Espresso Fiction: A Collection of Flash Fiction for the Average Joe
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Transcript of Espresso Fiction: A Collection of Flash Fiction for the Average Joe
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Copyright © 2012 by FictionBrigade
This book contains works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely
coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means without permission.
“Impressions of Death and the Afterlife” © 2011 by Kaj Anderson-Bauer“A Flash Look” © 2011 by Roy Buck
“Crow-Boy and the Opposite of Indifference” © 2011 by Brian Cooper“yOWSa” © 2011 by Jacqueline Delibes
“The Future Is So Gay” © 2012 by Shawn Duyette“Mending Wall” © 2011 by Richard Helmling
“Unfamiliar Rooms” © 2011 by Walter Holland“Wanderlust” © 2011 by Danilo Lopez
“Summer Memories” © 2011 by Catherine A. MacKenzie“Chat” © 2011 by Monica Martinez
“A Vist to the Hen House” © 2011 by Debra Mathis“The Purple Hat” © 2011 by Melanie McDonald
“No Beards for Mr. Bailey” © 2012 by Peter McKenna“Whispers in the Night” © 2011 by Melissa Mendelson
“Passing Lane” © 2011 by Brandon Meyers“Wronged by the Circus, Again” and “Saying Goodbye” © 2011 by Ryan Moll
“Sierra Nevada Reverie” and “Daydreams and Hiking” © 2011 by Shelley Muniz“In the South of France We Split Hairs” © 2012 by Brittany Newell
“Shrinking Husband” © 2011 by Vincent Rendoni“There’s Always All That” © 2011 by Allie Rowbottom
“Networking” © 2011 by Jessica Simms“Not Totally Passive” © 2011 by Louise Farmer Smith
“The Study Date” © 2011 by Simone Stedmon“Mouth to Mouth” © 2011 by Clare Tascio
“Notes from an Inner City School” © 2011 by Ling E. Teo“Rainbow Gold” © 2011 by Valerie Tidwell
“Job Interrogation” © 2011 by Lauren Tolbert“The Heartthrob” © 2011 by Gina Wohsldorf
“Thoughts” © 2011 by Meirav Zehavi“pressed between leaves” © 2012 by Eleanor Bennett
“Snap Cut” © 2011 by Christopher Hackbarth“Purple Hat” © 2011 by Sean Lefler
Published by FictionBrigade, LLC.www.fictionbrigade.com
FictionBrigadeTM
Cover design by Clare Tascio978-0-9849834-0-7 (eISBN)
978-0-9849834-1-4 (POD ISBN)
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CONTENTS
Fiction
Impressions of Death and the Afterlife 6
A Flash Look 8
Crow-Boy and the Opposite of Indifference 9
yOWSa 11
The Future is So Gay 13
Mending Wall 17
Unfamiliar Rooms 19
Wanderlust 21
Chat 23
The Purple Hat 26
No Beards for Mr. Bailey 30
Whispers in the Night 34
Passing Lane 36
In the South of France We Split Hairs 37
Shrinking Husband 41
There’s Always All That 45
Networking 47
Kaj Anderson-Bauer
Roy Buck
Brian Cooper
Jacqueline Delibes
Shawn Duyette
Richard Helmling
Walter Holland
Danilo Lopez
Monica Martinez
Melanie McDonald
Peter McKenna
Melissa Mendelson
Brandon Meyers
Brittany Newell
Vincent Rendoni
Allie Rowbottom
Jessica Simms
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Fiction
Art
Haikus
pressed between leaves 65
Snap Cut 66
Purple Hat 27
Eleanor Bennett
Christopher Hackbarth
Sean Lefler
Summer Memories 68
A Visit to the Hen House 69
Wronged by the Circus, Again, Saying Goodbye 70
Sierra Nevada Reverie, Daydreams and Hiking 71
Catherine A. MacKenzie
Debra Mathis
Ryan Moll
Shelley Muniz
Not Totally Passive 48
The Study Date 49
Mouth to Mouth 52
Notes from an Inner City School 54
Rainbow Gold 57
Job Interrogation 58
The Heartthrob 59
Thoughts 61
Louise Farmer Smith
Simone Stedmon
Clare Tascio
Ling E. Teo
Valerie Tidwell
Lauren Tolbert
Gina Wohlsdorf
Meirav Zehavi
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FICTION
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So let’s say you die. Freak accident let’s
say. It happens all the time. Maybe you have a heart
attack. But no—you deserve better. Maybe it’s
summer. You are painting your house. You have
lived in this house for years, you and your
husband—or maybe your wife. You bought the
house years ago, when real estate was cheaper. Now
you are finally
getting that
mortgage paid
off, and it feels
good to have
assets.
It is one of those days in early summer
when yard work still seems like a good idea. The
new grass is coming up, and there is a warm breeze
blowing. So you buy a few of those big buckets of
paint—yellow paint, because you are starting over.
Starting over? Yes, you think. Today is a new day.
You pull the ladder out of the garage and
get to work painting your eaves. “Goodbye blue
trim,” you think, “it will all be yellow now. Yellow
forever.” Pretty soon your arm begins to tire, and
you sort of reach out for the last little bit of eave
over the front door. Then, before you have much
awareness of what is going on, you are falling and
twisting backwards down into the sidewalk.
You don’t feel the impact of the earth. That’s
because your neck is broken. You don’t know you
are dying yet.
All you know
is that you
seem to be
stuck to the
sidewalk. Now you realize that you won’t be
getting up again—“I am dying,” you think, and
your brain starts churning wildly. You begin to
panic. “Oh my God,” you think, “I am going to
die.” But even though your brain is more active in
these last moments than it has been in your entire
life, to a passerby you would already appear dead.
And here it comes. Your mind is like a light bulb
that flares brilliantly and then quietly burns out.
Then you are dead. You were thinking something
Impressions of Death and the AfterlifeFiction
By Kaj Anderson-Bauer
Then you are dead
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as you died, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
There’s a lack of continuity between life
and death—physics is different here, for example,
and that’s just one thing. Getting off the ground
might take you ten years. You might insist that your
back is broken for that long. It’s not broken, but it
takes most people a few years to adjust. It takes a
while to get used to being dead, and in some cases
the post-death depression and the haunting memo-
ries never go away. The afterlife can be a depressing
place, and the adjustment is different for everyone.
It might take fifty years before you can even stand
up again—it might take five hundred. But then,
time is different in the afterlife too. Years will go
whizzing by before you know it. Five hundred years
is pocket change here.
But see, that’s the bad news. There are good
bits of the afterlife as well. Your memories and
your imagination do everything here, so that opens
up a lot of possibilities. You can float in the air for
example, and you can breathe underwater. You also
might meet someone here—someone to love. You
might start a family. It happens all the time. People
have built monuments of infinite height and also
infinite smallness. People have written stories so
long that they take thousands of years to read—but
here we have time to read them. We have time for
everything.
Truth is, lots of people die and go on to
do great things, even with the depression and the
haunting memories. Some people are actually hap-
pier here. Maybe that’s you. Maybe, once you get
up off the ground, you will come to realize that
painting everything yellow wouldn’t have solved
your problems anyway. You might realize that you
really couldn’t have started over on that summer
day, so long ago. You can never start over; you can
only keep going.
Maybe at a certain point, you will forget everything
about the few years you spent living. How long will
it take to forget? It’s hard to say. Maybe, one night,
millions of years from now, you will awake from a
dream. You will be lying in bed next to the person
you love—still asleep beside you. You will look up
at the ceiling of your house, dark in your bedroom.
You will hear the refrigerator turn on downstairs,
and you will wonder if you
ever really lived at all.
Kaj Anderson-Bauer writes fake gossip about his friends and
real letters to Val Kilmer. He has recently published his stories in
Melee Live and Thin Air Magazine. Kaj lives in Arkansas.
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Lincoln’s mirrored self a mismatch of two
differing faces. Different shades as the President stood
in front of the mirror. One of which was many shades
lighter, she noted. The death pallor of the Doppel-
ganger’s ghastliness. An action perceived in advance?
Bilocation, multi-location--when an
individual or object is in two places at the exact
same time: glimpsed shadow of themselves in
fringe vision. No chance of reflection in their
flashed position.
A look-a-like labeled harbinger. An omen.
At times, a ghostly double right by their sides.
*
A French teacher named Sagee, witnessed
by her 32 students, saw their teacher’s autoscopy
mimic and eat with nothing in her hands.
Sagee was ill. Her doppelganger passed
through her. Her parallel double was vibrant. In
broad daylight, there was the bilocate and it was
motionless while Sagee taught, but the doppelganger
mimicked writing while the teacher thought.
*
Lincoln was superstitious, some say an
occultist but really he studied a deeper truth hidden in
plain sight. Old mirrors holding memories of every
reflection captured. The president’s wife saw two
separate distinct Lincolns in their chamber’s mirror.
Lincoln stated, “That I was to be elected a
second term of office, and that the paleness of one
of the faces was an omen that I should not see life
through the last term.”
A deeper truth existed beneath the surface of the
chambered mirror; John Wilkes Booth’s bullet
exiting the front of Lincoln’s paled head.
People have said that if Roy Buck
was a mode of transportation he’d
be an ostrich with a leather saddle.
He was raised in Green and Gold
country (Wisconsin) before living
several years in both Missoula,
MT and “da” UP, off Lake
Superior.
A Flash LookFiction
By Roy Buck
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The people in the mountains have no religion
and the gods walk among them. You can travel
only a few hours from here and if you have a
guide to trace the winding path, find an unnamed
village whose every inhabitant is acquainted with
the crow-boy, and who offer food to him and his
associates. The inhabitants are less than a dozen
families now
and none of the
families large or
healthy. Their
losses give them
reason to be hostile to outsiders, and sometimes
reckless in their hostility. But if you bring weap-
ons, food, and authority, each in quantities enough
to compensate for the villagers superior patience,
guile, and aptitude for suffering, you may be able to
learn something like what’s written here.
The village is unnamed, but if you don’t go up
the mountain and instead go to the library in the
capital, you can ask the librarian to show you the
book that proves the existence of a Monastery on
Standing Mountain, and then of a First Village
Under the Monastery on Standing Mountain and a
Second Village Under the Monastery on Standing
Mountain. And so on. The book is a not a book
of history or geography, but a collection of tax
records, and implies that the Monastery was built
first and that
its presence
attracted the
people who
built houses,
cultivated small, terraced farms, offered a tax in
the form of grain to the inmates of the monastery.
And bred more of their kind. Implausible, but
most of the villagers assent to this story, claiming
also that the Monastery itself was built the week
after the creation of the world, and that it was
abandoned at the time of the founding of the
Empire. According to the tax records however, the
oldest people in Third Village should have heard
stories from their grandfathers about the
Crow-Boy and the Opposite of IndifferenceFiction
By Brian Cooper
Remember to breathe
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Monastery’s construction, and even those in Fourth
Village should have childhood memories of their
own to explain the monks’ departure.
If you do choose to go up the mountain and visit
the Monastery— a significant choice given the
villagers antipathy toward any persons or beings
associated with what they have come to call The
Black Temple— you will find a place that, despite
its reputation and history, stimulates the evaporation
of consciousness that, according to some historians,
was the hallmark tenet of the structure’s builders.
It’s more not-there than there. Not only are the
timbers charred nearly to ash and the foundation
stones interpenetrated with mosses, fungi, and all
their inbred cousins, but the roof is composed of
fog and the floor is sketched from fallen leaves and
your soft, shuffling footsteps. Your shadows are
the last standing idol. The place’s not-thereness
welcomes your not-hereness, and if you linger long
enough to stop asking why you came or how much
longer you’ll wait, or where you’ll go when you
leave, the boy with glossy black hair and the
unfortunate nose will at last get your attention.
He’s been here all along and he’s not really quiet.
Still, this is the first time you’ve apprehended his
offer. He’d enjoy your help in destroying the world
as it is, starting and ending with the crumpled huts
of the First Village. Not need, not want. But enjoy.
And you’ll also enjoy it too in parts, sometimes the
thrill of power, sometimes the unthrill of
powerlessness. Swords. Fire. Croaks the crow-boy.
Remember to breathe. Destroy? Without malice,
and without mercy. And yet with some other
opposite to indifference.
Shouldn’t that be difference? Croaks the crow-boy.
Brian gave up playing Dungeons & Dragons soon after he
got married and gave up writing fiction soon after he started
law school. Today, he has three sons and he works in the
general counsel’s office of a federal agency. And so, his very
cool and supportive wife says, if he wants to play games and
write stories, who’s going to say that he shouldn’t?
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US HIGHWAY 46, New Jersey – Seth Grantberg
has staged a defiant occupation of the garage attached
to his mother’s home in Parsippany, New Jersey. A
self-described “former Partner at commodities and
derivatives brokerage house MF Global,” Mr.
Grantberg, 42, readily granted an interview. MF
Global, until recently headed by ex-New Jersey
Governor Jon Corzine, is currently under federal
investigation for hundreds of millions of dollars in
missing money.
Mr. Grantberg, wearing a European-cut suit and
vibrant power tie, appeared exhausted as he lay on a
cot in the unheated garage. He noted that his current
diet includes root vegetables, a jar of Nescafé and
rain water. The former broker clutched a Cipriani
Wall Street lunch menu to his chest.
An inquiry about why he remains in his mother’s
garage and the whereabouts of his wife, friends and
home yielded a glacial silence. After several minutes,
Mr. Grantberg acknowledged, “They’re gone.”
In an attempt to use the bathroom, Mr. Grantberg
repeatedly banged on the door separating the garage
and main house, a door apparently bolted from the
inside by his mother Carolina Grantberg, 63. From
the kitchen, a muffled female voice answered, “You
want to use the amenities? Pay us back for your
education. Thank us for decades of sacrifice. Or
clean the bathroom for once since 2008, how’s
that?”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Mr. Grantberg said
as he raised the garage door and squatted behind
a hedge. Moments later he returned, zipping his
trousers. “A little customer money gets diverted
and now I’ve been cut off,” he said, and then yelled
towards the kitchen, “I’m pissed.”
Asked to define what he’s demonstrating against
and what his specific demands are, Mr. Grantberg
pointed to a protest sign painted with the words
“A Return to Flowing, Beautiful Excess!” In the
yOWSaFiction
By Jacqueline Delibes
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driveway, he marched alone in a circle for hours to
wave the sign at passing vehicles.
“Let me back in – I’m proud to be part of the
1%,” he shouted at a stray dog.
Incredibly, Mr. Grantberg claimed to be completely
unaware of the Occupy Wall Street movement that
has captured worldwide media attention. “Really?”
He looked away and fanned himself with a pile
of stock certificates. “I hope they get what they
‘deserve.’”
“Are you interested in futures by any chance?” said
Mr. Grantberg, looking refreshed by the question.
“The future?” asked the reporter for clarification.
“Not the future. Futures.”
Carolina Grantberg answered a reporter’s knock at the
main entrance. The living room was decorated with
stylish mid-century furniture accented by cheerful
family photos.
“Did Seth convince you he was a Partner at MF
Global?” asked Mrs. Grantberg. “He was fired
from a secretarial job at a dojo in 2008.”
She added, “He’ll join us for dinner, like he does
every night. Tonight it’s roast chicken, glazed carrots.
Pudding.”
“Seth is in a time-out at the moment. Of course
he uses the bathroom.”
Mrs. Grantberg shouted towards the garage door,
“But not when he’s been so disrespectful.”
Mr. Grantberg vigorously denied each of his mother’s
allegations of misconduct. “We acted perfectly within
SEC regulations. That’s all I’m permitted to say
because of the investigation.” He lit a cigar. “Caveat
emptor.”
Jacqueline Delibes writes humor – personal essays, flash fiction
and short video scripts. Her background includes film editing,
film production and marketing. She has a personal interest in
transformational healing. Find her at www.jacquelinedelibes.com.
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Michael clung desperately to the memory
of his best days. His apartment looked much like
his dorm room even though he graduated in 2026.
Four years later, he stood in what he liked to refer
to as his “Snatchelor Pad,” and nearly cried as he
looked at the photos of his college days.
He never even talked to his closest friend
anymore. Steve, like the rest of the “Duche Pixels,”
grew up, forgot about the band, and even old friends.
Since his friends had moved on, gotten great jobs,
money, and families, Mike’s decline had been quick
and violent.
The toll drugs and alcohol took on his liver
turned him into a madman. He was not psychotic
and somewhere still had a heart of gold, but years
of booze, nicotine, and processed food devoured
him, turning him mean and angry. His life was a
rage of heavy energy, attracting bad situations,
people, and occasionally animals, all which appeared
to be out to harm him.
Friendless, with no money and a bloated liver,
Michael, dumbfounded, found that he was crying.
He fell and his crushed will would not even
outstretch his arms to break the descent. His right
shoulder hit the wall and the weight of his distended
body easily pushed through the thick sheetrock.
Mikey’s feet slipped and he slid down, decimating
what remained of the wall.
He sobbed violently with his eyes wide open
and unblinking. Sheetrock dust merged with his tears
and created a depressing plaster. He cried himself
into a strange sleep but his eyes remained open.
Some hours later he awoke to the sound of his cell
phone. He painfully broke away dried plaster from
his dehydrated eyes. Sitting against the wall, partially
blind, Mikey considered never eating, or drinking, or
moving, ever again.
Vision reluctantly returned. He looked down
at his cell phone and saw the only thing that could
have helped him remember what hope felt like: Steve.
It took Mikey three days to get up the courage
to return Steve’s call. He was excited for the first time in
years. Nervously feeding on old dried cheese from the
myriad pizza boxes that made up most of his furniture,
The Future Is So GayFiction
By Shawn Duyette
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he built up enough energy after devouring his card
table, ottoman and T.V. stand to make the call. “Steve-
O! How the hell are ya fucker?”
Steve cringed after the opening line and
immediately regretted his decision to contact Mike.
His wife had insisted he at least check to ensure
that Mikey was alive.
Steve always did what Myra recommended.
“He might have been an ass the entire time we
knew him in college, but he was our ass,” Myra said.
Steve’s mind reeled when Myra suggested
he call. In his mind, she was the main reason he
didn’t call. “Creepy-eyed Mike,” would leer and
mentally undress Myra from his perpetual perch of
insobriety. He was the guy who told Steve how hot
Myra was, and joked that if Steve died, Myra would
be well looked after…in bed.
Steve felt bad for Mike, but was scared of
him. Steve was always a shy person and freaked
out the first day of school when this big mindless
idiot approached him and declared as loud as his
booming voice would project to the entire dining
hall, “This little fucking nerd is my new best friend.
He’s gonna help me graduate from this hell-hole so
nobody fuck with him…in fact, don’t even talk to
him! Understood!”
Years passed and Steve proved Mikey right.
He did all but show up and take Mike’s tests for
him. Over time, Mike’s gentle bullying made Steve
a bit tougher. Steve realized this, thanked Mike
internally, and after graduating, thought they would
part ways. Mostly he was right, but even though he
didn’t call, text, or email, Mike still showed up on
occasion without notice.
This was the longest hiatus yet and Steve
coyly admitted to Myra he was worried. She skillfully
pointed out the moral and spiritual obligation Steve
had for his karmic buddy. Though he didn’t believe
in karma, he believed in his wife. It took him three
days to build up the courage to call.
“I am ok Mikey, thanks. How are you doing
buddy?” Mikey was stupid by any measure, but was
not inept. He could hear the false concern in Stevie’s
voice and it was too much. He burst into tears and
wept aloud.
At first, Steve had no idea what sort of joke
Mike was playing. “C’mon Mike, I called to say hi. Can
you act mature at least once in your life?” The sobbing
continued and Steve felt his gut drop when he realized
what was happening. “Mike man, are you ok?”
After several minutes…a whimper. “No.”
The next morning, Mike awoke with the
ugliest, most dour look upon his mug. But for the
first time in years he was happy. He opened the
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door and went outside to hail a taxi.
Myra came to the room to wake Steve. He
lay there awake with his back turned. “Honey, you’ve
been sleeping a long time.” Steve’s eyes were wide
and clear as he turned to Myra. He said to her, “Baby,
I invited Mike to stay with us for a week or so.”
It took the correct and truthful answers to
dozens of questions to convince his wife he was
not mad. After she was satisfied he did the right
thing, she congratulated him for his courage, then
called her mother to tell her she and the kids were
coming to visit.
“A fucking six-pack!”
Steve thought he should have some beer for
his friend’s arrival. He genuinely thought that six
was too many. But after realizing the advanced state
of Mikey’s disease, he knew that six was too many.
“You know, I actually don’t think you
should be drinking at all buddy.”
“Don’t buddy me you little bitch! Get me a
bottle opener…now! Hahaha, just kidding chump.
Where are we going to party tonight?”
“Listen, I flew you here so you could relax
and be with a friend. Let’s not turn this into a week
of debauchery.”
“Dude, you’re killing my buzz!”
“C’mon man, I’m serious.”
“Fine. I’ll chill, ok? Now let’s get trashed. I’m
kidding…fuck. Get that worried look off your face.”
Before they went out, Steve admonished Mike
about the city. He told Mike it was not like Boston. San
Francisco had become so populated with aggressive
lesbian women, the men were threatened and
generally scared to go anywhere alone, and had learned
to become extremely polite and introspective when in
public. If so much as a wayward glance landed in the
direction of some groups of women in many parts of
the city, that man would be beaten and may not return
home. In reality, the women of the city became the
men, and the men like women.
That night, after drinking too much, the
two stumbled from the bar. Steve, more inebriated
than he intended, forgot entirely where they were
and the etiquette required for peaceful passage back
to the Bart station.
He was laughing and feeling bolstered by
the presence of his enormous friend when he
heard her.
“What the hell are you two going on about?”
He had seen her and her gang before outside
the Bart station. The last time he did, she was
pummeling a homeless man who dared asked her for
change. The man was hospitalized. Although many
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people saw what transpired, no one dared come
forward. If someone did, it was unlikely any of the
many lesbians that made up the corrupt police force
would even make an arrest.
“Why don’t you two little fuckers hand over
your wallets, and get the hell out of here.”
Mike was outraged but not at the woman;
he thought she was cute, even if she was a bitch.
What pissed him off was Steve. That pussy actually
handed over his wallet and said thank you.
“Steve, what the fuck are you are doing?”
“Dude, just do what she says.”
To which she replied, “Yeah dick dude, do
what she says.”
Mike yelled, “Bitch, shut the fuck up before
I slap you!”
Mike had done it now. A hundred and
one lesbians seemed to come out of nowhere and
descend upon the two behind a wave of thrown
bottles and scrap metal.
“Just hold down the dork. It’s the fat one
that called me a bitch.”
Mikey fought hard and knocked down at
least seven lesbians with his huge fists. Steve was
dragged over against a parked car and made to
watch the beating of his “fat-ass friend.”
After they were done pummeling Mikey,
they dragged his lifeless body up and over the Bart
railing, and discarded him down three stories into
the desolate station.
No one ever questioned the fact that some
drunk was found dead with so many contusions.
And Steven told no one but Myra.
Shawn Duyette is an
avid yoga practitioner
and the creator/author
of MotoYoga. The main
focus of his writing orbits
around the spheres of
self-help, exercise, health
& wellness, nutrition,
meditation, adventure and spirituality.
Shawn attended medical school and focused on Chinese,
holistic and integrative medicine. While in school, Shawn discovered
a penchant and a gift for massage and bodywork. He continues his
healing work today with a bent toward experiential enlightenment
and strives to assist others to discover their true strengths and
passion through exercise, adventure and creative storytelling.
Shawn Michael Duyette is an entrepreneurial
minded Sagittarian and a master of many trades. His wife
calls him a renaissance man. He is an author, yogi, martial
artist, and he can cook a gourmet meal. Shawn loves the
outdoors and meditation. He is a consummate creative type
who loves to invent and improve the world for all.
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Mending WallFiction
By Richard Helmling
When I pull up, there’s a crane by my
neighbor’s house.
This is out of the ordinary.
“What’s up, Mitch?” I ask, on account of
his name being Mitch.
“Solar panels.”
“Going green?”
“Self-sustaining. Got a tank up top for rain
collection, too.”
“Rain collection?”
“You watch the news?”
“You’re not worried about that 2012 thing,
are you?”
“I don’t know if we’ll make it that long.”
“Huh?”
“Watch the news. Take the bailout stuff.”
“The bailout?”
“You ever balance your checkbook, Davis?”
he asks, on account of my name being Davis.
“Not really. The bank sends me a
statement online, so—”
“Figured. Those guys who worked up the
bailout must not have ever balanced a checkbook,
either. How much debt you have?”
“Not too much. We just have a couple
grand.”
“Chump.”
“What?”
“Not your stupid credit cards. How much
you owe on that Acura, that Toyota, on your
damned house?”
“Shit, I don’t know.”
“Two hundred, at least.”
“I guess.”
“Now, think brother, the country’s in the hole
about eleven trillion now, and Wall Street and this
entire backward financial system can only live with
trillion-dollar infusions to keep alive a capitalist system
founded on the assumption of unlimited growth of
capital. What’s the problem with that, Davis?”
“Um—”
“Unlimited growth is impossible. Sooner
or later, there will be no new markets and you
know what happens then?”
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“A depression?”
“Bullshit. The whole world is linked into
one economy that’s defended by a bloated,
over-spent military force—ours—all of which is
dependent on a finite energy source. It won’t be any
fucking depression. It’ll be a goddamned dark age.
You know who does balance their checkbooks?”
“My wife’s pretty good about hers.”
“The Saudis. You know what they’re doing
right now?”
“Balancing checkbooks?”
“Drilling offshore. They’re sitting on one-
fourth of the world’s oil in the dirt and they’re drill-
ing offshore. How come?”
“Apparently it’s got something to do with
their checkbooks.”
“They know the shit’s running out, man.
They’re gonna grab every damned drop they can
so they can keep enjoying their Mercedes Benzes
and their harems with seventy virgins for as long as
they can.”
“I’m thinking they’re not virgins anymore
once they’re in the harems, no?”
“I’m just saying, they’ve got a plan.”
“And so do you?”
“I’ve stockpiled a life-time supply of am-
munition and water purification tablets—and toilet
paper; I’m not an animal. I’ve got two tiers to this
house. Got enough space for gardening on the
second to grow essentials. Solar and wind on the
top to keep the refrigerator and the perimeter lights
going.”
“Perimeter lights?”
“You think other people aren’t going to
see my little fortress here? You think they’re not
going to want to come in, help themselves to my
food, my daughters, etc. I’ve thought it all through.
Corner house, wide back yard, got room. From
the roof, with a good rifle, I can pick off anybody
comes within fifty feet.”
“Mitch, my house is closer than that.”
“Yeah, sorry, bud. When the shit hits
the fan, I figure I’ll have to raze your place to the
ground.”
Richard Helmling
lives with his wife and
two children in El
Paso, Texas. He has
an MFA in Creative
Writing from the
University of Texas
at El Paso. His professional writing has been published
in English in Texas and his fiction has been published
in the Rio Grande Review.
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Anna in the morning searches an unfamiliar room
wondering if she really said “Where’d my sock
go?” or just thought it. A mess that’s yours isn’t a
mess. The room’s not hers; neither is he. The left
sock is missing, and it does matter which - it has
little asymmetrical toes and everything. He’d called
it ‘adorable’ and sort of tugged it from her foot
slowly,
laughing, eyes
never leaving
hers.
Managing not
to spill the wine. Last night. This is the price, she
thinks or maybe says. Somehow this missing sock
will come back to haunt me. He had the grace or
wit not to mention his wife’s name. Anna’s too
preoccupied with the sock, now, to be grateful.
Maybe later.
Bella in the morning stretches sore muscles and
arches her back to look out over the upside down
city. Rain whispers at the window, hush, hush. Not
a chance. “Well then,” she says, laughing. The toilet
flushes. His callused heels gracelessly bang the tiles.
“The first day of the universe started with a Big
Bang,” she calls out. The bathroom door muffles
his response. “No pressure!” she calls out. “What?”
he says. Bella rolls her eyes, looks at her wrists,
her arms. Little asymmetrical bruises. He’s a lefty,
she thinks.
“Did you say
something?”
he says as he
enters,
flopping around cheerfully. “Not every Bang has
to be Big,” she says. He scratches himself, says, “Is
that a joke?” “Never you mind,” Bella says. She
laughs again, points to a spot on the bed beside
her. She sparkles.
Carmen in the morning doesn’t feel like dealing
with Mama but she has to go home. She knows.
Mama will let the silence settle in a little first.
“Emilio doesn’t know what you do at night,”
Unfamiliar RoomsFiction
By Walter Holland
He had the grace or wit not to mention his wife’s name
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she’ll say. “Thank heavens.” Of course he doesn’t
know, Carmen thinks, it’s worse that way. He
feels she’s gone without knowing it. He doesn’t
know yet that those scary feelings are called
Questions. Bad enough facing Mama’s pursed
lips and disapproval. Emilio loves her even when
she’s...A kettle hisses, whistles. Katherine’s in
the next room making breakfast. Goal-oriented.
Carmen doesn’t want to say: “Cata, listen.” She
won’t say “I have a little boy.” Or “I can’t walk
into my baby’s nursery again smelling like a
strange woman.” She won’t, she won’t, yet she
will.
Debby in the morning looks right and then down,
whoa, he’s naked, then left and down, OK also
naked, then up at the ceiling and down at herself,
naked, check, iiiinteresting, and hands and arms
are just everywhere. Hers and everyone else’s.
The stereo was on all night: blue jazz,
bedroom music. Debby wriggles, remembers,
opens her eyes wide. WELL then. Debby thinks:
Am I a perv now? A brand new smile comes,
suddenly, and she thinks: I don’t care. She reaches
over, squeezes somebody’s something-or-other,
hears a contented sigh. Debby surprises herself.
Thank heavens.
Emmie in the morning awakens alone
remembering, like every morning, and doesn’t start
crying so much as pick up where she last left off.
Maybe she’ll sleep away the day, die, dissolve,
disappear - or maybe awaken, blessedly, finally. One
or another. But probably not. Probably she’ll just
have to live one more day, by habit if not choice.
The room was theirs but it’s just hers now.
Everything is an intrusion. Nothing is familiar.
Emmie says, I have nowhere else to go.
Debby says, I guess I’m going crazy.
Carmen says, I need to go. No, now.
Bella says, I’d go again, you?
Anna in the morning says, Where’d my sock go?
Walter Holland is a
full-time dad and part-
time writer/editor from
Cambridge MA. He
has never published a
work of fiction.
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WanderlustFiction
By Danilo Lopez
“The journey, not the destination, becomes the source of
wonder”
Lorena McKennit, “The Mask and Mirror”
At the Hotel du Lys, 23 Rue Serpente, Paris,
France, it wasn’t her nipple that froze in the garden,
but the inconstancy that served them well. The rest,
adorned with festoons and clairvoyant silk roses,
was a monument to passing loves, boring laughs.
No cats could be mastered, no clogs to ride. Only
her expectant smile, eternally asking “how much
longer?”
At the Hotel Endri, Rs. Vaso Pasha 27,
Tirana, Albania, she realized that in the beginning
the heart rules over the head. She didn’t care much
about not seeing him but once in a while. She didn’t
care about him not answering her calls. So many
endless nights she cried until dawn waiting for the
phone to ring, in vain. Right before sunrise she
would then slowly rise, shower, get pretty for him,
drop off Brian at school, and head off to the of-
fice. At lunch they would have long conversations.
After work, when he was able to, he would stop by
her house. She would try to penetrate the heart and
mind of that quiet man, so loved, so lonely, in vain.
She, tired of being closed, would open to him as
naturally as water and salt. He, tired of being open,
would close to her as naturally as dust and air.
At the Hotel Carpati, Str Matei Millo 16,
Bucharest, Romania, she discovered that in the
legend of Dracul, the reincarnation of the love
of his wife kills him in order to reach eternal
salvation. It was not the destiny of the two souls
to sail together and be saved in pairs. Each soul
had to reach its own salvation alone. From this
stand point, she concluded, soulmates didn’t
exist in eternity (souls are timeless) but in brief
chosen associations formed in the temporal
plane. So, in the end, she would sail into
infinity by herself. She learned that in eternity
the concepts of loneliness and separation didn’t
apply to a soul freed from a body: her soul was
interconnected to all others, and all others were
connected to the Cosmic Mind.
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On the way back from Sevastopol to
Odessa, she crossed the Black Sea. Standing at the
veranda on starboard, looking into the dark blue
waters and the misty coastline in the horizon, she
slowly opened her purse, pulled out a packet of
Virginia Slims, took one with expert fingers, and
lit it with her left hand. She inhaled deeply as if
trying to trap in her lungs the countless memories
that came to supplant reality, the mosaic of happy
moments gone so many years ago.
But it was at Kadriog Park in Tallin’s Old
Town, Estonia, where she convinced herself—in
mind and heart—that having him incompletely
was more painful than not having him at all. She
decided to peel off one by one the conquest
poems read in bed, the postcards received from
unknown places, the memories flooding her mind,
the punctual flowers on each of her birthdays, the
infinite nights embracing nothingness, the
painful unreturned messages, the absent phone
calls, the mad lovemaking, the Orvietto Classic
drunk by the terrace, the warm baths together, the
odious unstoppable tears, the flaring disco dances,
the Mother’s Day unwrapped gifts, the unrealized
Christmases. Until she stopped needing him.
The box burned for several minutes. The
flames, red like the awnings in Riga’s Central
Market and yellow like the dying sun in Vilnius,
Lithuania, illuminated the back patio with large
dancing shadows. The smoke became thick like the
walls of old castles in Dubrovnik, Croatia, and then
the ashes, gray like the skies of Oslo in mid-winter,
were swept by clear rains and gentle winds.
Danilo Lopez (Nicaragua, 1954) immigrated to the United
States in 1985. An architect by training, he has published
several poetry collections in English and Spanish and three
anthologies with funding from the Miami-Dade County
Cultural Affairs Council, the latest being Dona Nobis
Pacem. His work has appeared in many printed literary
magazines (Hayden’s Ferry Review, BorderSenses, etc.) and
on-line (Baqueana, Loch Raven review, etc). He has ap-
peared in poetry anthologies from the United States, Spain,
Argentina, and Nicaragua. He is a candidate to the MFA
at the University of Texas, El Paso.
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ChatFiction
By Monica Martinez
BIANCA
She raised her glass, swirled the remaining
ice and wordlessly called the bartender. He retrieved
the Jack Daniels and mixed her a second drink. Bianca
retrieved her netbook from her silver and black Coach
Mia tote. She logged into her email, moving her hands
along the keyboard and mouse pad without taking her
eyes off the TV. The Weather Channel broadcasted
the storm would clear before the night was over. Her
eyes turned to her computer screen. The Yahoo
messenger indicated Ada was online.
As Bianca debated chatting with her little
sister, a new email appeared on her screen. She
opened up the note from her boss:
Bianca,
Hope you have a safe flight. To answer
your questions. The Austin branch of the
law firm has a position open for associate
but it is a lateral move. You heard right,
Carl is retiring. We will have an opening for
partner. Off the record…You’ve got a
shot. See you in a few days.
— Albert
ADA
The coffee mug from this morning, the water
from lunch, and the lunch itself sat untouched. Dad’s
Colts were playing the Broncos and his eyes never left
the TV. Ada had retrieved her laptop from her room.
Having no interest in the game, she tabbed between
Facebook and Yahoo. Waiting for her was an email
from Julliard, the subject: New Student Orientation.
Her eyes darted at her father, then back to her email.
She left it unopened.
It had been sixteen minutes since Ada
logged on and she knew Bianca had seen her. Ada
clicked the chat. She typed, CALLED THE AIRLINE.
DAD’S BEEN WONDERING WHERE YOU ARE.
BIANCA
The chime of the chat window pulled
Bianca’s eyes off the Weather Channel. She rolled
her eyes at her sister’s comment. With her drink in
one hand, Bianca’s fingers searched for the letters.
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S,N,O,W...
ADA
The chime of the chat window let Ada know
she had received a response. Bianca had written,
SNOWED IN.
THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR LIVING
IN NEW YORK. NEVER SNOWS IN TEXAS, Ada
responded to her older sister’s message. She
looked at her dad. The game was on commercial
break. “Papa. Why don’t you eat something?” He
didn’t even look at her when she spoke to him.
She looked back at her computer screen. Bianca
didn’t respond.
BIANCA
Taking a long slow sip of her drink, she
wondered how to answer. Bianca wrote, YOU DO
KNOW THAT JULLIARD IS HERE IN NY NOT IN
TEXAS, RIGHT? It took a few minutes for the chat
window to chime again but when it did Bianca did
not like what it read: DON’T THINK THERE WILL
BE ANY JULLIARD FOR ME. Bianca set her Jack and
coke down and typed, ADA, DON’T DO THAT TO
YOURSELF.
ADA
Ada stared at the words her sister sent.
Yes, because this was Ada’s choice. Because she
was doing this to herself. There was only one way
she could still go to Julliard. YOU’RE COMING
HOME THEN?, she typed to her big sister. Bianca
responded with the same response she’d been
giving for days, FOR THE FUNERAL AND THEN
BACK TO WORK. Ada typed what she’d been
asking for days, AND DAD?
BIANCA
Bianca picked up her glass and took
another sip. So what would they do with their
father now? I DON’T KNOW, Bianca typed.
WE NEED TO KNOW, Ada responded.
I’VE GOT A SHOT AT PARTNER, Bianca
typed.
I’VE GOT A SHOT AT SINGING MADAME
BUTTERFLY AT THE MET SOME DAY, replied Ada.
After the capitalized “WE” that Ada had
wrote, the “I’ve” both sister had started their sentences
with looked so selfish.
ADA
She wrote to Bianca, EVEN WITH THE
NURSE MOM HAD TROUBLE WITH DAD. WE NEED
TO DO IT TOGETHER.
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YOU COULD GO TO SCHOOL AT NIGHT,
Bianca wrote. A small consolation prize for the girl
who had been accepted with a full scholarship to
Julliard.
Ada responded, AND YOU COULD TRANSFER.
I CAN MANAGE UNTIL THEN.
BIANCA
Transferring to the Austin branch was an
option Bianca wanted to avoid. She spun around to
look at the airline board. Her flight was still marked
as delayed.
WE’RE BOARDING. WE’LL TALK MORE
WHEN I GET THERE, she typed.
Bianca changed her status to invisible so
her sister wouldn’t know she was still online. She
opened Albert’s email and hit reply. In an email to
her boss Bianca wrote:
Albert,
Thank you for your kind words but I have
to take the transfer. My dad had a stroke
and my sister can’t care for him alone now
that our mother has passed away. I will make
the request official when I get back from the
funeral.
— Bianca
ADA
Bianca Grayer has signed off, appeared on
Ada’s screen. Ada opened a blank word document.
In it she wrote:
To Whom It May Concern,
I regret to inform you that I will not be able
to accept the full scholarship to your fine
establishment this fall...
Monica Vanessa Martinez is a student at the University
of Texas-El Paso where she is working towards her MFA
in creative writing. She lives and works in Austin, Texas.
When she is not writing she enjoys training for half-
marathons, scrapbooking and cooking.
26
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Alice’s mother enjoyed going out with Dr.
Dexter, who was funny and handsome and owned a
sailboat. He had invited both of them to sail with him
today. Alice’s mother volunteered to bring the picnic
lunch. They met him at the lake, where his boat was
docked. The boat, moored in its slip, looked huge to
Alice. Black stenciled letters proclaimed it The Siren.
Its polished
wood gleamed
in the sun.
Dr.
Dexter emitted a
wolf whistle of
delight when Alice’s mother stepped out of the car.
Her mother, looking pleased, said, “Oh, David,” in a
teasing voice. She had bought new swimsuit covers,
“sailing togs” she called them, for herself and Alice,
hers in red terry cloth and Alice’s in yellow with white
daisies. She also had bought two straw hats, one
yellow and one purple.
Alice had been delighted with the purple hat,
the color being her all-time favorite. But right when
they were leaving the house that morning, her mother
paused in front of the entry mirror, set down the
picnic basket, examined her reflection, and said,
“Here, trade hats with me.” She swept the yellow hat
off her head and held it out toward Alice. Alice
understood then the purple one wasn’t hers really, but
a spare, in case her mother changed her mind. Alice
had to wear
the yellow one
instead.
Now Dr.
Dexter helped
them climb aboard. He kissed Alice’s mother on the
cheek, a playful kiss, as he took the basket and made
sure she got across the swath of water between the
walkway and the boat. Then he turned back to help
Alice.
“Come aboard here, matey,” Dr. Dexter said
in a jovial voice a little louder than necessary, perhaps,
for just between the three of them, and extended a
hand to help her. His blue eyes crinkled at the
corners. His hands looked clean and rare. Alice knew
The Purple HatFiction
By Melanie McDonald
Come aboard here, matey
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she should say something joking back to him. Her
mother wanted her to say something funny and
bright, make a good impression, but she couldn’t.
Instead, she just smiled.
Dr. Dexter had no children of his own.
Earlier that morning, Alice had received a lecture from
her mother on how to behave during this outing so as
not to annoy him. She was to be on her best behavior,
“and no sitting with your nose in a book like the
Queen of Sheba,” her mother said. The fact that
they got new clothes for sailing let Alice know how
much it meant for her mother that Alice had been
invited, too. They had to be frugal, her mother was
always saying, because they had a lot less money
now than when they still lived with Dad.
Her mother and her women friends often told
each other how single men didn’t want women with
baggage. Alice, hearing this, always envisioned a small
gray suitcase abandoned on a train platform. She also
understood that undesirable baggage was anything
hampering an otherwise smooth, pleasurable trip
toward some much-anticipated destination. At twelve,
Alice probably knew a little more about her mother’s
friends, their dating lives, than she should. The Bible
said always honor thy father and mother but it seemed
grown-ups weren’t required to honor kids back.
Dr. Dexter hopped around the ship’s deck,
loosening some ropes and tightening others, raised
the sails, and eased The Siren out of its slip. From
time to time, no matter what he was doing, he
glanced over at Alice’s mother. Alice understood.
Everyone loves to look at beauty, heads swiveling
like flowers on their stalks toward the sun. Water
lapped at the sides of the boat like dogs’ tongues.
Alice sat alongside one rail, leaning over as far
as she dared to peer at the water. She watched the lacy
green froth of the wake trailing along behind them,
and imagined mermaids cavorting below. She thought
Art by Sean Lefler
28
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it might be fun to be a mermaid, except she didn’t
care much for eating fish. She could smell the lake fish
in the tangy air, but couldn’t see any of them.
Alice’s mother let out a sudden whooping
laugh, and Alice turned and looked in time to see the
purple hat, caught by a renegade breeze which had
snatched it
from her
mother’s
head, sail-
ing out
into the lake, touching down a few yards from what
Dr. Dexter called the port side. The hat landed upside
down, taking on water at one edge of its brim.
“We can swing around and pick it up, Elaine,” Dr.
Dexter said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind-
chopped water. His topsiders had darkened with spray.
“Oh, no, David,” Alice’s mother said. “It’s just
a cheap sun hat. Don’t worry about it at all—look, it’s
already sinking.” She laughed, a merry trilling sound
meant to show she was not concerned. The dim shape
of the hat, now like a cup inverted on a saucer, could
still be seen sifting its slow way toward the bottom.
“Mom,” Alice said, “maybe we could get back
there before it—”
“No,” her mother said, cutting her off. A
threat hummed in her voice, beneath the word, like the
warning of a rattlesnake. Alice wondered if Dr. Dexter
heard it, too. He seemed to be studying the main sail.
“But, Mom—”
“Alice. Sit down,” her mother said, and gave
her a look that froze her in place. At that moment,
her mother was wishing her away, as if Alice could
vanish, like the hat
or a piece of lost
luggage.
The look
passed, but Alice
stayed frozen for some time, miserable under the
hateful yellow hat, the hat that survived. Why
couldn’t the wind have taken it instead?
At noon, they skimmed into a quiet cove,
unpacked the hamper and ate the lunch her mother
had prepared, the sandwiches of expensive deli meats
and cheeses, a treat Alice had been looking forward to,
dry as brick dust in her mouth.
She wished she had not kept her mother’s
secret. She wished she had shouted, “That’s my hat.”
Would Dr. Dexter still have offered to turn the boat
around? She didn’t know. She did know that in the car,
later, her mother would promise, by way of apology,
to buy another; an apology which would arrive too
late, and would be a lie—there wasn’t the money.
Still picturing the purple hat, Alice stood up
The Bible said always honor thy father and mother
but it seemed grown-ups weren’t
required to honor kids back
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and leaned over the rail, staring down into the churning
water, and imagined her mermaid self, silent, pale-faced,
and clutching a small suitcase, sinking away to join it
beneath the waves.
Melanie McDonald has an MFA in fiction from the University
of Arkansas. She received a Hawthornden Fellowship, with a
residency in Scotland, for her debut novel Eromenos, published
March 2011. Her work has appeared in New York Stories,
Fugue, Indigenous Fiction, and other journals. She has
continued to study writing at Vermont Studio Center, NUI
Galway, and at workshops in New York City; Squaw Valley;
NapaValley, and WICE Paris, taught by C. Michael Curtis,
senior fiction editor for The Atlantic Monthly. She also spent
some time in Italy while at work on Eromenos, recently named
a finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards, historical
fiction division.
Sean Lefler is an artist and animator based in Southern
California. He graduated from Cal State Fullerton where he
contributed a weekly comic to the school newspaper. Today, Sean
spends his days facing the real world and all the challenges life can
throw at him. Taking hit after hit, Sean produces work
independently as well as pursues other endeavors such as stand-up
comedy and improv.
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1968 was just loaded with drama. Tet
offensive, King and Kennedy assassinations, Paris
uprising, Chicago uprising, Nixon elected. I knew
these things were going on, but like most boys was
preoccupied with girls and trying to look cool. Over
the summer I let my hair grow and sprouted
sideburns. Returning to school I had an impressive
set of whiskers for 15. Guys pointed them out; so
did some girls. The dress code had lightened up that
year. Girls could wear pants, boys could grow their
hair past the neckline; they could even grow
moustaches, if possible. Besides this Jewish gorilla
who grew a beard in one week just to prove he could
(and then shaved it, Dean’s orders), I was the only
kid in my class with anything noticeable. I was proud,
even if my sideburns were not a chick magnet.
Coolness involves more than looks. Some guys
achieve it through attire, some through indifference,
some through idiosyncrasy. Not me. I still wore white
tennis shoes and rode my bicycle to school, didn’t
know any better, until I heard snickers and stopped,
for I was not too cool to care. Neither was I strange
enough to be the iconic oddball (like Jake, a guy with
wire rim specs, wire curled hair and a lunatic grin,
who got around by bouncing, jumping down the hall
or across the quad, and chanting what sounded like
math formulae).
I just wanted to be cool in the simplest sense
— to belong to something, to have a gang, a niche.
My freshman PE coach, Mr. Frank, had told me
I ought to go out for track. Ol’ Riordan the Un-
coordinated — two left feet and they’re both flat,
throws like a girl, can only dribble with his mouth
— surprised the coach, the class, and himself with
his speed, even if he did run like a ruptured duck.
In the second week of school, I got brave enough
to venture into that noisy, towel-snapping, territorial
I-got-it, I-got-it! world of jocks. Runners aren’t really
jocks, but they belong to a team and presumably get to
be buddies and hang out together and maybe meet girls
(Cheerleaders? Not likely. Sisters, maybe).
The track coach was Mr. Bailey: close-cropped
sandy hair, five feet eight, late twenties, gray framed
glasses. We’d had him as a substitute sometimes the
No Beards for Mr. BaileyFiction
By Peter McKenna
31
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previous year, but not during any running trials. So he
would not have had any impression of me, nor would
I of him, as he just put us through scheduled activi-
ties (the least embarrassing for me was soccer, which
nobody could really play except one Mexican kid and
one Pakistani
kid, who were
not allowed
to be on the
same team).
In the glass-
enclosed coaches’ office he greeted me with a smile
and a handshake: first time I ever shook a teacher’s
hand. He said Mr. Frank had mentioned me, and he
was glad to have me on board (do coaches always say
that?). Did I have any previous track experience? No?
Well, he looked forward to training me. He gave me
an armful of documents: team regulations, track meet
dates, request of change to sixth period PE, parental
consent, release of liability, doctor’s okay. That was it
for now, he said, shaking my hand again. Oh, except
one thing.
Yeah, coach?
Get a haircut and shave that beard. No facial
hair on my men.
This isn’t a beard, just sideburns.
Far as I’m concerned, any hair on your face
besides eyebrows is a beard. And no beards on my
team.
Excuse me, Mr. Bailey, but...how come?
You represent the school, you represent me.
I want my men to look squared away.
But
what’s that
got to do with
running? I just
want to run.
Running
involves discipline like any other sport, and the first
rule of discipline is you do what the coach directs.
If he wants you to be clean shaven, if he doesn’t
want his men looking like a bunch of hippies, then
you shave and cut your hair.
We went back and forth for a while. I said
the school had loosened the dress code this year.
He said the coaches could set their own. I pointed
out some of the towel snappers in the locker room
that had hair past the neckline. He said they were
not on his team (Mr. Frank, observing from his
desk in the corner, raised his eyebrows at this). I
said that I didn’t think that any guys from any other
school would care if our hair was long. He said
he would care, and that’s all that mattered. I said,
lots of athletes have long hair these days, who’s
No facial hair on my men
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that guy, that football guy? He said if Joe Namath
wanted to be on his team, he’d tell him, get a
haircut, and if Ben Davidson showed up, shave the
mustache. If Flash Gordon (I think he was actually
referring to Flash, the DC comic hero) showed up
with a mustache, he wouldn’t get on his team with
it.
Mr. Bailey, it took me all summer to grow
these sideburns.
Well, it won’t take you so long next summer,
if you feel you really gotta have them. You’re making
this too much of a drama, Riordan.
Well, I think you are, Mr. Bailey, and I’m
sorry, but I don’t want to be on your team.
If you can’t handle discipline, then I don’t
want you either.
Thus my life as a jock was strangled in the
womb. Apparently I really pissed him off. He gave
me dirty looks for the rest of the year, muttering
stuff about hippies and trolls. Luckily we never had
him as a sub as he probably would have had me
running discipline laps. Coaches were always telling
you, Go run one. Sometimes more than one.
I did not mention to him that my motive
in going out for track was really that I wanted to
be part of a team, to be cool in some way. I’d have
been embarrassed to admit that, and it would have
played right into his argument.
If sports weren’t for me, what then? Acting?
Bailey did say I was dramatic. So I auditioned for the
school play that semester, Teahouse of the August Moon,
about Americans bringing democracy to Japan. I
got the part of Colonel Purdy, which allowed me to
swear on stage. First line: Dammit to hell! Dammit to
hell! Dammit to hell! Later I got to say, These people
are going to learn democracy if I have to shoot every
one of them. Plus ca change...
Mrs. Joyce, the director, said that as I was
playing an army man, well, I didn’t have to get a GI
haircut, but I should trim those locks, and those
sideburns had to go.
And so they did. Maybe that’s what pissed
off Bailey so much.
I would say these were the roads taken and not
taken, if I were now making a living as an actor, but
I’m not. However I did become a runner again, at 53,
midlife crisis or something. It came back easily enough.
“They shall run and not grow weary,” (Isaiah 40).
As for Bailey, one Saturday when he was 43,
he went for his daily six miler. Halfway into it he
had a heart attack and dropped dead, literally. He
was on a popular jogging trail, and an ambulance
was quickly called. Thing is, nobody knew who
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he was as he had no identification on him. Some
runners had seen him before, but no one from his
teams, none of his men. Four hours later the police
got a call from his concerned wife: I’m a little wor-
ried about my husband, this isn’t like him...
Poor woman, especially having to find out
the way she did. Still, Bob Bailey died doing what
he lived for, and if no one recognized him at the
hour of his death, practically everyone remembered
him afterward. Obituaries were profound and the
bleachers were packed in the service held at the
track and field. Testimonies were many. Mr. Bailey
coached about life as much as running. Hard work,
team work, discipline, discipline…but he didn’t just
bark orders at you. You could talk to him about
anything, you felt like you had a friend, you felt
family, you were part of something.
Just west of the bleachers, overlooking
the track, stands an obelisk with a bronze plaque
bearing his profile. It’s not a bad likeness though
his hair’s longer than it was in 1968; more like ‘78.
One likes to think of it blowing in the breeze.
After his name and his dates are three simple
words: Go run one.
Born in San Francisco, Peter McKenna has lived there most
of his life. He taught English composition until everybody
realized he was better at composing than teaching.
“Those who can, do. Those who can’t do, teach.
Those who can’t teach, teach P.E.”
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Whispers in the NightFiction
By Monica Mendelson
Beep, beep, beep. Message delivered.
Somewhere in the gray mass, sparks were flying. A
warning screamed along its circuitry, but there were
no clues as to where or when the danger would
begin. And as the darkness closed in, I remained,
lying broken across the bed.
The night was quiet, foreboding. Even
the storms fell under hush. The stars were lying
beneath darkness, and no moon shined tonight. A
gentle buzzing crept across the sky and slipped into
my room, chirping in my ear, but I didn’t want to
listen. I couldn’t listen.
Click. Something scratched against the
window screen. Click. Red eyes shined in
anticipation, but fear held me still. It wanted me to
know that it was there. It wanted me to know that
death was coming, and if anybody laid eyes on the
monster outside my bedroom, they would surely
die. And I did not want to die.
The buzzing in my ear continued. Despite the
overwhelming sense of fear, the knot tightening in
my belly, I sat up and faced the darkness. No shadows
moved, but they were alive and waiting. The bedroom
door was closed. Would I be able to open it in time,
saved by the light, or would darkness claim me once
more? Beep, beep, beep. Why did I have to be cho-
sen?
The Chosen were often ignored, cast away,
or locked up. Nobody wanted anyone to see past
their perfect world, but we saw through their façade.
We saw the mistakes planted that would lead to
their destruction, the lies that would blister and
peel, and the hands to tear them down. We saw
the waves crashing, the lives lost, and the buildings
falling, but those that tried to save the world were
either killed or labeled enemies. The rest of us just
hid away, trying to escape fate, but fate found me
here tonight.
And fate was waiting. The bruised X on my
arm screamed with every single beep. People were
going to die. Tragedy was coming. No clues would
be given, but when the hour came, I would know
everything. But would I save them, or would I let
them die?
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There was no Superman. He was buried
under rubble, and the people that he saved quickly
forgot about him. They were lost in gratitude of
being alive, but humanity was sand in the hour-
glass, slipping away. There were no heroes. Nobody
wanted to risk their lives because nobody saved
them. Why should I be any different?
All I had to do was go to sleep. The
beeping would stop. Fate would pass me by and look
for another, someone willing to listen. This world
had already gone to hell. Her heart was ripped out
and torn apart. We were living the dog-eat-dog style,
but somewhere in the darkness, someone still cared.
Someone would risk all to save them. They would
die for them, but for those saved, would they even
know? Would they even care?
I tossed and turned for awhile. The beeping
finally went away. Fate no longer held her breath, and
like a ghost, she was gone. The monster hovered
outside, disappointed, but it would not have me
tonight. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to save
anyone because nobody saved me, and that thought
was a dagger to my heart. There would be no sleep
tonight. There would be no peace to find because
tragedy was coming, and people were going to die.
I sat up and ran from my bed. I threw open
the bedroom door. The hallway was dark, shadowed,
but my past mistakes were alive and well. I hurried
by closed doors, trying not to disturb the innocent,
and now I stood beside the front door. My hand
shook badly as I reached to open it. I didn’t want
this. Nobody wanted this. Nobody wanted to know,
so why did we, the tortured Chosen? I stepped
outside, but the monster was gone. Relief swept
through me like a cold breeze, and I knew that I
would not be the hero nor villain in the coming
events. I would just be its keeper, locking the dark
secrets away until fate returned for me.
Melissa was a newspaper reporter for the Smithtown
Messenger Newspaper and its sub-issues, The
Brookhaven Review, The Ronkonkoma Review,
and Medford News. She later freelanced for The Photo
News and wrote movie and television show reviews for the
film-making website, Wild Sound. She currently works for
the State of New York and writes for Associated Content,
now known as Yahoo Voices, and has finished her first
novel, a collection of three novellas tied together.
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Passing LaneFiction
By Brandon Meyer
I stare out the window at another
vegetable enfilade, a general inspecting his troops.
Endless rows of verdant corn stand at attention,
awaiting orders that will never come. In the
distance, wisps of cloud skirt the mountain tops,
looking like the furrowed brow of some ancient
and displeased demigod. My breath fogs on the
glass and I draw a heart, smiling at the girl in the
car next to ours. She smiles back, holding up her
hand to show me her ring with an apologetic shrug.
But her eyes linger on mine, and before we pass her
she breathes on the window to draw her own heart
for me. As her car grows smaller in the rear-view
mirror, I file this moment away along with a
hundred other warm memories to keep me
company in the cold and dark hours of life.
Brandon Meyer was born in Redlands, California in 1985.
After high school, he attended UC Santa Barbara, where he
earned a BA in English. While there, he worked as a copy
reader for the Daily Nexus campus newspaper. He earned
a teacher credential from the University of Redlands after
graduating from Santa Barbara, and currently teaches
high-school level English in San Bernardino, California.
37
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In the South of France We Split HairsFiction
By Brittany Newell
In the south of France we split hairs.
The hotel managers never believed we
were brothers, identically browned by the sun as
we were and bound by our cheap Grecian sandals;
still, they looked us over with monocular wrath and
plunked the ring of keys with suggestive slowness
into my hand, seeing as my hair was shorter and
sparser than his (damn the Navy Man fad) and I
was therefore assumed to be older. Behind polished
doors, we sat knee-to-knee on the bed with the
windows flung open, tossing Canadian coins to the
gawkers below. We were especially fond of the girls
with scarves on their heads; we counted the flower-
like specks from our balcony, and pondered their
shadowy faces at night.
The afternoons were spent hunting cafes with
pianos; Edelweiss had tricky fingers. Ostentatiously
primped in our collegiate blue, we ambled down
cobblestone streets ‘til our ears caught a stand of
prematurely embezzled Beethoven sonatas, and like
cats we would dash towards its low-ceilinged origin,
notes held aloft by self-satisfied oceans of smoke and
set sweetly aside from the streets courting grief.
Edelweiss, slimmer than I and for the
moment empowered by the forgettable charm of light
freckles, would rest gently against the Steinway’s black
body ‘til some jokester, all-eyes, suggested he tip.
Smiling quickly, he’d inherit the bench, and I, cross-
legged with coffee number good-god-knows-what
pressed against the skin of my throat, would hunker
down in the indifferent din and succumb, just like
a tourist, to the lavender crystals of sound he set
loose—bombs wagging through the air and smashing
lewd jokes in the Louvre, earnest pleas for the stray
calico, borrowed clothes returned late in unimaginable
states, and the tenth vertebrae of gruff morning voices
upon my bent brow, until my coffee grew cold and his
welcome was worn by the need of a carousing fiddle.
We would stand and exit single-file, the irrepressible
sun stabbing bellies gone soft but still brown. I would
tackle him then, golden freckles denoting a plan of
attack. He’d spit in my eye and I’d bellow, “Celeb!” for
the army of Sabines and Brigittes in their kerchiefs to
catch.
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Arms linked, we would board the metro and
ride for twenty-five minutes to the nearest McDonald’s.
By then, we were sleepy and high as wet posters. The
wind blew a kodachrome dream with no sound.
On our sixth night in France and our third
night in Paris, there was an explosion.
The sound of it echoed throughout the city,
dashing like a kitten with singed fur through the sleep-
slackened streets and finding ways to squeeze, with
otherworldly craftiness, between cracks in the tene-
ment walls. I shot up in bed; it was a boom, a gusty
cartoonish ka-boom! that roused me, and, as I sat with
my knees pressed to my chest, continued to resound
in me in the most curious places, like in the webbing
between fingers, like in the slits between my teeth.
I squinted out the window. These days
Edelweiss couldn’t sleep without it open, having
spewed about his circulation and “good air.” The
static blue mass beneath us, speckled here and there
with cinema signs and streetlamps, looked just as
foreign to me now as it always had. Our French
was terrible: we would not know that less than one
hundred miles away a nuclear reactor had exploded
until a day after returning home, when our giggling
mothers would shove us awake and tell us the news,
oh my darling sit up, the unimaginable news.
Like a girl I drew the covers tight around
me; fucking Edelweiss liked the room to be subzero.
Every night he burrowed beneath lumpy patchwork
mountains, so it came as no surprise that the kaboom
couldn’t touch him now, already departed in his casket
of starched sheets. I watched for a moment or so as
he slept, longing to wake him, or whatever remnants
of him existed in dream—just a tuft of blond, like a
pre-war memento found in the grass, poking out from
the mauve and unconscious mound.
I opened my mouth. It felt like a fleet of
black balloons was fretting in the space between
my joints. “What was that?” I managed to ask. The
largeness of my voice shouldering through the
darkness put the rest of me to shame.
A stranger’s voice, testy and malformed,
replied. “It wasn’t nothin’ man.”
“Edelweiss,” I whined. I knitted my hands
together and muffled a scream when my knuckles
began to glow, ever so tastefully peach, in the dark.
It reminded me of a game me and my brother used
to play: I’d coat my hands in honey, stick them out
the window as he hurtled down the road behind the
county dump, and pull them back inside the car when
we reached the empty 7-Eleven parking lot. “Hands
up,” my brother would bark in his best imitation of a
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back-county cop. As I raised my hands, I’d see his face
soften to inhabit some semblance of wonder, a gentle
expansion of his facial bones second only to the
clement tiredness which follows sex and the wretched
gloss of meth. In pulsing silence we would look down
at my hands. They’d be crusted with fruit-flies, dead
and dying, the fine hairs of their legs waxed off and
their translucent wings tinged blond.
“Something’s wrong,” I croaked.
The
heap rolled
toward the
window. It
slurred, “I’ll
protect you.
Everything’s great, so shut up. OK? Thank you.
Love you. Bye.”
I closed my eyes and squeezed my hands
between my thighs. I knew that morning’s light, with
its subsequent nicks on the cheek and bare bodies
seeking caffeine, could not soothe me. I hoped with
a childlike zeal to never have to get up again. We
were OK for now, due to the groggy and bottomless
explanation of nighttime, when logic took a backseat
to shapelessness and dim dimensions made even the
shoddiest of scenarios seem romantic, and if not
romantic, then one-of-a-kind, worthy of a snapshot or
a scant line of coke. I didn’t yet know for certain but
it wasn’t hard to prophesy what we could encounter
once dawn’s light disproved the density of darkened
breasts: we would wander the vacated streets like ex-
cons, scarcely daring to believe our good luck.
We would marvel aloud at how hot the
bricks of the buildings became when we touched
them.
We would
pierce the
waist-level fog
with our calls.
We would
hoard the pâté
left on patio tables and drink ourselves sick on
every bottle of cognac we could find in the dank
unlocked pubs.
Drunker than we’d ever been, we’d dare
one another to jump off the bridge and backstroke
through the slow-moving Seine. Its viscosity was
inviting, its surface like a thick and shiny tarp against
which we’d ricochet. We would jerk off at the subway
station and make our cum criss-cross the tracks, such a
contrast as we’d never seen except in silent black-and-
white movies. Edelweiss would vow to play at least one
Something’s wrong
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rural diddy on every piano found in Paris. We would
crawl into a pink chateau to which some part of his-
tory was inexorably fixed, and Edelweiss would threw
himself at the piano, the largest I had ever seen, and I
would plunk down on the Persian rug as thick as hotel
mattresses and spread my arms and weep. After
weeping I would puke and after puking I would doze,
as all the while he twinkled Ravel and our unsteady
bodies dripped green river-water to warp the wood
floors and have the hard-breasted portraitures begging
for hell.
But first, I listened to Edelweiss breathe.
For the moment, there was nothing else to
do. Sleep felt like the rejection of an out-of-your-
league kiss. What was possibly the pinnacle of
Edelweiss’s elbow, propped up on an elevated hip,
was at once the pushiness of God. I worried that
the beating of my heart might wake him, irritate
him, cause him to disfigure the conclusions that his
ignorant bones drew.
Here was a boy steeped in the sweetest of
solutions.
He didn’t give a shit, not yet. To him, the
world was endless. At dawn, he might awake and
beat me with a pillow, try to stick his toothbrush in
my asshole, flop down beside me on the bed and
bawl, “Did someone have a nightmare, huh?”, and
before I could even retaliate, before I could even
wet my finger to deliver unto him a cataclysmic
raspberry, it might all be over without so much
as a last cuss, the heart might cease to churn and
the trees shyly fidget, it might all be lost, like dogs
loved more than Father, in the impetuous blink of
an eye.
But what did he care?
For now, he was young and all the girls in
gray headscarves would love him. He had only to
play them a tune and their accents would thicken,
their bra-straps would melt, and their eyes would
zone outward like sagacious TV’s.
Brittany Newell is an underaged naval-gazer. She is also a
classical singer and slam poet hailing from the San Francisco
Bay Area. You can read her work in Polyphony Maga-
zine, Talkin’ Blues Journal, and The Interlochen
Review, among others.
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Shrinking HusbandFiction
By Vincent Rendoni
I first noticed it during a shave. Faye is
five-six and when we designed our house, I gave
her free reign. This house fits her dimensions well,
and mine well enough. Except for our bathroom
mirror. It sits low, low enough to where Faye can sit
down and put her face on. I’ve always been forced
to bend over
to get a good
shave. I was
going to tell
Faye that we
should recon-
sider the mirror, but I never got around to it.
So anyway, I’m about to bend over to get
my chin and I realized I didn’t have to. My back
had been feeling stiff and I first assumed it was
just bad posture. It didn’t come up again until a
few weeks later when Faye kissed me goodnight.
Faye worked long hours and I kept odd ones, so
sometimes we missed our little ritual. But whenever
I snuck into bed, or when she was off to work in
the morning, we’d always make an effort to plant
one on each other’s forehead, a bit of a consolation
prize if you will.
But our ritual was always best. It wasn’t
really a ritual at all. Faye would come up to me in
her nightgown, just after we had brushed our teeth,
and put both of her hands on my chest. She would
give me a long
look over, as
if she was see-
ing me for the
first time, and
would give
a little jump and kiss my cheek. The day we knew
something was wrong was the night she put too
much into it and hit me in the head with hers, and
down I went. I checked Faye’s head and there was
a little bump, but nothing more. She looked at me,
slowly rubbing the back of her hand against my
cheek.
“I think something is wrong,” she said.
“Really wrong.”
After a little bit of fighting, a little bit of
Your husband will become smaller and smaller, until
his size is best described as subatomic
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Faye pushing me, we went and saw Dr. Reynolds.
He had treated me for everything from the chicken
pox as a kid to swine flu a few years back. I always
hated when he had to take my blood, but whenever
I looked into his eyes, eternally sallow but kind, I
always felt a little bit better upon leaving. But the
day we saw him, Dr. Reynolds couldn’t take his
eyes away from my folder. He told me what I knew,
but wasn’t ready to hear from somebody else: I
had been shrinking. Faye burst into tears and I was
incredulous.
“At 34, it’s a bit unusual,” Dr. Reynolds
said. “You see it typically in the elderly, and in them
it could be for a variety of reasons: Water loss,
tissues diminishing, one’s vertebrae becoming not
unlike rubber. But you, well, have none of these
things. You are just shrinking. Shrinking in perfect
proportion and symmetry. If it’s any consolation,
it’s becoming increasingly common in men your
age.”
“What are our options?” Faye spoke for
me.
“There are no options. Your husband will
become smaller and smaller, until his size is best
described as subatomic. There will be a day, even
with the proper equipment, where you will be un-
able to see or hear him. We presume he will go on
living, but we certainly can’t say for sure.”
He couldn’t even look at me as he said that
last bit.
Faye and I chose to go on like normal for
a time—the way I wanted it—but after about one
year, I noticed that she no longer had to jump up
to kiss me before bed. We were at the same height.
It wasn’t real before. It was then. Dr. Reynolds said
the shrinking would be aggressive, but still.
When I began to have trouble looking over
the sink in the morning to shave, that’s when we
broke down and had to buy my first stepping stool.
When I couldn’t make it onto the bed anymore,
that’s when we had to head on over to the Ace
Hardware for a ladder.
Faye was so strong. I had read articles
about how husbands shrinking just killed families,
left spouses unable to cope. I’ve known Faye since
when we went to college at Washington State. She
used to cheer me on during my basketball games,
when I was the best point forward the Cougars
ever had, in the times when I was a giant. Maybe
I doubted her a few times, thinking she’d leave. I
wouldn’t have blamed her. But I was wrong. Faye
held my hand in public through all of it, completely
unashamed of her shrinking husband. She looked
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at me with love as she placed me into my high chair
at the dinner table. When I had trouble making it
up the steps, she would pick me up and hold me
close before placing me on my side of the bed.
“You were always too tall for me,” Faye
would say to me at night. “I could get used to this.”
Faye never left my side, but I could see it
was taking a toll on her. When I was no bigger than
one of her fingernails, that’s when she stopped
leaving the
house entirely.
She used to go
on morning
walks, meet
her friends
at the Tully’s around the corner, and chat with the
cashiers at the Safeway. We would get our groceries
delivered now. The friends would sometimes come
by for coffee, but they were tossed out in a rage
after they gave Faye a pamphlet on a hospice care
for shrinking men in Southern Idaho.
We spent most of our days lying in bed, the
television on low in the background, with my body
up close against Faye’s eyes, remembering.
“Skating at the roller disco in Colfax with
all the flashing lights and dry ice,” she said.
“Football games decked out in crimson and
gray,” I replied.
“The casino on the reservation where they
didn’t card anyone.”
I didn’t like to talk about old times, but
Faye did.
I know why Faye was so reluctant to leave
my side. We had to have our talk soon. We agreed
long ago that
I wasn’t going
to just keep
going the way
I was
going. No,
Faye and I thought it best I go out with some
dignity, that going unseen and unheard to her,
becoming smaller and smaller until I was the most
fundamental of fundamental parts, doing battle
with all that’s unseen—fleas, bacteria, electrons—
was a fate worse than death.
That much Faye and I agreed on, but we’d
never gone much into specifics. After I was no larger
than one of her fingernails, we saw Dr. Reynolds
again after putting it off as long as we could. I told
“You were always too tall for me”
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him to be honest with me.
“Not long,” he said, unable to even look at
Faye’s palm where she held me.
The day has finally come. It’s no secret
that Faye has been having trouble seeing me lately;
that’s why I have to be so close to her eyes when
we’re in bed, even though she knows it makes me
uncomfortable to see her trembling under the face
she puts on for me.
But I think now Faye is having trouble
hearing me. She smiles and nods at whatever I’m
saying, as if she’s some visitor in a foreign country.
Last week:
“Honey,” I asked. “I need to pee.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Faye.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
When she’s sleeping and I can’t, I quietly
rehearse to myself how I’d like to go. I want to
tell Faye to get up and go for a walk, to grab
coffee with her girlfriends, and make nice with
the butchers and fishmongers at the supermar-
ket. I want Faye to leave the house. I want Faye,
even though we’ve talked about it before, even
though there’s an inherent risk, to take me with
her even as it grows cold and I realize I’m sus-
ceptible to even the slightest change in
temperature. I’ll tell her there’s no other place
for me but the labyrinth of her ear where it’s
warm and I can hold tight to the strands of her
cilia. In there, Faye can hear me loud and clear
for the last time, even though it will sound so
much like the first. I’ll be with Faye for as long
as she can hear me, until I become smaller, small
enough to slip through the fault lines of her
cells and body, and become a part of her.
Vincent Rendoni is an MFA candidate at Chatham
University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and teacher of
creative writing for the Words Without Walls program of
Allegheny County Jail.
45
f ictionbrigade.com
Andrea was standing at the kitchen sink,
scrubbing the face of a cast iron skillet with a wad
of steel wool when Loren came home and put a
baseball bat into the small of her back. It was the
morning of my first day of ninth grade so I wasn’t
home to help her. It didn’t surprise anybody, what
Loren did. That sort of thing happens a lot around
here and he’d
already gone
three tours so
it was almost
expected.
When
I got home and found Andie that way, sprawled
out on the floor, her legs scissored in front of her
pregnant belly and Loren squatting in a trench he’d
dug out in the back yard, spooning with a shovel,
I walked to the phone, picked it up and dialed. I
don’t really remember what I told the operator. I
think I just said that I needed help. I think I just
said, my sister, and, her fiancée, when the woman
asked what the nature of the emergency was. It
didn’t matter though, the paramedics arrived in
minutes and pretty much figured things out for
themselves. They siphoned into separate groups,
four for Andrea and six for Loren, still holed up
in the trench with a hunk of his calf missing from
where he’d caught it on the lip of his shovel.
The night before it happened I hadn’t
been able to
sleep. I was
all nervous
about the
day to come.
I lay awake
for hours, looking up at the glow in the dark stars
pasted on my ceiling and thinking about high
school, the bigger building, the kids I didn’t know.
After a while I got out of bed and sat up on the
roof. I do that sometimes. Nobody knows I’m up
there except me. I bring a bag of pretzels or chips
and just hang out, looking down at the front yard.
The big truck tires full of dirt and weeds my Dad
dragged into the lawn when I was littler and packed
There’s Always All ThatFiction
By Allie Rowbottom
The night before it happened
I hadn’t been able to sleep
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with sod from a pile out back. Andie and I have
made gardens in those tires every spring for years
now. Kneeled next to each other on the warm black
rubber and sprinkled marigold seeds into the tiny
holes Andie scoops in the dirt then covers it over,
tenderly, with soil and water.
So the night before it happened, I set
myself up on the roof. The stars were out
like always and the Milky Way had smeared
itself over them, like somebody just ran by
and dragged it along behind their outstretched
fingertips. For some reason up there, I started
thinking about what it might have been like for
Loren when he was away. Whether or not he got
lonely at night, whether or not he got scared. I
pictured him, dressed in green and sleeping in
his boots, curled up on a cot, thinking about
Andrea. The night there would be filled with
sounds, wailing sirens maybe, screams
sometimes. Not like the night is here, full of
small, familiar sounds. The dogs at the
McAllister’s house trotting by, collars jingling.
The snap of studded tires on the road. The
whine of breaks before the crunch of gravel
when the older Lucky brother comes home,
pulls his truck into the driveway and cuts the
engine. There’s always all that, always the breeze
moving through tree branches. The vibrations
of the house, ticking and whining and falling,
still again, underneath me.
Allie Rowbottom is a first year PhD candidate in
creative nonfiction at the University of Houston. She
received her BA from New York University and her
MFA from California Institute of the Arts.
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I am the girl with the boy-cut under a
black-and-white checked hat, sitting in the back
row, waiting for a cigarette.
You are the man at the on-stage podium,
sonorous voice intoning from your new novel.
I’m the one who sneaks out the back when everyone
else is queuing up, waiting for your signature. You’re
the kind of writer who’s already outside, holding a
lighter to the tip of a Marlboro. So I tell you, “Great
reading.”
And you say, “I know.”
I am the girl who’s making eyes. You’re the
man who writes down your hotel room. I’m the girl
who shows up.
Jessica Simms is a candidate for the MFA in Fiction at
Chatham University. Her work has appeared in Tidal
Basin Review and Sex and Murder Magazine.
NetworkingFiction
By Jessica Simms
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I tried to warn them, but now all eight of
them have ordered the crab. Leo’s happy because
it was stinking up the kitchen. I told the folks the
chicken was real good, but no, they had to have
crab because they’re here on the Eastern Shore—
big defenseless tourists from Minnesota. I shoulda
suggested a designated driver order the chicken
so’s he could rush them to St. Anthony’s while
they barfed and pooped all over the car seats. Food
poisoning ain’t pretty.
I could drop it all on the greasy kitchen
floor, but Leo who intentionally hired a cook with
no sense of smell, would insist we scrape it up and
serve it. I’m not proud of working here or of
letting Leo drag me back to his trailer after closing,
always saying he couldn’t run the place without me.
Some nights I hate myself.
It’s not like I’m totally passive. I’ve applied
a dozen places down the shore, but they give me
the runaround. I am overweight, but that don’t
mean I’m not polite or don’t know how to make
the kids laugh.
The poor hungry tourists are looking
toward the kitchen. Who’s gonna save them? Leo’s
grinning, teeth like a shark. Maybe it’s time I take
a cigarette break, one butt tossed at that pool of
grease under the grill.
“Folks, y’all might want to step outside so’s
you can catch sight of the flying fish. Yes, yes,
flying fish right here in Maryland.”
Louise Far mer Smith grew up in
Oklahoma. She has taught English,
trained as a family therapist, and worked
in a U.S. Congressman’s office. Her stories
have appeared in magazines including Virginia Quarterly
Review and Bellevue Literary Review which published
her “Return to Lincoln,” a 2005 Pushcart nominee. Her
story, “Apartment on Riverside Drive” took first place in one
of Glimmer Train’s 2006 short story contests. Her work
has been supported by The Ragdale Foundation and Virginia
Center for the Creative Arts. She was a 2005 Bread Loaf
fellow. She lives in Washington, D.C., where she is completing
a story collection, CADILLAC, OKLAHOMA.
Not Totally PassiveFiction
By Louise Farmer Smith
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The Study DateFiction
By Simone Stedmon
With a cigarette in one hand, and a sickly
orange drink in the other, he lay sprawled out on
the bed. Jazz music was blasting around the room
and he nodded along to the beat, his blonde hair
askew and black-rimmed glasses thrown haphazardly
on the floor. Surrounding him were a multitude
of people, all wearing a uniform of skinny jeans
and rainbow-colored t-shirts and all with the same
Cheshire-cat grin etched onto their faces. A slight
breeze wafted a strange aroma towards me, and I
became aware that what was being exhaled from the
rolled white wands was not tobacco.
“Come on in, darlin’,” came a voice that was
not the one I sought; the blonde-haired boy’s lips
remained motionless. As I was invited into the room,
the drug became fused with a concoction of other
curious scents: spilt alcohol seemed to have absorbed
into every item of furniture and there was the stale
stench of sweat, not entirely covered by past sprays
of Lynx that now lined the dressing table. “Fancy a
smoke, love?” leered the same voice, pointing to a few
inches of spare bean-bag to his side. I shook my head.
Instead, I moved to the other side of the room and
precariously perched on the edge of the bed, feeling
self-conscious all of a sudden. This was not what I
had expected. I did not fit in with this group at all.
Breaking from his trance, the blonde-haired
boy muttered something that sounded like ‘Alright,
mate?’ followed by a brief pat on the back which I
assumed meant to make myself comfortable; enjoy.
Someone pointed towards the TV which was
showing an episode of Family Guy, although their
eyes were so glazed that I could not believe that
they were actually watching it. Whatever was
happening on the TV was appreciated as a chortle
erupted from beside me. But the laugh seemed
distorted, mechanical, fake. There was nothing to
be scared of here, yet it was like looking into one
of the circus mirrors that bizarrely morphs the
body.
When I had bumped into him earlier in the
library, when his blonde hair was neatly in place, he
had invited me over to work on an essay. But I had
pictured something quite different. I assumed we
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would be alone. Together we could have talked and
enjoyed each others’ company as we normally did.
The boy who had seemed so rational, who would
spend an evening with a cup of tea and a book, or
would head down to a pub for a few drinks with
friends was now some sort of peculiar sloth.
I must have stayed for about half an hour,
just relishing
in the bizarre
conversations
that slowly
emerged.
Progressively
the fumes were beginning to get to my head and I
felt myself become dizzy, so I left. I think I passed
unnoticed, as there was no call back into the room.
Disappointment flooded my body as I shut the
door on them. It was like closing a door to a whole
new reality. I left them to delight in their own little
world for just a while longer.
An oppressive mist lay over the rows of
oscillated grey buildings which lined my way home,
the occasional light shining through a grubby window.
People rushed past, heads down and coats pulled close
around them. Shoulders occasionally bumped into
another’s, which was followed by a mumbled apology
they were already too far away to hear. Like clockwork
they marched on, heads suffocated by the memory of
stacks of bills piled on kitchen counters, lunches that
needed to be made for the next morning, shelves that
husbands needed reminding to fix. Occasionally an eye
strayed towards a flashing sign or the muffled music
escaping from behind the door of a welcoming pub,
but their gaze always returned fixedly to the floor. They,
like me, were
pursuing
relentlessly
towards their
final destination:
caught in the
monotony of life, unable to change course.
I walked this route daily and my feet slapped
against the pavement instinctively as my mind drifted
back to the room. They had seemed so content, so
liberated from the troubles of tomorrow. Their heads
were temporarily free to wander into a world away
from the routine of life. They did not care for money,
or exams, or work. And him. He had not noticed me
but then he did not need me in that world. They just
needed themselves and that pure sense of calm.
But wasn’t the mundane what life was about?
Wasn’t living by the rules what we were taught? It
was only as I was taking my keys from my bag that
I was roused from my thoughts and realized I had
Fancy a smoke, love?
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made it home. As I stepped over the threshold I
looked at the white walls stretching anodyne towards
a cream stair runner, shoes stacked neatly in a pine
frame, the clock’s insistent ticking. In that moment
I thought of essays that needed writing, letters that
needed filing, clothes that needed washing, and I
shut the front door behind me with a final bang.
Later that evening, having finished off the
last few mouthfuls of lukewarm hot chocolate, I
headed to bed. Whilst I repeated my usual routine
I wondered what would have happened if I had
stayed? If I had been that bit more adventurous? I
pulled off my jumper and was suddenly caught by
the distant scent of smoke that had absorbed itself
into the material. Closing my eyes, I drew the fabric
towards my face and inhaled.
Simone Stedmon has had a love for English ever since
discovering the alliterative joy of ‘Each Peach Pear
Plum’ as a child. She is currently in her third year of
studying BA English Literature at Cardiff University.
When she is not studying, Simone enjoys presenting a
student radio show and traveling adventures with friends
– even if it’s just pitching a tent in a muddy field! In an
ideal world Simone would like to be writing or presenting
Children’s programs in a few years time.
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Mouth to MouthFiction
By Clare Tascio
Craig is a lifeguard. When I tell people that, the
first thing they ask me is if we met because he
saved me from drowning. They laugh with their
mouths open. I don’t know how to answer. I feel
like I am choking on something soft.
People vomit after being resuscitated.
Craig would
like to save my
life.
I don’t think
he would go pale and scream and pump my chest
with the
desperation of a man in love. Craig would be calm
and cool.
He would smile at me once I pulled back to the
shore of the living the same way he smiles at me
after kissing me good morning.
Craig would like to tell people that he saved my life.
It would reaffirm that Craig is the guy who saves
people.
As his girlfriend of five years, Craig must save me
at some point.
He has chosen this summer to do it.
I have been sent away. To Craig’s sister’s house in
New Jersey. Right on the water. I have been sent
away for the weekend, and have been instructed
not to return
with the same
face I went
away with.
My face right now looks something like
mismatched furniture I guess.
A few days a week Craig gives private swimming
lessons to wealthy housewives. I don’t get jealous.
Craig asked me if I would be. But I don’t get
jealous when I think of those mothers, impeccably
groomed and manicured, being instructed by my
boyfriend on how to move their perfumed arms
Craig would like to save my life
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and kick their waxed legs and breathe and float.
Maybe I have a problem. Maybe I don’t love Craig
enough to care if he cheats on me with someone
else’s wife.
But really it’s because I know that Craig loves kids.
He would never think of throwing their lives into a
tailspin by getting caught with their mother under
an oversized monogrammed towel.
I am being unfair. Craig would say I am being
unfair.
Craig’s sister is a lot like Craig. Suzie is athletic. Tan.
With curly black hair, and brown eyes that glow
gold in the sun. The life she has, kids, house, heavy
couches, is the life Craig wants.
Craig sensed that now was the time for him to save
me. He has tossed me a life raft.
Female Craig.
I am a grey person. Craig is gold and brown and
black. His hope is that with some sun and surf and
salt I will change like a shrimp from cold
unappealing grey to hot juicy pink.
That’s what I said to Craig. He said I was being
unfair.
I am standing on the beach. The sky is overcast.
You can only see a few feet of ocean, like a grey
tongue slipping in and out of the white fog.
Suzie didn’t ask when she should expect me. I
know where the spare key is.
Brother and sister assume I will let myself in.
Clare is 22, born and raised in Brewster NY. She is
currently attending Hunter College for creative writing/
studio art. She loves pinot grigio and goat cheese. Preferably
at the same time.
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Luna Silvestre played the flute so beautifully. Her
name meant Silver Moon.
Kelvin wrote a limerick that involved a private part
of a teacher. His mother came in to meet with the
teacher a second time.
Catherine, a beautiful muchacha who knew how
to stand up to the boys, loved Green Day and had
sepia-flecked, emerald eyes.
Jane reminded you of a good Catholic girl.
Little Kerven was the best fighter on the basketball
court—he protected the ball and played hard in the
face of loss.
Jordannie’s temper drove the boys wild. So did her
cascade of dark auburn hair.
Dakhari said, “Ma president iz black, ma vp is phresh,
n if u don’t vote 4 dem, u’ll get a cap up yo ass.”
Aleigi was studious, polite and popular. She was a
paradox in a ghetto school.
Edward was perpetually showing off. He forgot,
after a while, who he was showing off for, or what
he was showing off.
Ilkona was enthusiastic for every project.
Melissa thought she was too good for any project.
Bespectacled Martin was laid back because he was
very tall.
Blue-capped Kevin worshipped the ground any
Dominican Yankee walked on.
Carlenis showed up with Baroque curls one day,
and that day, took on a sweet disposition.
Jandy roamed the hallways. He was a demon on
Notes From an Inner City SchoolFiction
By Ling E. Teo
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the motorbike. The girls felt tingles when he called
them “whores.”
Jennifer was Puerto Rican, which meant she was
softer-spoken. Like Luna, she played the flute
beautifully.
Marcos looked
out of the
window when
the Assistant
Principal talked
to him, just
to rile the AP further. In a red jumper and flat cap,
Marcos could pass off as Fat Albert.
Dania was often absent. When she was not absent
you noticed her, because she was a large girl.
Fausto suffered insults because he was black. He
wrote beautifully but did not like to share his writing.
His eyes shone like diamonds when he was mad.
Nigel was Nigerian. He was gentle, sweet-tempered
and imperturbable, and therefore did not suffer.
Raphael was white-looking and that was his cross
to bear. He spoke in rap.
Alex did not know why he was defensive and edgy,
which made him edgier and more defensive.
Johnlaudy often put on an angry front to impress
the female class bully. He had a crush on Stephanie.
Stephanie
could get the
fearful class
quiet in a split
second. She
tried to cow her mother by reporting her to the
Administration for Children’s Services.
Christina was the class brain. Like Joan of Arc, she
suffered for her beliefs.
Roberto frequently forgot where he’d left his brain.
Raquel wrote that she was from “cats and carriages
and dancing marriages, pizza parlors and tallest
tailors.”
Brenda was the class bobinchero; she spread the
latest gossip with lispy, run-on sentences.
Sean was the PTA President’s son. He always wore
The girls felt tingles when he called them “whores”
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a smile and a collar shirt. When he wanted, he
could turn water into wine with his words.
Christian had a twin sister who was as beautiful,
smart and goth-like as she was.
Salome, with the arc eyebrows, held back just
enough to leave the boys feeling empty.
Dariel looked like one of Maurice Sendak’s wild
things. He stole teachers’ Sharpies and tagged every
table, chair and urinal with graffiti.
Little Jesus was caught tagging disused subway cars
with Dariel. He was upset because he now had a
record.
Tremain announced to the class, “Cafeteria smells
like weed, pizza grease, and long-ass balls—in that
order. Dead-ass.”
Sheyla was always tuned into the beat and mood of
the class. She was the class barometer.
Teaching in Inwood, the northern most tip of
Manhattan, I was often overcome, inexplicably,
with a craving for rice and black beans. Now once
or twice a year, I make rice and beans in honor of
these children and their determination to be happy.
Ling E. Teo is a Humanities teacher. She grew up in
Singapore and lived in London, where she won an Asham
Award for writing. She currently lives in New York City.
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“Oof !” Thump. Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
A rainbow wave of gumballs cascaded
down the wooden steps and flooded the
restaurant’s entryway: red, green, blue, yellow, and
white balls whizzed out the front door, bounced
into the bathroom, rolled under the host stand.
The compounding rattle caused heads to swivel to
the stairs, and every child’s eyes grew big.
“We’ll help!” shouted a blond four-year-old,
rushing to the scene with the rest of the stampede
and curling his baby-fat fingers with their dimpled
knuckles around as many gumballs as possible,
cramming them into his mouth and pockets.
Children from upstairs tumbled over the
protesting but still-prone gumball delivery man.
He rose when the final toddler had gingerly passed
him, bruised and battered and bloodied as
colorfully as the gumballs he had allowed to slip
from his arms. The noisy silence of smacking gum
settled when the entire rainbow had been gathered,
and the children—some blowing bubbles, some
counting their haul under their breath, some crying,
having arrived too late—
wandered back to their families, distracted.
Valerie Tidwell graduated in 2009 from the University of
California, Santa Barbara, with a degree in communication
and a minor in professional editing. She did pretty well in
school, but there is a whole big world out there to explore,
and she spent the next two years doing just that, living in
Taiwan and Italy and traveling in between. As she has
not yet managed to make traveling a paying gig, Valerie
sometimes works in restaurants, where the initial inspiration
for this story was undoubtedly found. Valerie currently lives
in Washington, D.C.
Rainbow GoldFiction
By Valerie Tidwell
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She looked up and saw a pair of grey eyes,
patiently waiting. She looked down and saw a drain
in the floor. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s a job
interview. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s a job
interview. She wanted to melt and run down the
drain and out of the room… but asked instead,
“Could you repeat the question?”
Lauren Tolbert is an occasional
job interviewee who lives in
Minneapolis, MN. Currently
she is a chemist, but is looking
forward to new job opportunities,
hopefully those that come without
an interrogation. This is her
debut publication.
Job InterrogationFiction
By Lauren Tolbert
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- Good party.
- Yeah. Outta sight.
- Nobody says that, man.
- I said it.
- Great, now everybody’ll say it.
- Outta sight.
He smiled, because she was here somewhere. He
just had to march. He was full of marching
powder, so marching shouldn’t be hard, but it was
hard, because he missed her, and missing her made
everything harder. Like marching, even on
marching powder. It was always somebody’s
birthday in Hollywood. Where he grew up, weeks
passed with no birthday parties, so birthday
parties felt like parties and not excuses to leap into
a pool dyed red. The theme was death. He counted
fifty grim reaper costumes, but everybody was
high—tough to take a grim reaper seriously when
he couldn’t quit moving. It’d be tough to wake up
tomorrow like it’d been tough to wake up today
because she liked to fuck when fucked up, so he
got fucked up and fucked her and waking up was
torture. He was a pretty face, a magazine cover;
magazine covers could cover the torture he visited
on his pretty, pretty face. Bass line beat a beat for
his feet, ba-BUM-bum-BUM-bum.
Bass line was a baseline. He wasn’t normal; he
wanted her to fix him, to fix him she only had to
love him, to love him she only had to fix him, ba-
BUM-bum-BUM-bum, I’m-a-BUM-
bum-BUM-bum. He liked being young and alive
and famous and doomed. The heartthrob’s heart
throbbed, ba-BUM-bum-BUM-bum.
How could she want more than to be loved by
this pretty, pretty face? The refreshment table had
bowls of pills, so he took a handful and felt
better. The pool was red, like devils crying. Like
angel blood – he liked that. He’d put it in a song.
He was all out of songs—he hated that, that Lost
Angel Ease, like sad Satan. Like red water. He felt
awful, he was a handful, and the pills were mixed
on the refreshment table, where he wasn’t
crying—ugly, ugly. Who wanted to be loved by this
ugly monster? bum-BUM-bum-BUM-ba, throbbed
The HeartthrobFiction
By Gina Wohlsdorf
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his heart. He needed to sit down, he had to, but
he couldn’t, because he was doomed and liked
it best, better than famous and alive and young,
bum-BUM-bum-BUM-I’m-a-bum-BUM-
bum-BUM. To fix the love, to love the fix, was
completely normal, but it wasn’t his baseline. He
could make that himself, bum-BUM-bum-BUM-ba. He hated to march, like the steps
would torture his ugliness bare and bright for
flashbulbs, which flashed brilliant behind what he
was, which was more, which was afire and
faithful, which was possibility on a pulse—the
pulse of waking up and fucking her fucked up,
doing it hard, doing it today and tomorrow, and
you only had to keep moving. Like that grim
reaper, or that one or that one. Any one of fifty,
because the theme was death, and he didn’t need
an excuse to leap into the red pool that felt like a
party, unlike weeks past when he grew up in
Hollywood and got a new birthday, everyday,
marching, he liked marching, it made everything
easier. He didn’t miss her, it was easy, so easy, he
was full of marching, and he just had to because he
was out of his mind, and that made her-
- Outta sight. He smiled.
- Great, said somebody.
- I said it.
- Everybody says that, man.
- Yeah. Good party.
Gina Wohlsdorf is currently an MFA candidate at
the University of Virginia. Her work has appeared in
Meridian and The Storyteller, and is upcoming in
Gambling the Aisle.
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ThoughtsFiction
By Meirav Zehavi
I think the fact that I accept myself and my deeds,
that I know exactly who I am, is what helps me
maintain my sanity in my work. Other people,
possibly you, have fears, shames and regrets. It’s
this holy trinity which harms your judgment,
making you restless as wolves in full moon nights.
You would like to think you can lock these ill
feelings in the safes of your consciousnesses, but
it’s not that simple. Not anymore. Not when you
die, anyway.
We, the members of the government’s thoughts
department, have a key. It’s a fine needle which
looks like a sharpened finger. We open your
heads and use it to pick your brains and scan
your thoughts. You lie helpless and lifeless on a
stretcher, electrodes attached to your cold bodies,
and your memories are formed as scabs on a screen
whose color is white as a bare bone. All the insects
that crawled in your throats, sucked your blood,
digested your sanity, spawned in your lungs, and
maybe, maybe even caused your deaths – but you’ll
rather die than expose them, are revealed here
in front of us. There are no secrets on the white
screen. I saw things that were engraved on my
eyeballs – that I’ll never be able to forget, and my
lips would never be able to pronounce.
Our initial goal was to draw information from ter-
rorists who refused to cooperate. Yes, I remember
the beginning. We prevented terrorist attacks. Mem-
bers of terror organizations almost never give
themselves up. We kicked them, starved them,
imprisoned them in dark and suffocating basements
while their eyes, ears and noses were bleeding, and
they remained silent as corpses. It was so
frustrating. Only when they truly turned into corpses
we could make them talk. A few weeks later, straight
after we captured them, we shot them. Oh, it was
such a relief. We got the government’s approval to
do so, claiming it will help us maintain our
humanity. Instead of beating criminals until their
pants are absorbed with urine and feces, their hairs
with sweat and their shirts with vomit, and my skin –
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my skin with their blood, I could just shoot them.
We gained a tremendous success. Shortly
afterwards we started acting also against “heavy”
criminals – murderers, rapists and people with
dangerous sadistic tendencies, which we had
reasons to believe that they hold valuable
information. I used to sit in front of my white
screen for hours, the fluorescent lights burning
above me
as dying
stars and
my hands
holding a
sharpened
shiny needle. Sharpened things always shine better,
more beautiful. Sometimes I continued searching
criminals’ brains while sleeping – they resurrected
as ghosts in my dreams, haunting my nights. I read
some ghosts can gain control on living beings.
When I woke up from these nightmares, I was
sweating and my hands were shaking. It always took
me a few seconds to assure myself that it’s still me
controlling my body, that the ghosts didn’t change
me. I knew these criminals’ souls – I saw them on
my white screen. At first they were blurry, but after
a while they turned bright as cloudless skies. I tried
to resist, but revealing the criminals’ secrets was
easier when I allowed their souls to pour from their
brains to my needle, from my needle to the tips of
my fingers, and from my fingers they crawled under
my nails and skin. Some of the criminals were vic-
tims themselves, mostly in their childhood. Some
of them were persuasive and charismatic. They
were all psychopaths, in one way or another. So yes,
I knew their souls.
And
sometimes,
sometimes I
understood.
There was a time it used to scare me, but as I said,
nowadays I have no fears, shames or regrets. And
that, that might scare you.
I realized that understanding criminals doesn’t
make me a criminal. It doesn’t make us, the
thoughts department’s members, criminals. We
fight for justice. Moreover, we started acting also
against “heavy” criminals which we didn’t have
reasons to believe that they hold valuable
information. The thing is that you can never be
I knew their souls
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sure, and we wanted to strengthen our war against
injustice. Thus we killed them as well so we’ll be
able to read their minds. And no, in case you’ve
wondered, there is no need for “privacy” in a world
which consists of integrity.
So why should we stop with criminals? Yes, this is
also what we thought. We had a chance to destroy
crime. We opened heads of victims, invaded their
thoughts, discovered their abusers and imprisoned
them. Well, actually, we stopped imprisoning them.
We just shot them. There were some families of
victims which opposed to opening their loved ones’
heads, but their resistance was weakened by grief.
We explained that we don’t enjoy invading their
love ones’ heads, and this is exactly the reason why
we do it – so there’ll be no need to do it in the
future.
We acted against all criminals, including “light”
criminals such as thieves. I don’t understand this
definition – “light” criminals. A person is either a
criminal or a good citizen, and if he’s a criminal,
we should shoot him and investigate his thoughts.
No, not “should”. “Must”. I won’t deny there were
times in which we made mistakes in identifying
criminals and innocent people found themselves
dead. However, our achievements flourished,
providing unquestionable evidences of the
necessity of our actions. Many agreed. A few
opposed.
“Can’t you see our flourishing achievements?”
“Flourishing,” said a woman while protecting
her criminal child, “like cancer.” She swore she’ll
murder me, steal my technology and invade my
thoughts.
I shot both of them. There’s no doubt that these
opposers are criminals.
If you can hear my thoughts, I guess I’ve died. All I
can do is hope you’re members of my department,
and not my opposers. Dear friends, remember to
act against the true criminals. I give you my blessing.
Meirav Zehavi is a M.sc.
student in Computer Science
that lives in Israel. She is a
vegetarian that loves animals
(especially dogs) and literature.
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ART
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pressed between leavesArt
by Eleanor Bennett
Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 15-year-old internationally award winning
photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geo-
graphic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature’s Best
Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland Trust
and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC
News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United States and Canada. Her art is
globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington,
Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Pho-
tographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many locations. She was also the only person from
the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture
global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.
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Snap CutArt
By Christopher Hackbarth
Christopher Hackbarth has always been an enthusiastic a creative creature. A
childhood of drawing on the backs of paper placemats in restaurants to building
with Legos has not quite left him as he pursues an Illustration degree from the
California State University of Long Beach. Christopher is enjoying the opportu-
nity to discover and explore the arts and continue to develop a true passion. “I feel
happy to be in such an exciting place in life right now. The ability to soak in so
much information and experience is almost overwhelming, in a good way.”
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HAIKUS
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Summer MemoriesHaiku
By Cathy MacKenzie
Seeds planted in soil
Grow thick stalks grasping the sky
Wilt without a kiss
Summer Memories, Part 2Haiku
By Catherine A. MacKenzie
Cathy enjoys writing poems, short stories and essays, some of which have
been or will be published in such publications as Chicken Soup for
the Soul, Sasee Magazine, and anthologies compiled by Twin Trinity
Media. Her writings have also won several contests. Along with several
short stories, she is currently working on a novel. Check out her website
at: http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/.
A glass of cold wine
Bikinis and shorts and tanks
Forget ice and snow
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A Visit to the Hen HouseHaiku
By Debra Mathis
such sweet heat against
my cheek, an oval promise,
the freshly laid egg
Debra Mathis grew up in the deserts of New Mexico, and
began writing poetry by the age of seven. Her first poetry
book, “Gravity Moves Water”, was published in 2006. She
currently hovers in the badlands of Texas, while working
on her PhD in psychology. Gardening, studying and playing
music take up most of her time.
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Wronged by the Circus, AgainHaiku
By Ryan Moll
I could never kill
Enough clowns to make up for
My summer of shame
Saying GoodbyeHaiku
By Ryan Moll
Autumn approaches
Sock puppets packed away now
“See you next year, friends!”
Ryan Moll is an Applied Mathematics graduate student at
the University of California, Santa Cruz. He has written
hundreds of haiku poems on subjects such as clown abuse
and loneliness. Ryan has an intense fear of conjoined twins.
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Shelley Chase Muniz was born in Modesto, California, and attended college at
Sonoma State University in Rohnert Park, California. She moved to Sonora
in 1974, married, and had two children. She was a primary school teacher’s
aide and librarian at a local elementary school for fifteen years. She
currently works at Columbia College as a library specialist. Shelley’s short
story, “Silent Screams,” was a finalist in the 75tyh Annual Writer’s Digest
Short Story Contest. In 2010, another short story, “Holes,” was published in
the anthology Wild Edges by Manzanita Press. This year, 2011, Kate
Farrell, editor of an anthology about mothers and daughters titled Wisdom Has
A Voice included Shelley’s story, “Even Then” in her choices for publication.
Sierra Nevada ReverieHaiku
By Shelley Muniz
Sunlit granite domes
A field of purple lupine
Two for one complete
Daydreams and HikingHaiku
By Shelley Muniz
Stomping through blue sage
To reach a tranquil river
Lost in translation
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