

Boulanger buried the puck under his glove. The whistle blew. Boulanger stood up, handing the puck off to the ref. As Boulanger relaxed, Heater relaxed. He reached under the bench for his water bottle.

Puck drop. Washington had their own star center, Russian sharpshooter Lukas Zolkin, who won the faceoff clean back to winger Glenn Thomas, stretch pass to Anton Carter who entered Pittsburgh’s zone at the point. Back to Zolkin. Wrist shot. Blocker save, the rebound skittering out toward center where Young picked it up, streaking over the red line. Thomas scrambled after him but couldn’t quite catch up. He thrust his stick between Young’s skates, last ditch try to stop the breakaway. Young tripped over the stick blade and careened into Alex Boulanger. The two fell in a tangle. The ref blew his whistle, signaling for a penalty shot.

Young regained his skates with a few dazed shakes of his head. When a few seconds passed and Boulanger still hadn’t gotten up, Washington’s trainers swarmed the ice around him. Heater watched the replay in slow motion on the jumbotron over their heads, saw the awkward way Boulanger’s knee bent back against the net when Young made contact and looked away with a wince. Zolkin’s line coasted over to take their places on the bench. The center shook his head, muttered, “Fucking Pittsburgh.”

Heater grunted agreement. At the net, the trainers were helping Boulanger onto a stretcher. The starter’s night was over. It wasn’t joy Heater felt, exactly; it was never good to watch a teammate go down, but bad things were the only way Heater saw action against heated rivals like Pittsburgh. Heater could know his role and still be excited when he got to play.

He waited for Coach Deguire’s cue to strap his mask on, waited for the trainers to wheel 15

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Boulanger down the runway—players from both teams smacking their sticks on the short wall in solidarity—before he skated out to the net. A penalty shot for his first look. Fucking Pittsburgh was right. Heater took his time clearing the snow out of his crease, got in a few stretches, drew a deep breath through his nose. The air was different here. Cooler. He nodded and crouched down in his crease. The ref dropped the puck at center. The crowd hushed.

Young came at the puck fast and gained speed over the blue line. He carved a path left then back right, forehand, backhand. Young’s eyes twitched high-glove. His stick angled five hole. Fake, shot—Heater snapped his mitt up and felt the thwump of rubber on leather, its sound lost in the crowd’s sudden roar.

The final horn sounded on a 4-1 Washington win. Boulanger’s empty cubby wasn’t too conspicuous in the post-game locker room chaos. Coach Deguire was smiling as he gave his victory pep talk.

“Another good game, boys,” Deguire said. “Good speed out there and we’re making smart plays in the neutral zone, smart passes. That rough patch in the second—that was discipline. A couple stupid penalties. But when we played our game tonight we dominated the play.”

Coach Deguire gave praise with the bug-eyed energy of a professional wrestler. When he’d wrapped up his notes he clapped for punctuation and said, “Who’s got the fucking helmet? Luke? Let’s pass it on.”

It was a hardhat, actually, painted with the team’s eagle logo, stickered and signed by past recipients. It was a tradition that predated Heater’s time on the team, something the passed around the locker room after victories as a peer-to-peer affirmation. Zolkin stood up, hefted the helmet, and scanned the room. His eyes settled on Heater. He grinned around the trademark gap between his front teeth and tossed it underhand, an easy catch for a goalie’s reflexes. Heater donned the helmet to the locker room’s scattered claps and whistles of approval, the game’s lingering adrenaline still twitching in his fingertips.

The win against Pittsburgh was well timed. The Capitals were embarking on a six-game road trip; beating a rival sent them off with swagger. Sports Center last night told him Alex 16

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Boulanger had been moved to the injured reserve with a torn MCL. Heater came to Kettler Iceplex for practice ready for anything.

The Iceplex lacked the grandeur of the Verizon Center. The entrance had unpainted cement walls and floors that always somehow seemed damp. Maybe it would echo less with more people in the passage but Heater was always the first one to the rink. It was a ritual he had, like how Luke re-laced his skates three times, or how Thomas always ate PB&Js on game day. Heater would arrive first, put down his gear, and sit beside the empty ice. On game days he’d have company in the locker room when he returned from his contemplation, but practice days he usually had time to lace his skates before his teammates arrived.

Today, Heater paused at the locker room entrance. Coach Deguire stood inside, contemplating the team photographs on the back wall.

"Figured you'd get here about now," Deguire said without turning around.

"Guess I'm pretty predictable."

“We've all got our things. You're normal. For a goalie.” Deguire smirked. It gave his thick cheeks dimples. "You got a minute?”

Heater nodded. He sat on the edge of his cubby’s bench and Deguire settled himself a couple seats down. Heater wished he had his pads on. His mask, at least. He felt naked in these street clothes.

“I’m assuming you’ve heard about Alex?” Deguire asked.

Heater nodded, said, “He’ll be out for a while.”

“Most optimistic timeline puts him on the ice in six weeks, but I’ve seen these kinds of injuries before. Realistically we’re talking two months, three at the outside.”

Heater shifted on the hard wood. “Tough break.”

“For Alex.” Deguire’s smile tilted, dimpling only his left cheek. “We’ll have Alex back in time for the playoffs, at least. What I need you to do is get us there.”

Heater’s hands flexed around an imaginary stick. He’d started more games than not back when he’d played in Columbus. His stats hadn’t been bad there; light in the wins column but good enough he’d been an attractive bargaining chip in a trade to Washington. In exchange,

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Columbus got a fourth round draft pick and a 19-year-old forward from Washington’s farm team up in Hershey. A barely ready and a maybe, that’s what he went for. The transaction left Heater feeling like a share of hockey stock, but that was the sport, and he liked it well enough here.

Heater asked Deguire, “Who’s my back-up?”

“Kid by the name of Grigory Volkov. He came over from the KHL in the off-season and we’ve had him starting down in Hershey. Doesn’t speak a lot of English but he’ll pick it up.

He’s a quick study. I’ll introduce him at practice.”

Deguire stood, apparently feeling that his message had been properly conveyed. Heater carried on with his routine.

It was maybe an hour later, out on the ice that Glen Thomas skated up to Heater as he was stretching. Thomas gestured toward the bench, said, “Who’s the kid?”

“Grigory Volkov. Russian, up from Hershey.”

“How long’s Boulanger out?”

“What makes you so sure I’d know?” Heater snapped back.

“But you’ve got the starter gig.”

“Seems that way.”

Volkov’s face fit a type Heater associated with East Europe, heavy high cheekbones and a mouth that gaped when he was at rest, revealing perfect white teeth that defied the hockey stereotype. He pulled out a mask, apparently brought with him from Hershey because it bore that team’s logo, a snarling bear with its paw swiping down the left cheek. Heater admired the work. Goalies were the only players given liberty to customize their masks and pads and most took a certain pride in it. Heater’s own mask was a mural tribute to Led Zeppelin. More to do with him than any team; he’d never played in one place long enough to make a team logo seem worth it.

“Good luck with the starts,” Thomas said as he drifted away for his own warm-ups.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Heater flipped the bird at his retreating back.

October 25th, Montreal hotel room, the night’s game lingering in Heater’s limbs.

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Washington had won 2-1, but Montreal hadn’t made it easy. Tomorrow they’d fly to Ottawa and prepare for their next opponent. Heater showered, donned his sweats, and tuned the TV to Sports Center.

“I don’t see how you watch this shit,” Thomas grumbled from the other bed, battling an ice pack that refused to stay perched on his knee. Thomas scored too often to call him a true enforcer, but his hit count was usually double his shot count. They’d been road trip roommates since Heater came to Washington, and the forward spent most nights icing some joint or another.

Heater said, “You study up on other teams.”

“On the internet. Not from talking heads.”

“They’re never talking about me.”

“Must be fucking nice.”

The hockey media had nicknamed Thomas The Curse, not just for the number thirteen on his sweater but because he had a way of haunting the opposition. Three times in the past two seasons he’d hit a player straight onto the injured reserve. The press he earned was invariably negative.

Thomas said, “Wait, never? You were on it once, right?”

“Daily top ten, I think.”

“No shit, for a save?”

“Wicked shot by Jerome Carter. I was the one he scored on.”

Thomas laughed. The ice pack slid off his leg into his lap. He pushed it back, muttering.

This was all part of his routine. The show and then the conversation that was as old as their friendship. Sports Center’s topic bar shifted to hockey. Washington-Montreal was the top story and Heater tuned in to hear, “...Capitals’ continued domination of the Eastern Conference. Most people thought the team would struggle without starting netminder Alex Boulanger but back-up Jason Heater tonight earned his third win in four games.”

“Well, John, it’s hard to win a hockey game without good goaltending, and Heater’s making things easy for Washington.”

Thomas mumbled, “Thought you said they didn’t talk about you.”

“Strange times.”

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“You keep up like this coach’ll never let Volkov start.”

The game footage shifted from saves to hits. Number 13 bashing some Canadian into the boards behind the net. Thomas busied himself adjusting his ice pack and the TV said, “Let’s talk about this blindside hit by Glenn Thomas on Alain Carbonneau. You look at the footage, it’s hard to imagine even he thinks this was a good hockey play.”

“It looks a lot like the hit he took on Philadelphia forward Marc LaRoche in the preseason. Carbonneau—look right there, how he’s shaking his head when he gets up. Lucky for Montreal he was able to stay in the game but I think the refs missed this hit.”

“The 20,000 refs in the seats thought this should’ve been a penalty—” “The fans called for blood the whole third period.”

“—and I’m expecting the Department of Player Safety to make a statement in the next few days dealing a fine, or even a suspension, to Thomas.”

Thomas let the ice pack slide to the mattress, as if in protest. “The guy knew I was coming. It’s not my fault he showed me his numbers.”

“So don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried.” Thomas rolled off the bed, a stiff-kneed limp toward the bathroom.

Over the rush of the faucet, he shouted, “It’s just these douchebags think there’s a clear line, but on the ice—I mean, whatever. Fucking fine me. I’m not changing my game.”

Heater stared at the TV until it went to commercial then turned it off and turned his face into the comforter. His mind went smooth, empty, a fresh sheet of ice where he was the lone skater, backed into the net, defending his crease.

The road trip wrapped up in Buffalo, first week of November. In six games they’d gone 4-1-1, but even when they won long road trips were demanding. Unusual facilities, interrupted routines, and unrelenting fans in hot markets like Montreal and Buffalo, where the crowd sing-song chanted Heater’s name and booed every time Zolkin got the puck. Fatigue read clear in the team’s body language as they boarded the plane back to Washington.

Heater maneuvered between the cabin seats and slid into an empty row across from Grigory Volkov. He was sitting with Lukas Zolkin. The two Russians had become fast friends, the only speakers of their native tongue on the predominately North American roster.

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Zolkin had taken on the role of translator for the young goalie; Deguire hadn’t been kidding about the kid’s English.

“Last night,” Volkov said in greeting. “You good play.”

Heater nodded thanks, said, “You’ve been making real nice saves in practice.”

Volkov turned to Zolkin for the translation, turned back beaming. “Thank you. Team good for—I mean say, to play...” Volkov trailed off. Awkward dead air, engines humming white noise, broken by the passage of a body between them and when it had gone Volkov reached over the aisle, tentative hand on Heater’s armrest. “I like how look....”

His eyebrows scrunched in consternation. He begged Heater’s patience with an upheld finger and conferred with Zolkin. Heater heard his name, a blur of syllables, then Zolkin leaned across Volkov, shouted over the roar of the engines, “He say soft goals last night.

Your glove is too slow.”

The smile on Heater’s face froze into place.

Zolkin’s blue eyes twinkled mischief, lips pulling back to reveal the gap between his front teeth. “Joke, just joke. Grigory say to tell you he like your mask.”

“Oh.” Heater glanced at Volkov, whose head bobbed like some dashboard figurine.

“Thanks.”

Lukas shook his head. “You should have seen your face.”

Static crackled through the intercom. The pilot announced takeoff.

November 15th, four weeks since Boulanger’s injury. A persistent ache had developed above Heater’s right ankle, an inevitable consequence of so many straight starts. They were in the midst of a home-and-home against the Carolina Hurricanes. It seemed as good a time as any for Volkov to get some action.

Game time was the come-and-go of lines hopping the wall, the air horn’s wail, the raucous cheers, shouted curses and orders and clack of stick on stick, stick on ice, stick on puck. Heater’s seat on the end of the bench was too familiar for comfort. Washington was up 2-0 with five minutes left in the third and Heater watched the clock run down until the horn sounded on victory. Volkov was flawless in his first game out. He looked happy as a pig in shit, his grin infectious. Heater gave the kid a face wash with his glove and told him good 21

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game.

In the locker room—after Coach Deguire’s post-game notes, after the hardhat went to Volkov—Heater leaned into Glenn Thomas’ cubby and said, “You feel like a beer?”

Thomas squinted at him, up and down, like looking for a trick. “Where at?”

“What’s that place across the street you guys like?”

“The Red Derby.” Thomas tossed his balled up game socks into his gym bag. He turned to the cubby on his other side. “You want a drink, Goose?”

By the time they made it to the bar Thomas had half the team tagging along behind them.

Mostly forwards—Alan “Goose” Gooski and Craig Johnson and of course Lucky Luke Zolkin, whose penchant for the DC nightlife was well-documented in the local gossip rags.

They entered to loud cheers and free shots and hockey bunnies in jerseys cut to show cleavage. Heater broke away from the commotion and ordered a beer, the bartender taking his sweet time, refreshingly unimpressed. A well-dressed couple to his left gossiped, star struck, sneaking glances at Luke and his cohorts at their table. They didn’t recognize Heater. To the fans, his face was his mask.

The couple shushed hurriedly and Heater looked back at Thomas coming toward him.

“You hangin’ out or what?”

“Just getting a beer.”

“Fuck that, man. Luke just ordered shots. Come on, have some fun. Rest day tomorrow, remember?”

He followed Thomas to a back corner, wraparound booth, the players and bunnies all crammed in haphazardly, one perched already on Zolkin’s lap and though they scrunched together to make room for Heater on the end the girls flashed him only the tight smiles of the polite.

Heater’s next two starts were shaky. The first, against New Jersey, his team eked out a win, but they weren’t so lucky in Chicago, where Patrice Reed scored a hat trick, three goals to earn his team the win and prompt a painful delay while fans showered the ice with ball caps and beanies. Heater sucked coppery water from his bottle and contemplated what had gone wrong. Volkov started the next game but didn’t fare any better. Deguire grudgingly 22

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gave Heater the start for their season’s second meeting with Pittsburgh.

In the pre-game locker room, Heater taped his stick while Thomas told him, “He’s a kid, you’re a vet. You know your shit. Nothing can beat that.”

“I said don’t talk about it.”

“Confidence, Heat. Just play your game. You fucking earned your place here.” Thomas examined the laces of his right skate, found the ends uneven and pulled them out to start over.

“It’s because of those goddamn talking heads. I knew you shouldn’t be watching Sports Center.”

4:05 first period, Devon Young beat Heater short side. Two minutes later, the puck skittered behind him on a backdoor play. Then a screened shot, high glove, at 7:58. Deguire yanked Heater out with a hook of his thumb. Despite the tape, Heater’s stick broke clean in two when he bashed it against the wall of the runway.

No good conversation started with, “I want to let you know where we stand.”

The locker room at Kettler Iceplex felt emptier with the three of them than it did when Heat was there alone. Like the ceiling had expanded to make room for all the tension. Heater and Volkov sat on the benches while Coach Deguire filled up a folding chair across from them, clad in elastic-banded polyester pants, his jacket adorned with geometric shapes in unholy neons, a transplant from the early ‘90s. It was hard to take a man seriously, dressed like that.

Tomorrow, Washington would host the Islanders. There was only room for one man in the cage. Deguire’s hockey sense was about three hundred times better than his fashion sense.

Heater hoped that hockey sense said to put the vet on the ice.

“We know you’ve still got it, Heat, but we wore you out on that road trip.”

“I’m not worn out.”

“You’re playing like it. We can’t afford to hand a game to Pittsburgh, of all fucking teams.”

Deguire ran a thick hand across his chin, where a smear of barbeque sauce lingered from his lunch. Heater stared at that instead of his coach’s eyes. Deguire said, “What we’re gonna do is alternate games.”

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“For how long?”

“Until one of you shows me you want the fucking start.”

Or until Boulanger came back. Six weeks now since the superstar went down, and every game from here out was an audition for the right to warm the bench once he came back.

There was a legend about goalie numbers, that in the days before facemasks, the number on a netminder’s sweater was the age he expected to retire. They’d rarely worn a number over thirty. Heater had long outlived the twenty sewn on his back. A much harder task: to survive a twenty-year-old kid.

For two weeks, they alternated games. By this arbitrary system it was Heater’s turn in the cage December 18th in Philadelphia, and Coach Deguire’s post-practice pep talk said nothing to the contrary. Heater’s ankle was still sore, no better and no worse, and he took his nowroutine trip down to the medical wing for a checkup and there found Alex Boulanger, beaming smile, shaved clean except his trademark soul-patch, no trace of injury in his stride.

He clapped Heater on the back and told him, “You’re the first to hear the good news. Docs just cleared me to skate.”

Heater gave Boulanger the usual phrases of congratulation while the doctors wrapped his foot. The starter wished Heater good luck as he was leaving, as carefree as if he didn’t realize how much Heater would need it.

Philadelphia was the epitome of a hostile market. Heater had played here once already this season but it was no more comfortable the second time around. An early goal by the home team put the crowd into a frenzy. Heater could hardly hear the whistle the entire first period. By the end of the second, his team found themselves in a 2-0 hole and feeling lucky to have survived with that little damage. Coach Deguire’s intermission talk focused on stealing momentum.

“We set the pace,” he said. “We get into a rhythm and we can win this. But not if we lose our fucking heads.”

Washington came out with fire for the start of the third. Now it was Michel Martin in net for Philadelphia who took heavy fire, three straight shifts of Washington puck possession and near-misses before Zolkin sniped one over Martin’s left shoulder and cut Philly’s lead in half.

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Play turned chippy. Thomas leveled Philly’s Marc LaRoche with a huge open ice check.

The refs didn’t call it but LaRoche took issue and on the next face off he asked Thomas if he wanted to go. Thomas flicked his gloves off. The refs blew their whistle then circled, hanging close but not breaking them up until they resorted to sweater tugging and aimless jabs. Each took his place in the penalty box. Players skated out to fill their places. The ref dropped the puck.

Chaos on the face off and the Flyers came up with it. Heater tensed for the oncoming rush. The puck crossed center, hopped over the blue line. Glove save, rebound, low shot bouncing off Heater’s pads to settle in the crease. He smacked his glove down. Sticks swiped at his hand, jabbing to get underneath, the ref’s whistle still silent and then a falling body was coming at Heater’s face, bowling him over with enough force his mask flew up and off his head. He felt the jostle around him, heard his teammates saying fuck you and you wanna go?

And outside the human mass the ref blew his whistle, as if anyone was listening. Distant clatter of the boards then the press of bodies shifted from his net and Heater regained his skates.

By the glass, most of the players were caught up in an aimless brawl. A few had paired off into sparring partners. Helmets and gloves lay scattered on the ice. The refs waited for their chance to restore order. The crowd called for blood.

Down the ice, Michel Martin dropped his stick and skated out from his crease. He stopped at the blue line, eyed up the fight, and then turned toward Heater. He nodded an invitation. In answer, Heater dropped his gloves. The sweat on his palms instantly chilled.

Heater had thrown a punch or two though he’d never fought on the ice, never tried it in full pads, but Martin was coming fast and Heater could only put his dukes up and hope for the best. Martin swung his left fist into Heater’s shoulder, hard enough his vision blurred. He groped for Martin’s jersey with his left fist. He threw his right. There was an audible crunch when his knuckles made contact. Martin was still swinging so he hit again, and again, until Martin crumpled to the ice and pulled Heater down with him. Heater landed two more solid blows before the refs pulled him off. He looked down at his knuckles and saw blood. He looked back but the ref had blocked his view. He couldn’t see if Martin got up.

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It was Sports Center that told him, “Philadelphia Flyers goaltender Michel Martin is out four to six weeks with a shattered cheekbone after last night’s game against Washington.”

It was coach Deguire who told him, “Four game suspension.”

They were in Deguire’s office, and Heater had known as soon as he’d been summoned that the ruling was serious. Deguire used the locker room for everything except trades and heavy reprimands. He glowered from across his desk, face blotchy, nearly as red as his desk.

“Fighting’s not your fucking job,” Deguire said, shaking his jowls. “Goalies fighting— it’s a fucking spectacle, is what that is. We’ve got it bad enough with people calling Thomas dirty. You crossed the fucking line.”

Heater watched the next four games from the treadmill in the training room, running while his teammates—and Volkov—won four straight. The first three, some kid from Hershey sat on the bench in a backwards hat, looking terrified and out of his league. Just a body to fill the roster. Volkov would have to lose a limb before they put that kid in net. The fourth game, Alex Boulanger sat on the home bleacher. Heater had been traded enough times in his career that he knew what came next. At this point, it was a question of when.

The call came the next day: Heater would finish out his season playing for the Hershey Bears. “It’ll be good for them to have you around,” Coach Deguire told him, “They’re in good position for the playoffs but they don’t have a lot of experience. With a veteran like you in net they could get all the way to the championship.”

Heater gathered this was meant as some kind of consolation. At least they weren’t giving him too much time to dwell on it. The travel plans Deguire laid out for him gave him time to pack but not much else. He thought about texting Thomas but wasn’t sure just what he’d say.

Heater packed much as he would have for a road trip. There was no point moving all of his stuff yet. Either Washington would trade him or he’d move on when his contract ended in the summer. Hershey wouldn’t be the end of the line.

Once Heater was packed he went downtown. He was early; the trainer who’d be taking him to Hershey hadn’t made it yet. He figured he’d get a drink to kill some time and saw that same bar, the Red Derby, the one Thomas and Zolkin seemed to like so much. It seemed as good a place as any.

The attitude was different in the mid-afternoon. Without the forwards in tow, no one 26

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cheered when he entered. There were no free shots, no cute girls in jerseys waiting wide-eyed to hear his tales from the ice. The TV behind the bar was on sports highlights—Redskins, Wizards, finally circling toward hockey. Heater wondered for a second if his move to Hershey would be a headline—but no, he realized, it would be all about Boulanger’s return, the starter taking up his rightful place. Heater was just the backup. Only the most dedicated of Washington’s fan base would even realize he was gone. It was as it should be, he supposed, as he watched highlights of Alex’s most glorious saves and waited for the bartender to realize his glass was empty.

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Contributors: Andrew James Woodyard a writer from Southern California submitting a short work of fiction and three poems for your consideration. He’s recently been published in Perihelion Science Fiction, The Realms Beyond and was just accepted in Carnival Literary Magazine.

Jess ica s imms is a freelance ghostwriter living in Pittsburgh, PA. I hold an MFA in creative writing from Chatham University and was the 2015 winner of the Cardinal Sins fiction contest. My short fiction has also been published in Weave Magazine, Transient, and Ampersand Review.

Ella Remming s grew up in Poland, surrounded by communist propaganda and military tanks.

She yearned for oranges, which were available only at Christmas time. Ella moved to America with one backpack and a few dollars to her name, eventually making her way to the fast lane in pharmaceuticals. After advising CEOs, COOs and other 'Os’ on anything from business strategy to new products to global marketing, Ella reclaimed her life and devoted herself to writing. She enjoys composing stories about people and places, from sleepy Polish villages to executive boardrooms of corporate America. Ella is an award-winning author of medical, healthcare policy and human-interest stories and is currently working on a book, The 50th Deed, prompted by a promise made to her oldest son.

Milton Montague was raised in New York City, survived The Great Depression, the school system, and World War ll. After 20 years back at college he discovered poetry at 85. Now at 90 plus he has 84 poems published in 25 different magazines.

Ken W. Simps on is an Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published in January 2015 by Augur Press (UK). He lives with his family at Lysterfield, a Melbourne suburb, in the state of Victoria.

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