The Huron River Review, Issue 13 Digital

The Huron River Review Issue 13 Digital | 2014

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The Huron River Review Issue 13 Digital | 2014 The award-winning journal of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography, and art by students, faculty, and staff at Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editing and Design Tom Zimmerman

Copyright Š 2014 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors and artists.

Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works.

The works herein have been chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.

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Mission Statement The Huron River Review is a forum and a showcase for the vibrant literary and arts community made possible by the students, faculty, and staff at Washtenaw Community College.

From the Editor This thirteenth issue of The Huron River Review is packed with excellent poetry, prose, and images. Enjoy!

My thanks also Dena Blair, Interim Dean of Humanities, Social and Behavioral Sciences; Bill Abernethy, Interim Vice President of Instruction; Rose Bellanca, President; and the WCC Board of Trustees.

Finally, thanks to the following: Max Gibson, Karen Karatzas, Jas Obrecht, Aimee Smith, Sue Smith, the WCC Bookstore, WCC Public Relations and Marketing, WCC Student Development and Activities, the WCC English Department, the WCC Writing Center, the WCC Copy Center, Jessica Winn, and Ann Zimmerman.

--TZ Ann Arbor, June 2014

Colophon This issue was produced on a Dell PC using Microsoft Word. Fonts used are Berlin Sans FB and Calibri.

Submissions The Huron River Review is an annual publication of Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan. From September through January, it is open to submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography by WCC students, faculty, and staff. The editor and student editorial board select pieces for publication based on their aesthetic merit. We’re fond of work that is beautiful and/or strange, but we’ll look at anything. If you’re not sure, send it; we’re friendly.

We prefer electronic submissions. E-mail to tzman@wccnet.edu. Snail-mail to Tom Zimmerman, LA 355, Washtenaw Community College, 4800 E. Huron River Dr., Ann Arbor, MI 48105. Phone: 734-973-3552. Website: http://thehuronriverreview.wordpress.com/

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The Huron River Review Issue 13 Digital | 2014 Contents Mike Frieseman

Maeve

Front cover Poetry

Mike Frieseman Danielle Karwowski Lauren Adams Danielle Karwowski Janet Hawkins Danielle Karwowski

Nick Hart Wiete Liebner Samantha Strauss Halle King

Squiggle The Truth Is Like A Storm, October 2013 To a Sad Ex-Lover Shadow on Linen Hands Detroit, 1986 Marine Twilight over PCH Astronaut Funeral Flight To Be Still Break Restraint A Wall in Wales Songs for My Father Catching Butterflies Growth Narmada M책ngata Phantom The fishermen Amazonia Flood Jellyfish

9 10 11 12 13 14 16 17 18 19 20 23 24 25 26 28 29 30 32 33 35 36 37 38

Yasha Chernyak

Dust Speak

39 40

Adam Lowis Yasha Chernyak Barbara Sofia Branca Rebeeca Arends Tom Zimmerman Olivia Oakes Mike Frieseman Kelsey Horne Alyssa Simmons

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Ben Levin J.J. Daley Lauren Adams Ben Baker Calvin McMillin Kristen Holt Bret J. Pollington ArkinKnight Winfree Lonnie Hodges Amr ElGhandour Nicholas T. Slane Mike Frieseman Mohamed Maiza Erica Morris Kari Simonsen Alexandra Duranczyk Diane M. Laboda Alissa Rheinheimer Simon Mermelstein Edith Croake Taylor Drozdowski Kyle O.A. Linford Nate Laurant Roma Ziarnko

Driving High

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An Evening with Hart Crane Cass Corridor A Night at One of Those National Chain Sports Bar Things Being Chinese Skin Colors Are Colors True Bliss Addiction Sometimes Keep Smiling Chris Phytoremediation The Rock The House That Never Falls Down Lemons and Moonlight How to Kill a Woman in the 21st Century The Poem within the Poem Gnomes Freewrites Aren’t Free (but they sure are cheap) Ravagescape Written in the Stars The Poor Man’s Last Poem Wonder Moorings

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

Gallery Nate Laurant Halle King

Mike Frieseman Jamie Fulcher

Angela Pierro

Truth Sludge Cat Octopus Tub Gabi Davis St. Dahlia

67 68 69 70 71 72 73

Marble Doves Untitled

74 75

Meditation 1

76

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Yasha Chernyak

Radek Ozog R.M. Frumkin Ralph Kennedy

Danielle Kanclerz George Valenta Yasha Chernyak Nate Laurant

Yasha Chernyak Lauren Adams Nate Laurant Mike Frieseman Danielle Kanclerz Mike Frieseman Danielle Kanclerz

Serenity Synergy Red Week Along Stefan Like, Winter Grass Is Greener on Other Side Seahorse and the Eel Dance of the Seahorses Doodle Boxes 1 Doodle Boxes 2 Doodle Boxes 4 Doodle Boxes 5 One’s Portal Now Ready Autumn’s Gold Stair Tops Memory Lane Hope Tesla, Brilliance, or Innovation Monster Like A Storm, May 2013 Persistence Still Night Diana Capone’s Cell Behind Bars The Reader

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 83 84 85 86 87 88 88 89 90 91 92 92 93 93 94 94 95 95 96 96 97 98

Fiction Mike Frieseman Ruth Petran

Static Wisconsin Homecoming

99 100

R.M. Frumkin Matt Thompson

Brad Cootie’s Gift

103 104

Nicholas Volpe Joshua Burke Yasha Chernyak Minette Perigard

The Cigarette That Burned Forever Ministry Storm The Escort

113 117 120 121

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Jared Harmon Yasha Chernyak Jim Clarkson Anthony Quail Jeff Murtonen R.M. Frumkin Simon Joshua Abby Dove

The Lake Nekst Dark Tidings A Dead Line Mr. Wallman’s Been Asking The Old Sage A Pass Globe Laika

122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130

Nonfiction Mike Frieseman Damion Anatole Knight Adella Blain Lynne G. Tenbusch Susanna Z. Miesel Megan Murphy Tom Zimmerman Elizabeth Polk

Cones Reality Check Journeys by Train The Uninvited Guest Continental Drift The Pacific Everglades Crossing The Kingfisher

Index Mike Frieseman

131 132 134 136 139 142 143 144 146

Kelly

Back cover

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POETRY

MIKE FRIESEMAN

Squiggle

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DANIELLE KARWOWSKI The Truth Is I take the long bus route in hopes of seeing you. I can’t stop eating peanut butter from my fingers but I also count calories like sheep so I run until my heart feels limp and I make myself sick in the shower. I’ve worn low cut shirts and skirts just to let others know I exist. I am constantly checking for traces of lipstick on my teeth and I can’t stop obsessing about car crashes and losing my parents. Some nights I listen to Bob Dylan and I cry on purpose. I tried beer once and I got sick on my friend’s legs and mattress so I don’t get invited to much these days. One time I wrote a letter to God and thought it would blow away but my father found it instead and I haven’t prayed since. I start books and I hardly ever finish them yet I am constantly re-reading old ones. I am petrified of change. I talk to my dog and he listens better than God and I feel bad for writing that but lying is a sin. Last winter I called the police on myself because I was too anxious to drive. I get overly hurt when people do not smile back and I am constantly conflicted between believing that people are good or could care less. I dream about floating and my grandmother and wolves and mountains. My heart feels like a shadow box and everyone knows I’m terrified of everything. I rarely mean it when I say goodbye.

I watch re-runs of The Golden Girls by myself and pretend I am next to my Grandma. I try to find poetry in things like autumn and lilacs

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but it always turns to shit. I have written one hundred apology letters but have only sent one.

LAUREN ADAMS

Like A Storm, October 2013

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DANIELLE KARWOWSKI To a Sad Ex-Lover I want to rub honey into your wounds and stitch them shut with strands of my hair. The freckles on your shoulder blades form a constellation and what I would give to travel through your solar system. Your heart is a planet whose surface is too hot for landing. You are a playground and I am a child sliding down the small of your back. I am a sailor lost at sea and your skin is The Bermuda Triangle. At night I lay my head on your chest and you breathe in waves. There is an ocean inside of you and you’ve got shipwrecks along your spine and I will build a lighthouse inside of you to guide the rest home.

Before bed I draw pictures in the trench of your backbone and have you guess.

I trace the shape of an Elephant because spiritually they are known to ward off nightmares.

Yet you still scream in your sleep and I can’t wake you so I sit on the floor of the shower until you wake yourself. Your bones

are so fragile as I hold you in the palms of my hands like a fallen baby bird. You’ve got gashes on your

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cheekbones from your father but your body is a canvas and your sadness comes in so many shades of blue. You remind me of all the ways a soul can bruise.

JANET HAWKINS

Shadow on Linen

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DANIELLE KARWOWSKI Hands I tied lavender teabags to my whittled white fingers and pretended I was Virginia Woolf.

However, Virginia sank into the River Ouse and I, into my bathtub.

I wanted to sleep and sink into an amethyst void like a first-time lover delving deep inside a foreign body.

My hands ached and over time my fingers grew too crooked to play piano and paint my garden.

Brittle bones grew spurs as I watched them slant to the sides of my skin which cracked during the winter and bled amply from Plath paper cuts and picking roses and wild berries.

Fingernails withered from years of anxious biting, barely concealed with crimson chipping polish.

I once traced the worn lines in my palms to the day I read my first love poem and touched my first pair of lips.

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Seventy-nine years were shown on my hands through tanned age spots and yellowed stains from 300,000 thousand cigarettes that I once held and huffed.

A year after my husband died a phantom limb formed in-between my fingers that once were wholly woven around his.

The past was mapped across my skin and my hands worked as clocks; they could always tell time.

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DANIELLE KARWOWSKI Detroit, 1986 You have thrown away the televisions because we need to focus more on Christ instead of The Cosby Show. You have burned all of my pants because I am not some kind of whore. How Great Thou Art is spinning from the front room and Mother has bruises wrapped around her wrist from when she burnt your bacon. You hold me by my neck before I leave for school because I have failed to be obedient.

You want me soft, vulnerable, like the belly of a fish being held to a knife.

My teacher has asked about my eye and I told her I fell from the stairs when actually I forgot to recite a verse about mercy. So forgive me, Father.

At night, my little sister & I hold hands as the house vibrates with anger.

We build ships made of sheets and pretend we are sailors lost at sea.

“Don’t worry,” she tells me. “I think I see an island!” I smile. I think I am drowning. On Christmas night I am too anxious to sleep so I lie awake staring at snow. I think I hear Santa eating our cookies so I creep downstairs to check but it is only you grabbing a beer from the fridge.

That night I stopped believing. I still love you. In the mornings I fill your empty bottles with apple juice but you never come downstairs. You are growing fatter like the westward expansion, while the rest of us have no choice but to shrink inside ourselves. Mother’s collarbones look like icicles and we shiver in the shadows. Your hair is blacker than ink and your eyes are frowning moons. Loneliness is the ghost you exhale. We watch it curl above our heads like cigarette smoke and fill every corner of this house.

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ADAM LOWIS Marine Twilight over PCH I eat only sleep and air and wine of bean.

No house of cards on an earthquake mount.

No concrete equity.

Only the twitching itch is offered up...

I held my heart in vice the daylong...

My veins grew claws to strangle my pulse.

I watched the sky uncorked, twisting the mists to the waiting bluffs above indifferent hum of highway... ...upon us even before shapes of clouds are apprehended.

Now hushed breath and fallen lids await the purging of the syrup from my humors.

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ADAM LOWIS Astronaut Funeral What of this failing of my better nature?

What can charge the battle when all courage is exhausted?

When brought to duress, when trapped in the ice.

When all is do or die, action is inevitable.

Even as space waxes to black, even as time masses the weight of unrealized longing.

Dig it further in, like a fool.

Mind has made the misery.

Inward, deepening ‘til the organs are displaced, Unburying the stone that will solidify platinum ideation Into diamond intention.

My brother, do not ask me for answers.

My only reality is in interpretation of the disease.

Do not look to me for affirmation.

I am no one who was ever needed, seldom was I wanted, and the path before me is alight from flames of a hundred bridges burning behind.

I will only tell you to turn your eyes within, even as you feel the burn and the pulling without to the ever-promising magnet of comfort.

I sit in the house of desert ruin, dust settling upon my every-minute Zen. I sit with the burning of everyman ambition; particle of pearlescence encapsulated in the dross of diseased mind.

Every day is ten-million to a single ghost of a chance.

I sit with the everyman lack of ambition, his inhibited and timid volition resting upon the seat of excuses.

His mind imploding as he yields to the force of the encroaching other.

In fits and starts I watch the fire blazing forth.

Every sipping hour of stagnation imprisons this one in the agony of comfort.

Body pains to move.

Will‌strains to hang upon a breath.

Vigilant is the sleepless dragon.

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Once he wanted to explore space.

Then he sought the becoming of space itself.

His insomniac wavering precipitated from wondering if all his spells and prayer may yet pull the sublime metal back from the molten black slag.

YASHA CHERNYAK

Flight

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BARBARA SOFIA BRANCA To Be Still A. Halo It does make a circle around your head. The circle is made of lightweight black metal. Tangible black metal, three-quarters inch thick. Nonsequitor: rectangular tubing. The other halo is presumably always there; this is suddenly permanent. It attaches by four 6 inch metal pins, each with a razor sharp missile hull, drilled into your skull.

“Pins” are misleading. They are as thick as 2H pencils. Positioned equidistant apart, a radiating crown of nails, a Greek cross of neurosurgery. The sharpened steel points become embedded in your bone. The bone grows over them. Much, much later, the surgeon grasps the pin and unsuccessfully masks that the yanking, twisting and failure of the pin to pullout is not supposed to happen. Like the veins on crepe thin leaf, you watch the fracture spread over your skull.

B. Toe shoes: Part 1 On the island of Eleuthra, a horizon of scrub trees surrounded my body like a rayon skirt. My feet skimmed the sand. I swirled over the beach, an earthly manta ray. Under a cerulean sky sprinkled with stars, I stood at the edge of foaming sea. My body surged with the tide. No music, no tape, no band, no musician, no score. Only Caribbean breeze, unstoppable rhythmic pouring emptying of an entire ocean, accompanied by subterranean coral, clusters of red flowers, and the rimmed lacy scallop of water, I plied, jumped, rolled, leapt, ran, dove, soared.

C. Cleaning the pin sites According to one manual, it is best to use soap and water. “With Q-tips”, the special trademark sign next to the word Q-tip. The icon, a hand with a pointing finger, directed me to the bold-faced heading “Pin Site Care”.

D. Following directions: Part 1 I was overwhelmed at this direction. I had four additional rods extending from my metal crown to my waist, two in front, two in back. Immobilized in molded plastic and sheepskin vest. How was I to do it? Moving my arms. Awkward, I sent a command and my arms did not always move. I stilled all panic. Felt no emotion.

I wanted to put on earrings. Irrational, the earrings. No directions for earrings. Craning forward to the mirror, I could not turn my head to see the pierced holes. I would stretch my ear lobe out. I kept jabbing with the steel end of the earring. Try again. Again. My arms, my rhomboids, my trapezius, my trigeminal nerves, throbbed with pain.

I could see the two pin sites in front. Placed close to the hairline for less visible scarring. But the two in the back? I could not reach them.

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E. Toe shoes: Part 2 Lamb’s wool inside of toe shoes is of a softness I cannot describe. I bought my first box of toe shoes as an adult. I savoured the opening. Pink satin, with long pink ribbons to lace up my ankles. I stroked the length of shoe. With my finger. With my eyes. The satin was so soft, the gentle folds of cloth at the point the work of an artist. I put them against my face.

Hours on the worn smooth wooden floor of Betsy Barbour Gym at the university, practicing plies, taking classes, going day after day without lunch. I can feel that wood against my metatarsals now, against my big toe as I pushed off. Leg warmers, tights, leotards. My collection of leg warmers. Eight hour days, rehearsals, frenzied opening nights. The delicious feeling of stretching every muscle. Complete, delightful exhaustion.

Leaping. My teacher had taught me to leap. She knew I didn’t trust myself. She held my hand. To my amazement. We ran, gazelles. We lifted, lifted off the ground, and then, we extended. We paused mid-air and continued to extend. My heart had never known such a moment. Flight.

F. Following directions: Part 2 The warnings about red or inflamed pin sites were on the take home sheets. Watch for pus or drainage. What if I could not see this pus or drainage? What if that meant I had to go through the surgery again? The list of dangers also included shifting of the pins, head movement, an “open area” around the pin site, pain at the pin site, and “clicking” noises. What is an “open area”? A “clicking noise”?

I was an educated person with no clear understanding of how to take care of myself. What if the pins became loose? Would I become a quad, slowly, as the movement of the pins increased? Would I become a quad quickly as my head suddenly wobbled and snapped?

G. Consciousness I dreamed about the dance on the beach. I had been so full of power. I ran, on half-point, up to the waves and back. I arced my arms. I shaped my body to match the ocean, to counterpoint the ocean. We dialogued. I dropped to the sand, rolling, the waves washing over me. Raising my legs, I somersaulted, covered with wet sand. A jelly fish lay.

The space of time between sleep and waking where past, present, and future are not distinguished. I ran, gathering, gathering speed. There was take off. My body leaving the ground. Ascension, rising up and up—my legs widening in mid-air—no feeling compares. Slowly, slowly, a graceful landing. In that consciousness, I could arch my back. I could make lines and angles and curves with my body. I flew. I knew angels.

H. Sand Dunes Sand dunes near the Mediterranean in Italy. A group of Morrocan drummers had paused. We did not speak each other’s language. They began to drum. So hot was the sun, their faces obscured. We undulated to their rhythms. They hammered staccatos, our feet stomped like tabulas. 0ur bodies were driven by sound, their drums by our movement. Droplets of sweat made shadows on the sand. The sun began to set, a glowing pink over the glinting water. One offered water from a canteen. Their tagine was brimming with scents of couscous

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and raisins. We rushed back to the truck to retrieve brie and wine. The light was dimming. Across a multistriped cloth, we spread food.

I will never dance again. I can feel my toes. I am grateful. I say a remembrance. I finger my Saraswati necklace.

Saraswati, goddess of speech and art. I make a prayer to speak wisely, to quiet myself.

I am haunted by an image of a swirling skirt, the folds of which drape an arabesque and a torso arched in flight.

I. Dream The cruelest time is between dream consciousness and awake consciousness. You do not remember. There is no halo. You run. You roll on the sand. You feel your limitless body.

Like the ebbing of the tide, grains of sleep slip away. There are moments of confusion. The clock ticks. With each second, delight fades. You recognize the bars on your body. You remember you cannot turn your head. In any direction. You must accept being imprisoned. You put your hand on your necklace. Your necklace of prayer. To be quiet. To be still.

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BARBARA SOFIA BRANCA Break didn’t expect the crack a sound that still repeats at night as you methodically closed the door on my finger I didn’t know why you put my finger in the door I was watching your face surrounded by Medusian curls that vibrated shaking I in my five year old’s body bloated belly loose hand-me-down dress my little finger is crooked I have no name for you even today “Mother,” “Mama,” “Mom” I can utter none of them I saw a swami once she sang as if doves flew from her heart waited in line hours to get her blessing and a hug it was said she seldom spoke when it was my turn she took off her glasses hugged me with such gentleness and completeness whispering in my ear “my daughter, my daughter” the room spun lightening zigzagged through my spine I wept in a tsunami of love

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REBECCA ARENDS Restraint I lay my body on earth.

Its firm reality holds me rooted while you move, cradling my head.

A western wind moves up our joining parallels the rhythm of your bones sweeps with upward curve towards stars veiled by a cloudless sky Bringing our scent bringing dust of ancestors As witness The sun and tree on this hilltop obey Life as we do You in me Your beginning Your sustaining Your final embrace I receive you as She will.

Beneath me, hidden roots probe for nourishment, nurture from dark generous earth Slippery, exposed Your breath on my neck, in my hair The wind through leaves Sighs I possess you for this moment This knowledge floods me I pull you close with all of me Your mouth on mine completes our union ecstasy and grief

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I must protect you from Her— subterranean Green Goddess remorseless lust for flesh She would but savage you with wildness, then wail in despair at your broken form He must be Wise Ruler enter Her kingdom adorned with jewels coaxed from darkest, moist secret places Philosopher King staff of Virtue sword of Truth She bows only to him for a time

TOM ZIMMERMAN

A Wall in Wales

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OLIVIA OAKES Songs for My Father I It’s time of you to get hurt you’ve met your quota hurting me Let’s strap you down pin you to the rubber mat where I learned somersaults No nails, I have long thick syringes filled with hydrochloric acid that I stole from your medicine cabinet the one you had stocked with pills before I swallowed them all.

Back to your torture, I need to think back to Biology the vivisection of a frog I called Daddy I watched its heart beat I’ll leave it up to you.

Which organ would you like me to work with first?

We need to keep you alive as long as possible so let’s leave out the heart and lungs I have special plans for your heart, anyway.

Well, you’ve got two kidneys that’ll keep us going for a while While your other kidney is working I’ll slip into the kitchen and make a kidney pie Delicious are our own organs You’d only gnawed mine so I thought I’d introduce you to your own Similar in flavor, I suppose some familiarity for you I still love you in a way like you say you love me but you don’t say in a way

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because you don’t know a way Your way is pulling the nipple from the baby’s mouth to nurse yourself because no one else did.

II I no longer want to vanish his red face protruding veins beady eyes that don’t blink no longer threaten me I’ve walked, gained perspective, but still can’t bear to go back to where I started, visible Roman numeral I thin with no A and B just a simple thesis statement my smile, my laugh my riffled blonde hair dancing on the playground they called me Golden Girl He named me Black Hole dipping in there every so often to pull out the softness with forceps.

It’s taken a long time to get to this point years of treatment years of reading pop psychology books which all distill to I’m OK You’re OK I’m okay

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MIKE FRIESEMAN

Catching Butterflies

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KELSEY HORNE Growth You grew on me like mold, or rashes on the flesh of those that are itchy and dead.

You grew on me like dandelions in an English garden unacceptable and uncontainable.

Like tumors, benign and patient, pulsing, dividing deep within the skull of a moon-kissed dreamer.

Like the shameful bellies of swelling virgins that is how you grew in me.

Like worms feasting on my fluttering heart.

That is where you squirm and that is where you will stay.

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KELSEY HORNE Narmada Along your trunk, swift Narmada, rest trees for pilgrims to spin beneath.

Praise to Shiva!

Whose ashes plume off a Matted Naga Baba.

Praise to Shiva!

Whose seed litters your riverbed.

And in your bed, great Narmada there are virgins floating through each incarnation They blossom, fertile Narmada, like lotuses, to be plucked by the love of their lives.

Their bellies, to swell with divine dedication, only to deflate in monsoons of heartbreak.

The blood of their unborn the blood of their paternal martyrs will intertwine in every stream of the Narmada.

And from your banks, rich Narmada, Executives flock, to rinse the taste of indigenous lovers from their lips.

Snakes writhing on beds of tea leaves shrouded in canopies of imperialism.

Sweet Rita like all lovers your coos will become curses that only the holy Narmada can wash away.

From your mouth,

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sweet Narmada there are holy songs perched on the tongue of Allah’s orphan.

His throat which hope once dared to float upon now leaks a ruby stream of panic, and stillborn dreams.

The Narmada will not mourn.

And oh Narmada!

Behind your waterfalls your ward a child, formally known as moonlight, sleeps.

Her father—the enchanted lunar meditations of the Naga Baba.

Call upon her and in her scarlet robes, she will sing your praise Mother Narmada Oh just Narmada!

Noorjahan!

Jains and cane and Courtesans!

Pulse through them all for you are the Artery of India.

I see you now, Sneaky Narmada.

You will lure them away from their lives, only to thrust

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ALYSSA SIMMONS Mångata Standing at the the ledge, what’s beyond the leap?

When after rain there are no rainbows and you beneath thy sinking grief.

Encompassed in the froth, mere fossils in the wake.

Tell me, darling, do you loathe the remnants you forsake?

Water sodden lungs, memory lapsed at “breathe”, but still you dwell upon what wasn’t meant to be.

Alas, your final breath, you call out for reprieve, oh!

How sad to find your savior is drowning out at sea.

Destiny howls “asphyxiation!” while the waves ignore your pleas but you haven’t time for biding; of a hero you have no need.

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ALYSSA SIMMONS Phantom Winter’s breath, Innocuous mess, What’s left of thy body We cannot dress!

But what’s left of thy soul?

A heart fed gold— Inaccessible lips, Bottomless stomach.

Starched linens outspread, beaten down Paths where our heads Consorted of lechery.

A roué in my bed Finds home amongst threads, gone The next morning. I shiver— Renitence well bred.

Hid my key to the chamber, Buried deep yellow web, leather Hands, no commoner man’s, Left my limb to Edema’s demise— Shall our fingers not perpetually entwine?

Oh, vacuous deity Have you returned to fright me? Precipice swears Phantasms ail of no earthly Versions of despair.

A dour figured man Strikes once with his hand Twice In my chest; I feel it again.

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Mine Aryan eyes, Gauging, I surmise, the Wicked boy with his tongue, flickers Fire from within.

Deadbolt lock, Off with my skin!

Tell me I’m pretty, Swallow Him in.

Thumping gold shell, Relinquish!

Lord Master of humans, Take your hands off Him! Trace the unbridled indents to My broken complexion.

Drink the ichor, Poison His kin, though Try as you might, Vitreous does not suffice.

Grave Digger, With all respect, The man I love Has long been dead

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NICK HART The fishermen have long since abandoned their quarry and gone home to families and rest.

The others give in to somnolence in the night’s embrace.

They will not wake up.

The shadow in the corner whispers and the walls weep.

The moon, outside, looks wistful.

The silvery threads of dreams fade away.

The shadow casts you a covetous glance.

His ethereal nature—separate, yet threatening to your own.

He knows your fears— he has fed upon them already.

Your voice tires and your hands are too rough to touch.

The moon bears witness to all that transpires and he has a long memory.

The shimmer on the water hints at souls that refuse to be forgotten.

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WIETE LIEBNER Amazonia Majestic Amazon Fierce and fast, Gentle, muddy, moody, Monstrous and magnificent, Rolling along.

Home of the Piranha, Pink and grey dolphins, Fishermen’s livelihood.

Villages with cheerful children, Settled on your fertile banks.

Discover the Rainforest Breathe the fragrant air, Touch the rich soil Taste the coca leafs.

Feel the primeval presence.

Fabulous world Pure and rich, Let it be, Never destroy!

Learn! Love! Preserve!

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SAMANTHA STRAUSS Flood Maybe if I lay here until my last breath quells The fading glacial frost will have wholly dispelled, And then the rising oceans will consume virgin shores, Their cresting waves erupting as salty waves soar.

And as the ebbing land falls away to the sea, Eventually the sweeping tides may bury me.

My corpse will then know the coastal limit as its own After those silken sheets of blue flow over my bones, For once the foaming surf tenderly kisses my skin I’ll breathe in the briny deep to purge my soul of sin.

And so I will become Poseidon’s daughter, Maybe—just maybe—if I wait for the water.

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HALLE KING

Jellyfish

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HALLE KING

Dust

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YASHA CHERNYAK Speak Assure me, quietly.

Speak through the soft bristling of aging branches.

Speak through the rampant hiss of pavement.

Do so, as if you were the creaking shadow of a river.

Whose mighty strength knows no restraint, Even with the warmest of hearts.

Speak, my blood, tower over streets that claimed your origin.

Speak of fools that gazed upon burning tree tops and called them true.

Speak of understanding while abandoning regret by past lives set.

Your eyes will fall blind to your surname’s reverberating effect.

Speak through the falling bronze leaves, in the city hidden by trees.

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BEN LEVIN Driving high Holy shit I’m stoned Swerve off of the road for squirrel It’s a windy leaf.

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J.J. DALEY An Evening with Hart Crane We are at dinner and a show the man In a suit and smile flows the ice pitcher “The arch a miniature of holy water In contrast to the tincture of polluted Choirs in his eye-whites” you say, of course.

Holy-water! The crash is ice aimed At hatred in the heart.

And heart, the rust on the bridge Between us, connecting our spirituals Woozy stumbles you holding the ridge Of, O, my heart, my hand this ritual Connecting and disconnecting the fact That while the flute-man wails You stride into the aisle with perceived tact Looking for our waiter to show him the sails Of your lover the yellow gold gleam In your cufflink the sound of the band As the drummer riffs and then becomes a dream While your wet kiss runs the gamut of hand And lower even torso the waiter’s A glorified stretching eyes the yawn Of your mouth and rows of teeth craters Of tongue and heart choiring until dawn Where the seagull is a shimmer On the bridge and we go homeward With the sound of the band the glimmer Of orange in the mute orchids lord Of the table in a vase The card in your pocket heart Of fire tincture of vodka I control you as I control the ocean Down in it, wooed to death, Sailor, bring me home your heart I will remain, for the both of us,

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Faithful.

As faith falls like holy-water On the heart.

The dawn. Mystical flute.

LAUREN ADAMS

Cass Corridor

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BEN BAKER A Night at One of Those National Chain Sports Bar Things Something straining to be happy about this restaurant……………………………………………………………9.49 I’m looking for what is true. Yes, yes, I know fuck you………………………………………………………6.89 I’m looking for what I want. Not hungry. Bored………………………………………………………………………………4.99 Too much and far too little time…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………14.95 Time………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………7.85 I’m looking past the menu and advertisements out the window……………………………………………3.99 Time. Outside snow on the ground but rain comes down crazy confusing seasons, time……………………………………………………………………………………………………………13.29 Pleasantries and logistics the server speaks time, part-time…………………………………………2.65 I’m looking for how I can pretend for him, order with my face……………………………………14.99 Time for a call, my mother must think………………………………………………………………………………………………………7.85 I’m looking at the phone ring. Time, time, time…………………………………………………………………………12.79 I exhale God feel Him cling to my nostrils and try to hide behind my teeth and time………………………………………………………………………………………………8.85 Mom on painkillers can’t stop jibbering – the oracle that falls out of bed and time…………………………………………………………………………………………17.85 I’m looking for what I’m listening to………………………………………………………………………………………………………7.99 Across from me a pregnant one sits by herself rubs her belly full of time………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………21.85 Sometimes you can feel the dead looking at you………………………………………………………………………………9.99 I am looking at her to cry, but the food is too average……………………………………………………17.79

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CALVIN MCMILLIN Being Chinese Being Chinese Is more than a matter Of race, culture, or cuisine.

It is above all— Language.

“You speak Chinese?”

The shriveled waitress asks, Eager to forge kinship ties Over a plate of Broccoli beef.

“Oh no,” I cry, Remembering my joke, “Wo bu wei zhongwen,” I say— I don’t speak Chinese— Yet said in perfect Mandarin.

Her smile erodes, As yet another bid At ethnic intimacy Amidst the gweilo Has failed once more.

I am nothing, As good as white to her.

So she leaves for the kitchen Empty-handed and Alone.

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KRISTEN HOLT Skin Inside of a room smelling of secrets with cracked cement walls A boy and a girl lie black and white skin create a smile when they touch.

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BRET J. POLLINGTON Colors Are Colors Before I absorbed gravity I lived among the ageless.

I carried pockets of rocks and spun tales of starships.

I built a country among suburban ruins, And travelled fearless into mummies’ tombs.

Before I really cared I sang songs about nonsense.

The neighbors would scream at me words I didn’t know yet.

I learned right from wrong, And stopped singing that song.

Before this age was through I learned what was important.

How to stand up straight, and always be subordinate.

I will stand in line, And give them my time.

Before I could create I had to learn of mistakes.

How to color within lines, and that the sky wasn’t green.

I will color with care, And know what colors go where.

Now I am trying to relearn the basics.

That mistakes are mistakes, you should love and embrace them.

That a color’s a color, it should go where you like it.

And songs can be songs sung of something, or nonsense.

It’s time to get back to what we all know; That a color’s a color wherever it goes.

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ARKINKNIGHT WINFREE True Bliss Tulips with new lips blushed pink from the heat of the sun Two lips with new lips embracing the lust in the night for fun Tulips with dew lips From the morning condensations touch Two lips with true lips For the one who fills your heart so much Tulips with cruel bliss After seeing the daylight with a lover Two lips with rouge lips Caught in the act with another Tulips with no lips Taken for granted the whole time Two lips with no kiss Wilting red on the last line

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LONNIE HODGES Addiction I’m intoxicated with her beauty.

The secrecy of my addiction has overtaken me.

Some people choose drugs.

Some choose gambling.

My addiction is out of my reach.

I’m addicted to a celestial being I can’t have.

Her seductive style and exotic eyes are overwhelming.

Her mere presence makes me coy.

I’ve tried keeping my addiction hidden but I must let her know.

Her heart is big as the ocean is deep.

Never knowing what she feels is sending me over the edge.

As I tried to speak my voice suddenly was deprived of me.

I look to the heavens for an answer.

How can I receive more?

There is no drug like her.

She should be illegal but the world hasn’t known the same addiction I have.

What can I do?

Sit back and hope one day I might Be one with my celestial being.

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AMR ELGHANDOUR Sometimes Sometimes my pain rules My tears start to fall Like a rain gonna get me drawn But my end ain't that soon I lost many times but still fit Gonna win this game ain't over yet Won't gave up won't lay down I'm a King, Donna need a crown You can see it in my eyes Life couldn't break me, I'm still alive Won't tell you what I have been through What life turned me too So Do more web surf Ask google itself How failure led to success How the homeless became kings Here comes the truth In a few simple words The world is on a move No one can always lose That's life primary rule Your best is coming soon

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NICHOLAS T. SLANE Keep Smiling That feeling when my knee buckles, Because I'm dancing like a fool in my living room.

Good music blaring, caffeine and alcohol in my veins, and a pretty girl texting me.

Sure, my knee hurts, but I push through it.

Why? Because the pain is divine.

It helps me understand how good life can be.

That for every good thing in life there will be bad.

Pushing past that you can find bliss.

So much beauty that all the pain is made worth it.

So much pleasure that you can forget the pain, even if only for a short time.

As I type this I'm breathing hard, Filled with so much elation that it's hard to sit still.

My spastic dancing building to a crescendo along with the bass heavy fast paced music.

Life is good right now. For the first time in a long time.

This one golden moment makes everything up to this point so worth it, so wonderful.

I'll take this pain, and I'll keep smiling.

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MIKE FRIESEMAN

Chris

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MIKE FRIESEMAN

Phytoremediation

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MOHAMED MAIZA The Rock Dont ask me to shed a tear, No I cannot, will not cry; To ask me to weep, Is like asking a tree to dance, The sky to rain gold, It is like asking a rock to bleed, Such things can never be; But, when I read your words, I cannot help but think, By your will, in the wind, the tree will dance, When withheld the rain is gold, It is by your will that this rock will bleed; Yours sincerely, A willing slave.

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ERICA MORRIS The House That Never Falls Down On a rock embedded with cement around it to keep me in place.

With flags and signs swaying in the breeze Cars are nonexistent Feet have wheels The sun comes up at any wish or command The water surrounding my rock is still.

The waves come and go with the sound of my thoughts But there is no surfboard to ride them The grass always grows a different shade of green And when I open my eyes it all turns brown

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KARI SIMONSEN Lemons and Moonlight They died in a basket of madness In drops of yellow they coalesce It was a sous rature They had been in this space before Sweetness was released that night When legs entwined Moonlight shined And sweaty chemistry did combine Daily they made their lemonade Silly innocence a charade They grew older, kinder son They were inseparable, one A pearl of lemon For a sun He was born from friction Sweaty, unloved son Rolling lemons until bruised and sore They toiled for they wanted more But what did children know of want?

Desire, sin, can forever haunt When he discovered his imagination He decided to build it up by hand The world was his creation His very own lemon stand Under the moon they danced Whiskey and lemons made them prance Lying against the sand Creased at the eyes, hand in hand Quarters dimes and metal The only substance to settle For he was the lemonade maker All the town had his favor

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In the month of February Catching them up like a fairy Wrapped in white and satin The golden wedding happened The son walked through his neighborhood with a love for lemons and a heart that could Make room for seed and lovers feed Enraptured in the usual way They fell into the sway of matching minds tow the sordid line This was the story of the old Sitting on his parents’ bed The son was told Lies in place of what was better left unsaid.

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ALEXANDRA DURANCZYK How to Kill a Woman in the 21st Century Create a chart, a chart of numbers.

A scale that ranges from lowest to highest.

Limit us women to one number.

Tell us what number is ideal.

A number that will determine how our reflection, of physical self, as it is weighed with our value of self worth.

Dictate what our eyes manipulate and transfer back into our minds.

Let our eyes twist, warp, and coil a body we’ve only thought we knew.

Rule that stretch marks are taboo unless you’re growing a life inside you.

Rule that mis-marked specks on our skin are our flaws.

Rule that without painting palettes of color and drawing expressions on our face we’re lifeless.

Standardize that when our shirts scoop too low, reveal our chest; a small sliver of cleavage, our sweaters sliding down, revealing soft shoulders.

You may call out to us.

When we reject your call; we’re prudes.

Dried up.

When we accept your call; we’re sinful sluts.

“Caution When Wet” When we call you out; we’re the bitch.

Victimizing you.

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DIANE M. LABODA The Poem within the Poem If only we spoke the same language, bringing my plain English in touch with your mangled male.

If only you had any of the following: intuition, common sense, gratitude or ears that not only listened but heard.

If only you saw the same future, planned ahead with concern for your longevity, my sensibility, our mutual life-force.

If only your version of spontaneous fun was tempered with fairy dust, Band-Aids and 911 calls, and a strong sense of survival.

If only you would grow up, think before you speak, wear a helmet when you speed, plant daisies among the cacti.

If only you never crossed the line, or pulled the moon down with the night, or spit your ego out with your heartstrings.

Then I would never have to write a poem about the impossible cloaked in a poem of love.

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ALISSA RHEINHEIMER Gnomes They’re sitting there (at the back of my mind) staring out of iris stained glass And every time they see something (anything) that requires strict concentration, they strike!

They pull out their goddamn hammers And smash my brain to mush They plug my ears with itty bitty fingers So I can’t hear a single thing (but voices whispering of oncoming pain) But that’s only the beginning.

It starts with a hum, and moves to a march.

(The picks fall until nothing is left) Then they rest, preparing to return But who would I be?

What would I write?

If not for the gnomes in my head. . . .

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SIMON MERMELSTEIN Freewrites Aren’t Free (but they sure are cheap) Tom, who made the blue sky sad and wrong?

Was it me? Did I do that?

Where do prompts come from?

And where do they lead?

Why are they called prompts?

Am I bugging you?

I hope you don't mind if I continue to do so How do I make that sound more like a question and less like a statement?

Is it ok to blame Gahl if this poem sucks?

How much of the guilt is mine to bear?

How do questions become answers?

Like boys become men and men become dirt?

Is it ok to fake it 'til I make it, Tom? Do you know what I'm talking about? That would make one of us.

Are you there, Tom? It's me, moving target How come you never really give me answers but always comfort?

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EDITH MORRIS CROAKE Ravagescape Blustering winds brought bitter cold rain.

Ice shards pierced my bark-skin, congealed, glistened.

Wet snow gloved my arms and fragile fingers, Cloaked my tall, thin body.

In dark of night, the storm’s insidious work began.

My quilled boughs bowed, broke, Plummeted to the ground with thundering crashes My cries drowned in a forest-chorus of wild groans.

My limbs wrenched from their sockets Piled in mass graves Where bones of fractured branches jutted upward Through a thick snowy shroud.

I may be battered Bent, bereft But I Still Stand.

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TAYLOR DROZDOWSKI Written in the Stars Written in the night sky is a message for you.

Just play connect the dots with the stars.

You’ll see an L and an O and a heart.

They sparkle like your eyes when they’re staring at the water.

See it, babe?

Right there in plain sight.

Not even the stars can express my love for you.

Their tiny dead bodies can only try.

Stars cannot feel love the same way we can.

They do not have emotions, they cannot feel love.

But they can combine to express love for us.

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KYLE O.A. LINFORD The Poor Man’s Last Poem With Great Homage to Yeats Had I a heart Of silver and gold And riches that Yeats could never hold Of foreign silk And fiery thread To drape from your Guarded night bed I’d dawn you with Seraphim’s light And paint of your Beauty as the night But I, Being a poor man Have no heart Of silver and gold Or treasures that I will never hold For I, Being a cold man Of concrete and stone With holes in the dome In the room at The Y, I call home Have only this poem With a dark heart And a dark mind With no drug to mend My unconscious’s bind With mistakes I make That my demons call home I will try to fix all With this last poem.

And I’d lay this Poem at your feet With the last bit of Coal to give you heat Because I, Being a poor man Have but dirty rock and Paper for my heart And with these last rocks

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And with this last paper I give you my art Tread softly For you tread on my heart.

NATE LAURANT

Wonder

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ROMA ZIARNKO Moorings I don't know what to do.

You were always so sure of yourself.

We were always sure of you.

To see you lying gray on a pillow Levels everything.

No more of our twilight chess games Or your off-key solos on kazoo.

I've tried to summon you in dreams; You eluded me.

Night and day blur into one; You're gone.

I'm dog-paddling through an ocean of soup Without a sun.

Tell me—were you real or not?

I don't know what to do.

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GALLERY

NATE LAURANT

Truth

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HALLE KING

Sludge

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HALLE KING

Cat

69

HALLE KING

Octopus

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HALLE KING

Tub

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MIKE FRIESEMAN

Gabi

72

JAMIE FULCHER

Davis St. Dahlia

73

JAMIE FULCHER

Marble Doves

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JAMIE FULCHER

Untitled

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ANGELA PIERRO

Meditation 1

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ANGELA PIERRO

Serenity

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ANGELA PIERRO

Synergy

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YASHA CHERNYAK

Red

79

YASHA CHERNYAK

Week

80

YASHA CHERNYAK

Along

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YASHA CHERNYAK

Stefan

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YASHA CHERNYAK

RADEK OZOG

Like, Winter

Grass Is Greener on Other Side

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R.M. FRUMKIN

Seahorse and the Eel

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R.M. FRUMKIN

Dance of the Seahorses

85

RALPH KENNEDY

Doodle Boxes 1

86

RALPH KENNEDY

Doodle Boxes 2

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RALPH KENNEDY

Doodle Boxes 4

RALPH KENNEDY

Doodle Boxes 5

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DANIELLE KANCLERZ

One’s Portal

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GEORGE VALENTA

Now Ready

90

GEORGE VALENTA

Autumn’s Gold Stair

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YASHA CHERNYAK

NATE LAURANT

Tops

Memory Lane

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NATE LAURANT

NATE LAURANT

Hope

Tesla, Brilliance, or Innovation

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YASHA CHERNYAK

LAUREN ADAMS

Monster

Like A Storm, May 2013

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NATE LAURANT

Persistence

NATE LAURANT

Still Night

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MIKE FRIESEMAN

Diana

DANIELLE KANCLERZ

Capone’s Cell

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MIKE FRIESEMAN

Behind Bars

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DANIELLE KANCLERZ

The Reader

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FICTION

MKIE FRIESEMAN

Static

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RUTH PETRAN Wisconsin Homecoming Lois became aware of the warmth of the sun on her hands as they lay folded on the table in front of her. The sun, always low in Northern Wisconsin’s winter sky, was shining through the kitchen window. Turning her head, she looked through the window, past its frosted frame of snowflake shaped ice crystals. The landscape’s crisp beauty, with the amazingly blue sky abruptly ending where the blanket of snow covered the farm’s empty fields, took her breath away.

Not a track could be seen in the snow. How different it was when Bruce was young and every square inch of the farm was covered with evidence of his daily activities. Tracks from his Flexible Flyer charted his search for the best sledding hill, footprints leading off in all directions mapped his attempts at tracking small rodents to their burrows, and a path to the chicken coop confirmed he had fed the chickens, one of his daily chores. Snow angels and roll marks recounted where he celebrated the arrival of inches of new snow. Bruce’s enthusiasm, often contagious, caused Lois and his father, Neal, to join in a snowball fight or the making of a family of snow angels. Bruce was grown now and there were no more imprints of spiritual beings in the snow.

Lost in her thoughts, Lois hadn’t heard the percolator finish. She rose from her chair and walked to the cupboard, took out a Melmac cup and poured herself a cup of coffee. Bruce was coming home today; her thoughts drifted to how his enlistment had come about two years earlier.

The Vietnam War was an unpopular war in 1969. After campaigning on a promise to end the draft, a promise that garnered Lois’ and Neal’s votes, President Nixon took office and escalated the war requiring more manpower and resulting in the Draft Lottery. The drawing was held December 1, 1969, a date that would change the lives of thousands of American sons and their families forever. That lottery determined the order in which young men—boys really, with birthdates between 1944 and 1950, would be called to service to meet this need. Bruce’s December 29th birthday, with its lottery number of sixteen, assured he would be drafted along with the other young men whose numbers were under one hundred and twenty-five.

Lois tried to make sense out of the randomness with which her country selected her son to be one of its warriors. She could not.

Lois did not know how she felt about this war and the draft. Her country had just slipped into it without most Americans’ knowledge, first financially backing Vietnam in an anti-colonial war against France, and then in the resulting division of Vietnam into an anti-Communist South and Communist North. At some point the military advisors sent to support South Vietnam turned into conscripts, the young American sons she watched on evening news each night carrying rifles in rice fields in places called Khe Sanh and Huế.

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Lois recalled that first evening after the lottery; they were sitting at the dinner table.

Bruce acknowledged the results of the drawing with, “I got one of the short straws. I guess I’m going to be drafted.”

“I served in Korea. It’s something you just do and then put it behind you,” Neal replied stoically.

“You’ll be alright.” The words came out of Lois’ mouth after she swallowed the screams of anger and fear, she felt as a mother wanting to protect her child.

They said little else to each to each other about the lottery outcome during that first week. Each sorted through their feelings and avoided bringing up the topic, not wanting to upset the others. The unknown and unsaid hung heavy over their heads. Finally, they started talking about other young men in the community affected by the lottery, deflecting their feelings with discussions that affected them less directly.

Bruce repeated what he heard at Tech, “Johnny Schwartz is enlisting in the Navy next week, and Eric Hodson, whose number is 119, plans to wait hoping they just might not get through the numbers as predicted.”

“It’s going to be hard for Henry Hodson to manage that big farm, if Eric has to go to Vietnam,” Neal had said. “This war is sure making a mess of things.”

One evening just before Christmas, Bruce walked into the living room where Lois and Neal were watching a Christmas special on the television. Lois saw that Bruce had his draft notice in his hand and she reached over and turned down the volume. Bruce came in and sat on the sofa next to her.

“I’ve been thinking. I think I should enlist and not go back to Tech next semester.

Enlisting will give be some choice of the specialty and branch of the service I’ll get placed in.”

Neal agreed, “It would be a waste of money to start and not to be able to finish the semester.” Bruce had been working at the feed mill and attending the Technical College, hoping to save enough money to transfer to one of the State Colleges in a year or two.

“It sounds like you’ve thought this through. Because you have to serve, you might as well have some say in how, besides, enlisting sounds more patriotic than being drafted.” How easily those words came out of her mouth; she had been taught to say things like that, but they sounded hollow directed at her son.

Neal had done the patriotic thing, he had served in the Korean War—Korea, yet another country divided by foreigners. The fact that Bruce’s father had been away fighting that war, when Bruce was born in 1950, was part of the sacrifice. The reality of encouraging her son, her only child, to go to war was wrought with as many holes as the flannel nightgown she wrapped herself in each night, insulating herself against the cold.

Lois remembered long sleepless nights. She was angry that old men in capitols came to decisions that justified sending young men to die for causes that they judged to be worthy, leading from afar with no risk to their own lives and usually, no risk to the lives of their sons.

She recalled the inconsolable tears that came to Bruce’s eyes the first time he chased a cricket, caught it, tramped it and then, realized he had killed it. How would killing another human

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being affect her son? Could the little boy she had taught to love and respect all things living, even pull the trigger of a gun pointed at another human being? Finally, she remembered the first time she had looked into Bruce’s eyes after his birth, loving him and knowing that it was her responsibility to care for him and protect him as long as needed. Right and wrong weren’t so clear when the potential sacrifice was the life of your child. She had left so many things unsaid, fallen into parroting the patriotic rhetoric of the day. Why hadn’t she voiced her reservations about this war? Why hadn’t she offered Bruce alternatives to serving? Why had she made him think she would only be proud if he served? She regretted her words and had a responsibility to talk with Bruce about the alternatives. Canada was only 400 miles away, and many young men had fled to avoid this war.

Neal interrupted her thoughts when he came into the kitchen. “We better get moving.

We want to be in town when Bruce arrives,” he said in a nearly inaudible voice. Lois knew the emotion of his son returning from Vietnam was more than this man of few words could express. Bruce had flown to Dover AFB, Delaware and on to Milwaukee, yesterday. Today he was being driven up by van to their small community of Wittenberg. They wanted to be there for his homecoming.

The car was parked in the yard near the house, motor running to keep it warm. Neal had brought it around from the old tool shed, now used as a garage. Their footsteps crunching fresh snow was the only sound as they walked from the house to the car. Before Lois opened the car door and got into the car, she looked around at the now inactive farm. Returning from Korea in 1952, Neal, who had loved farming, had changed and like his older brother, took a job at one of the local lumber companies. When his father passed, Lois and Neal had stayed on in the house, but the farm equipment had been sold and the fields rented or auctioned off. The farm was just a shell of what it had once been; had Bruce changed while he was away? Had the clearness with which he saw his future, become muddied by war? Had Bruce given up on his dream to go to college on the GI Bill?

Riding in the car on the way to Wittenberg, Lois had time to think about the last talk she had with Neal and Bruce about enlisting. It was the promise of the GI Bill that had tipped the scale for Bruce, in favor of his decision to enlist. Bruce knew what a stretch it would be for the family to pay for college, and he knew he didn’t want to run to Canada. He said did not believe in the war; he was enlisting before being drafted to assure his best chance of getting into the Air Cavalry. Lois had taken consolation in the fact that the Air Cavalry required Advanced Training, an additional eight weeks of training beyond the ten weeks of boot camp, an additional eight weeks in which Bruce would be out of harm’s way.

They pulled into the empty lot behind the Post Office, the lot belonging to Schulta’s.

They sat in cold silence. The only sound was drone of the defroster, fighting a losing battle with the ice building up on the windshield. Other cars and trucks pulled into the parking lot, summoned by a column in the local paper announcing Bruce’s return. These small town neighbors had come to welcome home a local boy who had served his country. No one ventured out into the cold; they just sat in their cars and trucks waiting.

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A drab green van with a government seal pulled past them and backed up to a ramp leading from the nearby building. The passenger, a young man in dress blues the same height and build of Bruce, slid out of the passenger door. Lois’ heart ached in her chest and an animal-like sound erupted from deep inside, passing her lips. She reached for the door handle as the van’s driver and passenger stepped around to the back of the van. Simultaneously, two men wheeling a gurney rolled down a ramp from the building. Out of the car, she ran toward the passenger unable to call Bruce’s name. The soldiers opened the van’s back doors, saluted, and slid the flag draped casket onto the gurney.

Neal’s arms were around her holding her upright as she once again, acknowledged the death of her son. Together, they approached the casket. Lois placed her now icy hands on the casket and wept for the child she brought into this world. The soldiers saluted again, as Bruce was wheeled into the Schulta Funeral Home.

R.M. FRUMKIN

Brad

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MATT THOMPSON Cootie’s Gift I arrived in Danbury never having been troubled much by dark nights of the soul. Truth is I didn’t pay much mind to matters of the soul, more interested in the physical world, I guess.

But there I was, a newspaper reporter, sent to get the scoop on a brewing story. According to sources, trouble stirred when a few Danbury Public School Board members made a fervent pitch to introduce Intelligent Design into the high school biology curriculum. Three days later, several boxes of biology text books showed up on the loading dock of the school, evidently sent by an anonymous donor. When one of the school’s biology teachers went through the text and found veiled references to the God of Abraham, she called the ACLU. It was Dover, Pennsylvania all over again and like Dover, food vendors, reporters and gawkers, swarmed the town like a foreign occupation. The semi news trailers, meanwhile, set up on Main Street ready to beam out updates on the latest God versus science throw down.

I was one of them, waiting in line to check into a motel out by the highway. As I waited, I dabbed at my raw, leaky nose with a tissue. A less interesting story unfolding in the Midwest concerned a hazy yellow cloud of tree and plant pollen, producing one of the worst allergy seasons on record. I had seen my reflection in the glass bordering the motel as I entered, astonished at my appearance. The fine particulates turned my nose red and moist and the skin under my eyes sagged like the jowls of an old hound dog. For that reason I was eager to get into my room, take some medicine, turn on my portable vaporizer and rest.

Along with my allergies I felt another nagging annoyance—the presence of a strange man hovering on my periphery. I could feel his eyes on me. I turned as he approached from the rear and recognized him from the street in downtown Danbury. He’d set up a booth in front of the public library and billed himself as some kind of New Age medicine man.

I spoke with him briefly as he was doling out a bag of roots to a woman wearing sandals and a beaded necklace. As he walked up behind me at the hotel, I could see that he had something in his hand.

Many citizens in Danbury took advantage of the circumstances to pitch their religious beliefs, tokens or various affiliations. Worried that he might do the same, I turned away from his probing eyes.

He looked a bit out of place in this conservative, farming community, dolled up like a has-been hippie in his early sixties. His mahogany skin and facial features suggested a family tree rooted in an equatorial region of the world. Despite his age he had long, wavy jet black hair, parted in the middle and stretching down past his shoulders. He had a thin black mustache and a devilish goatee, round, blue tinted sunglasses, an elaborately carved and varnished cane, a limp on his left side and a pronounced Louisiana drawl. He said to me, “Good afternoon, sir. You remember me, right?”

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“You’re that herbalist guy.”

He moved in close, close enough that I could see double reflections of myself in his blue tinted granny glasses. Then he smiled wide enough to show a set of polished teeth, white as Caribbean coral. As he fanned the air with his brochure he said, “Do you ever pose the question, what if?”

“Excuse me,” I said, my eyes widening.

“What if I knew about something that could change your views about this spectacle about to unfold in Danbury?”

“How do you even know what my views are?” I asked with a condescending sneer.

The man, still trying to win me over, put his hand on my shoulder and again violated my personal space.

I instinctively pulled back as he said, “Look around at the faces in this troubled town and it becomes abundantly obvious, folks are hurting. I’d venture to guess that you’re no different, sir.”

Again, I smirked. “I’m good…really. Not a care in the world,” I said. For reasons I was unable to fathom, the stranger burst into loud, obnoxious laughter, turning every head in the motel lobby.

“Sir, you have an extraordinary sense of humor,” he said in a raspy baritone, his throat undoubtedly ravaged by years of smoking. “By the way, my name is Cootie Ray and friends tell me you write for a newspaper up north.”

I felt unnerved by the fact that he had obviously gathered intelligence about me, but he was correct. I wrote restaurant reviews, pitched local attractions in the, Goings On About Town, section of our local rag. The Danbury story was a windfall for me but dropped in my lap only because our usual staff writer was sent out of town on another story. I was merely filling in. Still, I found it strange that he would know that I was a newspaper writer, my name not well-known. I had a few fans but most of them were friends or family and claimed admiration of my work more to be kind than anything else. So when this Cootie Ray character weaseled into my world with his praise, his Jazzy, Louisiana charm, I was a wee bit unnerved.

“Mr. Ray,” I said, with a slight edge in my tone, “What is it you want with me?”

His eyes narrowed as if to sharpen his focus. “Yes, I certainly appreciate your hesitation.., forgive me, Al, right?” Now he was close enough for me to smell his mouth wash and cheap cologne.

“Yes,” I said as I stepped back, “Al Ritter.”

“You see, Mr. Ritter, the poor souls of Danbury have been told a story of one sort or another, whether born again, Muslim or scientist.” He paused and looked at the ceiling as if to gather his thoughts and finally said, “I…have found something that’s not a story or a belief…but something strong enough to heal the hurt.” He then handed me the item in his hand, a brochure bearing a colorful title in warm reds, yellows and orange.

In flamboyant flare, the words, The God Object arched across the top of the brochure and beneath it in bold letters, the phrase, it’s not about believing, it’s about knowing.

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When I saw the cover, I did my best to conceal my amusement. I figured there were a slew of similar oddities hiding out in the hollers of roadside America. But this Cootie Ray and his brochure were indeed gems among gems.

“Mr. Ray,” I said to him, “I am not here to satisfy spiritual cravings. I have a story to write and I sincerely doubt I’ll get a chance to visit the Fair. Perhaps next year.”

Not one to take no for an answer, Mr. Ray’s smile spread wide as he said, “Mr. Ritter, If you’re writing about the battle for America’s soul, the conflict between religion and science, you may indeed want to stop by and cast your eyes upon the God Object. If nothing else, it might give you another perspective and help you to maintain your objectivity.”

Making no attempt to hide the fact that I was slightly offended, I countered, “I’m a reporter, Mr. Ray and I am duty bound to remain as impartial as possible.”

The lady behind the check-in desk called out in an irritated tone, “Next!”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I said, “These allergies have sapped my strength and I’d like to take a nap.”

“Of course, Mr. Ritter.” With that, Mr. Ray smiled, bowed and I turned my back to this strange man and proceeded to the front desk of the motel.

Hoping that I had seen the last of him, I nonetheless glanced back at Mr. Ray. Just as he reached the foyer to leave, he stopped in mid stride, turned and called out, “Oh Mr. Ritter, I almost forgot.” The lady at the desk heaved a sigh and frowned.

Mr. Ray approached me anyway, reached his hand into an inner pocket of his vest and struggled to fetch something inside as he explained, “I meant to give you this.”

Again, I smiled and almost laughed. Was this oddball offering me some crazy New Age plant or home remedy, I wondered. Indeed he was. He pulled from his pocket a small cellophane sandwich bag with what appeared to be a dirt laden root of some kind. Cootie opened his palm and presented it. I smirked at the offering but took the package just the same. I had no intention of ingesting the item in the baggie, but I held it up and said, “Thanks Mr. Ray, I’ll give this a try,” anything to get this persistent kook off my back.

“You’ll get a goodnight sleep tonight, Mr. Ritter, and all your boogers will be gone within the hour, guaranteed.”

“Nice,” I said. “And thanks.”

As I walked away he called out, “If you feel better, stop by the Danbury County Fair this evening. It just might change your mind about everything.”

“Sure,” I said, while rolling my eyes. Once certain he was gone, I finally checked in.

After keying into my room, I winced at a glaring August sun coming in through a narrow opening between the curtains, so I pulled one end over the other and placed Cootie’s little package next to the brochure on the bedside table. I then plopped my overnight bag on the desk, kicked my shoes off and stretched out on a sagging mattress. The log jam in my nose and an air conditioner that rattled and wheezed was anything but relaxing. Add to it an oily, metallic smell and sleep was all but impossible. Then, of course, my cell phone sprang to life with my annoying yet nostalgic sample from Twister Sister. I clicked in. It was my boss, Carter.

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“Ritter,” he said.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Be at the high school on Blissfield Road tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. The school board’s holding a public forum in the auditorium. That’s your story, got it?”

“Got it,” I said. “Later.”

At least it wasn’t happening tonight, I thought, as I eyeballed the root out of the corner of one eye.

As if to prove to myself I didn’t need Cootie’s medicinal root, I filled my lungs with air and heaved into a tissue but the effort did little to clear my sinuses. The over the counter pills weren’t helping much either. They partially drained the mass for about an hour but then the goo gathered up all over again. Nonetheless, I closed my eyes, laid on my side and hoped at least one nostril would drain.

A good twenty minutes went by and I was still breathing through an open mouth. The thicker the snot, the itchier eyes, the more fatigued I became, the more I considered munching on that root.

An hour and a half into my attempt at sleep I yelled, “Oh, for crying out loud!” and bolted from the bed. Desperate circumstances called for desperate measures, I figured. I grabbed Cootie’s little gift and walked into the bathroom. I scrubbed it clean with water and held it to the light. It sure looked like a root, white, fat in the middle with branches jutting out on either side, each narrowing to little hairs. Without further consideration, I bit into it, tentatively at first, but then I munched upon its crunchy, gritty texture, full of soil and God knows what else. The taste was somewhat like a mild radish with a hint of cinnamon thrown in. I stood there a moment, rolled my tongue around in my mouth and gazed upon a beatdown image of myself in the mirror and muttered out loud, “Hhhmm, we’ll see.”

Within twenty minutes of settling into the motel bed my mouth felt numb and the snot drained. My tense body unfurled and I eased comfortably into the cozy well of a sagging mattress.

For the first time in a week I felt relaxed yet alert. Better yet, my focus sharpened and the visual world streamed into my head in hi-def. I muttered to myself, “Wow, this is cool.”

With a fresh pair of eyes I lost myself looking at the glowing red numerals of the electric alarm clock on the bed side table…as if I had never seen such a wonder. While languishing in the strange divide between dream and reality, fast tempo beats and dramatic rhythms drew my attention to the motel TV. So focused on my thoughts, I didn’t even remember turning it on. In any case, I cringed at the jarring din of modern media, until the sensory assault eased into a half hour local news roundup ending with a report out of Danbury County, Ohio.

A female reporter with dark hair against a blue sky spoke about the God Object on display at the Danbury County Fair. The scene brought to mind the garish motifs of freak show displays of the past—a wooden archway, a banner attached to it displaying richly rendered images and the words, “The God Object,” printed in brightly colored letters. Beneath the

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banner, a velvet black curtain where patrons could enter and bear witness to the extraordinary, “An experience that will change your life,” promised a poster stapled to a nearby utility pole. As the report unfolded, I saw people in a staggered line before the black curtain. As each patron entered, they’d pull back the velvet fabric enough to reveal a ghostly blue glow inside.

The news lady on the scene related the story of Cootie Ray, who found the object after it had fallen from a morning twilight and plowed into a corn field about 300 yards from his house. She went on to narrate film footage of the story saying, “Reverend Ray, seriously troubled about his waning faith, prayed to God. The very next morning, a meteor about as large as a bus, pulverized by the upper atmosphere, rained down upon the Midwest, a chunk rocketing into the earth about 20 miles south of Grafton, Ohio.

“As Ray was returning home from a downtown restaurant, he looked up and saw the fireball, followed by a cataclysmic explosion. Hours later, after the dust had settled, Ray discovered the rock. In his own words, ‘When I stood near it, I understood.’”

The scene segued to a shot of the reporter turning her mike to Cootie as he described the object as an elongated shaft of black rock about four feet tall and about a foot in diameter.

Whatever it was, Ray claimed standing in close proximity to it awakened a primal memory.

Several people at the Danbury Fair made the same claim. “You recognize it immediately, as if you had always known it, as if you are… connected to it.”

The news lady questioned fair goers coming out of the exhibit, some cried, others claimed it was a sham. She asked, “Is this object a conduit to God?” “Not anymore than anything else,” answered a gal from Topeka.

Another woman remarked, “I’m not sure what it is, but I remember it from somewhere, and when I’m near it, I feel...” She shook her head, unable to find the words. A man offered, “It’s nothing but a hunk of black rock. I don’t know why everyone’s make’n such a fuss about the damn thing.”

Another lady was so shaken by the experience she couldn’t speak. Instead, her face pinched up and she turned away from the camera to weep. And then a man said he had lived a tragic life and knew mostly sadness, but now he had found peace. He added, “I felt something I can’t explain…and now…” He too turned away to compose himself.

So I lay there as the news story segued again to a car insurance commercial and wondered if what I was seeing was real. Whatever the case, I heard the motel phone ring. It was Cootie.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mr. Ritter,” he said hesitantly. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Who is this? I asked, even though I knew it was Cootie Ray. “Sir…I am sorry to have disturbed you…” His voice trembling.

“How did you get this number?” I interrupted, followed by a pause filled with static.

“Well sir…”

“Click,” the weirdo hung up.

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Like I said, there are a whole lot of oddballs in these small, backwoods towns and I’m sure they give rise to charlatans like Cootie Ray. And this business about a rock emanating some magical presence had all the trappings of a circus sideshow. Next thing you know, it’ll tour America, making a stop at every carnival from Danbury to Hoboken.

After I calmed down, I laid there, my thoughts running deep again. Thinking about Cootie Ray, I picked up his brochure and read about the God Object.

The text pretty much mirrored the story the news lady told, but in greater detail. I skimmed over it and re-read the words, “When I stood near it, I understood.” Understood what, I wondered. While I cannot deny a smidgen of intrigue, I nonetheless slammed the thing down on the table and said out loud, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Still curious, I opened up my laptop, tuned into the hotel’s Wi-Fi and confirmed that a meteor did indeed fall to earth over the Midwest in the summer of 2010, parts of it raining down upon the mostly rural sections of Lorain County, Ohio. A few witnesses posted cellphone videos of a neon streak arcing toward the earth, a billowing plume in the distance and a sonic boom that blew out windows and set off car alarms.

Local news outlets also archived pictures, videos and news accounts of the event. As for Mr. Ray’s rapturous encounter with a meteor, I could neither confirm nor deny the claim.

Whatever the case, it seemed the real story was less likely to unfold at tomorrow’s school board meeting. The real scoop was happening at the Danbury County Fair. This rock, this battle for America’s soul, this brochure were all manifestations of something deeper than the acrimony likely to erupt at the public school board meeting. To truly probe this mystery, I needed to get close to that rock. If time permitted, I’d mingle among the spiritually entranced.

I’d probe the minds of tongue-talkers, snake handlers or those drawn to a holy things. I wagered that Cootie’s rock would draw the masses like a weeping Madonna or an image of Christ upon a garage door, giving me a golden opportunity to learn a thing or two about the dynamics of spirituality. Something was going on with this rock and the Danbury County Fair was the epicenter of that something.

With a clear and snot-free head, I bolted from the motel bed, put on my shoes and walked down to the front desk. The lady there drew a detailed map on a piece of scrap paper and had me on my way toward “the biggest county fair this side of the Mississippi.” As I pulled away from the desk, her eyes narrowed upon the brochure I held as she said, “I see Mr. Ray has reeled you in.”

“You know this guy?” I said.

“Everyone in these parts knows Cootie Ray. He’s a local operator. Got caught by the cops a few years back for selling…” she used two fingers on each hand to mime quotation marks, “…medicinal plants.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, Mr. Ritter. I’d stay clear of anything Cootie grows in his garden. Y’never know.”

“Thanks,” I said, a pang of anxiety swelling in my gut.

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Despite her warning, I drove under the influence along route 33, a rural two lane road flanked by late summer grass, blonde as a lion’s mane.

I sped past corn fields, farm silos, grain elevators, undulating squares of furrowed earth, old trucks, people with sun-soaked faces and leathery hands. The blue sky, meanwhile, was about as infinite as the vast fields of tawny grass, both meeting at a vanishing point at the end of a long one-lane road.

Along the way I turned onto a dirt road and rumpled along the forward end of a tan plume until I saw a Ferris wheel bristling with colored lights on the horizon. Turning off the road, orange vested farm folk guided me onto a parking space upon the grass. I pulled my key from the ignition and opened the car door letting in a warm, breezy wind rich with the sweet smells of turned earth and wet grass. I stood there, looked around and felt the low summer sun on my face and took in a long, deep breath of air laced with cocoa butter and the smell of fresh cut hay. My snot-free nostrils flared to receive the smell of buttered popcorn, swirled tufts of pink cotton candy, and hot grease bins bubbling with fresh elephant ears. My eyes soaked up the soft blue western horizon, the sparkle of Venus and the sweet light of arcade bulbs jazzed with glowing lime green, lemon yellow and cinnamon red. I felt my feet crunching upon dry, sun-burned grass and patches of dirt. I savored the tang of salt and buttered popcorn on my tongue as I watched the slow turn of the salt and pepper shakers, two capsules at either end of a heavy metal beam, rising to the top and dropping down again, the people inside screaming. I heard the rattle of chains pulling the roller coaster cars to the top of the first hill, and then the silent pause as the cars crested the camel’s hump, followed by the headlong rush of screams and wind as the cars raced down the metal rails to the bottom. My eyes lingered upon a clown face lit from within at the entry way of the bumper cars as my ears took in the clatter of metal cars crashing and the crackle of sparks upon the mesh wire ceiling.

I heard the quirky blend of pipe organ music, the thumping rhythms of rock and roll in the distance and hundreds of human voices chattering at once. I walked the grounds, past the house of mirrors, past the haunted semi-trailer, and past the kiddie-land plane ride, I guess, guided by instinct to find the God Object. I found the waiting masses, gathered in a staggered line, corralled by carnies up a short flight of stairs, where we were greeted by a snaggletoothed old man who led patrons, one at a time, into a darkened room. All of us waited our turn to bask in what the old man described as a “divine light.”

My chance had come and the old man parted the curtains revealing the inner sanctum of the God Object; a room lit with black-light tubes that ran along the walls near the ceiling.

And there, shrouded behind another black velvet curtain—a long black cylindrical object rough and pitted. There was absolutely nothing to associate this object with the God of Abraham. It could have come from Mars, for all anyone knew. For that reason I walked in skeptical, cocksure that the whole thing was a charade, a scheme dreamed up by charlatans looking for a fast buck. But as I came within reach of the object, I felt…a presence.

Imagine a familiar persona, one that smelled like a living thing, like a lake with a cool breeze blowing off it, like oysters on ice or worms tunneling through wet soil. Imagine the

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sound of air blowing through hollow tubes, membranes flexing and given off warmth and the whole experience connected to a distinct, recovered memory. I put my hands upon its surface and felt an exchange of ions crackle and took in a whiff of ozone. Wait a minute, I thought to myself, this can’t be happening. Yet it was all so real. As the minutes passed, I felt a strange stillness and clarity of thought. And I felt…love; not the romantic variety but selfless love, and belonging, and me, but not me and yet me part of everything.

The experience was hard to put into words but it subsided somewhat as I glanced down near the bottom of the rock. Something there caught my eye, so I knelt down and peeked up underneath the thing. Sure enough, some semblance of mind returned in time to uncover Mr. Ray’s dirty little secret. All at once I was Toto, pulling back the curtain to reveal that the Wizard as nothing more than a man.

Cootie, or someone, doctored this so-called God Object adding metal tubing and perhaps a common household vaporizer that dispensed a fine, aromatic mist and all of it housed in a hollowed out hunk of black coral—pure genius. And not surprisingly, I saw a heating element beneath the device that smelled very much like the root I ingested earlier.

However contrived, I couldn’t shake the persistent feeling that I had been in the presence of…something.

So I sat under a purple black light halo trying to make sense of it all while Cootie’s machine produced a soft white noise and an old pipe organ in the distance cranked out a strange and haunting carnival song, while people screamed screams of joy and enormous machines twirled overhead, and flashing colored lights peeked in through an opening in the velvet curtain.

My revelry ended when an exhibit attendant emerged from the darkness and gently motioned me to follow him through a dark passage and back into the carnival atmosphere beyond. He gestured toward the exit turnstile, but I snuck off to the back, eager to have a few words with Mr. Ray. I found him out behind a trailer counting a fat wad of bills.

“What is that thing, Mr. Ray?” I asked sharply.

He smiled and said, “I’m not really sure, Mr. Ritter but I know what it’s not. It’s not a story, not a holy book, or a collection of parables. It’s not my religion versus your religion. It’s not a mythology about the origins of the universe or a ticket to the hereafter. That thing in there…”

“Cut the crap, Mr. Ray!” I interrupted. “You probably made that thing in your basement,” I said.

“I did no such thing,” he barked back.

“Well, then,” I said, “What’s that metal tubing all about?”

“Support struts. The rock is heavy and the struts are solid steel bored into the base of the rock.”

“Okay then, what about the white noise?”

“It’s there to blot out the racket of the fair.”

“And the mist, what’s in that?”

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“Nothing illegal, Mr. Ritter, I can assure you.”

I stood there a minute, not at all convinced.

Then in a calmer tone, “Why do you call it the God Object?”

“Not the best name, too much baggage but it’s familiar.” As he paused I saw carnival lights in his eyes.

“Look Mr. Ritter, I can’t tell you what that thing is and I don’t know where it came from.

But there I was every Sunday telling a story I didn’t believe in anymore. Quite frankly, I was tired of the stories. I wanted something tangible, something real. This rock is real, solid and it fills the empty space.”

“What empty space?” I asked.

He didn’t answer but rather gestured toward the waiting throngs of county fair patrons, many of them I had seen earlier that day, lined up at his stand to buy medicinal herbs. “Look at their faces,” he said. “Look at the hunger, the hurt in their souls. There is an undeniable absence in all of them.” And then he turned to me, “In all of us.”

I found it interesting that he suddenly defended his profiteering with an unmistakable Midwestern accent. The Louisiana charm obviously part of his shtick. Mr. Ray, paying no mind to my intimidating stare, continued to count his earnings.

It was not like me to hold back.

I was more inclined to heartily chastise the likes of Cootie Ray. Instead, it was Ray that got the last word in.

As he stuffed the wad of bills in his pocket he turned to me and said, “You egg-heads are all the same, think you have the universe all figured out ’cause you’ve memorized quantities, equations and logical syllogisms. It’s a vast universe out there Mr. Ritter and we’re just a speck in the spiral arm of an insignificant galaxy among many. Do you really think any of us can say with any certainty that there isn’t something…” He paused. “Something connecting all things, something…God-like?”

I didn’t answer Mr. Ray and after honest reflection I know why. It occurred to me as I turned and walked pass the long line of Danbury citizens waiting to cast their eyes upon the God Object that my story of the universe was no more certain than theirs. In all honesty, I was one of them, struggling, confused and as Ray put it, “hurting inside.” I had denied it for all these years but my spiritual cravings were just as real, albeit repressed. And as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I realized Mr. Ray’s object had awakened my spiritual wonder.

With that realization in mind, I walked back to my car beneath the sparkling tendrils of the Milky Way arcing over the black Ohio prairie. I opened my eyes to the heavens and said out loud, as if someone was listening, “Strange universe we live in…a strange and beautiful universe.” And for the first time, I felt a part of it.

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NICHOLAS VOLPE The Cigarette That Burned Forever Louis K. Obsidian was a man of simple means. Whenever faced with a conflict, his body would store the stress in his blood. His blood stagnated, his skin became coarse, and his mind, rigid. Everything came to a proverbial stop.

In this bout of bodily uncertainty, his joints and muscles became tense. In the same sense, his organs would not function properly. The flow of thoughts stiffened and hardened until the momentum was barely negligible. Nothing worked right, nothing worked how it should. Everything that was existence seemed overcast in a dense fog. It felt to him as though he was going, but never really there. In the place of friendly gestures came sneers and growls.

A revert back to his primal instincts, a reflection of his roots.

Louis was not an animal, however. Louis K. Obsidian was a man. No, Louis K. Obsidian was a modern man, and as such, had a modern vice. For you see, as a human he was a part of a species that had transcended the food chain, a species that had transcended rudimentary thought into an apex dimension, a species that, through logic, found enlightenment.

Whenever stress came as sure as the tides, Louis would smoke a cigarette.

The white, filtered tubes were filled with tobacco that, when burned, would produce a vicious smoke cloud. The smoke was actually quite toxic, filled with arsenic, rat poisoning, and nicotine among other things.

The nicotine, in particular, had a rather peculiar effect. As an addictive substance, his body truly believed that it was required. It longed for it, needed it. Incidentally, this pseudodesire would cause residual stress, slowly building a top itself, and thus completing the cycle.

His vice was a descending angle, slowly deteriorating with time, but it was easy. He liked that.

Louis had a deeply engrained belief that if life were to be hard, leisure would be easy. It wasn’t about reliance, it wasn’t about addictions. It was about simplicity. And simplicity was placed in his hands, exhaled through his lungs.

Suffice to say, his simplicity was indeed special. Indistinguishable between any other tobacco tubes, yet unique in its eternal grandeur. For you see, his cigarette would burn forever. The white paper never lost its integrity, never diminished in size, and never ended up lost in the folds of existence. The embers correlated with puffs, though the flame continually burned persistent. Imbued with a special magic, it would never die.

The strange origins could trace itself back to a wet autumn night in the brick paved streets of New Orleans. Like following the red dotted line of a map, we can navigate through time and find our way to Louis being thrown out of a jazz club by two large men. He was drunk.

In his stupor, he had mistaken these men as death itself. Slurred perception turned their black crew cut sweaters and khakis into black, hooded cloaks. The fog machine smoke seemed

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to come from the flames of hell. The trumpet’s and saxophone’s harmony diluted into each other and became the screams of tortured souls.

As the death pair returned to hell, Louis found the courage to yell, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Not even death can stop me!”

After several futile kicks to the door, the drunken fool found it best to go. He mustered up as much mucus as his dehydrated throat could provide, and spit on the gates of hell. He grabbed his dignity by the belt and pulled it up to coincide with his waist. As he turned over, he tripped over a man hunched over on the ground.

“Whadd’ya think you are?”

Obsidian was swaying as a metronome when the man stood up. In his drunken hand was what he thought was a pint of whiskey, but was in fact nothing. He swung at the man, though nothing hit him.

“Why this thing isn’t working?”

He stared into his empty hands. The man was level with his blurred eyes as they began to register again. The stranger’s figure morphed itself into the reality of his perception.

The man was shrouded in black. A thin veil of smoke seemed to billow from the folds of his clothing, a mask for his unrecognizable face. Louis tried to find distinguishable features with his malfunctioning eyes, though everything became waves. The man’s hood did well to hide whatever desire he may have had.

As the man opened his mouth, clouds poured out to say, “How can I help you?”

“Wha’?”

“I do believe you requested my service.”

Louis went for his imaginary bottle once again, gripping tightly.

Unbeknownst to him, nails were slowly digging into his palms. They were his own.

Intoxication had him lost somewhere between numb and euphoric, indistinguishable at any level of conciseness.

“Sir, there is nothing there.”

The sunken idiot searched his empty hand before returning to the man’s hooded gaze.

“Whad’ of it?”

“You seem like a man who needs something,” he reached into his smoke folds to reveal a tiny wooden box, no bigger than his hands. “You smoke?”

“Maybe.”

“Well then, do I have something for you,” the stranger said as he blew the dust from the surface of the box. As the dust settled, a dark varnish revealed itself.

“What is it?”

“What is it? What is it? My dear boy, this is a feat of ingenuity that your fragile brain can’t bare to comprehend.” The box twisted open to reveal a single white cigarette that cut through the night. “Tobacco grown in the fertile crescent with the first crop yield of man.

Paper made of the fibers of the tree which grew the forbidden fruits, hand rolled between ten

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generations. These embers were drawn from the hottest flames of the last supernova, condensed down into a fine, single point. My friend, this cigarette will burn forever.”

Louis wanted to laugh in the man’s face, to mock the inconsistency with reality he had put forth, something to insinuate the stupidity of this strange fool. Under normal circumstances, however that may be defined, Louis could use his aptitude for words to tear this man apart.

Instead, in his drunken mess, he could release a small, soft, “Huh?” As the convoluted fool became a pendulum, the black sorcerer pulled his magic wand from its finely carved sheath. He placed it between his two fingers and brought the tip to his lips. He began to viciously huff as smoke clouds engulfed everything.

By the time the clouds diminished, the stranger was already holding the cigarette in front of his face. They washed away to reveal a lonely red ember burning through the night. It danced for him.

As eyes adjusted once again, a single aspect became apparent. The paper had not shrunk, nothing had changed. As little smoke streaks rose from its flame, everything remained the same.

Louis was released from his translucent spell as though he was never drunk at all. He snatched the little white tube from the man’s sharp claws and began to desperately puff through the clouds.

Once again, they dispersed, and once again everything remained the same. His blood began to move and his muscles relaxed. His eyes widened in disbelief as he watched the red light be encompassed by the night into a soft glow.

“How much?”

“Consider it a gift.”

“You’re just giving it to me?”

“Yes.” “Nothing in life is free.”

“No, no, you misunderstand. It’s just the generosity of man. We would be no more than animals if it were not for are consideration for one another. It’s a symbol of our intelligence, a metaphor for how far we’ve come as a species. A gift, if you will.”

The man handed him the tiny case. Louis’s fingers hovered over the engravings, feeling their intricate design. The words were foreign, ancient in their own right. The only recognizable figure was a solitary, hooded skull.

Louis felt the engrained teeth as the man looked up to say, “Just, one thing. Don’t lose the case.”

“What happens if I lose the case?

The first distinguishable features of this stranger showed itself. As the question left his shaken lips, the man’s sharp, white fangs cut through his infinite blackness. He was smiling.

And with that, a loud bang erupted. Louis looked to find the source, feverously searching a dark night sky. The origin was a scared dog, lost in its own diluted perception. The mutt limped as it whimpered off into the distance. As he returned his gaze, the man was gone.

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Louis shrugged his shoulders, and puffed his cigarette as he whistled off into the night.

And that’s how it was. And that’s all it was. So now, every time a woman harassed his soul, he puffed his cig. Every time his boss found the necessity to torment his ethic, he puffed his cig. Every time the fabrics of misfortune wrapped itself around him, he puffed his cig. He burned that cloth of existence, and that was that.

Somewhere in July on a hot summer day, Louis found himself driving through a national park. In an attempt to escape the frivolity of daily life, he had accepted a job as park ranger.

To be surrounded by nature in an almost raw form was serene. It was peaceful, it was enlightenment. The sun, the trees, the birds, and every other creature who called this place home, they were his art. And truth be told, he looked damn good in the green ranger’s uniform.

The wheels rolled through the dirt as his teeth clenched the immortal tobacco. His hand clenched the wheel as he felt the ground move below him. He could feel the friction created by the dualistic texture between the dirt and his wheels.

As he was staring at a buffalo, his right side began to feel numb. Half of his vision began to jump and shake, dancing and fuzzy as it became waves. It was a strange texture, the two counteracting forces created a discomfort. He was forced to close his eyes. Before this could fully register, his body began to shake violently.

His body distorted itself as he vibrated out of the car. The car rolled into a tree, his body rolled into a rock. The shaking only worsened, he was having a stroke. He was dying.

As the last breath of air left his lungs, as the connections of his brain stopped and became nothing, as the decaying process began, his soul entered the atmosphere. The soul was a translucent blue streak, and it danced with the smoke as it dissipated into the air.

The cigarette left his teeth as they unclenched. It rolled down his neck and into the grass. Though dull, the flame was persistent. Eventually, everything around Louis K. Obsidian’s corpse became engulfed in flames.

The flames cast shadows on the trees, showing their sorrow as they burned into ash. The entire forest was engulfed as they burned into ash. The forest was crying. By the time the fire died, there was nothing left.

The cigarette continued to burn in its ash pile it created. The ember kept its consistent dim glow, continuous in its nature. There was nothing left to engulf. Soon, an Eastern wind blew through, carrying the eternal flame as a feather. It floated into a mountain town, burned it down. It floated into a farming community, burned it down. It floated into a city, burned it down.

The black magic source was eventually found, brought into a secure lab to be experimented on. Someone wished to utilize its eternal power. By this time, thousands of miles were ash, homes were lost, and many lives were gone. The damage was done.

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JOSHUA BURKE Ministry “I don’t see why we have to go this early,” John grumbled as he stared at the wintery scenery whizzing by outside the passenger window of the car.

Luke smirked, “You should know how the Ministry is. If you don’t get there by two, you’re not getting out in time.”

Luke pulled the car to a stop in the left turn lane, causing John to sit upright, “A whole day, that’s insane. You’d think they’d have sorted it out by now. Why couldn’t we have just done this online?”

The car remained at the left turn light while the traffic drove by, allowing Luke to avert his gaze from driving and look at John, “’We?’ What’s this ‘we?’ You’re the one who forgot to renew his license, and then forget to register online by the deadline. And by the way, you owe me for driving you out here.”

“C’mon, can’t this be one of those things friends do for each other?”

Luke stared at him flatly, “No.” John grumbled under his breath while Luke pulled the car into the parking lot and found a spot a little ways away from the strip mall, “Alright, let’s get this stupid license of yours and get on with our day.”

“Let’s.” The two exited the car and were hit by a blast of frigid January air. John scrunched down into his coat, “Empress’ nipples it’s cold out here.”

Luke ignored his friend’s mild curse and focused on getting to the front door of the Ministry’s office, “You got all your paperwork, ’cause I’m not coming back out here until this is done.”

John tapped the manila folder under his arm, “Of course. I’ve been here enough times to know you have to bring every piece of documentation you have if you want to get anything done.”

The two approached the door into the Ministry. Vertical blinds lined the windows on either side of the door. Standing on both sides of the door were two heavily armored guards wearing shiny black armor, long red capes, and holding long, sharp pikes. When Luke and John arrived at the door the two guards thrust out their fists in a salute, “Glory to the Empire!”

Luke and John weakly raised their fists in a half-hearted salute. “Yeah, glory to the empire,” they muttered before entering the strip mall office. Inside, like any other Ministry office, a long desk with secretaries and computers lined the outer portion of the room. On the inside of the room were rows and rows of uncomfortable looking chairs. Menacing black and crimson banners hung from the walls. A line of people waited in front of a section of the desk labeled “Information.”

“What time is it?” John asked.

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Luke glanced at his watch, “One fifty-two.”

“Think we’ll get out of here by three?”

Luke snorted, “If we get out of here by three, I’ll personally go to the Imperial Guard and enroll.”

“Fifty-three, fifty-three,” one of the secretaries called out. A woman jumped up from her seat and briskly walked over to the secretary to begin her business.

John spent the next several minutes admiring the cream colored paint on the wall and the very nice trim work that had been done. Government contractors really picked up the pace on quality in recent years it seemed. Finally, John and Luke walked up to the desk, where a secretary stared blankly at them, all the life seemingly sucked from her, “What can the Emperor’s servants do for you today?” she asked in a monotone voice that indicated she’d said the line thousands of times already.

John placed his folder down on the desk, “Hello, I’m here to renew my license.”

The secretary picked up a clipboard with a form on it, stuck one of those cheap pens you forget about after using a few times on it, and handed it to him, “Please fill this out.” She pointed to the ticket dispenser, “Take a ticket and when your number’s called, go to the secretary, who will assist you. Make sure you have all necessary documentation present.”

“Thank you.” John grabbed a ticket and walked over to the chairs with Luke, “Now, where are we going to sit?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The duo found two chairs in the third row and sat down. Luke looked over, “So, what number ya’ get?”

John looked down at the ticket, “Five.” He looked up at the electronic counter that hung from the wall. It read “53.” “You’re kidding. We gotta wait until it cycles back through?

Uhhggg! This is going to take forever.”

“Welcome to the Ministry,” Luke said.

John set to work filling out the form. “Why do you have to fill this thing out every time you come here? Look,” he pointed to the “Information” desk, where a stack of a dozen clipboards, each one with an identical form, “I can’t imagine the amount of paper they waste on these things.”

“That’s bureaucracy for you. You thought the biggest enemy of the Empire was the Vinopian Alliance or the rebels? Nope, it’s bureaucracy. One day, all this red tape’s going to strangle us all to death.”

The two chuckled at Luke’s commentary. John then finished filling in the rest of the paperwork with the signing of his name on the dotted line next to the little box that read “Those found to be giving false information will be tried and executed,” that nobody ever read. With the only thing to pass the time done, John set to work imitating Luke and gazed idly around the room.

“Fifty-four, fifty-four.”

John sighed. It was going to be a while.

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----After what seemed like hours, John had thoroughly analyzed every banner, flag, propaganda poster, and person in the room. He dare not glance at the electronic counter; for fear that one of those cliché cartoony scenarios where a character does everything possible only for a minute to pass had come true. Desperate for something to pass the time, John looked up at the flat screen TV that was mounted on the wall. He had been saving it, but now, with everything else viewed, he had to use it.

Sadly, the TV wasn’t on any station, but was showing a slideshow of announcements and trivia. The first piece of trivia was stupidly easy, “Who was Emperor when the Month of the Blood and Skulls ended?” Everyone knew that, it wasn’t even worth asking. The next piece of trivia was somewhat interesting, wanting to know the largest and smallest major cities along the coast.

The screen then cut to the first announcement. Next to two frolicking children in a meadow were the words, “If you know someone who’s committed treasonous activity against the Empire, please report them to the Inquisitional Guard. Your children’s safety depends upon it.” The screen then cut to the weekly weather forecast which showed continued frigid temperatures throughout the week.

“Eighty-eight, eighty-eight.”

Almost there. Just a little while longer and he could finally finish this hell.

----“Five, five.”

John bolted upright and walked over to the counter, “Hello, I’m here to renew my expired license.”

The secretary looked at him suspiciously, “If your license expired, how did you get here?”

“Oh,” He pointed to Luke, who was staring at the ceiling from his chair, a glazed over look in his eyes, “My friend drove me.”

The secretary nodded, “Ah, I see,” and took the paperwork. She furiously typed on the keyboard, inputting various documents and codes. John sighed inwardly. Finally, this nightmare was almost over.

“Okay, I’m going to have you sign here.” The secretary slid over a piece of paper.

John did so and returned the paper to her. She reached down and pulled out a temporary license, “Would you like a new picture on your license or is the one you have sufficient?”

“Uh, I’ll just keep the one I have.”

“Alright, you’re all set. Your new license should arrive within two weeks.”

“Thank you.”

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John gathered up his documents and new temporary license and walked back over to the comatose Luke.

“Luke, come on, we can go.”

“Ueiiigihhheeihh.”

He poked him, “Come on, let’s go.”

The life returned in Luke’s eyes and he sat up, “Seriously? It took long enough.” He looked at his watch, “Four ten. Looks like there won’t be an imperial Guard enrollment for me.” The two began walking toward the door. “This whole place just sucks. If there isn’t a bigger indicator of the rotten waste that lies just under the gleaming surface of the mess that’s called the Empire, I don’t know wh—” “Glory to the Empire!”

Luke sighed and raised his fist at the two guards, “Glory to the Empire.”

YASHA CHERNYAK

Storm

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MINETTE PERIGARD The Escort What if, as a young girl, you just finish closing up a small shop where you work. Images of your comfy pajamas, hot tea and snuggling up on the sofa with a good book at home have been going through your mind since that last long hour you were working. Finally, you’re finished with your closing duties and you lock up the small shop. Turning to go to your car, you find you can’t remember where you’re parked. The parking lot is dark and there are still a lot of cars there; you step back to try to think of what angle you walked towards the building from when you walked in for work. You look for the color of your car to stand out; perhaps you can narrow it down that way, but all the blue, grey and black cars look the same shade in the dark.

A tall stranger walks up to you and introduces himself. Taking a look at the dark parking lot, he asks you if you are going to your car. Not knowing what to say, you just confirm the obvious question with a nod and a quick glance away as if hinting for him to mind his own business.

Then very randomly the stranger holds out his arm for you to take, and asks if he could escort you; your heart pounds, you don’t know what to make of him, you are nervous about the idea.

You try to think of what might happen. On one hand, if you say no then you are left wandering in the dark amongst who knows how many cars, by yourself. If you say yes...then what?

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JARED HARMON The Lake Wisps of fog cover the area, rushing towards me like vengeful ghosts as I drive along the twisted road. Must be adverse apparitions from the lake along my left. The decrepit trees trying to block out the sky seem less menacing as the glow of the rising sun begins to light the countryside. With a sigh I turn down a side road, gravel crunching under tires as I slow down and park near the water's edge.

Turning off the engine, I get out of my car and walk towards the lake, softly shutting the door without looking. Quietly I sit down along the gently lapping tides, staring at the dirt and listening to the soothing calls of nature; birds chirping lowly and the occasional fish flopping on water as it catches an insect gliding along the surface. A single vibrant leaf falls calmly, landing on the contrasting clear glaze of water, sending out ponderous ripples. I shrug off the worn suit jacket I'm wearing, tossing it aside for garbage. The subtly permanent smell that has set in stings and haunts me even at this distance. Attempting to loosen my tie, my efforts eventually fizzle out and I slouch forward on the shore. Staring at my hands I notice trace remains of blood on them.

Strange. I didn't think I had gotten cut.

I leisurely begin to rub my hands together. The pace heightens to a furious frenzy; a mad attempt to remove the blood, to find the source of the stained mirrors staring back at me.

Unceremoniously I drag myself towards the water's edge, plunging my hands into the crisp, clear, cold depths of the lake.

With a grunt I murmur under my breath, “Out damn spot!� As the scrubbing crawls to a stop, I stare at the swirls of red steadily spiraling outward atop the water's surface. Entranced by the hypnotic presentation painted before me, I barely take notice of my body reflexively mimicking the petrified. My silent breathing belongs to the dead.

How like a painting. Good. Good...there's nothing. It's nothing. No trace of me, it's nothing. How so like the perfume she favored...that dark violet liquid a swirl at the slightest glance. One elegant cat-and-mouse mind game, right down to the way it softly suffocated you with intoxication. How so unlike this putrid stench.

Looking up slightly, I see my grisly portrait mirrored back at me. Stubble lines my face, the result of not shaving in a couple of days. My eyes are surrounded by shadow and cheekbones hollow looking. Lack of food and sleep has clearly taken its toll. Something along my eyelashes that can't quite be pinpointed but is quickly picked up by any who dares look betrays tears within the last few hours. Mussed and greasy hair gives signs of toil and exertion; too much sweat and dirt, not enough shower.

I'm a shell. No more dashing rogue, now vagabond skeleton. I don't remember my eyes looking so dull. My hair has seen better days. When did my plans fall so far out of calibration? I

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calculated everything, but this all happened too quickly. I looked like anybody else mere days ago, you'd never have guessed. Now look at me.

I tilt my head up more to look at the lake. The rising sun has fought its way above the tree line now, setting fire to the surface of the lake in a dazzling array of light. The water glistens as the tides tediously, tirelessly attack the beach. The blanket of fog shows the lake's anger, a haunting guise to fend off the sun's disturbance. Peace at war with peace.

It really is kind of beautiful here. She would like that, at least, I think. Odd that there are no houses about. Good, but odd. Would never be like that back home. Especially one as big as this. Must be half a mile across. Maybe more. I can practically see her here, sunbathing on the beach in her black bikini. As smiling innocent as ever. Her scent on the wind as it teases the hair resting gently on slender shoulders. She always had the slightest of wrists. As calm and collected as the day we met. Never did her grace falter. How quickly we decay.

A chill breeze from the lake embraces me lovingly, and I shiver in its grasp. Slowly, ever so slowly, I get up. Taking one last longing look at the lake, I turn around and stumble my way back to my car, glaring brightness in the face of the sun. Fumbling with my keys, I open the trunk.

YASHA CHERNYAK

Nekst

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JIM CLARKSON Dark Tidings Darkness, pure and silent permeates the space around me. From somewhere close by I hear a branch snap free from a tree. The sudden noise causes me to stop my labored breathing to listen for any more disturbances. In the far distance a Coyote thrusts its mournful song into the vast dark night .Then back to dead silence, save for the beating of my heart which sounds like a drum, pounding out a steady rhythm. I continue to hold my breath, which only causes my heart to beat louder… ,Thump,thump…thump,thump…thump,thump…

My thoughts wander back to the task at hand and so I forge ahead, wending my way through the deep underbrush. My task is as dark as this gloomy night and as heavy as the hot humid air that surrounds me. Sweat beads on my body and I can feel a small rivulet of it creeping down the furrow of my back. My legs burn and my back sags under the pervasive weight of my burden.

Up ahead, not too far in the distance, I hear rather than see my current destination—the rough burp of frogs and the gentle splash they make when disturbed from their rightful repose. Above me, I hear the soft flutter of an owl as it repositions itself on a limb, followed by a mournful question. Whooooooo, whoooooooo…whooooo,whooooooooo…

I can smell it now, the vague scent of rotting vegetation accompanied by the deep wet earthy smell of sodden earth. The slight skittering noise of the leaves that carpet the forest floor signals my departure from one world to another as I plunge into the soft loam of the lakes edge.

I begin to hurry now, my task almost complete. It would not bode well for me to be discovered out here, standing on the edge, of darkness. In front of me is the object that will help carry my burden to its final place. Its dull grey aluminum surface and coffin like shape do nothing to assuage the guilt emanating from me.

With a dull thud I am finally able to unburden myself of the dead weight that has caused me so much anguish. The tall reeds on the lakes edge make a swishing sound as the small boat glides past as if to signal a final farewell. The soft dripping of the water as it sluices off the oars is the only sound now as I propel myself across the smooth glassine surface. What seems like a lifetime passes, before I allow myself to glide to a dead stop.

Finally the last leg of this horrible undertaking is at hand. My movements are slow and precise. I feel as if it would be a crime to disturb the peace around me. The silence is deafening as if all around me waits in silent vigil. Somehow I manage to get the object of my despair over the side, and I watch, as she slips into the cool dark murky depths.

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ANTHONY QUAIL A Dead Line The woman comes to her front door to find it unlocked. Her husband often leaves work early, so she twists the knob and steps in, pushing the door shut behind her. On her right, the study room is open, and through the entryway she sees the contents of her desk drawers— pens and pencils, papers and tape rollers, staplers and sticky notes—strewn across the pale carpeting. She carefully sets her bag on the ground and crosses into the study to see the rest of the room, and finds that her computer monitor is missing.

She exits the study and enters the kitchen, where several drawers have been discarded on the ground amidst a carnage of shining steel utensils. A photograph lies on the floor by the refrigerator; she bends and grasps the picture between her fingers. It is of her, her husband, and their son at the lake, the last family trip they took together. She sticks it back to the refrigerator’s front with a magnet and turns away. Her heels clack against the silence as she crosses to the staircase. The first door she comes upon is thrown open; the robber found her jewelry, as she expected, and she suspects her husband’s laptop is missing too, but sometimes he takes it to work. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, grasping it in one hand. She steps into the hallway as she dials 911, and her eyes drift toward the other door that the robber left ajar. Her thumb idles over the send button, the phone line dead. The burglar had clearly disregarded the message written in dark blue crayon: “DO NOT ENTER.” She walks slowly toward the open door, examining its front for the first time in years. It is stained a light brown, with deep, dark swirls in the wood. The antique brass knob dully reflects sunlight into the woman’s eyes as she steps closer, and below the glimmering she sees the black empty keyhole that has never locked nor unlocked the door.

She stands in front of the room at its opening, staring at the blue walls that are always silenced within the stained brown door. But now the walls shriek at her as she steps in, and she quails for a moment before planting her feet inside. Everything is untouched, as it had been before the burglar came, just as her son left it. In the corner is his desk, atop of which lies his bouncy ball collection and a myriad of pens emblazoned with the Red Wings logo; his dresser, which has the clothes piled on the top of its frame rather than inside its drawers, stands a few feet away; and the bed with the Harry Potter sheets, unmade and untidy as always, in the far corner of the room.

The woman eases closed the stained brown door, shutting herself into her son’s room with her back against the door. Gravity presses in on her from all sides as she wraps her hands together in front of her chest, around the phone, cradling it tight like it was her son. She whispers into the dead line, “I’m sorry; I didn’t know.” Her back slides down the door with a soft scraping sound.

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JEFF MURTONEN Mr. Wallman’s Been Asking When I first saw him, everything about him seemed crooked. His posture was horrendous. His hair was out of order, and his frown was bent upward. But his voice was perfectly clear when he spoke that mysterious phrase: “Mr. Wallman’s been asking.”

I didn’t know who Mr. Wallman was, and I certainly didn’t know what he was asking about. The man looked at me as if I was pondering his statement. His eyes looked intriguingly at me. Frankly, the man looked impoverished. His suit appeared to have been worn several times that week. Regardless of my clear disdain for the conversation, the man continued to speak at me.

“Mr. Wallman’s been asking for a long time now,” he said.

“Well, what is he saying then?” I asked him.

“Mr. Wallman’s been asking if there is anybody that really cares. He’s been asking if it’ll ever change, if the questions will ever become obsolete. He’s been asking for you, and he’s been asking for me. Mr. Wallman sees us going about our lives without ever taking part in the lives of others. He watches us closely with worry in his heart and pain on his shoulders. Mr. Wallman wants to know if he sees understanding in others. Mr. Wallman is starting to think that he is either wearing down too soon or starting up too late. When we find ourselves caring for each other, it is praised as extraordinary, because we cannot bring ourselves to do it often.

Mr. Wallman wonders if love and poverty are mutually exclusive, because he only ever sees the latter. If there is a divide between the common people he encounters every day, Mr. Wallman feels a deep sadness and confusion. Why are the wills of those we know bent toward self-service? Most importantly, Mr. Wallman wants to know if you will ever lend him a hand.

He feels like he breaks every day, but he continues his exchange of troubles for wisdom. He does not toil. He fights in the trenches of the war on poverty every day. He only hopes he does not become another casualty.”

I felt emotions seemingly pull my flimsy hair out and pull me back in my seat. This man of simple speech had shaken the world around me with the movements of his lips and the movement of my thoughts.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I told him, “but I don’t know Mr. Wallman, so I truly cannot help him.”

“You definitely know Mr. Wallman. You passed by him several times on your way here.

You’re sitting across from him, next to him, and down the street from him. He is a well-hidden in your everyday life, making him difficult to sympathize with. There are millions of him out there. He is picking up your trash, making your lunch, and even teaching your kids. He is standing along the walls that you pass by, and you leave him there to wallow in his own misery. His hardships alone outweigh the eventfulness of your life, but you ignore his struggle.

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At some point, you too may be Mr. Wallman. You will be trapped and forlorn, and while the others pass you right by, you will be left standing alone against the wall.�

R.M. FRUMKIN

The Old Sage

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SIMON JOSHUA A Pass It’s only gonna be a pass. Bubba, the team center, was handling the ball before the play.

Jim smiled, he knew Bubba was giving him an edge, warming up the ball and getting it tacky.

Now the time—the coach held up the “Arizona” sign on his hand, Jim called the numbers, took a breath…

“HIKE!” It was then—right then when Jim picked up the snap—he knew the game was in his hands. Everything was perfect. His index, middle, and third finger immediately found the threads, his pinky lounging in space. He held that ball, held it like a father holding his new son for the first time. Yet his hand knew that ball, knew every bump and thread on it. As he backed away from the line, Jim’s heart was in his hands.

That ball meant everything he loved. Oh yeah, it was time. Jim lifted the ball behind his head, waiting for his own heartbeat—but nothing was there. He didn’t know what to do, how could he pass between heartbeats if there were none? His thumb squeezed, dimpling the leather. He heard the ball creak in his grip like Dad’s Army jacket. And with that Jim knew why he loved the ball in his hands: because his dad did. He knew why he loved to sleep with it at night, to use his every ounce of strength to throw it, to grace his hands with its leather: because his dad did. Is this what his dad used to think about when he passed a ball? Maybe he could ask after the game.

Jim’s heart started beating again. Looking at Dan, the star receiver, Jim’s shoulders turned toward him. Right heel dug in, a churning drill. Then his right arm blasted forward. His hand slowly let the precious treasure go—his index finger lingering, long after the others had left. He saw the spin, perfect again. It was all too perfect. Maybe his dad did think like this. He would ask. Then the ball left him far behind, charged by his own power, the ball had left him.

Dan took good care of it, though—he caught it in the end zone just before the crowd erupted.

We had won. It was only a pass.

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ABBY DOVE Globe All the places, discovered and explored, on a small sphere sitting on the desk. It’s an old globe, it still has the USSR. Dust has coated the Arctic; it’s been a few years since this Earth has rotated. The whole desk, too, is covered in a layer of dust. Old memos, reminding one of appointments long past, sit beside the globe, along with a typewriter that was already past its prime when in use.

A chunk of Brazil has fallen off, leaving an opening to the center of the world. The remnants of a nest are inside, along with the skeletons of the mice that didn’t make it that year. The scent of decomposition has since left the room, leaving only dust to linger in the air.

A descendant of one of the Brazilian mice skitters across the floor beneath, searching desperately for the tiniest morsel of food.

Suddenly, the door bursts open for the first time in decades. A thick figure, clothed in black and clutching a crowbar, quickly enters the room. The looter begins to throw open the drawers of the nearby filing cabinet, searching for anything of value. Manila folders, containing documents once important, float to the floor. After a while, the cabinet joins the folders, after being knocked down by the looter in frustration.

He moves onto the desk now and begins turning out the drawers. Staples, paper clips, rubber bands, post-it notes, and other office supplies fly through the dusty air. Once more, the looter sees nothing of any worth. With a quick sweep of his arm, he clears the desk of everything resting on its surface. Stepping over the wreckage of his search, he exits the room without a second look.

The globe now lies shattered on the floor; a world has been destroyed. However, the sudden flight has taken the most of the dust from the globe. For the first time in years, the small, clear diamonds, marking the locations of capitals, and the gold leaf spelling out their names, shine.

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ABBY DOVE Laika “They sent a dog into space?!” I stared up at the bright blue sky, trying to imagine a dog filled rocket flying through the air.

“Yeah, it was the Russians,” my sister replied. “It was during the space race when we were fighting with them to see who’d get to space first.”

“Well, what happened?”

“We won since we got a person on the moon!”

“No, Lydia, what happened to the dog?”

“The dog?”

“The dog the Russians sent to space,” I continued staring up at the sky. “What happened when the dog came back to earth? Was she a hero?”

“Well, Johnny…” Lydia looked down at the grass. “Johnny, the dog didn’t come back to earth.”

“She… didn’t?” I felt the corners of my eyes begin to sting, and the clouds began to blur.

“Why not?”

“The Russians only cared about getting the dog into space, not bringing her back.” She grew silent and looked at me. Suddenly, she jumped up to her feet and threw her arms into the air.

“But it’s okay, Johnny! Because do you know what happened at the last second?”

“What happened?”

“A burst of, uh, radiation? Yeah, radiation! Radiation hit the dog’s spaceship and gave her superpowers! Now she flies around the galaxy and protects aliens on other planets from evil!”

The stinging in my eyes instantly stopped as images of a small dog wearing a red cape fighting a purple monster flew through my mind. “That’s amazing!”

“Isn’t it?” Lydia beamed at me. “When she rids the whole universe of evil she’ll come back to earth and then she’ll be a hero!”

“When will that be?”

“Probably not until we’re grown ups, the universe is very big. You’ll learn all about in when you get to the fifth grade.”

“Wow!” I looked back up to the sky. “I want to go to space and meet her! I’ll fight the evil with her!”

“That sounds great, Johnny,” Lydia sat back down next to me and looked up. “You can be anything you want, as long as you try hard enough.”

“Anything?” I pondered for a few moments. “Could I even be a—” My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the garage door opening.

“Mom and dad are home!” Lydia jumped back onto her feet and pulled me up. “We were supposed to be doing our homework! Let’s get back inside before they see we were out playing!”

As Lydia half led, half dragged me through the back door, I took one last glance at the sky. Laika was up there doing her best, so I had to do my best, too.

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NONFICTION

MIKE FRIESEMAN

Cones

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DAMION ANATOLE KNIGHT Reality Check My beloved wife is highly educated, and I possess little more than a general education diploma, or G.E.D. As a direct result of this educational chasm, she has courageously endured several brief but pathetic episodes wherein I, envious of her incredible scholastic achievements and desperate to acquire similar accolades and honorifics of my very own, would therefore angrily and helplessly declaim: "I should be the one with the doctoral degree!

Not you!" The conspicuous absence of proper grammar notwithstanding, the apparent lack of empathy, discipline, and emotional maturity displayed by my pathetic and solipsistic tirade provides further conclusive evidence, as if any were required, that acting with restraint and self-discipline can truly be an ongoing and continuous struggle, a labor that never ends, even despite one’s advancing years.

To provide an example, immediately upon my initial return to college (just over three years ago now), I discovered that the extraordinary mental acumen I had previously, erroneously, assumed I had so effortlessly possessed since youth was nothing but mere subterfuge. My childhood had been defined and informed by physical and emotional abuse from both parents, and I naturally transmogrified into a lonely and isolated child, who became in turn a lonely and isolated adolescent, and quite often, a lonely and isolated adult. To defend myself against the onslaught of morbid depression, and because I possessed a veritable treasury of splendid minutiae regarding books and reading (I carried thick books with complex titles in ostentatious fashion; I memorized titles and short passages from diverse sources for eventual recitation; I slowly and laboriously cultivated and assembled the demeanor and mannerisms of various sophisticated and accomplished literary personages, so as to be more easily confused with a brilliant person), I created a persona of such rare and exalted genius that it became simple and effortless to dismiss others who did not share my extraordinary mental acumen. I therefore concluded that I was alone because others could not bear to remain in the presence of my obvious brilliance for very long, for fear of the intolerable contrast between myself and the undistinguished masses.

Although I had reasonably attributed my initial difficulty in adjusting to college life to a conspicuous and quite nearly total absence of academic experience prior to this point, I still foolishly chose to enroll in several science courses which ultimately proved far too difficult for me to master, given my prior dearth of schooling. At first, I was merely perplexed, and I offered precious little consideration to the actual nature of my plight. However, as each examination grew progressively more difficult, and the high grades I had previously imagined would be effortless began to inevitably degenerate into the painful reality of failing marks, I grew exponentially more worried, desperate, and terrified. I chose not to confront my fear, however, because I did not wish to recognize the apparent lesson that I was not, in fact, a

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person of genius. After all, it was a far more frightening prospect merely to acknowledge the simple truth of my average intelligence and greatly impaired learning capabilities than it was to continue to sustain the facade of brilliance that was itself merely the product of an active and fervent imagination.

The sheer depth of belief which I chose to bestow upon the shifting and baseless dimensions of my peculiar fantasy had allowed that same idle dream to achieve the substance, volition, and motive force of an objective reality. In its capacity as the primary means of defense against a bitterly painful and solitary existence, it subsequently achieved some small semblance of justification. However, insofar as it prohibited and in fact obstructed me from reaching out to others in fellowship and humility, and insofar as it precluded a deliberate examination of the underlying causes of my abject failure in college, then it served merely to hinder me. In fact, the intimate possession of this cherished personal epic, a fairy tale in which I am effectively portrayed as a lonely and misunderstood genius, may have irrevocably harmed me instead.

Rather than honor truth, I chose instead to remain loyal to a dearly beloved fantasy. The emotional crutch I had at first assembled with such painstaking attention to precise detail, and which was adopted as an aid to my sporadic and belabored academic locomotion, soon coalesced with my dreams, goals, and aspirations so much so that I grew at once to depend upon it, to cherish it, and ultimately, to abhor it as well. As a result, I withdrew from college on several distinct occasions in frustration and despair, and with a gradual and dawning realization that I wasn't brilliant after all. Moreover, I was afforded a much-needed dose of humility when I realized that I was not, in fact, the intellectual equal of my wife; her academic prowess far eclipsed, and continues to eclipse, my own. Most importantly, I discovered that it's all right simply to be who I am, free of false and imprisoning notions of fantastic scientific or literary grandeur—I am not Einstein, or Dostoevsky, or Bach, or anybody really, other than myself. I am now in my mid-forties, and I have but recently determined who I truly am, finally free of myth and self-delusion.

I am now ready to begin the long and arduous process of achieving a college education.

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ADELLA BLAIN Journeys by Train “Signal Problems,” says the conductor as we limp along at less than fifteen miles per hour.

At this speed, it will take twenty hours to reach Chicago. Unable to remedy the situation, I settle in for the long haul with coffee, crosswords, and a novel close at hand. I’m hoping that the Cafe Car is well stocked.

Outside the bug splashed window, early morning sun illuminates Ann Arbor’s Huron River wetlands so that fuzzy cattails and fronds of each withered sedge plant are clearly delineated. Ice patches, newly formed and still blue, reflect the glare and I put on my sun glasses. I focus on this familiar and now vividly detailed landscape. How many times have I traveled these rails, I wonder?

Careful, my wary mood censor warns. All train trips were not cheery. Tragic life events interrupted the comfortable humdrum of some journeys. Once, anxiety was so fierce that each hyperventilated breath increased my dread one hundred fold. Another time my tears obscured the printed page. Neither reading nor the Midwest’s pleasing country vistas provided consolation.

Choosing to ignore the warning, I reminisce. These trips go back decades. They started long before my daughter married and settled north of the Windy City, my more recent destination.

Many were jaunts with my husband or friends for theater, shopping, art exhibits or ballet. Ah, yes, ballet. I remember the thrill of sharing our hotel elevator with Mikhail Baryshnikov and his prima ballerina Gelsey Kirkland just hours after their performance in the Nutcracker. Marijuana smoke, swirling in the small space, heightened the experience so that the scene seems fantastical in retrospect.

A few years later, with our three children in tow, Chicago’s educational destinations—the science museums, the Shedd Aquarium—became the attractions. The Shedd was where my son’s fascination with scuba diving was sparked, I realize. No wonder he fell into the spell of the ocean’s exotica. In the aquarium’s rotunda, we looked through the glass of a 10,000 gallon circular tank, the habitat of parrotfish, bonnet head sharks and other ocean creatures, while a diver descended to scatter food fish to the hungry, circling watchers. A six foot moray eel slipped out from a coral shelf. A massive sea turtle bumped against the glass. Bubbles rose from the diver’s tank. It was a mesmerizing scene and one that is still vivid in my mind’s picture gallery.

Punctuality was never Amtrak’s strong suit. What usually began as a family adventure that included a freedom of movement not possible during our usual car trips, and included card games and contests of sightings (How many deer, pheasants, red tractors can you see?) ended often with tired and crabby kids wanting only for the train to stop moving.

Twice on this route, I’ve been delayed when the train hit immobile vehicles on the tracks.

One year in early spring near Battle Creek, we were traveling at high speed when the train’s brakes screeched and we came to a sudden, crashing stop. Purses, luggage and people were tossed about like stuffed animals in a nursery. When we collected our senses and belongings and

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looked outside, the cause of our unexpected stop was clear. Two scruffy-looking men, each carrying a fishing pole and a six pack, stood gaping at their aluminum motorboat which now was crunched like a wad of Reynolds Wrap, half on/half off the track. During the three hour wait that ensued, we passengers learned a lot about Amtrak’s difficulties in removing track obstructions in rural areas. We did not learn why the fishermen left their boat with trailer sitting on the track while they walked through a maple grove to their fishing hole. Perhaps their liquid breakfast washed away good sense.

On a post-Christmas return trip to Ann Arbor, while a January rain and sleet storm raged outside, I stood in the aisle with my suitcase, ready to disembark in five minutes at the depot. At the head of the line, the conductor opened the top half of the exit door and warned us to beware of icy steps. Then with a shout of “What the Hell!” he tumbled forward into the standing passengers. The screeching brakes and the clanging roar of the heavy steel locomotive, crashing into and crushing a small car, obscured his comment. We all tipped over backwards, some bumping heads, knees and elbows. I escaped injury when my oversized down coat nicely cushioned my fall.

Oh, what a wail ensued! Small children shrieked, students swore, elderly passengers groaned. Complaints filled our car for the next two hours while we waited for a tow truck to arrive and remove a badly damaged Chevy, fortunately empty of passengers, that had stalled on the track. Since my car was parked only a short distance away, I considered slipping past the conductor, tossing my suitcase out the door and jumping off the train but my childhood indoctrination to follow rules held firm. Reluctantly, I obeyed the conductor’s orders to stay seated, and so I endured the long delay with the other beleaguered travelers.

Amtrak passenger demographics vary with the seasons, except for the regular to and fro traffic of university students. I’ve sung Christmas carols with boisterous holiday crowds and hummed along with blues guitars in summer. I’ve used an I-Pod to block the vocal enthusiasm of inebriated baseball fans, and once I changed cars to avoid the trash talking of rabid Red Wings supporters. I’ve fed an infant a bottle while his mother medicated his fever-racked sister, and I’ve rushed to the Cafe Car to retrieve orange juice for a diabetic veteran who was experiencing a blood sugar low.

Most trips find me seated with compatible passengers, those who enjoy brief conversational exchanges between chapters of their books or during breaks from their laptop endeavors. Always, the promise of meeting loved ones at my final destination lifts me to a heightened state of anticipation.

Today, our signal problem remedied just past the village of Chelsea, we move rapidly past the snow covered fields and desolate woods of western Michigan. The nearly microscopic view of nature and farm and town structures that I observed during earlier tortoise-like speeds—those sights that initiated this reverie—have become almost a blur. It’s much like accumulated life experiences, I think. They pile on in rapid succession, their novelty or significance not heeded until a sudden stop—a transcontinental move, a job loss, a death—separates the important from the trivial, the necessary from the superfluous. Sometimes it takes a train trip to bring this to mind.

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LYNNE G. TENBUSCH The Uninvited Guest It began with peeling eggs. I dipped both hands into the tepid water containing eight boiled eggs and brought one to the surface and cracked it against the counter. It slithered out of my hand. I sighed in exasperation. The push-pull of removing shell from slippery egg demands patience and a gentle touch. I’ve never made any claims to patience, particularly before I've had my daily two mile swim. On that particular day I began to view my eggs as combatants in a conspiracy with the clock. I had a tight schedule and my less than pleasant dance with these eggs put my swim at risk.

I reached for the lost egg, found the slight opening, breathed deeply, brought thumb and index finger over the crack, pressed down and pulled forward. Voilà, I sluiced off a good part of the shell in one slick pull.

I glanced down at my six-year-old Great Dane, waiting patiently for his part of the morning peeling ritual. I patted his head and said "Pretty soon Pachelbel. Just a few more minutes." As I looked back to my bowl, I gazed through the kitchen window. The moving bodies of sixteen resident deer caught my attention. I inhaled with a start. They were vying for first place at the salt and mineral licks I had put out for them.

My irritation forgotten, I looked back to the challenge of the eggs. Still holding the partly peeled one, I gently squeezed and bent it at the middle. Then I extracted the yolk from each half, placing the halved whites in a Tupperware container and the yolks in a different bowl. Half the yolks would go to Pachelbel, the other half out to the lick area for the wildlife.

I disliked the entire process of peeling eggs and separating the yolks so I tried to embrace it as a mindfulness practice. Mostly I failed to feel peaceful or mindful during these challenges. I had thought about buying the fake egg whites, now so popular with the diet conscious set. But I had not researched the ingredients or whether I could eat them in my car.

I've never been very interested in food except as a source of energy. I eat many of my meals while driving to my office from the pool. These “mobile meals” consist of finger foods—raw vegetables and fruits, cooked egg whites and an occasional whole wheat bagel. The slow breakdown of protein combined with the faster acting carbohydrates is perfect for my metabolism.

Pachelbel waited patiently at just the right distance. No further. No closer. He knew not to jeopardize his pending treat of yolks. I reached for another egg, almost dropped it and grabbed it with jolt. Pachelbel jumped.

"Sorry Pachelbel" I offered, looking down at him. But he was looking into the den area, just south of the kitchen. Following the direction of his head, I scanned through the den and up to the maroon couch facing our pond. Framing the bottom of my image was our whitewater hickory flooring. My view was backlit by the high morning sun. A sharp luster glanced off the floor.

Something seemed odd. I turned for better focus, but everything looked in place. I swept my eyes

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across the floor and back to the kitchen. Still something stuck me as out of order and I looked back to the den. Then I saw it.

A dark mass interrupted the center of the floor, punctuating the middle of an otherwise blond expanse. I noted that it was midway between front of the maroon couch and the kitchen.

Nothing else registered—except a physical sensation of alertness. I cautiously approached.

Questions flooded my mind. Was it paint? Did Pachelbel bleed and drag his tail though his blood? Had one of my cats brought in a disentailed mouse and left it as a gift? Or found a ball of yarn and brought it downstairs? But I didn’t have any yarn.

Slowly I approached for a better view. About eighteen inches of length, curled into S’s, lay immobile on white floor. I watched. No movement. I took another step. Nothing. I slid my right foot toward the figure, still about four feet away. The mass of S’s remained in place. Instinctively I sniffed the air for clues. No unfamiliar scents.

I moved closer. Then I saw the colors. A feeling of awe crowded out competing thoughts.

“Oh my gosh. How extraordinary,” I exclaimed to Pachelbel who stood calmly at my side. The unmoving serpentine shape was brown on top with intermittent shades of turquoise, royal blue, yellow, orange and red. Iridescent flecks of each color radiated around the body. It did not move—not even a flicker.

I was still too far away to detect whether it was breathing. I moved closer and knelt next to the shape. It remained motionless. I viewed the figure from different angles and watched the evanescent colors changing into sun-glistening splendor. I knew from experience that this was not a dangerous reptile.

The garter snake maintained its posture—still unmoving, still brilliantly decorated. To the uninitiated eye, it looked like a long string of capital S's, or the Grand Canyon as seen from above.

I sat quietly and watched, taking in the ineffable presence of a common reptile. I was unaware of how much time elapsed.

Finally Pachelbel stirred. “What a treat” I said to him. He continued his watch, as if guarding my pleasure at the surprise guest. I was torn—I wanted to hold our guest and feel the refined softness of its skin. But I knew that being touched would frighten a garter snake. A boa constrictor would settle into the experience, but not a garter.

We sat there together, Pachelbel watching me while I observed our visitor. I knew Pachelbel would not hurt the snake but I realized other dangers. The snake could slither away and get lost in the house or run into one of our cats.

Suddenly I saw a gray flash. Largo, my eight-year-old cat pounced on the snake. Pachelbel moved back. I jumped up and shouted Largo’s name. She had the visitor in her mouth and began running. I yelled “No” and ran after her. She tossed the snake, now wriggling vigorously, into the air as if it were a mouse. It dropped to the floor. I caught Largo as she stood inspecting it.

Our guest lay on the floor motionless as Largo wrestled to free herself from my grip. My heart pounded with anxiety that the snake might be dead or seriously wounded. And I was furious at Largo. After a quick check on the snake, I locked Largo in the basement.

I turned back to our guest. Pachelbel stood close to where the snake had been dropped. He watched me as I observed the snake from a distance of about two feet. I approached warily,

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dreading that I would find broken skin and blood or a dead snake. I spoke to this elegant reptile, while knowing that snakes navigate by heat and vibrations rather than sound. I knew I was speaking to myself but took the pleasure as my own. I spoke in soothing tones reassuring our guest that she would be okay.

I sat next to her for a few minutes but she didn't move. I saw no blood or mangled parts, but could not determine whether she was breathing. I bent down to within six inches of her body.

Still no sign of life or injury.

My puzzlement continued. Was our visitor dead? If so how did she get into the house? Did Largo kill her? Then why are there no puncture marks? Was she alive? Then why is she not moving at all? I had to make a move.

With the thumb and index finger of my left hand, I secured the snake’s tail. She came alive with agitation! She wriggled and spit, trying to get away. To contain her, I spread all my fingers along the back part of her body. I took hold of her upper body just two inches below her head. As I tightened my hold, our visitor became more frantic, squirming violently toward freedom.

The snake’s distress saddened me, but did not surprise me. Garter snakes don’t like to be handled. I wanted to hold her for a while. I longed to luxuriate in the silky feel of her body. I wanted to watch the light show created by the sun reflecting off her scales. I was torn. But my guest was terrified. I knew what I had to do.

I maintained a firm hold against any more mishaps and looked again at this graceful creature. She curled her tail around my fingers in distress. My delight in her velvety touch was marred by my awareness of her tension. I carried her out the front door into a sun spotted area 500 feet beyond, where she would be safe from my cats. I laid her on the ground and opened my fingers. As she sidled off in a frenzy of S's, I felt the sadness of saying good-by to a welcomed guest.

Walking back inside, I wondered if the snake was really a “she”. Sometimes I spoke to snakes as “he” and sometimes as “she”. In reality I rarely knew the gender. A male snake has a penis, but it is hidden beneath a scaly sheath on the underside. I regularly see garter snakes while walking my land or visiting their favorite sunning spots. But I would have to handle them to determine the gender. It feels like a sacrifice each time, but I forgo the indulgence. My pleasure would be tarnished by their distress.

Feeling gloomy but grateful for my uninvited guest, I returned with Pachelbel to the kitchen, me to my love/hate affair with un-peeled eggs and he to his patient anticipation of the yolks. I finished preparing my post-swim meal, gave Pachelbel his portion of the yolks and put the rest aside for our wildlife. Then I released Largo from the basement and left for the pool where I would have time to swim only one mile instead of my usual two. At that point, cutting my swim short did not seem like a loss.

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SUSANNA Z. MIESEL Continental Drift It is no surprise—given the prevalence of this particular affliction among the early teen population—that I was a severely awkward middle schooler. My mother still insisted on picking out my clothes (she had a fondness for khaki trousers and cable knit sweaters), my hair was perpetually either puffy or stringy and woefully neither blond nor brunette (something I have since rectified with the aid of various hazardous chemicals), and my nose was (I was convinced) too large for my face. It was an unfortunate age, smelly, oily, and self-conscious. It was also an age in which one has the tragic tendency to fall madly in love every other week, or at least that was the impression I got from my peers. I was a little different. By the seventh grade, I had been in something I thought was love with the same person, for nearly four years.

His name was Kevin and he was perfect. Tall, tan, brown eyed, British, and he knew Latin and French. I found him impressive and as far as I was concerned he was always right about everything. In third grade, he had “saved” me from being stampeded in a crowded bus aisle by a group of over fed fifth graders. I was face down, I could taste the dusty plastic of the bus floor, and he had pulled me up to sit next to him. We’d been friends ever since.

By the time we were in seventh grade though, we had drifted apart. He had gotten himself a series of interchangeable “girlfriends” and had forgotten all about me, until we were seated at the same table and instructed to be lab partners in Mrs. DePiano’s science class. He smiled at me with a conspiratorial grin of familiarity and I smiled back, relishing the idea of a whole year of being able to breathe in the scent of his Degree deodorant coupled with Axe cologne (which I thought I liked), listen to him say “butter” pronouncing all the Ts, and see from across the table his wide brown eyes and thick eyelashes, which were, to my melodramatically inclined imagination, reminiscent of a Russian Orthodox devotional painting, minus a beard.

My moment of religious ecstasy was short lived, however, for across from us, also at our table, sat Mary. Naturally blond, blue eyed, skinny, tall, rich, well groomed, crazy-as-fudge, Mary. She once wore cheetah printed, red-soled, four-inch pumps to school…in sixth grade.

She fell flat on her face getting out of the school bus and broke her wrist. Her mother sued the school district. I think they settled out of court. She was crazy and an offspring of crazy. She was also Kevin’s first girlfriend, the first girl he had abandoned our friendship for in fifth grade.

Anyway, the three of us were to be partners. I was livid. For a couple of weeks nothing particularly eventful happened, though several times I pictured myself vaulting over the table and clawing Mary’s pretty eyes out, while simultaneously managing to substitute her shampoo for chemical hair remover. She and Kevin seemed always to be in cahoots, always right about everything, from what amount of iodine to drop on the mysterious white powder to change it purple, to how to measure the electrical current passing through Dwight our pet potato. It

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wasn’t that I didn’t know, it was that I always felt incompetent and inarticulate whenever I was around the pair of them. I felt stupid and therefore I might as well have been.

But one day I snapped. I don’t really know why. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was me developing self-worth, maybe I was just pissed off with Mary going all dewy eyed at Kevin, maybe I was mad at myself for my increasing tendency toward vile pettiness directed at them, maybe I had just stopped giving a damn. Whatever the case, I snapped. It was wonderful.

There was nothing particularly interesting or difficult about the assignment. We were given laminated puzzle pieces of different areas of the mass continent Pangaea. We were in something of a competition with the other groups to see which of us could take it apart and label each of the pieces as its present day counterpart in five minutes. I saw the task as simple enough. One could tell by the rough outline and location which was which. We labeled North America, South America, Africa, Antarctica, and an unfortunate blob of Australia without much incident, but when we came to the last piece—a long strip with a little boot jutting south, the brain trust that was Mary and Kevin was collectively blown.

“There are only six pieces!” Mary said, perplexed, looking at Kevin with a smile, as if, simply by knowing that there where a total of seven continents, she where a hybrid of Einstein, Mozart, and Machiavelli wrapped up in one blond package.

I somehow managed to remain calm, “Eurasia.”

Kevin just looked amused, “Eurasia?”

I nodded, remembering the word from a History Channel special on Alexander the Great, who controlled much of Eurasia, “Europe and Asia are connected.

Eurasia.”

“No such thing.”Mary scoffed reaching for the piece.

I picked up the shining laminated piece and prodded it with an angry, stubby finger, “See, this boot. That’s Italy. The bulge there,” I pointed to the western tip, “that’s Spain, or maybe that breaks off and becomes England. The rest is Asia.”

“Thirty seconds left!” Mrs. DePiano crowed.

“Look,” Kevin took my hand which held Eurasia and shook it, probably hoping I’d lose grip, “I’d love to argue with you, but we are running out of time. We’ll call the piece Europe and be done!” I was momentarily dazed, by the contact and his use of the words “love” and “you” in the same sentence (I was that sort of sentimental back then). I almost shut my mouth, but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t let go of laminated Eurasia even though my hands where getting sweaty and the laminated plastic began sticking to my skin. I defiantly removed my hand from his grip, my hand quickly losing its pleasant tingle as anger bubbled to the surface, “I’ll argue with you about anything you want.” I said, hardly believing I managed to remain articulate, “But I know I’m right. Of course if you have a better idea, if you know how Asia suddenly popped into existence after Pangaea drifted apart then, please, educate me.” I believe the proper expression to describe my little speech is a bitch-out.

Now it was his turn to be stunned. I rather enjoyed the look of surprise on his face. I

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looked away from him, wrote Eurasia on a sticky note and attached it just as Mrs. DePiano called, “Time’s up, hands up!”

“Get ready to be wrong, Mumps,” Mary said cruelly mocking my surname, which is Miesel, pronounced like the disease. This was a common enough occurrence that it didn’t ruffle me.

I smiled at her, feeling lovely metaphorical honey drip from my tongue, “I am.”

That ruffled her enough, but what ruffled her more was when Mrs. DePiano popped around to check our work, and poked gold stars on our foreheads (seventh grade and we were still getting gold stars). Mary looked annoyed. Kevin looked surprised again. I don’t think I have had a happier moment in a science class since and it had nothing to do with the fact that Kevin and Mary were wrong (alright, it did have something to do with that), but more to do with the fact that I had spoken up for myself, that I had known I was correct and that I was proven correct by the highest authority in my little red check, check plus, check minus world: the teacher.

“You’re smarter than you look,” Kevin said, clapping a hand on my shoulder and I could tell that he was impressed.

I was mildly insulted by this, but I was right, so I, for the first time, couldn’t care less what Kevin, or any other passably attractive boy had to say to me just then. “I am smart,” I said, shrugging him off of me and smiling cheekily, “and you are a disappointment.”

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MEGAN MURPHY The Pacific The Pacific’s tame waves cradle my torso as I bob up and down within the ocean like a bright apple on Halloween. Beneath the blaring sun, jagged rock formations stem from the shore, and Peruvian Booby birds perch themselves on large stones, as if they were sitting on thrones. They call out to each other, and to me, the sole swimmer within the bay. Light bounces off of aquamarine water and pleasures the fishermen’s boats. Sometimes the ships disappear into the horizon, while inserting industrial heartbeats within the sea.

I tilt my head towards the unblemished sky; rays of summer heat hit my unprotected cheeks. A raft that has been chained to bottom of the seafloor captures my interest. As I swim to it, I envision myself as a bejeweled mermaid who is discovering a forgotten island. I clutch the slimy ladder and step onto the matted boards. Emerald pieces of seaweed wrap around my ankles. I peel the waxy plants off my skin and return them to the ocean. A soft breeze brushes against my navy blue bathing suit; my spine straightens at the sudden coldness.

Yards away from the raft, I watch my family scrawled out on the country club’s oceanfront balcony. My great uncle snores on a lounge chair with his sunhat over his face and a newspaper covering his large stomach. Under an umbrella, my great aunt and my mother sip on flat soda and gossip about relatives. And my father…he reminds me of a Roman sculpture.

He stands at the edge of the balcony; his stance is firm and stoic. He ponders about something serious, something bitter. He is not swimming with me, and this is strange because he is usually the first to dive into the water.

I stand up, and the raft wobbles beneath me. After I count to three, I jump in. Bubbles unfurl and fishes scatter, as salt seeps into my pores and into the cracks of my lips. The sea nurtures me as if I am her infant; she presses liquid kisses against my round belly. I think about my mother, and I search for a recollection of her maternal protection. I struggle to make a connection to her. Perhaps, I felt closest to her when I tumbled within her womb eleven years ago. I rise to the surface for air.

I remain in the water for several hours. The temperature begins to drop, and my stomach grumbles. I do not want to leave. My mother calls out to me from the balcony.

“It’s time to go! Your father’s getting hungry. We’re going out to eat,” she says in Spanish. I continue to tread water.

“Megan Maria!” My mother furrows her eyebrows and places her hand on her hips. Her body language promises consequences. She looks at my father for reinforcement.

“Come on, Meggie. Let’s go,” my father says. I do as he tells me. I make my way to the side of the balcony, where a long ladder is attached to the wall. I begin to climb up, and as I take these steps, an unfamiliar sentiment overwhelms me—the incredible gift of instinct. This

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is the divine moment in which my childhood and womanhood separate, clearing a solid path for a long awaited journey.

A worn towel is draped over my body. I stand on wet tile, overlooking the morose bay. I notice that the water has darkened. The waves sulk, as birds yank fish out of the sea. Layers of sherbet intertwine with a setting, champagne sun. Steady wind compels hidden pearls to come out. I memorize every cluster of coral, every shark’s song. Tomorrow evening will be of explicit significance; I will be among the first to witness the symptoms of my father’s undiagnosed, terminal illness. But before I break into this ambiguous ground, I must be the first to remember where I placed my last fragment of innocence.

TOM ZIMMERMAN

Everglades Crossing

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ELIZABETH POLK The Kingfisher I had nearly finished my first cup of coffee by the time the kingfisher made his rounds this morning. He was, in fact, late getting here at all this year. I had not heard him until late June or early July. But once he returned my mornings were once again full of his rattle as he swept down the river in search of food. I wasn’t aware I was even waiting for him until he failed to show up when I took my place among the wicker on the porch.

I cherish these quiet summer mornings on the front porch of my house that sits along the river in a very small rural town. This June had been the most perfect June I could remember—like the Junes of my childhood that either actually occurred or were maybe lifted from the pages of a lazy summer novel. The days were clear and the breeze was warm. There had been ample spring rains and so the grass was green and the trees and shrubs were dense and lush. I practically lived outdoors among the birds.

July, on the other hand, has been stifling. There were days when the thermometer read 100 degrees or more by late afternoon. Some days the heat was so thick that I could feel it press against my body like excess weight and I wondered if this is what gravity must feel like to the earth. And so the mornings before the heat settled in are my refuge—my time alone with the woodpeckers, chickadees, gold finches and wrens—my time to replenish what my father is stealing from me or, perhaps more accurate, what I am giving to him.

Enduring the slow death of a parent to dementia is devastating. Everything I have come to accept as “normal” in the relationship no longer is. In truth, there is nothing that stays around long enough to accept As soon as I adjust to the way things are, it changes. This happens in a moment. He is there and then he is gone. As I walk the long hallways of the memory unit that substitutes as his home, I can feel my jaws clench and my muscles tense.

Who will be behind that door today? What town will he be living in, the one where he presently resides or the one that is but a vague memory in my childhood? Who will he remember and why does he always remember me? Would this be easier if he did not? Would I feel less responsible for how unhappy he has become?

But, on my porch, there is the kingfisher. I have come to count on him and my heart leaps when I hear his distant chatter begin way down in the pond. He is my familiar, my longest and dearest friend. When he hadn’t arrived until near the end of my first cup of coffee, I felt disproportionally abandoned and then equally as relieved to finally hear him there. This is what I have come to cherish in my life, the friends I have made who require only that I showup and who show-up no matter what condition I might be in.

This is how it goes for me in the mornings on my porch. First, almost always are the chickadees shouting their lengthy dee dee dee’s, alerting their own kind that I am there. Next

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is the kitten-like mew of the goldfinch followed by the racket of the four baby titmice demanding seeds from their mother bird who is frantically trying to break the shell away from the soft flesh of the sunflower seeds so that she might silence their cacophony. The doves are cooing somewhere in the trees sounding as if they are hundreds of miles away and always comfortingly mourning the loss of someone as do I these days. The robins are pulling worms from the earth, the jays are screeching in the treetops, cardinals dart to and fro and the Carolina wren composes a symphony from her perch upon the clothesline. I count on these things and they rarely let me down.

Sometimes when I open the door to my father’s room, he lights up at the sight of me and there is pure joy in his eyes. Sometimes he is angry because I did not arrive by some arbitrary time that only exists in his world. Sometimes he tells me he had dinner with Fred (which he did) and sometimes he tells me he was speaking to his brother (which he was not).

On some days he tells me he has been on a train for three days and has only travelled 25 miles. He is usually frustrated by staff who won’t listen (and they do) and by locked doors which will not yield to his desire to leave this life behind. Some days he misses mom (as do I) and some days he hardly remembers her (and I envy him). I always wish I had picked what was behind another door. Life has become like a morbid game show on TV and the joke seems always to be on me.

This is our new normal—nothing usual—nothing familiar. Nothing I can count on except to be certain not to count on anything. I long for our Kingfisher Days—for the father who always came bearing gifts, loaves of bread or several of some arbitrary sale item from the grocery store, and breeding excitement no matter how long he stayed. I only sometimes know the man behind this door. He is broody and dazed. There is always anger just below his skin. I sit beside him trying to pick away his shell in an attempt to reveal the living flesh beneath. I think of the mother titmouse and know that what I want no longer matters. Dad has become the baby titmouse demanding that I make it better and I scramble at each visit to try to find a way to do just that. This is what is now. This ceaseless abnormal is now the normal. My father exists only in my memory.

It is evening now and the cardinal (always the last visitor to the feeder) has arrived. The kingfisher has maybe one more trip to make along the river before we all retire for the night. I imagine dad is fast asleep—locked in dreams that I hope will give him some peace. Tomorrow I will awake and return to the porch to wait for the kingfisher. There I will find solace and comfort. There I will find the familiar. I will sip my coffee and remember and then gather the courage to face another day as it is now.

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INDEX OF AUTHORS AND ARTISTS Adams, Lauren, 11, 43, 94 Arends, Rebecca, 24-25

Levin, Ben, 41 Liebner, Wiete, 36 Linford, Kyle O.A., 64-65 Lowis, Adam, 17-19

Baker, Ben, 44 Blain, Adella, 134-35 Branca, Barbara Sofia, 20-23 Burke, Joshua, 117-20

Maiza, Mohamed, 54 McMillin, Calvin, 45 Mermelstein, Simon, 61 Miesel, Susanna Z., 139-41 Morris, Erica, 55 Murphy, Megan, 143-43 Murtonen, Jeff, 126-27

Chernyak, Yasha, 19, 40, 79-83, 92, 94, 120, 125 Clarkson, Jim, 124-25 Croake, Edith Morris, 62 Daley, J.J., 42-43 Dove, Abby, 129-30 Drozdowski, Taylor, 63 Duranczyk, Alexandra, 58

Oakes, Olivia, 26-27 Ozog, Radek, 83 Perigard, Minette, 121 Petran, Ruth, 100-103 Pierro, Angela, 76-78 Polk, Elizabeth, 144-45 Pollington, Bret J., 47

ElGhandour, Amr, 50 Frieseman, Mike, front cover, 9, 28, 52-53, 72, 96-97, 99, 131, back cover Frumkin, R.M., 84-85, 103, 127 Fulcher, Jamie, 73-75

Quail, Anthony, 129

Harmon, Jared, 122-23 Hart, Nick, 35 Hawkins, Janet, 13 Hodges, Lonnie, 49 Holt, Kristen, 46 Horne, Kelsey, 29-31

Rheinheimer, Alissa, 60

Joshua, Simon, 128

Tenbusch, Lynne G., 136-38 Thompson, Matt, 104-12

Simmons, Alyssa, 32-34 Simonsen, Kari, 56-57 Slane, Nicholas T., 51 Strauss, Samantha, 37

Kanclerz, Danielle, 89, 96, 98 Karwowski, Danielle, 10-16 Kennedy, Ralph, 86-88 King, Halle, 38-39, 68-71 Knight, Damion Anatole, 132-33

Valenta, George, 90-91 Volpe, Nicholas, 113-16 Winfree, ArkinKnight, 48

Laboda Diane M., 59 Laurant, Nate, 65, 67, 92-93, 95

Ziarnko, Roma, 66 Zimmerman, Tom, 25, 143

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Adams | Arends | Baker | Blain | Branca | Burke | Chernyak | Clarkson | Croake | Daley | Dove | Drozdowski | Duranczyk | ElGhandour | Frieseman | Frumkin | Fulcher | Harmon | Hart | Hawkins | Hodges | Holt | Horne | Joshua | Kanclerz | Karwowski | Kennedy | King | Knight | Laboda | Laurant | Levin | Liebner | Linford | Lowis | Maiza | McMillin | Mermelstein | Miesel | Morris | Murphy | Murtonen Oakes | Ozog | Perigard | Petran | Pierro | Polk | Pollington | Quail | Rheinheimer | Simmons | Simonsen | Slane | Strauss | Tenbusch | Thompson | Valenta | Volpe | Winfree | Ziarnko |Zimmerman Front-cover photo, Maeve, and back-cover photo, Kelly, by Mike Frieseman Maeve’s hair design by Sandy Bambi The Huron River Review | Issue 13 Digital | 2014 | Washtenaw Community College | Ann Arbor MI USA

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