The Avenue, Vol. XI, 2013 by Heather Foster

The

Avenue Spring 2013

Literary Works from Saint Josephâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s University Graduate Writing Studies Program

Editor in Chief Kate Harron

Editorial Board Brian Durkin Eric Cortes

Cover Photography Melissa Kelly

Faculty Advisor Tenaya Darlington

Table of Contents We See by Melissa Kelly…………………………..….3 Conscripted Obscurity by Heather McTague…………7 Of Love and Bumper Stickers by Luqman Kolade…....8 Necessities to be Free by Ryan Latini……..…………12 Living and Dying Quietly by Kate Harron………..…13 April Fools by Heather McTague……………………19 Photographic Memory by Melissa Kelly…………….21 5,4,3,2,1 by Elisha Peterson …………………………25 Tornado in August by Andrew Whelan……………...31 Concrete Fiction by Heather McTague………………35 PEANUTS AND MADNESS by Ryan Latini.………36 OkC About Me: by Brian Durkin…………………....45 A Month Of Sundays by Elisha Peterson……………51 Number One Spots by Meagan Manning…………….52 SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE by Ryan Latini………….62

We See By Melissa Kelly

He is leaning up against the thick, dusty plasterboard, arms crossed against his chest; his gaze trails off in to a dark corner, surveying the dirty floors, the exposed framework, the guts of this old kitchen. Its materials feel ancient to us twentysomethings: plaster, brick, asbestos. In the daytime, the walls are a bright, bright robin’s egg blue, but right now it’s a cold, cold winter night and the bare bulb in the center of the room turns those same walls green. The color fades to black at the edges of the available light and he has a deep, dark shadow beside him. Outside of the frame, around the corner on the far wall there is spray paint: Someday this will be a beautiful kitchen. He is only a few months back from deployment. His thick workman’s pants and sweatshirt hang off of him; a knit hat tops the short hair on his head. He lets the hair on his face grow out a few days at a time before shearing it again. He goes to work during the day and comes home at night to labor on the old house that I bought in his absence—our first home.

305 Crestview Road popped up in 1952 with the baby boom in our small suburban town—just off of Main Street. All the houses around it are mostly 1,400- square-foot carbon copies in various stages of remodel. They are cookie cutter starter homes—a few bedrooms and a bath and a clean cement basement all on about four-tenths of an acre. The houses are close enough together to know your neighbors and far enough apart to be alone. Mr. & Mrs. Grimm bought that house on Crestview Road brand spanking new. They lived in it for fifty-seven years, raised three kids, and never changed so much as a single doorknob or outlet cover in that tiny house. I imagine weathered black and white photos of this old house stored away in the Grimm Family Album—the Christmas tree in the big picture window in the winter, toys and kids littered about the back yard in summer. But now it is ours. And he is breathing life into these old wooden bones, resuscitating the cold, slow heart of this house so we can fill it with scratch-cooked meals and pets and spats and long nights spooning on the couch together. With his own two hands, he will board in those windows, that doorway. He will cut a gaping hole in the back of the house on the coldest day that January to put in a sliding glass door—a door that will let in the bright morning sun for the dog to nap in, a door I will peer through in the summertime to watch him toil in his garden. With his own rough, working hands he will lay tile, run plumbing and electricity. At this frozen moment in time he has already resurrected a moldy, pink bathroom—now sleek and clean and modern. And in the not-so-distant future of this frame he will refinish the wood floors, build a deck, a front porch worthy of a southern debutante, and whatever other potential his eyes already see from the back wall in that dark kitchen. I watch him study the rubble and know that he can see it. He can see the walls he will build and break down, the granite, the custom cabinets, the solid walnut, and the tile floor. He can look through the robin’s egg blue to a darker, graphite shade instead. He can see what’s there beneath the construction dust and asbestos tile—subtle, but there. He is trained in the art of seeing—he has the eyes and earnest awareness of a hunter, a soldier. While I see light and

color, contrast and lines, he can spot a deer in a dusky pasture as we whiz past at fifty miles per hour. He can follow the slippery movements of fish beneath a bubbling stream. But we both see the promise in a run-down 1950’s Cape Cod with good bones. He is a seer and I am a seer. But I am the one compelled to capture all these scenes—perhaps because his mind is precise and deliberate while mine is whimsical, capricious. His is a mind that remembers, while mine is not given to retention or purposefulness. On most days he will not participate in my documentation—he will not pose or smile. On most days he will attempt a photographic sabotage: a stuck tongue, a stupid face, an obscene gesture. I have to catch him at least somewhat unaware and never insist that he participate. This one is a rare moment that I remember and also have saved forever in a photo. This wasn’t always his way. When we were teenagers, we would drive and drive and drive to the ends of our known universe and he would set up the camera on a stone bridge and run back to me to beat the timer, to capture us together in that moment. And so he will always be that boy in my mind’s eye—skinny and cleancut. He will always be the boy in the camouflage hat (these days he is a man in that camouflage hat), cutting school to fish and skip rocks on the upper branch of the Perkiomen Creek, or to drive out to Long Beach Island before the sunrise to spend a misty morning surf fishing and taking photos.

I am thankful to have these moments committed to film. I wish for even more of them to hold in my hand, to put in books and keep forever. Our later years are left mostly to my— wonderfully happy but woefully addled—memory. So much of what we are could never be expressed in images or words; they are much more potent as memories. We are working, building, sweating, and aching together. We are building our home and our careers; we are growing in to our adult selves, misguided, making mistakes. We are young and stupid and hoping that we’ve made good choices—that the picture of our lives will be as we intended. Like a photograph, we cannot be all the things we aspire to. Our own limitations and understandings of each other—indeed our own mortality—confines us within the frame of our lives. For all that is possible and beautiful, there is always something left out, unachieved, imperfect. For each tiny moment of our life together that I can capture, there are a million more that evaporate in to the past. These outside moments are the ones we trust we have aspired to and achieved—even without proof that we have indeed reached them, even briefly. I cannot photograph this: the bed warm and soft, like it is almost every Sunday morning. His head is on my head, and the dog rests hers on top of us both with a heavy sigh. We are awake, but with eyes closed, unmoving, unspeaking, a tangle of limbs and twisted sheets in early blue dawn. The moment is modest, unremarkable, but I am aware of it and filled with love because of it. I imagine what this scene looks like from above, a stack of heads in the blue-gray morning on a day with no demands. I know I will never photograph it, so I work hard to remember it exactly. If I could photograph Us, it would be this—hushed, entangled, at ease. I want to exist here in this moment forever, never stirring.

Conscripted Obscurity By Heather McTague Ghosts are not spirits gone astray in death, the poor souls that could not find the white light; they are remnants from a striped fleshy sheath rife with muscle, tissue, bone, and sticky bright blood kissing air. Voices cut by razor tongues of arrogance and blocked ears afraid to see. Color drained by famished dumpster diving brains. The bodies warmth is waylaid by hatreds icy breath; thousands of years in three hoursâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; time. Natural scent absconded by feculent fables spread by scholars deficient intellects. Convoluted emotions swirl within the fading frame; grasping for the unattainable flame.

Of Love and Bumper Stickers By Luqman Kolade

I remember our first date so clearly. I guess that’s a good sign, depending on how you look at it. I was hungry. You were late. You were always late. I would find this out over the years. As I waited for you, sweating under the dampness of an August day in DC, I didn’t picture the future. There was no sense of the importance heading towards me in the little, sky blue Honda (you would correct me when I said “light blue”) with the ‘make love not war’ bumper sticker from the previous owner, which you found so ridiculous, yet never took off. You loved that car. You named her Lucy and spoke of her as if she were a real person with feelings, and hated when I made sexual references whenever I drove her. I was in that weird first date limbo, attempting to balance hope and fear with the possibility, although remote, of potential sex, all while not trying to get upset that you were already 30 minutes late. (Isn’t there some statistic about women knowing within first meeting you if she could sleep with you?) With that fuzzy sexual notion floating through my brain, I waited, trying not to be too awkward, or sweat through my shirt as I nervously walked up and down the street, attempting to guide you to where we would meet. You eventually showed up, flustered because you got lost, your directions putting you on the other side of the city, wearing that smile. It was that “yea-I’m-hood-but-still-suburbs-just-happyto-be-alive smile.” It was toothy and honest, and looked as if I was the one person you had been waiting to see your whole life. You had a small gap in your teeth, which I had not noticed when we first met, that just added to your genuineness. That smile looked like it opened up the world for anyone around you. I can’t remember what you were wearing, but I know that I wasn’t disappointed. (In conversations later, you claimed to remember my

outfit, but I never believed you.) However, I never forgot that smile. We were the only ones in the restaurant. It turned into a nightclub at night, and you could still see some of the remnants from the night before. (We laughed at the high heeled shoe we saw in the corner.) It was brunch, and the place was dimly lit. We chose a seat upstairs, away from the door. Sportscenter was on the TV above the bar, and I made sure not to watch. This would not always be the case later in our relationship, and would become a source of contention. The waiter was also the bartender, a twentysomething with shaggy brown hair that you began talking to, who told us that he was in school to be a teacher. (I would later find out that random people had no problem opening up to you.) I ordered the steak and eggs. You told me later that you liked that I had the steak and eggs. Something about it being manly. We talked about everything and nothing, feeling each other out for potential crazy. You laughed at my jokes. I loved your laugh. It was high and lilting, feminine, without being overly so. You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cover up your mouth when you laughed like some girls, and I loved that. You would laugh and smile with your entire face. I miss that sometimes. The thing I remember the most is the little girl who was standing by herself around the corner from the restaurant. The one we would think about years later in moments of frustration. She was about 4 years old, standing there seemingly alone, maybe lost, but without a trace of fear, as if there was no way the world would ever let anything happen to her. You never said it, but I could tell you pitied her. There was a connection between you two that I would not realize until years later. I may have said something about her being by herself, but this was DC; kids are born with teeth here. You assumed the worst. Your motherly, suburban instinct took over. You couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help it. You always wanted to save everyone. I would eventually learn that you wanted to save me. Sometimes you learn things much later than you need to. Funny how life works like that. You asked her if she was lost, and she responded quietly about being with her sister, who was nowhere in sight. She then took our hands unprompted, holding me by my pinky and ring

finger, her hands little-kid sticky. She was an adopted daughter whose world was still untouched and without worry, comfortably standing between us while trying to remember where her sister was. The three of us walked. It was most likely only 10 minutes, but it seemed like an hour. We were an abrupt family, makeshift, but pieced together properly as if we had walked out of the restaurant into our own quietly-hoped-for future. We did not speak about how we made a perfect little family. It was a first date after all. Little did we know that we were taking her further away from her home. Eventually, we got her back to where she belonged, and she ran off as if nothing had been wrong all along. We were two adults she would most likely never think of again, no matter how much we may have thought of her. I remember how embarrassed you were. You told me much later, when things were great between us and we were still the people that we wanted to be, that I would think you were weird for “picking up some random little girl.” I didn’t. I suggested that we keep our date going, and asked if you would be able to walk in your shoes; they were those brown, 4inch wedges, I think. You smiled, looked surprised that I would even consider it, and said something about being a gangster, and how those shoes were nothing. We went to a movie, laughed at how terrible it was, walked around Georgetown pointing out things we would buy if we had the money, and got ice cream. I walked you to your car, where we realized we had all the same CDs, hugged you, and watched you drive off, noticing the ‘make love not war’ bumper sticker and how you danced in your seat as you drove. After that, things sort of blend together. There was a first kiss a little while later. It was under flickering street lights and was full of sexual static. I remember being surprised at the way the shadows of the trees bowed to our dark doubles painted on the pavement. The city seemed much more beautiful when we were in it together. Then there was a time (a decent amount of time actually) when we were happy and full of each other. There was eventually talk of marriage that I never took seriously and would laugh off. When I look back now, I realize just how heavily you loved me. How you waited patiently for me to realize what I

wanted, until you couldn’t anymore. I don’t know how you were able to hold on for as long as you did. Your love was more than I could bear at the time, and I didn’t wear it nearly as well as I wished I had. You put up with me for as long as you could, never showing that you weren’t as happy as you deserved to be. Eventually you left; although you had most likely departed long before you took your things and moved out. I was too comfortable to notice. You wanted me to stop you. I didn’t. I wore my pride like a bullet proof vest those days. I read somewhere months after you left something about ‘love having no time for pride.’ I only understood it recently. There were others after you. Other first dates. None quite as memorable. There was the girl that texted the whole time. The one who only ordered a salad, and then just picked at it, but had no problem downing three double Goose and Tonics. There was one that grabbed me at the end and made out with me like her life depended on it. We actually dated for a bit. It didn’t work out. And there were others whose lives I floated in and out of. They have all long faded into the haze of memory. Smoky figures that didn’t quite fill the cavities I never realized were there until things got bad, and I found myself, a glass of rum in hand, looking around my apartment for any trace of you. I have often found myself sinking into the recesses of memory and falling happily into our first date; loving the comfort of our almost family and trying not to think too strongly about what could have been. Especially since I saw you recently. You were stopped at a stoplight. Your hair had gotten much longer and was lighter. It made you look younger. You were carelessly dancing and singing along to the music, your daughter in the car seat bopping right along with you. I could see she had your smile. You both seemed happy. You didn’t see me, but as you drove off, no longer in the sky blue Honda, but now driving a much more family friendly brown sedan, I couldn’t help but smile a little and wonder what happened to Lucy and that ‘make love not war’ bumper sticker.

Necessities to be Free By Ryan Latini We had one secret: We didn’t care. Now we have a problem, convincing the world that we do. We fell in love with the angriest stars; Those burning red and white and blue. High up, we burnt our arms Cradling so many suns. Now charred puffs of ash hang quiet and calm After being sucked dry of hydrogen And helium and all the glory of nuclear fission. Our bellies were too full of the luminous plasma And solar weight to go on convincing, To go on convincing that there is no more chasm. But we shoot across the night and we don’t care Masquerading, hilarity excising the feeble. So we keep shooting—and shooting our cosmic tear. Searching for hay to rest in as needles.

Living and Dying Quietly By Kate Harron Like a cat, he appeared only when hungry or thirsty, tickled my cheek with his whiskers and was gone. The only thing they shared was a reflection, a mother, and a love for flannel. There was more than just six years between the Ivy League, Volvo driving, business owner and the bachelor who waited tables. They rarely spoke. I barely knew him. * We arrived early—a first. My grandmother asked my parents to meet with her to discuss a few details before anyone else arrived. Details that were important to her like the order the cars would drive; if both of my brothers would help bare the weight of the casket, or just the eldest; the proper order of the receiving line, and if it was politically correct. My father didn’t interrupt. He stood next to the little Italian woman as she checked and rechecked her lists. He agreed when she offered an opinion. He signed what she needed him to sign. She was extremely calm, well put together. A red scarf my uncle gave her years before accented her black skirt suit. She purchased the outfit for the occasion, vowed to never wear it again. He was not her first child to bury, but he was her youngest. I sat on the outskirts of their meeting, in a chair by the door per my father’s instruction, watching her. She looked like a teacher at the desk—writing carefully, sitting up very straight, her ankles crossed modestly. She palmed a tissue in her left hand, held it to her mouth as she coughed; it was not there for tears. Tears I hoped came in private—I never witnessed them. She signified the finish of her work by tap, tap, tapping the stack of papers together. “Run this in for me would you, honey?” she asked, holding the pages out to me.

I didn’t expect her to acknowledge me with any adult details. I jumped when called, pressed down the creases that formed in my black shift, knowing my grandmother would be the one to notice them, and took the packet. I wore the dress, the toohigh black shoes for her; she wanted everything to look perfect. The man stood just outside the parlor door. I’d transferred the papers a total of ten feet. With the job done, I waited in the foyer to be called upon again. My brothers followed close behind. They traveled together, always in the safety of their pair—a luxury I didn’t have. I was left to fend for myself. * “Where are those two going?” my mother approached in time to see them leaving. “A smoke probably.” “Hmm. We should go in,” she instructed, angling toward the viewing room. I followed her as far as the doorway. The large window behind the box gave the room an ethereal glow. Light through the yellow curtains made it almost sunny though the day was gray, rainy. She continued in without noticing I stopped. She shared the room with one man. He stood with his right hand on the foot of the casket, back to us, his hard slumped shoulders slightly shaking. I’d met him a number of times, liked him. He was kind, gentile, and built like The Hulk. He had a knack for getting my uncle to participate in family gatherings more than he wanted, getting him to smile. He helped at the house by shoveling snow, fixing the roof, finishing the deck when my uncle wouldn’t. He was enamored with the fact that I knew how to cook and would help me roll pasta for holiday dinners while others worked on more significant portions of the meal. I hadn’t heard him come in, didn’t know how long he stood there. I wondered what it would be like to lose the best friend I ever had; how impossible would that feel? I sunk into the nearest chair— my face hot, ears cotton stuffed, able to taste the iron of my blood. I worried he would hear the pounding of my heart and turn to see me watching him, interrupting his goodbye, and hate me for the violation. Deep

breaths brought rhythm back into my chest and I left them to have their moment in privacy. My mother still sat in the middle of the room, thumbing a rosary, didn’t seem to notice. * “Come with me,” my father half-asked, swatting at the back of my arm. He hadn’t said much that day; hearing his voice was strange. Blinking back was all I could manage. He nodded, pushed through the double doors and was gone. The pallbearers needed a way to the luncheon after the service. Since my father was the oldest remaining child, our family was responsible for these details. None of us made eye contact with him when the funeral director suggested that two cars were needed. My brothers were both able and willing drivers but he asked me—always asked me. His stride was long, quick; one step to my three intended to separate us but I wasn’t letting him get away. He reached into his pocket, digging around until keys emerged. Tossing the Mercedes set to me, he popped in a cigarette. “Follow me.” We pulled the cars up along the grass line, not far from a small tented area with rows of chairs set in front of the framed hole. I couldn’t believe we were going to go grave side. We always had the Catholic-lite, short service in the chapel—never wanting the drama and extreme finality associate with watching a casket being lowered into the ground. It must have been his idea. The back of the plush Lincoln seemed a better fit for a solemn moment than a celebratory one; it was all black, everything bright and shiny that the outside world offered was put on mute. My father was pressed up against the right door, elbow on the sill, intently chewing on his thumb nail. He reached over, put up the screen between us and the driver. The hum of the engine softened to white noise, no other sound. It was comfortable, relaxing. I mirrored my father, looking out the window on the left side of the car. My thumb found my teeth without thinking—our nervous habit. I sat up on the edge of the seat, watched as we left the site behind. My stomach flipped, churned as we rode up and

down the hills; there was nothing in me but mucous and coffee. Somehow, I wasn’t hungry. The limo turned into the familiar lot, felt the parking break secure. The driver’s door opened and closed. My father didn’t move. He sat in the same position, now watching the blacksuited men walking through the rows, attaching orange stickers to windshields. He cleared his throat. “He had these blue, footy pajamas...” His gaze didn’t come back into the car, thumb didn’t leave his teeth. “He’d follow me to school almost every day. They were just like the ones that you guys wore when you were little except the feet were completely worn through. He was always barefoot. I had to leave early every day because I knew that I’d get a block from school and have to turn around to take him home. He was so little. I don’t know why my mother wasn’t watching him. I don’t think she ever noticed he was gone. He was so little – maybe three? God, he must’ve been three or four.” He fumbled for the door handle and stepped out into the light. * People began arriving and we fell into line along the right side of the room. My father’s sister and cousin stood at the front with my grandmother; they cared about pecking order more than he. My grandmother stood at the end of the line closest to the casket, positioning a camera towards his painted face. “What is she doing?” I whispered into the back of my father’s gray blazer, wrapping myself behind him to shield the view. “What she does,” he answered, turning himself away from her. “I think it helps her. Creepy though.” Less the mustache, my father and his brother looked alike; the assumption of their relation was easy to make. People wanted to shake my hand to tell me what a good man he was, hug me to tell me how sorry they were for my loss. I gave them the tight lipped smile of the grieving, nodded when appropriate, wondered where my brothers were, why I was again thrown to help my father when they asked him if I was his only child.

The faces began to melt into one another. I wished for some colors, patterns to help differentiate one black-suited woman from another. Muscle memory took over; I stopped paying attention, stopped trying to remember their names and began to look for The Hulk. Where was he? Why wasn’t he standing with us? His stature drew me quickly to him, the room filled otherwise with elderly men and women. He was in an aisle seat, folded hands dropped between open knees, elbows preventing him from falling to the floor. His black suit had seen better, thinner days. The seams worked hard to keep his arms and shoulders contained. No one needed to utilize the remaining chairs in his row; there was other space in the room. He was alone. I excused myself from the line, found my mother as she was returning from the ladies room. “Mom, where are the boys? Why isn’t he sitting with Gram?” motioned to the large man, alone in the row. “The boys ran to get cigarettes. And …she offered,” she said, motioning towards the front of the room. “He said no. He’s trying to respect his wishes. He didn’t want people to know and this isn’t the place for that—for outing, pointing fingers. So, he’s doing what he can. He’s here.” “It’s not right. Why would he want him to be alone?” “…it’s just what he wanted.” “That’s just not right.” “He was very private and…maybe…I think a very selfish man,” she strained with saying it aloud, as if no one had ever verbalized the fact before. “I’m sure there were reasons for everything he did and everything he wanted. He did what he wanted when he was alive, did what he wanted as he died. But I don’t know what to tell you. I wish I had an answer but…I don’t. I don’t know how to make this right.” The hand that she planted on my shoulder fell away as the priest called for our attention; he wanted to begin a short service and asked that everyone be seated. Everyone began to fall into their places. My grandmother had a plush red chair in the front. My aunt, uncle, cousins were next to her on a sofa that sat too low to

the floor. My father and brothers had chairs set up, spaces for my mother and me ready. I walked up the center aisle, pushed past The Hulk’s knees, sat down next to him. His eyes were red, droopy as he turned towards me—gave me the tight lipped smile I’d been passing out all day. I looped my right arm under his, laced our fingers together and squeezed. I didn’t know how to make it right either, but I would try. At least he wouldn’t have to sit alone.

April Fools By Heather McTague Before the phone rang and woke my parents from their sleep, I knew. The sun was not yet up. I woke with tears streaming down my face, my nose in need of tissue, and an invisible fist in my gut. But no sound left my salty lips. The phone rang then; I heard one side of a whispered conversation followed by muffled sobs. It was then that I saw his face; pale and a little green, nothing close to what it should have been. His lips barely parted and chapped. Unknown pain behind closed eyes. A lump in my throat. He was small in his pajamas, half the size he used to be. Haggard breath. Only whispered words would leave my lipsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; I love youâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; before a kiss. Then, like the Cowardly Lion I ran from the house before tears spilled

and silent sobs left my chest. The darkness hid me. It was not eight hours before, but it was now the last. Light switches clicked and doorknobs turned but no one said a word.

Photographic Memory By Melissa Kelly

I’m fourteen months old, and I’m doddering around the skeleton of a house, weaving through the ribs of a load-bearing wall. It’s my young parents’ first home, a built-to-order genetic twin to all the houses that surround it. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, purchasing this home is the second most exciting-butterrifying thing they have ever done. New adults. New baby. New house. Everything about our young family is new, new, new. My dad has sold his project cars for the down payment and we often drive down Countryside Lane past the soon-to-be house in his remaining favorite car—a blue ‘67 Camaro convertible with a front nose bumble-bee stripe that he painted himself. They like to watch the house come to life: site prep, foundation, framing, walls, windows, doors. Most of the time I’m asleep in my car seat, but today I am awake and adventurous. The sun streams in through the bones of the growing house, and I cast a tiny toddler shadow in the dust on

the someday-living-room floor. Under the watchful eye of firsttime parents, I steady myself with a chubby baby hand on each of the studs beside me. I slalom in and out of the wall, the ruffles of my dress swaying with each step. My earliest memory is not a memory. It’s a photograph. I know the details of the frequent trips by the house because I’ve heard the story so many times. I know that blue Camaro because it still lives in my dad’s garage. I know I am fourteen months old because the words “August 1985” are written on the back of the photo in my mother’s looping, undemanding handwriting. This particular photograph is one of many thousands, and it lives in the July 1985 to December 1986 album with its contemporaries. That album is aging on the upper left of the bookcase full of albums. It’s adhesive has long since become unstuck, plastic pulling away and freeing photos to slide down the page and collect along the bottom. The album is in the upper left of the shelf because it’s one of the first. They begin at my parents’ wedding, but they only really get going in spring of 1984 when the nursery photos and swelling belly appear, as I am about to make my debut. All told there are (currently) thirty-some albums. Production slowed again in the early 2000’s as my sister and I entered and finished high school. Now they are primarily highlights of vacations and weddings—because the business of documenting our childhoods is finished. But with my senses, I can call upon the scene at Countryside Lane in August 1985 so tangibly in my mind; I would swear I could remember the sun on my white-blond hair, or an easy summer breeze against my bare legs, yellow lumber bones casting long blue shadows before me. It is unlikely that I can truly recall the memory of that day—the photograph is the memory. I often dig deep in to the pit of my memory to see if I can figure out my earliest memory—a memory that is unprompted by my mother’s stacks and stacks of photo albums—and it’s incredibly difficult. My actual earliest memory is one from that very same house. My back is turned away from that very same sunny

opening, but after the walls went up, after the grass grew thick in the yard. I’m sitting in the warm amber light of the afternoon sun in the finished kitchen. We have always had sunny kitchens. I’m sitting backwards on a lap—my mother’s—with arms wrapped loosely around me. My still white-blond hair is pulled back in to wispy pigtails, and I’m wearing a white undershirt and pink shorts. I’m watching my mother, and I’m feeling guilty. She’s not mad, but she is distressed, likely feeling guilty, too. I’m guilty because I scared her. I wandered off through the adjoining backyards—past the house with the nasty, biting pet duck that lives in a coop in the back yard—and in to a neighbors’ house to play. I can remember the dark, brown inside of my neighbor’s house, and the tuna fish sandwich that she gave me. My mother swears to me today that this memory of mine never happened. Without evidence—photograph, diary, letter, overlapping memories—we cannot know with certainty whether it is a fabricated recollection or a real one. Was it a dream? I remember many of my dreams from the same time period, in that same house. They’re mostly anxious nightmares—sharks swimming in yellow rivers around my bed and down the stairs, barring me from reaching the safety of my parents’ first floor bedroom—obvious that they are not my memories. Though some of these were lucid dreams—realistic, rational—I know with certainty that they were dreams. Admittedly, I have no other unprompted—un-photographed, un-recorded—memories from that house. It could have been a dream, I suppose. This is not the only one of my early memories that no one else can recall. I consider, in particular, a family party after we moved from that new house; kicking ferociously to keep my head above water, calling out to the grown-ups on the edge of the pool, wondering why they would ignore my distress. And Uncle Michael, probably still a teenager, casually plucking me from the water—my hero. But even Uncle Michael does not remember that moment. They all tell me again that I must have dreamt it. Without the proof of image or eyewitness, where do I file these memories? I grew up being used to remembering things that the adults around me didn’t—actual memories. There was a time when I was very confident in the recall of my own mind. And

though Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still young compared to my elder family members, my memories seem to be dissipating into the long, long history of our collective pasts. My own recent recall is not as vivid now that there are thirty years to remember instead of thirteen. I begin to doubt the memories that have no evidence. It seems that my only True Memories are the ones with corresponding witness. In that case it is as if I have no memory at all, only photographs to recall. In many ways, these photographs are my memories, and all the moments of the rest of my lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the un-photographed, in-between timesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;are only dreams.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 By Elisha Peterson

The Cast: Dr. Fox Gladys from Danbury, Connecticut (Age 54) Frankie from Bronx, New York (Age 41) Sebastian from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (Age 32) Lillian from Salem, New Jersey (Age 29) Hailey from Springfield, Massachusetts (Age 18) Lights up on five people in an interrogation type room. Four of them are standing up scattered about the space. One of them is sitting down. The four characters are dressed in normal attire, (T-Shirts, jeans, dresses etc) except the one character who is sitting down. He is wearing white scrubs. FRANKIE: This is bullshit. They can’t keep us in here. We’re not prisoners! Let us out you bastards, (bangs on wall) let us the hell out! HAILEY: Take it easy Frankie. You know how it is at these places. They put everyone in one room to see who will fold on each other first. We’re innocent. Stay tough. We’re innocent. GLADYS: I can’t believe I’m in here with you fools, I didn’t ask for this. A woman with my credentials shouldn’t be in this environment. Me and my Coco Chanel cashmere peach sweater are too good for this. Do you think Coco Chanel would stand in this box.......in cashmere!? LILLIAN: Put a lid on it Gladys! None of us want to be here. I’m nine months pregnant do you think I want to be here? I could pop any freakin’ second. Water everywhere. Baby just, (makes raspberry type sound) splash, right here on this freakin’ floor. Besides, this is Sebastian’s fault. You haven’t said anything this whole time. YOU did this.

SEBASTIAN: (Stutters) I-I-I-I didn’t know it would turn out like this. Guys b-b-b-believe me. Please don’t gang up on me. We’re gonna get through this. T-t-t-trust me. FRANKIE: Why should we? Huh? This is your shit. Get us out of here. Swear to god I’ll kick your ass for this man. Seriously, get us out! HAILEY: Everybody calm down. Inside voices. (Whispers). Inside voices. GLADYS: Damn an inside voice Hailey. I am in a COCO CHANEL CASHMERE SWEATER. These all white walls are clashing with my ensemble. Now is the time to take action. Lil, I know you agree. LILLIAN: Of course I do. But if you say one more word about that freakin’ sweater, I’ll kill you where you stand! (Breathes in and out). Is this even legal? Keeping a pregnant woman this late in the game, hostage! I am about to DELIVER A BABY. (Bangs on wall). Let me out! I will sue you! Let me out! (Breathes in and out). How come Sebastian is the only one who gets to sit down? SEBASTIAN: (Stutters) G-g-g-guys, please. I can’t take too much more of your blabbering. (He holds his ears). P-p-p-please, just let me think. I’ll f-f-f-fix this. FRANKIE: You damn well better. Swear to God on my grandfather Santino Vito Giordano, God rest his soul. I will wipe the floor with you. HAILEY: Frankie, no. No more threats. Remember that mantra I taught you? FRANKIE: Shoot first, ask questions later? HAILEY: Why do I try with you? You don’t use an inside voice, and you act like your Al Pacino in The Godfather. (She yells) The Corleone family doesn’t want you Frankie!

FRANKIE: Inside voices huh? Well let me give you an offer you can’t refuse, you little whor– (Gladys cuts him off) GLADYS: You stop right there Frankie. I’ve heard enough from you and your outbursts. It’s time to start pointing fingers so I can get out of here. Start pointing! LILLIAN: I second that. These contractions are starting to pick up. (Breathes heavily). Everyone knows Sebastian set us up. Who thinks Sebastian is a freakin’ idiot and needs to confess?! HAILEY: I do. FRANKIE: I do. GLADYS: I do. LILLIAN: I do. SEBASTIAN: S-s-s-stop yelling! S-s-s-stop yelling! (Grabs ears and jumps up from chair). No more. No more. No more, no more, no more! FRANKIE: Chill the hell out man. You really are a lunatic, you know that? HAILEY: Simmer down Sebastian. (Whispers). Simmer. GLADYS: Don’t pop a blood vessel sweetheart. But it’s time you man up. LILLIAN: She’s right. Get your freakin’ stuttering ass together and tell the truth! You always were a scaredy cat. Scaredy cat, scaredy cat! They all start to circle Sebastian as he sinks back into his chair. They chant “Scaredy cat” around him, circling him. FRANKIE: P-p-p-pussy! HAILEY: Meow...meow!

GLADYS: Purr...purr! LILLIAN: (Screeches like a cat) Sebastian grabs his ears again, closes his eyes and counts backwards. SEBASTIAN: F-f-f-f-five, f-f-f-four, th-th-th-three, t-t-t-two, one! Lights fade to black for ten seconds. Lights come up. Sebastian is alone in the room with his head down on the table. A man in a white doctors coat enters). DR. FOX: Sebastian. Sebastian. It’s ok. Breathe. It’s ok. Remember me? Dr. Fox? (He taps Sebastian) You’re alright. Sit up Sebastian. (He does so). SEBASTIAN: W-w-w-what happened? Everybody was talking so loud, everybody got really angry Doc. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t! DR. FOX: I know, I know Sebastian. I was watching the whole time. SEBASTIAN: You were? DR. FOX: Yes. Right behind that glass. I saw EVERYTHING. SEBASTIAN: You did? Thank God. You saw how they all attacked me, calling me names and making cat noises! DR. FOX: But Sebastian. There was so one else in here with you. You were the only one here. You see, this is why these sessions are helpful. You have to face what is troubling you. There is only ONE you. Those other facets do not exist. SEBASTIAN: What do you mean they don’t exist? They were here. You saw them. DR. FOX: No Sebastian. It’s just you. There is no one else. Just you. Let’s start the session. Breathe.

SEBASTIAN: N-n-n-no! You’re lying. Where did you take them? Where are the others? Tell me! T-t-tttell me! (He jumps to his feet banging on the walls) G-g-g-g-guys, I’m sorry. I’ll confess, I promise! DR. FOX: Sebastian, lower your voice. No need to holler. There is nothing to confess. You are here at the Skyview Behavioral Health Facility. You are not in trouble. No need to holler. Sebastian as Frankie, Hailey, Gladys and Lillian. He circles Dr. Fox. SEBASTIAN: Fuck you DOCTOR FOX. I’ll kick your ass for this man! Simmer down Doc. (Whispers). Inside voices. Don’t make me take off my Coco Chanel sweater; I’ll strangle you with it! (Breathes in and out) Here comes another contraction, don’t freakin’ mess with me Dr. Fox! DR. FOX: Sebastian, please sit down now. I do not want to sedate you. Let’s get through this in an orderly fashion. Sebastian, please sit down now. We’ll talk about all of this. Please. Sebastian paces the room and holds his ears. He begins to cry. He sits down. SEBASTIAN: They’re gone. W-w-w-what’s wrong with me Doc? W-w-w-why me? Why do they bother me? I feel like a c-c-c-crazy person. W-w-w-what’s wrong with me Doc? DR. FOX: It is Multiple Personality Disorder. As we’ve discussed in our sessions for one year now, I want to help you. You can’t just stop taking your medications like that Sebastian. Don’t you want Frankie, Hailey, Gladys, and Lillian to stay away? SEBASTIAN: Y-y-y-yes Dr. Fox. I want them to stay away for good! DR. FOX: Alright, then you have to listen to me, take your medicine, and let’s start again. Can we do that?

SEBASTIAN: Mmm hmm. I’m ready Dr. Fox. DR. FOX: You see when you just breathe, you don’t stutter as much. Now, what did I tell you to do when the voices come back? How can you ease the sporadic emotions? SEBASTIAN: Count backwards. DR. FOX: Right Sebastian. Count backwards. SEBASTIAN: (Exhales and closes his eyes) 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. END OF PLAY

Tornado in August By Andrew Whelan

August Kincaid pushed open the flimsy screen door of his old farmhouse and raised his left hand to block the sun. He walked onto the weathered wooden planks of his porch, holding his brown ceramic mug in his right hand, the coffee inside it still steaming. On the grey porch railing he saw a few wrens, perched and chirping. August tried to land his boot heels quietly on the wood so the birds would not startle and take to the sky. They froze at Augustâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arrival then scattered when the door slammed lightly behind him. He came to the top of the porch steps, stopped, and looked out at his expanse of land. The morning air was clear and dry; August could see the glistening of fast-moving cars and large trucks on the far-off, twolane highway. He could not hear the traffic from where he stood and he was glad that such powerful machinery could seem so perfectly silent, muted. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment. He noticed the wind coming steadily out of the east; he felt it on his neck and heard it in the high grass that surrounded his house in all directions. August opened his eyes and took a careful sip of coffee. He glanced up at the flag; from the white metal pole that extended off the porchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cornice, it flapped gently. August looked out at the land and sipped again. He scanned his property in sectors, sectors delineated by reliable landmarks: a distant lone tree; a massive pile of half-burned tires; a dangerous knot of cracked plow blades, tangled bundles of barbed wire, gutted mowers, and corroded harvesting tools; a careless heap of wounded wooden rowboats and splintered fiberglass canoes; a mound of broken red bricks; a tight cluster of mangled snowmobiles still visible beneath a siege of leafy brambles; and an undulation in the terrain. He knew his sectors. Sometimes, in the

very early mornings, he would see the dark backs of the boars cutting through the tall yellow grass towards the shade of the pines. The elk were easier to spot, especially the bulls in the spring. August liked the challenge of the boars better. There was no movement in his fields on this bright day. August breathed deeply again. He was readying to sit on the glider when he saw a puff of dust rise above the grass out near the highway. For a long moment, he stared at the point in the distance. More dust rose. At first, he didn’t recognize the car moving slowly up his long driveway. Then, it was clear. August turned his head over his right shoulder and, towards the screen door, gave the instinctual command: “Evelyn, get the kids into the cellar and bring down enough food for about a week. Hurry up.” The unpaved driveway winded roughly through the wild grass for about a half mile, from the highway to the house. The narrow path was dry now, but the sudden rush of rainwater during the monsoons had carved deep, severe ruts, and no vehicle passed over it without struggle. August squinted his eyes. Dust engulfed the car, but he could see it was big, with darkened windows, and a high, black antenna whipped harshly off the car’s trunk as it bounced along towards him. “God damn it, Evelyn. I said hurry up!” August barked as he turned, flung the door open, and rushed inside. He hurried to the bottom of the steep old steps that led to the second floor. “Kids,” August yelled up the stairway, “get your survival bags, your pills, and your coats and get to the south cellar door right away. Gussie, you’re in charge of the smaller ones. Come on, kids, fast as you can!” August heard little footsteps scamper into action above him on the creaky ceiling. He put his mug down on the wooden table in the vestibule and walked back to the screen door to check the approaching car. “Hey! How many times have I told you to use a coaster?” Evelyn snapped as she came quickly down the hall from the kitchen and snatched the coffee mug off the polished tabletop. “My daddy made this table and you know that, August. From his bare hands— for my mama.”

She sauntered back to the kitchen with the cup. August turned from the screen door, his eyes wide with terror, and ran to his wife in the kitchen as the low rumble of the car grew louder. “My God, Evelyn,” August pleaded, “we have about two minutes to get to the tunnel. The car! Did you see it? Today is the day, Evelyn. It’s today.” “Please do not shout at me,” Evelyn said, her back to August as she stood at the sink and washed his mug with a soapy pink sponge. “I am not deaf. And of course I saw the car. I may be a lot of things, dear, but I am not blind.” She turned around, leaned against the sink, and crossed her arms defiantly under her small breasts. “Calm down, Auggie. And take your dirty boots off. I just mopped.” “No, Evelyn, not now. Please, not now,” August begged. “We have to get the kids into the south cellar. The car is here, Evelyn. The kids. We don’t have any time.” August turned and looked and from down the hall and through the screen door, he could see the car stop in a cloud of dirt. It lurched as it parked at the foot of the porch steps. August spun again and faced his wife. “Why do you always assume the worst?” Evelyn asked. She reached and grabbed a red dishtowel and wiped her hands, then tossed the towel back onto the counter. She looked at her husband, and sighed before continuing sharply. “Hello, can anyone say ‘Drama Queen?’” She put her hands mockingly on her hips. “Quick, y’all, go git ‘dem ‘dar kids. We best be scootin’ into ‘dat ‘dar cellar over yonder right quick!” Evelyn laughed and shook her head at August. “Evelyn…” August started and then he backed away from her. He cupped his strong hands around his mouth, aimed his panicked face at the ceiling, and roared: “Gussie! Get the little ones to the cellar! Don’t trip the wires when you throw the switches!” Evelyn waltzed playfully toward her frantic husband until she stood with her open hands pressed upon the soft flannel shirt buttoned tightly across his wide chest. “Maybe you and me need to spend some time in the cellar by ourselves, handsome,” she

whispered. “Bad girls get taken to the cellar and I’ve been very, very bad.” She rose on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Evelyn, Evelyn,” August cried. He grabbed his wife’s thin shoulders and shook her until her dark hair fell from its loose ponytail. He heard heavy feet climbing the porch steps. “Baby, can you understand me? Please. Get the knives, the chlorine…we have to get to the tunnel…” Evelyn sighed again then moistened her lips. She closed her eyes, leaned her face up slowly towards her husband’s, and said: “I’m not falling for that again, Auggie, so just kiss me.”

Concrete Fiction By Heather McTague

Night winds blow fierce over the icy snow as more falls and sticks to the large stags coat, shinning from the lamp lit path. The cello sings in distant rooms, unaware the last note it plays will proceed an eerie aria dozens of yards away. Amidst softened cries, static fills the warm air—no schema can conclude as synapses are stunned. Nightmares abduct physical form, stretching through space, whispering eager defamations and guaranteed convergence. Shivering, though blistering, taut muscle weakens as breath is caught—it doesn’t know which way— and all sound is completely striped away.

PEANUTS AND MADNESS By Ryan Latini I broke Dad’s nose twice before the age of four—both times using my enormous head. I get my large head from his side of the family so I guess it was partially his fault. He was the one who planted the seed for me—he continually reminded me as a child that it was my mother’s egg that was tainted, not his sperm. I don’t like to think of mother’s egg or father’s sperm, except when I need an excuse. But this time things were more serious than a broken nose. I knew I had not tried to kill Dad, but how could I not think about it or feel guilty especially with Renato, my older brother, constantly reminding me that I was the one who put him into the hospital. Something soured in Dad’s brain on the night of my eighth birthday but I slept soundly. Mom said he paced in the bedroom, “It’s not me, it’s my dad,” he kept saying and pacing. He was half right. His dad had a heart attack a week later, but this night blood spilled in Dad’s brain—an aneurism—and paramedics and cops and mom watched Dad roll to the hospital—I slept, fingers tired from opening whatever it is eight year old boys open on their birthdays. Dad’s brain had to be opened and exposed and sliced at with a scalpel only a few days after the smell of birthday candles finished lingering, like a guest that doesn’t want to leave. He was pieced back together with metal clips on his skull; sutures tightened the skin of his bald head back together. I have a picture of my beagle staring at the slice on my dad’s head as he sits and watches TV. The morning before Dad’s brain soured, I knew my mother would be busy baking Stromboli and running to the baker for my cake. Yet through all her cleaning and errand running she still promised to take me to Cappas so I could spend some birthday

money from my grandmother. Cappas was a costume store full of a strange archaic mysticism I have only since felt in empty churches and quiet woods. Everything in the store seemed to have a pulse—the rubber masks of monsters and presidents; the whole wall full of heads like some otherworldly, haunted and alien hunting lodge with the strangest freaks and most vicious villains stuffed and mounted on the wall; the fake severed limbs and stage props; a whole wall draped in the fanciful glittering sequence of Mummer costumes and capes dazzled the eye and confused the mind. It was like being back stage at a circus or somehow traveling inside a kaleidoscope. I pictured myself directing beautiful men and women to get into costume—“Hurry up, it is the last act!” I pictured the grand parties we would have after the show: actors sipping champagne—villains and heroes, dead kings and living queens, sipping drinks together on old wooden crates full of stage lights and ropes and curtains. Monsters and pixies sharing a laugh behind a curtain that made them unreal—having been real only moments before in front of the curtain, stepping through the strange portal of backstage where anything was possible—and I was the director—the one who sent them through that portal, the one who designed the world in which they would live and the conflicts that would tear them apart and the ambition that would bring kings to their knees. Cappas made my stomach swirl with excitement for such a life—a life of whimsy and possibility, silken and glittering possibility flossing through my innards filling me with fanciful notions of what could be. Past the latex-mask vapor, past the stage accessories, they sell novelty gags. I bought a plastic ice cube with a fake bee in it; I wanted to put it in my cousin Kelley’s soda later that night at my party. I bought a pack of gum that turned the chewer’s mouth blue—this I would reserve for my brother. I bought a package of ultra-spicy peanuts, with a flaming devil on the package that I mixed with the bowl of peanuts my mom set out at the party—Dad ate them—and my brother said they caused the bleeding in my dad’s brain. Dad lost most of his short term memory and memories from about the past ten years of his life. He forgot he had kids. He

forgot where he lived. He forgot how to drive. Any new memories would come, but go just as quickly. One night, when Dad first got out of the hospital, we were watching TV and he turned to me and said, “Tell that kid to go to bed.” He said this again, but this time he pointed to one of my dogs toys. Mom was at work and I was never so shocked and chilled in all of my life—until years later when the LSD started nipping at my thoughts. Dad had a lot of questions and unreal observations when he got out of the hospital: Am I at a baseball diamond? I have kids? At least I’m not a chicken slammer (referencing a Purdue Chicken commercial where a man slams together two frozen chickens). Tell our Spanish cousins to get out of my bathroom—I have no Spanish cousins. Tell that kid to go to bed. What is this, the Fourth of July? What is the Fourth of July? Before his surgery while Dad was still in Hahnemann Hospital, he got up in the middle of the night and walked out. He didn’t know who he was or where he was going. He just went and kept going. He had on a hospital night gown and nothing else. My aunt and grandmother drove through the streets of Philadelphia looking for him. They found him on some dark side street on the outskirts north of Center City. I imagine him among the hobos, rats and shadowy night figures—the one’s you run from—and I imagine that he couldn’t run, the barefooted man with exposed buttocks in the mad night, under the dark hood of insanity. Did he shake hands with the Boogieman? I like to think he was on some quest for knowledge, an ultimate knowledge that you can only find in dark mindless streets. I could look into his eyes and know he wasn’t truly there. I thought the doctors took out the wrong part of his brain. I thought he had gone too far in some direction I didn’t even know about, somewhere beyond the three dimensions we can see. I used to help Dad cheat with his flashcards—he had flashcards with names, places, and processes on them. I would stand behind my mom when she would show a flashcard and I would mouth the answers to him. I remember waiting for him out front of his rehab with my grandfather who had just recovered from a heart attack. I would pick these red, water swelled berries

from a bush out front and wing them against the concrete and windows. I imagined they were people falling off of buildings. I slept soundly then. Dad got his short term memory and taste for reality back after a few years of brain rehab. He retook his driver’s test and went back to work after the mental pangs from surgery and the bleed subsided. He recovered fully minus the occasional memory lapse. But he was a different man. He was personable after it all, but he developed a mild obsessive compulsive disorder. He was very concerned with the dishes—always washing dishes, looking through the house for dirty dishes, talking about dishes. One day after school, I remember being very proud of a test grade and I told him I got an A on this particular test. He asked me, “Do you have any dishes in your room?” That’s how it went. I gave up on answers at that point. My grandmother was a touch insane—we didn’t know what to call it then—and I always wondered if insanity was a birthright in our family. After the surgery, Dad would often ask me if he was speaking properly as his great fear was that he had developed a speech impediment, however none of us could ever hear it—he continued to ask about it though. It was a thing that wasn’t there. Grandma never understood what her son, my father, had gone through. She would often tell us stories about the men, sometimes clowns that would come into her room at night. She would tell us that they didn’t ever take anything, but they just stood there, outlined in shadow, and watched her sleep. She didn’t ever seem frightened of them, but it certainly frightened my brother and I to hear such stories even though we knew the clowns and strange men were figments of her mind. I often wondered when those shadowy men and clowns would come into my bedroom at night and watch me. I waited for them some nights— eyes half opened, sheets pulled up to my chin for an easy escape beneath the covers. I wanted to taste a bit of absolute insanity; the twisted bits of back-brain, behind even the profound, into the ridiculous and the echoes of…of....I wish I could explain it better. I saw it in my Dad when I was a child. He wasn’t insane, just lost many of the

big, delicious chunks of memory and reality—the savory ones, the ones that aren’t supposed to dissolve or melt, the ones you are supposed to suck the marrow out of. I remember my dad’s questions following his return from the hospital that Fourth of July: “Who were the presidents? How do we get to the parade? What is the parade for? Who would be in the parade? Do you have any dishes that need washing? What was this parade for? I had questions, too, maybe answers—mainly observations—but some nagging inexplicable question, some haunting and persistent inquiry constantly poked at my mind. What was it like to ride on the side of the insane without the safety net of the real to keep you from falling off into madness? I tasted my insanity, a derivative of abovementioned question, eleven years, a handful of months, and a sprinkle of hours after my dad lost his grip on the real after I chewed the acid—two paper hits a little bigger than one of the capital I’s in this very story. I bet you just noticed all the damn I’s in the story— that’s how it goes. I finally got my chance to waltz among the unreal—a world my dad knew of but no longer spoke about. And that little piece of paper soaked in lysergic acid was my ticket—my mouth was the barker, the ticket taker, the man at the turnstile, and my mind was the sideshow, the movie, the ride. At this time I was in the beginning throes of becoming a full on opiate addict—not the sagacious Asian kind that lurk in cool opium dens, but the pock-faced withering junky kind who lurk in bad neighborhoods with bad people at bad hours and wear long sleeves in the summer time. Matt and I had trouble scoring Oxycontin the evening of the LSD and Matt’s friend, Haven, just visited from Texas bringing with her a few paper hits of LSD. We luckily weren’t in full withdrawal from Oxy yet as we had scored earlier in the afternoon; I knew I wouldn’t be sick for another few hours or so. We tried watching The Big Lebowski to put ourselves in the right state of mind so we could enjoy the acid, but freaking out seemed unavoidable. “I feel like the house has bones—you know what I think acid is?” Matt said. “It’s not just hallucinating—it’s like thinking about something’s innards, it’s kind of like imagining what would be inside—I imagine the house has bones, you know?”

“I expected to see little legs running around. It’s just your thoughts though,” I said. “For now I guess, just wait,” Matt said while folding his hands and booming out a most sinister laugh. It had been about two hours since we ate the acid and all thoughts of scoring Oxy had subsided. Withdrawal was inevitable. But for now I tried to brace myself for what was coming. All things were inevitable. Nothing was profound—just a mere happenstance of chaos. We were just as likely to meet God as we were to meet murderous clowns. I wondered what my Dad met that night out in the mad streets of Philadelphia, his brain sick, his reality twisted around telephone poles like hurricane debris. “I feel like we should go get a fucking hooker,” Matt said. “And murder her—not necessarily kill her, just tongue her, just tongue her to death,” I said justifiably. Overwhelming agreement ensued. Sensory hallucinations were starting to peak, and I was terrified of leaving the chair I was in. “Just plug it into her, just slap it at her,” Matt continued. “Just stab it into her skin, you know?” “It’s like killing a kitten—a little kitten. My back does feel weird, wow it becomes part of the seat, you know? It’s just part of it and only your head’s sticking out, this part stays, and I feel like it pulls out all the asshole and balls—like all the good parts, all the jerky good parts that feel so good, like the asshole shitting and balls, you know? Where everything comes from.” “Where everything comes?” Matt asked. “The chair makes it feel like if you would jump, all the good parts would just stay there and you’d have the best orgasm ever,” I said. It all made perfect sense to us. There was nothing which we couldn’t fathom. “I think something like that would kill me.” Matt mentioned wanting to have sex with the Bronte sisters. “I wanna fill my body with dust and broomsticks.” I yelled this at Matt when I realized the fragility of my body, when the carpet began to sneak up my shoe.

Matt’s brother, whose hair began floating off his head, strands reaching for me, for the ceiling went up the basement steps, leaving a shadowy trail behind him that lingered in the room for a few minutes. “That’s how it always happens,” Matt said. “What’re you talking about? Good night, eh, good night.” “What?” “This is absolutely exhausting—I can’t have any thought without it leading to one thousand other things.” When on the acid, every thought I had was conjured in my mind’s eye, accompanied by sounds only I could hear. Thoughts literally folded and unfolded and took off right in front of me—I couldn’t think of one thing for more than a second. “I need another party, my phone went off—it felt like my phone went off! Get this outta here, get this fucking ewok outta here!” Matt’s brother had a toy ewok from the Star Wars movies, it kept twitching and buoying on the carpet. “I can’t fucking cope with this, dude.” “I feel like a madman, just a raving madman, a fucking raving madman—look at this fucking ewok.” Matt walked me home around 5am, but the acid wasn’t through with me. It had only been about five hours—I still had eight more hours of the most intense and horrific sights and sounds I would ever experience. I threw up on the walk home and it took me an hour to convince myself that I hadn’t turned inside out. On the walk home, I realized that we weren’t ready for anything, but anything and everything were there, ready for us— every noun in every book was a possibility (visual, auditory, perceivable), every verb was possible, i.e. “driving up,” literally driving up—Matt and I tried to convince his brother that he could drive his car up a hill and never have to go down, just continue in a perpetual vertical climb—I wanted him to land on the railroad trestle a town over; I like the view there. The concrete sidewalk floated on verdant goo that swelled and rocked with each step. Unheard-of verbs and nouns fell in the acid rain on my gray matter, and all the other swirly twists of meat encased in my skull. There were shadows that followed us on the

other side of the street—no perceivable features, just shadow figures under the street lights, in the bricks of the buildings, behind the trees. The hollow plastic trees Matt convinced me were from a movie set—some movie he’d seen. Unnamed and unreal fears took me over and my trip became the worst experience I had ever been in. At one point I wanted to have my parents take me to a hospital—I justified murder, innumerable gods and devils, suicide and at one point, laying in bed, I tried to ground myself to something real. “Come on Ry, just touch your wall, it will ground you to the Earth, to something real.” I reached for the wall and it fell with the loudest crash, revealing blackness—my window slid down my other wall until it was in my face—the curtains licked fiercely. I saw a corpse (I believe it was my grandmother) sitting, rocking in a chair in my bedroom. Around six in the morning, after hours of fighting my bad trip, I heard Dad get up for work. I heard his shoes descend our wooden steps; the steps echoed for about ten minutes. I could still hear him descending the steps as he pulled out of the driveway. I could still hear him descending the steps when he turned the corner at the end of our block. Everything was echoes—echoes of my old man’s shoes, echoes of my mind—thoughts beating and pulsing for hours. I wanted to talk to my Dad about the unseen reaches—how people always strive for the unseen—but I’ve seen the unseen and so has he; there is nothing there but fear and madness. I tasted what kept me frightened of my father. I wanted to share it with him—tell him that the day he scared me, the day he thought my dog’s toy was a person That I now know it really was a person; it really did need to go to bed. I wanted to tell him that his dead mother screamed at me early in the morning before he got up for work; she yelled at me from my basement, for me to let her out. Was I mad? I waited in bed, scared to turn over for fear of falling into oblivion. I watched cigarette smoke come out of my mouth as I lay there—I hadn’t smoked for hours. Was Dad mad? At one point I thought my trip was over, but then my bedroom exploded with the ringing of hundreds of cell phones. Is he better? Am I better? I know of fear and madness and I know I am no different from the madman wandering the streets—bare-assed in a

hospital gown, barefooted, sojourning through various shades of reality. There’s a freedom and binding agent in madness and distorted reality; I’d rather share this with my father than any ballgame, beer or talk about women. We’ve both waltzed in madness, and maybe my attempt to link (or justify) my actions against the backdrop of my father’s tragedy is just masturbation— but it’s all I’ve got—so I will continue to massage my evils, fears and uncertainties onto my history. Fruitlessness is not my concern—actualization was aborted long ago—potentialities are all that remain in the face of psychosis, and we are all hung-up, mad, masturbating for actualization.

OkC About Me: by Brian Durkin Regal needs to calm down with the lights in this foyer. They sting my eyes to the point where they’d be red even without smoking. I try not to look at the box office as Declan attempts to score me a free ticket. Shouldn’t be a problem since he works here, but I can’t help feeling paranoid. I pretend that I’m texting on my phone to give myself something to do other than stare at Declan’s stupid Russian winter hat. I can wear some loud clothing, but I’m not down with the fluffy flaps. Stage One: complete. Now off to the snack bar for some munchies (Ugh, I hate that word). Typically I won’t buy food at the movies, but typically I’m not this stoned and typically I have to pay for a ticket. The counter girl and Declan make small talk. I focus on the conversation, searching for queues to answer any question that requires me to respond. The girl behind the counter finally asks, “Can I help you?” “What should I get?” I ask no one in particular. “I don’t know. Why don’t you get what you want?” she fires back. “Pretzel Bites. No. Make that nachos with cheese. Oh. And a large water.” Fuck. Why can’t I just order correctly the first time? Now she knows I’m high. As we stroll to our theater, which is years away, Declan chats games with me. We met through my job at a collectible games store. Declan respects my opinion on how to play trading card games, because I travel to play in tournaments. He’s much younger than me and much worse: losing in ways I didn’t think were possible. When I play him online, Declan gets straight buttpounded. On my desk next to the computer, I hit the Staples Easy

Button to shame him with their corporate slogan. He can’t help but laugh. Changing subjects, he asks, “Dude, can you help me with my homework?” I have no desire to help him. “Sure. What do you need help with?” “My history assignment. I have to write about the crisis of American Individualism and True Liberalism and how each…” He doesn’t trail off. He keeps talking. I just stop listening, so I have no clue what he’s saying. My eyes dart back and forth in a fierce oscillation looking for anyone that might suspect our intoxication. Declan’s a good kid and all, but he sure does talk a lot. *** This movie has the AIDS Virus. I knew this Benico Del Toro Werewolf movie would fucking suck. I guess that’s why I made sure we got high ahead of time. I thought that would make it better. OH NO! It actually just makes me hate it even more. My phone buzzes. It’s Gina. She wants to know if I can hang out tonight. After reading the text, I ponder my options as I stare up and away from the screen. *** Driving high is the worst, but worth it. And actually much easier than convincing Declan to leave the movie early so I could drop him off at home. I’ve been getting drinks with Gina a few nights a week now. I think she likes me, which is awkward. I’m not really looking for a girlfriend. I’ve only been home at my parent’s place for three months after breaking up with my fiancé for cheating on me. Drinking buddies is good. Friends with benefits, I could probably handle. I hate the Country Squire. We’re not going there tonight. I physically shake my head, keeping my hands steady on the wheel to keep the car straight as I try to rid myself of the Squire. Worst diner ever. Giving into my insanity, I utter to myself, “I know.” Although her choices in eateries are lacking, I like my time with Gina. Thanks to Facebook I’ve been reconnecting with

old high school classmates by friending anyone that went to Haverford High School. There are a lot of people I want to reconnect with. Some dudes I hadn’t talked to in so long. This guy, Ryan, went to rehab and all that stuff. His pictures make it seem like he’s doing better. Tony, another buddy of mine, went through some rough times as well. Short on cash, he did a porno. We hung out one night at his place and he told me all about it. So much so, that he proceeded to demonstrate how to properly measure one’s penis and what stretches could be done to naturally enhance one’s member. I shake my head again, only this time in a more violent snap. My car swerves a bit, but no one is on 476 right now. I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to offend him. I’m not so homophobic that a penis scares me. It’s just sort of shocking and makes you realize how incredibly stoned you and your friends are when one of them whips his dick out and grabs a tape measure. *** Another typical night at the bar with Gina. We’re both pretty drunk, but I’m glad I don’t have to drive. I can tell she’s quite tipsy by the enormous grin on her face. “If you want, you can come in for a minute or so.” “Sure. I’m not really ready to go home yet.” We sit on the bed. Stupid small talk moves straight to making out and ripping clothes off. Holy Shit. Undressing, kissing, and fucking has an unusual ability of reminding me how awesome it feels … and how long it’s been since the last time. What the fuck? I shouldn’t have drank all those hoppy beers. Luckily I’m able to get it up and keep it there without needing samples from a Pfizer-sponsored, porno craft services table. As I pull myself off of her, I stroll over to my desk which offers the closest bottle of water. Gina talks to me about something. I’m half listening. The pursuit to quench my thirst dominates my attention. But I want to be considerate, so I face Gina as I gulp down the beverage. Glup. Gump. Glump. Glump. It tastes so good I can only hear the traffic jam of oxygen and H20 at the bottle’s head. I put on a big goofy smile after my drink. Gina’s glowing, speaking fast. I keep my attention on her as I slam the bottle behind me on the desk.

“THAT WAS EASY.” The Staples slogan hangs in the now quiet room. She’s silent, staring at me. I shrug my shoulders, not sure what else I should do. “Sorry,” I utter almost as a question, battling against the giggles that want to escape me. She rolls off the bed, struts over, and then gives me a loose hug with her hands resting on my neck that way only a naked woman can do all so right. “It’s okay,” she kisses me. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since like the fourth grade.” My third eye raises its brow. This doesn’t sound like she just wanted a drinking buddy or a friend with benefits. I hug her tight and curse my Staples Easy Button for summoning Murphy’s Law. *** “Pete. Yo! Pete,” yells Ryan as he stomps up and down the side streets by 61st. Pasqual opens the door and places the empty pony of Corona on the curb next to my parked car. He lights another cigarette without asking this time. I don’t feel like telling him I now mind. What am I doing here? Ryan finally runs back to the car and hops in. “Aight. Cool. I found my boy Pete. He’ll be right over. Thanks again, Durk.” Ryan can barely contain his excitement. I can barely hold back my anger and disappointment with myself for agreeing to drive them down to the city to buy coke. How the fuck did I end up here? My phone buzzes from a text. Luckily it’s Declan and not Gina. When she would call or text me, I tried to tell her several times that I just want to stay friends. Of course sleeping with her again and making out when we’re drunk doesn’t really make that message clear. We had a messy fight the other night at the bar when I told her straight: I didn’t want a relationship. That conversation sucked. We’re finished now—probably even as friends hanging out. I feel like an asshole. She probably feels betrayed. I wish I could make it up to her, but I’ve already made plenty of mistakes and dating her would feel like lying. Pete arrives and hangs through the back window to do the exchange with Ryan. Pasqual can’t help but fight with them about the exchange. I can’t believe Ryan told me he needed a ride to see

his son. I can’t believe I believed him. I try to ignore the situation and my gullibility by responding to Declan, texting him that I’ll help him at work tomorrow, but I’m not doing the assignment for him. He has a knack for trying to get people to do his work. I also tell God I’ll be his best friend if he keeps me out of prison. *** “Will you donkeys hurry up so we can play our fucking game?” Legrow commands. “Whatever. I’m going to play,” utters Joe as he meanders over to Legrow and Jason at the back of the store. Declan turns to me, “Please, Durk. If I don’t turn something in, they’ll probably expel me for failing too many classes. I like really want to just play games and not worry about this.” “Declan. I’m not fucking writing your paper.” “Dude, what will it take for you to do it? Just name anything.” I think about it for a moment. Declan could take my spot playing the game. I am technically at work. Charge Declan for writing the paper. Yeah but I don’t want to have to care about the assignment. That’s so much work. I smile about my epiphany before I reply, “Okay. I’ll answer each question with the paragraph minimum, but no more than that. I will answer every part and have the answers involve each part somehow; however, I don’t guarantee a good grade and I can write whatever I want. I also want three cents a word.” “Three cents a word? Dude, that’s so much money.” “Fine. I’m not doing it.” I head toward the back of the store. “Fine. Fine. Okay.” Really? That worked? I can’t believe it. He’s going to pay me three cents a word to write bullshit that will most likely have him receive an “F” anyway? Alright. Whatever. I proceed to write the most outrageous and bullshit paper of my life. Here’s an excerpt from that assignment: Herbert Hoover when he became president was one of the worst presidents ever. He was so bad they named vacuums after him. That’s why they named the

shanty towns after him. People were so salty about how terrible he was running the country that they blamed the ghetto on him. People were also very angry about his pro abortion stance; therefore, initiating the destruction of the American family because his pro-abortion policies paved the way for immoral contraception. He also took off of Woodrow Wilson by going down as one of the biggest racist to ever serve as president. *** Somehow Declan didn’t fail. I assume his teacher didn’t read it or was impressed someone had the balls to write that. Either way, I enjoyed writing it. I enjoy writing and telling stories in general. Right now, I’m leaning back now from my computer to give my eyes a relief from this LCD screen, finishing up typing this series of eventful nights from years ago. Rocking back in my chair under the low light of my room, I stare at the wall covered with dark brown shelves encircling a print of Tony Castillo’s “Strathmore Vellum Cover.”

A month of Sundays By Elisha Peterson

It had been a while since I seen her. She used to be my companion always, someone who championed my confidence. My mother asked about you the other day and I had no clue where you've been. I figured in search of something, perhaps you'd gone off on one of your spontaneous trips again. But I haven't seen you, lord knows where you are. Last I heard you'd taken off. But nobody had even seen you take off, no notes left, no sign of a suitcase gone or your favorite zebra printed overnight bag. So I assumed you just, left. No bother to pack anything; I have to wonder if you even plan on coming back. We shared many thrills, even got into some trouble now and then, we were both happy. And then you just up and left. How could you? Didn't you think of the emotional blast I've been in? I needed you and you just checked out. Gone. I stand here in my bathroom mirror blank faced. The mascara I put on earlier is now smeared down my sun-kissed face, tinged in blackness with coal tears cascading down. My hair, my hair has somehow been neatly placed in a bun but the rest of me is just there. It had been a while since I seen her. Me. Who I've been looking for, going on 4 months of Sunday's now. Somewhere there was a loss of myself, but I yearn to find me. I feel almost close to who I am. My mother has knocked on the door asking, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Are you in there?â&#x20AC;?

Number One Spots By Meagan Manning I like to spy on people. The best time to go is at dusk, when the sky still has a hint of the sun but darkness hasn’t quite sealed the end of the day yet. You’d be surprised how many people flick on a light and don’t close their blinds or curtains, leaving their lives open for all the world to see. I have some favorites. The single dad at the end of a culde-sac in my neighborhood who braids his daughter’s hair by the front window or sits on the floor in her room at tea parties with her dolls. Or the old couple that watches the evening news, holding hands across the space between their matching blue velvet recliners. And then there’s the teenage girl who is a really good artist—she paints portraits of her parents looking distorted and grotesque, while they sit on the floor below, unaware of both her talents and her hate. The trick is to find a safe, secluded spot to watch from. I call these my number one spots because I can sit there for hours and be comfortable. There are usually some number twos and threes, which always have something wrong with them, like a branch sticking into my back or a bad angle on the house, but I always go with the number one if I can. It’s a little harder than it sounds. I almost got attacked by some squeaking, mystery animal one night when I climbed too high in a tree, and the time I hid in an alley, high up on a fire escape, I got trapped—so close to being caught—when some guy parked his car underneath my spot. I had to wait him out on the roof until he moved it. It’s worth it—the planning and pain—but it’s a little too hard to do when my mom is actually home. She’ll ask me a million questions—did you do your homework, did you brush your teeth, when is your choir concert—and be so in my business I can’t get

away. Like she can really make up for all the time she’s gone by paying attention to me for a few days. She travels for work all the time, not that she’s ever taken me with her, not even when I’m on summer break. I don’t even know what she really does. The only thing I know is that she hates it. She complains constantly about the plane rides and the cities she has to visit and the people who work for her. But she has to make money to support our family, she’s always telling me, usually when she’s trying to make me feel guilty about asking for new clothes or money for a field trip. She’s only home maybe once every week or two. I have a calendar hidden in my desk drawer where I mark the days she’s home. Last month, it was seven days. Seven days out of 31. The rest of the time my grandmother takes care of me. She does the best she can, but she’s old, so wrinkly you can’t believe it, and she’s sick, stuck at home with her oxygen. She’s always falling asleep. It’s a cinch to sneak away. I always have to worry about switching things up, though, which bothers me, especially when I find a nice house with nice people that I want to keep watching. Like the guy who read a book over the phone to someone, pinning the receiver to his shoulder with his ear, holding the book in his hands. Or the woman who did yoga every night right after she got home from work, changing from her business suit to a tight, workout outfit that showed the long, slim lines of her arms and legs. I liked those two, even gave them names—Stephen and Eliza. They seemed so nice, and they were always there, each night, right where they should be. I try to stay hidden as much as possible—across the street behind a dumpster or in a dark section of a yard—but eventually someone catches on. Someone in the house, a neighbor, a random person walking by. Like the book guy. His friend was leaving the house one night, and I tried to move silently away from my spot, but I tripped over a trashcan that went crashing to the ground. Or the yoga lady. One night, a cat walked by her backyard motioncontrolled flood light, and the light hit me right where I was sitting, and of course, she was staring right out at my number one spot while she was holding a pose. And I had to move on. It makes me sad—usually, I’m depressed for days—when I have to leave a house, leave the people in it, but that’s the way things are. I have to

always be careful, always looking over my shoulder. But it’s still better than sitting around, suffocating, either not being noticed at all or having someone all over me, like home. I’m out living a life, doing something in the world, which is better than being stuck playing field hockey or soccer like my friends. I’d rather do this. Last month, I was riding my bike a few neighborhoods over, trying to scope out some new houses and people. I found a few I liked, but now it’s cold. Too cold to be riding around. And when it rains or snows, forget it. My crap bike with the faded pink paint and the raggedy purple and white streamers won’t cut it. So I’ve started taking the bus to scope out new areas. I can’t go far because I can never scrounge up more than a few bucks in change—whatever I find in the couch cushions or in my grandmother’s purse—but it’s far enough that I found some new houses. The one I like best is in the middle of a street, a brick Victorian with a low, evergreen hedge that circles the front porch. There’s a driveway that goes straight back and winds to the left into the yard and to the back door of the house. The door goes into a mudroom where everyone in the family—mom, dad, son, daughter, daughter—hangs their coats and takes off their shoes. Two dogs like to lie down on the floor in that room too. I’ve started bringing treats in my pocket in case they are ever out and after me. I’ve broken one of my rules with this house. I haven’t been leaving as soon as the blinds go down. Instead, I’ve been climbing trees or trying to find spots where I can see into the house at weird angles or through uncovered windows. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. The first night I stopped at this house, it was a Saturday. I found a good number one spot in the backyard behind a whole bunch of wood planks leaning against the fence. I shimmied my way in and had a clear shot to the kitchen, which was lit up like the high school football field for a night game, light pouring out into the yard, just beyond where I was hiding. It was the boy’s birthday. I don’t know how old he is, maybe seven or eight. The kitchen was decorated with balloons, streamers hanging from the light above the table, and the whole family, plus an old man and woman—probably grandparents—sat

around the kitchen table, all facing the boy, who wore one of those silly cone hats that everyone but me seems to wear on their birthdays. A pile of presents, more than I’d gotten in the past five years for Christmas and my birthday, sat on the edge of the table. The boy smiled as he opened each present, and when they were all unwrapped and set neatly on the floor next to the table, the rest of the family formed a line to him. One by one, they walked up and hugged and kissed him. His mom plastered his face with pecks of kisses and tickled his sides. He laughed, and then she laughed, and then they all laughed. They reminded me of this old TV show we had to watch in sixth grade—Leave It to Beaver. Perfect in every way. I’ve kind of fallen in love with them. Not like when Timmy Anderson told me he loved me because of my long, blonde hair and my beautiful blue eyes at the first boy-girl dance last year. He was just trying to kiss me, which was totally gross. This is nice. I like them, like to watch them do things together like cook dinner or do homework at the kitchen table. And that’s why I rigged up a remote camera on the corner of the shed one night. My mom had set it up in our house to watch me when she was traveling for work, to keep a better eye on what I’m up to, but I’d found it in no time. I haven’t used it anywhere yet. I’ve been saving it for a special house, and this is it. And that’s how I found out where the spare key is, hidden underneath a clay pot on the far side of the backyard, just barely in view of the camera. So now I’m in the house, sitting at the kitchen table when I should be at school. This is wrong. I know I’ve crossed a line, and I know my mother would kill me—absolutely kill me—if she knew. And then I’d get a lecture on how hard she works and how could I embarrass her, and blah, blah, blah. I’ve never done this before, and I don’t know what to do. So I walk to the refrigerator and look at all the pictures stuck to it with magnets. Smiling faces beam out at me from every which way. I recognize everyone from my spy trips. Next, I walk around the whole floor, circling through all the rooms, until I end up at the stairs. I look around, turning my head left and then right, even though I know no one is home except for the dogs—I already bribed them with beef jerky—and I go upstairs.

A pile of laundry sits at the top. I pick up a piece and sniff it. I savor the fresh, flowery smell for a moment, wondering if the mom and dad in this house would make sure my special test-taking shirt was clean if I needed it. I turn right and wander further down, look in the boy’s room, and then I come to the end of the hallway. Two rooms are on either side, splashed in pink and purple. I step into the room on the left and turn in. I suck in my breath. On the wall, there’s a castle bed with stairs going up either side, next to small turrets. The bed is inside a little cove, made up with Disney princess sheets and a bunch of pillows. I run up the right set of stairs, my feet making a hollow clunk-clunkclunk on the plastic, to the landing that looks out over the room. I run down the stairs on the other side and leap out onto the carpet, which has those vacuum lines that remind me of the colored slivers on a backgammon board. I lie down on the floor, running my fingers over the carpet, smelling the air, which isn’t full of dust and sickness and mothballs. I crawl across the floor and pull myself into the cove bed. I settle my body in between the sheets and move my head around on the pillow until it’s comfortable. Inside the cove, pictures and notes line the top. The handwriting is a little girl’s—all uneven letters and big gaps between them. I close my eyes, letting myself daydream that I’m this little girl. Only for a few minutes.

“Hello?” I turn away from the voice and snuggle into the pillows. I’ve just had the best dream. I was a princess and lived in a castle, where everyone loved me and made sure I was taken care of. It was easy to be nice back, to love them, when all the kingdom thought I was the best thing in the world. I feel a soft push on my shoulder and the voice again. “Hello? Honey, wake up.” Honey? That is not my mother. I open my eyes a tiny bit and squint through them to see who is talking to me. A woman is leaning down into the cove. The woman in the house. Oh no.

I sit up straight, remember where I am, feeling my throat close up, just like it does right before I’m going to cry. I jump out of the bed, past the woman—who yells, “Wait!”—and out of the room into the hallway. I’m in a steady stride, ready to storm down the stairs and out the front door, when a man steps out of a room and into my path. I run into him and fall backwards onto the carpeted hallway with a slight thud. My heart races and I wish I were stronger so I could have just pushed right by him. “You all right?” he says. I look up to see the dad from the house. He leans down to me and places his hands firmly on my arms. I hop up and say, “I’m fine,” ready to run down the stairs, but he blocks my way, raising his arms, placing his hands on the walls on either side. I can’t get by. A flurry of questions comes out of his mouth. Who are you? Why are you in our house? How did you get in? Behind me, I can feel the woman coming down the hall. They surround me, behind and in front, so there’s nowhere to go. I lean back against the wall. “You need to start talking if you don’t want me to call the police,” the man says. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” His voice is raised, angry. I’ve never gotten caught like this. I’ve never really gotten in trouble, believe or not. I bite my top lip and pull it into my mouth, gently gnawing on it. I don’t know what to do, how to explain this. “I can’t get her to say anything,” the man says, looking over my head to his wife. “What’s your name?” the woman says. “Stacy,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I start to cry. My hands are shaking. The woman looks at her husband. “Here, let’s go downstairs,” she says and puts her arm around my shoulders. Her body heat wraps around me, and she smells clean like the laundry. They lead me to the kitchen I’d stared at so many times and give me a drink of water. The woman sets out some cookies and chips. And then they sit across from me. Even though they’re being kind—much nicer than my mother would be in the same situation—I feel scared. I wonder what they’ll do.

“So?” the man says, holding his hands up with his palms out toward me. “Why are you in our house?” The words are accusing. The woman leans forward and puts her hand on his. “Listen, you need to tell us what’s going on,” she says. “I’m sure you can understand that we’re freaked out that you were sleeping in our daughter’s room.” I nod but still don’t say anything because I don’t know what to tell them. After a few minutes of back and forth, not wanting to spill the details, I finally do. I tell them everything. About finding the key and coming in the house. Except I don’t tell them about the camera. I can’t tell them that. Even I know that makes me seem crazy. As soon as I get the last word out of my mouth, I can’t believe I told them. My throat is dry and scratchy, and I say, “Are you gonna call the cops?” They look at each other and reach their hands across the space between them until they clasp. I feel like I’m outside again, watching a family I’m not part of. The man raises his head, his peppery black and gray hair picking up his bright, blue eyes. “I don’t know.” “Please don’t,” I say. “What’s your house like?” the woman says. Her head is cocked to the side, her reddish-brown hair falling into her face, covering one of her wide, brown eyes. I know what she means. What’s wrong at my house? “It’s fine.” “Who do you live with?” she says. I take a chip from the bowl—they’re the kind my mother would never buy me, with the fancy spices and rough, crunchy texture—and place it in my mouth, letting the salty flavor cover my tongue, and then take a bite. I shrug my shoulders. “What grade are you in?” the man says. I tell them eighth, and they ask me where I go to school. It goes on like this for a while—they ask me questions, I answer. They exchange glances, I grab a chip. I’m bouncing my legs up and down now. “I gotta go,” I say. I stand up. “Not so fast,” the man says. I’m not used to anyone telling me what to do, but I sit down.

They keep bugging me, asking me questions in different ways, and before I know it, I’m worn down. I’m crying again and sharing more than I should. I tell them I hate my mom because she’s mean and never home, that I’m stuck with my grandmother, who could die any day, that I have to make my own breakfast, lunch, and dinner, that my mom missed my last three birthdays, that I thought they seemed like the best family I’d ever seen. Now I’m embarrassed. My face is hot, and it reminds me of the days when I lie on the bench in the park by the lake and let the sun shine on my face for too long. I stand up again. “Sorry, I really gotta go now.” Their chairs both scrape on the tiled kitchen floor as they stand up. “I’ll drive you home,” the man says. “No, I’m fine,” I say. “No. I’ll drive you.” The man crosses his arms and pushes his lips into a single, thin line. He means business. I nod. The woman walks to me and looks in my eyes. “Take care, OK?” She asks for the house key, and I hand it to her, even though I don’t want to. I could kick myself for not making a copy of the key before I used it. The man and I leave, and my chest feels tight as I watch the house disappear from view. When we pull up to my house ten minutes later, I say, “Oh, shit,” as soon as I see the driveway. “What?” the man says. “Nothing.” He stops the car, and I’m out the door right away. “Thanks, sir. I mean it.” I run away from the car and into the house, where my mother and grandmother are sitting in the living room. My mother is perched on the edge of the couch, her butt barely grazing the edge, and her legs are bent with her feet flat on the ground, like she is ready to pounce. “It’s about time you got here,” my mother says. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight twist. I can see the thin line of gray creeping into the blonde right around the edge of her face. She’s dressed in her signature black suit with a skirt. “When did you get home?” I say. She stands up and walks to me, finger pointed and waving. “Don’t start. I just got home this morning, for the first

time in two weeks, and I come home to a phone call that you skipped school today.” I back away and cross the room. My mother has to be home today, of course. Normally I’d just get the message off the machine and delete it before she even knew. “Where were you?” she says. Her face is red now, and her brown eyes, flecked with gold that shines from sunlight peeking through the partially closed blinds, are wide, and I notice the small wrinkles that spurt out like a fan from the corner of each. I open my mouth, not sure what I’ll say, when I see the man walk by the living room windows and toward the front door. I run past where my mother is standing to meet him before she notices he’s there. I open the door, and in a flash, I’m outside with the door closed behind me. “Hi again,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you have to go, my mom’s here, she’s gonna kill me if you tell her what I did.” I blurt it all out in one long breath, rushing to get the words out as fast as I can. He shakes his head and opens his mouth. But then the door opens, and my mom is there. “Who’s this?” she says to me. Her voice is sharp, and I feel it going into me with a slight prick. She’s suspicious, I know. No one ever visits us. It’s just me, my grandmother, and sometimes my mother. That’s all our whole family. Our whole circle. The man introduces himself, and my mother coolly shakes his hand. When he starts to explain why he’s there—you know that I broke into his house — I scream. As loud as I can. The noise echoes down the space between our house and the neighbor’s. And then I start crying, mixing sobs with the noise of my scream. My mother whips her head around to me. Her lip is curled in a sneer. “Get. Inside. Anastasia.” She chokes out the words one at a time. I stop in mid-scream, startled, and look at the man one more time. His eyes are soft, and a line creases the skin right above his nose. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he whispers. I leave them behind, my cheeks still wet with tears, and I know my life is over. My mother will probably quit her job and

watch me every second of every day, which would be the worst thing in the world. I go in the kitchen and stare at a wall, unsure what to do. “Get out here, Anastasia!” My mother’s shrill, chirpy voice pokes the air. I walk out into the living room and close my eyes tight, bracing for whatever is coming. “What the hell was that display out there?” she says. I shrug. She says that he told her I missed the bus and then got stuck somewhere trying to walk to school, and he found me and brought me home. When I ask if that’s all, she says, “No, that’s not all. It was mortifying to have to apologize for your hysterics, embarrassing me in front of him and the whole neighborhood. What is wrong with you?” I look in her eyes, waiting for something else, but that’s it. Well, except for me being in trouble about missing school that day. She orders me to sit on the couch, takes a deep breath, and raises her pointed finger to me again. For twenty minutes, she stands over me and yells. About me cutting school, about what an embarrassment I am, about how she’s going to take steps to keep me in line from now on. But I’m not even listening. I don’t pay attention at all. I’ve heard it all before. She can say whatever she wants, but she’ll leave again soon enough, and I’ll be on my own. The man keeps popping into my head. I know I should forget him, but I can’t. I keep thinking about him. And his house. And his family. And what I saw on their wall calendar when I was leaving. This Friday was circled in red and said, “Family Dinner.” I run through the options. It will be tough, but I have to find a way. All I’m thinking about now is that dinner on Friday. A family dinner, in a nice house, with nice parents, nice kids, and nice food. And me. I’ll be there too.

SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE By Ryan Latini Walt’s thumb hurt. He was pressing too hard on the cell phone’s buttons, going through the phone’s contact list, but didn’t know this is why his thumb hurt—he only thought it was supposed to hurt, and so it would hurt. He sat under a bare bulb as the cocaine-desolation began to sting and tighten his chest and drive his tapping toe. Everything stopped as Walt began to choke. He decided he wanted to live as the eraser he had been gnawing on trapped his windpipe. He thought he should change his sleeping and eating habits and start exercising. He thought he should do more for the community. After a red faced fit of coughing and a panicked swallow, the eraser was gone—the only thing floating in an empty stomach. Life burned, but it was four in the morning. He would burn alone. Even Overeager Otis, as Walt called him, wouldn’t answer his calls at this hour. Otis, a man who wrote monotonous and despondent press releases and emails about HR news and company goings-on would always answer Walt with a fervent “yes” at any opportunity to hang out. Otis had no regard for punctuation and no respect for voice or tone. His characters were often one-dimensional sketches of knightly heroes and damsels in distress. Walt was outraged that Otis was selected over him to write for the company newsletter. Walt thought of him as a hack, a hopeless protégé not capable of the most basic mechanics of writing. Otis never partook in the cocaine, but ogled Walt as he snorted and ranted. Otis remained reticent insofar as his lingering questions were concerned. Otis envied Walt’s energy and thought he could perhaps seize it through osmosis and bestow it upon his own characters as

some ultimate gift of life through writing. Otis never did this, but stuck to his once-upon-a-time stories of chivalrous men and ladies in waiting. Diners were still open. The whores in Kensington were probably getting ready to turn in, but Walt was certain there would be a few stragglers. He wondered if his penis would work and decided it was a risk not worth taking. The sun was coming up, he could watch it rise over the reservoir, or better yet, the fish would be biting soon. He had no rod. He had no tackle. Did they even keep fish in the reservoir, he wondered. He needed to write. He could write something, but after last night, writing seemed to be more like masturbating—penciling notes of a life he’d never live. Even one of suicide, he thought as he looked over West Fairmont Park from his eleventh floor balcony. There was so much that could be done, but it was so hard to do. Yet he could do it so fast. It could all be done so quickly, Walt thought, but then what? Sleep was something he would have to claw and fight for through the unrelenting white noise of amphetamine that rolled around his veins and eyeballs. His mind was heavy and exhausted. He could barely keep logic and reason open, as if they were an eyelid to a third eye, an eye that always wanted to see, but one that had been gouged and poked weekend after weekend, with substance after substance. His third eye showed him what he wanted to do, but the dimensions of his body limited the number of potentials he could actualize. He tapped on his desk and decided that sleep didn’t matter because he was out of useful dreams. Last night he tucked the letter with the embarrassing plot and lament of suicide into a drawer that smelled waxy, like crayons. It burned there. It sat heavy and heated. It sizzled with come-hither wisps of rememberme steam. Even though it was in the drawer the letter felt instead like a bulge in his pocket, like a heart pounding beneath the floorboards. ‘You wrote me,’ the unreal steam seemed to say as it floated above his desk, which sat by the only window in the efficiency apartment. His third eye could see what he had done,

but to open the drawer and crumple the paper seemed like walking through the desert in a wool suit—the thought of undoing the letter was heavy and nauseating. He touched his hair and rolled a lock of it through his fingers and pushed it beneath his finger nail. His hair was warm from the dangling bulb that hung plumb above the desk. The hanging bulb didn’t move. It didn’t keep time. The room needed more bulbs, but he told himself he preferred this lighting; this was the lighting of writers, barebones, only ideas beaming onto white sheet after white sheet. The suicide letter was the only piece of writing Walt had completed in months. His bills were on a glass table ten feet from the desk and hardened red sauce and pasta was in a silver pot on the stove ten feet from the table—these were the dimensions. Walt smiled at the simplicity and was excited by the writing and charcoal sketching he would get done in his nook high above the city. Walt was still high. His feet were sweaty. If they could, he thought, his toenails and teeth would sweat. Walt’s hair was oily and in need of a wash. He was in need of sleep. He wanted to erase the suicide entry in his journal. No erasers on his pencils. One in his stomach. He made his way to the shower to scrub his hair. Otis would occasionally ask Walt to edit his writings and poetry which never contained any forward momentum—only hopeless droning that grew close to epiphany, but never really actualized this potential. One of Otis’ characters, an obvious portrait of Walt, never actually expressed his madness, he never actually tilted at windmills; he merely strode by his hallucinations as one would on a donkey and remained the quiet observer. “Why doesn’t he partake in his madness,” Walt would ask, usually editing his stories with throat and jaw numbed with cocaine, dancing agitatedly around his efficiency apartment, gripping Otis’ stagnant prose with white knuckles. “I don’t know Walt, I just don’t know. You’re right though. You are always absolutely right,” Otis would say shaking his head in agreement. “Look at what you do with your madness, how productive it is,” Otis said pointing admiringly at Walt’s many charcoal sketches and piles of prose. Walt didn’t have the

heart to break it to Otis that those artworks and stories were months, in some cases, years old, and hadn’t been touched in just as long. He didn’t have the heart to break it to Otis that with all the amphetamine swirling through his body, his heart pumping and pumping toward some end he would never meet, all he could do is get in his car and drive. Otis quietly fingered some chess pieces on Walt’s desk. He’s too close to the drawer, Walt thought as he suddenly remembered his suicide manifesto. “Otis, my friend, come look at this. The only depth your character achieves is his drowning at the end. They have no life, these folks. It is a disservice to create them on the paper and leave them dead in our mind’s eye.” Walt was an accountant. The job made him feel like Sisyphus, ever crunching a never ending stream of numbers, but even Sisyphus’ torture had health benefits—he was physically strong, Walt was weak and pale with linguinified legs and arms. Aside from the coffee in the morning, Walt looked forward to smelling Angela’s perfume. He could smell it even before he turned the corner into the office. This perfume filled him with an endless stream of possible scenarios and dramas that would unfold between them. The odor was pure excitement. It was love in his stomach, that feeling that someone is kneading a dough of contentment in your gut. Gentle love making in the storage room was always the first potentiality that surfaced. But then he thought about the stack of files on his desk and the numbers that meant nothing to him. Walt never felt as finite as when dealing with the infinite strand of numbers before him. He turned the corner and all the excitement refilled his gut. He saw her leg first, swinging crossed over the other. Her shoes fit so tightly as if her foot had been dipped in liquid leather. That is how all Angela’s clothes fit. Walt felt broken around Angela. All his faculties numbed in her presence. She was a masterpiece of Greek heritage—jet black hair, olive skin, and obsidian eyes that seemed to breathe both endless riddles and wisdom dating back to the oracles at Delphi. The blackness of her features made everything around her seem like light; something baroque in the play of shadow and light

that traced her body. All Walt wanted was to hold her by the curve between her hips and waist. “I wrote this slowly because I know you can’t read fast,” Walt said as he handed her a birthday card he’d made during his lunch break. He thought this was clever. She said it was sweet of him but didn’t laugh. “That’s so cute,” she said, fingering the card. “Looks like Otis had so much trouble trying to spell ‘Christmas’ on this year’s company invitations that he had to resort to ‘X-mas.’ Not your best material, Walt thought as he returned to his desk and the endless numbers. He tried not to breathe too deeply in fear of losing the smell of her perfume. She had tossed her hair a certain way when she said the card was cute, it had to mean something, Walt thought. She touched his arm a certain way. Her eye contact was steadied and centered, for that brief moment he occupied her whole world. He wanted that line of sight to last forever. He didn’t want her to ever see another male as long as she lived. The thought of another man meeting her gaze turned his stomach. Walt quietly crunched his numbers as he replayed the tossing of her hair. He had to write. He had to become famous. That would get her. He grew angry at the thought of Otis’ dismal, go-nowhere writings being published before his own. He thought of writing a new story fit for the New Yorker, but the task—the task before him seemed choking, stifling, a great weight on the chest and a dryness in the throat. Where would it end? Where would it start? How? What had he already written? Most of his stories dealt with drug abuse—he didn’t want them getting out because as much as he hated his job he needed the money and notoriety for self abuse was cliché among writers. His other stories were about guilty blowjobs or slavery in the workplace. These stories would not do. His appendages grew numb as the idea slipped further away. He thought of his best piece of writing, the piece that came most naturally to him, the one that seemed effortless in every way, a mere brain to page translation with an inherent, unprompted significance. He thought of the unreal steam that had floated above

his desk during his last bender and of the crumpled sheet beneath the steam, beneath the surface of the desk. “You wrote me,” the letter seemed to say. He shut his eyes and imagined the darkness in which the letter sat. He wished he knew such darkness. Had he known such darkness? He knew what he would write. He knew the kind of effortless writing that was at his fingertips. “My spiritual landscape is nothing but frozen black dunes,” the man told Walt over the phone. Walt had posted an advertisement on Craigslist for obituary writing and writing for those parting from the world. He had trouble figuring out the wording for the advertisement. He wasn’t sure about the laws involved, whether or not a suicide was something he’d have to report. He went with: Customized letters for those who were not made for living and those parting from the world. A last moment biographer. What you can’t say, what you couldn’t say—reported by a nonjudgmental party. I don’t care what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, but I want to ensure that your abyss will be illuminated. Let me do the work of the ego, because nothing is vanity. Points will be made. Facts will be delivered. This is not a massage of the ego, but merely smoke without fire, a lingering shadow. You have your task, but I will have your message. I will put your scream into the ears of those who never heard—that is the job of the artist—I just happen to be an artist of lasting moments, glimpses of greatness, and immortal memory. ” A man named Arthur responded within three hours after the ad was posted. The left half of his face was badly burned. He was in a rush. “This is strange for me. I, ah—I feel like I’m meeting a prostitute.” “Well I assure you I am not a prostitute,” Walt said. “Ha! I know, I know, it just feels cheap is all.” “Sir—Arthur, I assure you your audience will not see it as cheap or selfish—’’ “Selfish? Who said anything about selfishness?” Arthur asked in a seemingly unnatural tone. The man’s short stature and

pink shiny scalp made it look as if anger was an impossible emotion. He had the qualities of a beagle; huge wet eyes, sad drooping ears and a constantly dripping nose. Walt imagined how hard it must be for Arthur to exude anger—he imagined it was as hard as asking out Angela from the office. “If you think this is an act of the ego then you are wrong my friend.” The staccato with which Arthur articulated each word prolonged his speech so much that Walt lost interest after each phrase. “I am not an egotist, all my faculties are intact. I am just not made for living. What are you made for my friend?” Arthur asked. “Well I thought I was made for writing, but the past few months all I could yield were endings. I can’t even think of a beginning or a reason for one. I don’t even know what I want from tomorrow—if I could ask for something from time I don’t know what I’d want. Certainly not more time. You seem like a thinker, am I right.” “I think so,” Arthur said with a sly smile, the burnt half of his face showed a smooth pink grimace of scaled patches. “Isn’t it the worst—being forced to contemplation by every passing moment, every passing thing. They just can’t seem to pass through the periphery, but they suck in your focus no matter how tired your eyes or how sore your brow from being furrowed. The furrowed brow is the scar of the thinker. That is how I knew you were one.” Walt want to offer the man some cocaine, maybe the man would talk faster and keep Walt’s interest more, but he decided he didn’t know him well enough. Arthur’s life story bored Walt to no end, but he couldn’t help relating. “Are you kidding me,” Walt said. “I am an accountant too. Please excuse me for a moment.” When would he get to the part where he burns his face? How and why, Walt wondered? Is he here to torture me? Walt went into his bathroom and retrieved a small glass vial from behind the toilet tank. His breathing was heavy and his heart beat harder as if his blood had thickened. He stuck the tip of his car key into the vial and tapped out a little coke onto a small mirror. “You are not Arthur,” he murmured to himself. “You have Angela. Angela. Angela. She is something—something to

live for. You are not Otis. Otis is a hack. You’re writing has life. It burns hot. Just think of your letter.” After a snort his heart fell back into rhythm. Walt dreaded hearing more about Arthur’s distant relationships. He prayed his neighbors upstairs would come home and start fighting. He needed heat. He needed life. He felt as if he was smoke without fire. “As I was saying, I have had no great tragedy to speak of. No degenerate uncle to ruin my childhood with sticky fingers. No adulterous wife. No abuses of any kind from anyone. But here I am, and I trust you to tell them, my family, that it is no one’s fault.” “No great tragedy? Is there something you’re hiding Arthur? Anything would help in me constructing your last testimony. I mean—your face, the burn. There is a story you’re leaving out.” “I got burned rescuing puppies and kitty cats from a burning building—just write the fucking letter,” Arthur said, smiling at Walt. He threw a packet on the table. He grabbed his coat and slammed the door. The letter came easily to Walt. He took out his own letter and paraphrased it, and it didn’t hurt that Arthur provided him with about six pages of notes. He thought about Arthur’s mention of prostitution. He thought about the six hundred dollars Arthur left in the packet. He thought of selling his soul. He wondered what Angela felt like inside. Warm no doubt. Six hundred dollars bought Walt a lot of cocaine and a lot of fantasy. A victory sniff for a job well done. He imagined the great weekend he could have with Angela with six hundred dollars. He grew sweaty. He felt as if his heart was tearing apart. He felt ants under his skin and began to scratch. He loathed Otis for his attempts at being a writer. He loved Angela though he loved cocaine a bit more. He dreaded work the next day, having to see Otis smile at him on his way in—his resentment amalgamated with the sudden smell of Angela’s perfume. Was she here, at my humble, artist’s abode Walt wondered? He wanted to turn his head and look. An artery in Walt’s brain could not take the onslaught. The vessel ballooned in Walt’s head and the walls inaudibly burst.

Not even Walt could hear the burst and flow of the aneurism. The ruptured artery quietly trickled blood into Walt’s brain. He died at his desk, which was taken out by the landlord’s crew a few days later. The landlord decided to tape the drawers of the desk shut so they would not shift on their way out through the stairwell. He stole a few of Walt’s sketches and hung them in the tool room. A member of the crew took the chess set because he wanted to teach his young boy how to play. They never knew what burned in the desk—what angry lament and scream for life lingered in the quietude and waxy smell of the desk drawer. A man at the Goodwill store, to which the desk was donated, removed the letter and other sheets, and without a second thought, crumpled them into the wastebasket. Angela attended the funeral and could only shake her head. Otis took it upon himself to write Walt’s obituary and eulogy. He felt Walt would have wanted it this way.