LIMITED EDITIONS

2006Community College of Philadelphia

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Photograph by Jonalyn Hagan cover

Photograph by Kate Rose 2 Alex S. Hampshire there are no neighbors 3

Photograph by Aaron Pimienta 4

Photograph by Marcell Porter 5

Photograph by Jason Sipman 6

Tony Knighton [Fiction] Road Trip 7

Photograph by Ron Nichols 11

Photograph by Jim Gouv 12

Megan Foley Blah Blah Black Insomnia 13

Photograph by Robbie Menke 14

George Petner [Fiction] Ronnie and the Ferryman 15

Photograph by Terry Eggebrecht 23

Photograph by Jim Perretta 24

Photograph by Dominic DiCello 25

Richard Anderson [Fiction] My Wife’s Severed Head 26

Photograph by Alesia Gopie 27

Photograph by Jorge Figueroa 28

James Perratta River Talks 29

Photograph by Gregory Fisher 30

Will Shoemaker [Fiction] Toast 31

Photograph by Maria Paola Pardo 32

Stephan Rivera His Silent Release 33

Photograph by Lisa Hause 34

Megan Brown [Fiction] Every Light in the House 35

Photograph by Lonnie Monka 41

Photograph by Maria Petrone-Clark 42

Photograph by Megan Juliano 43

Megan Kelly [Fiction]Black Water 44

Photograph by Carolyn Rhodes 47

Photograph by Vlad Gurevich 48

Photograph by Shiho Hanaoka inside back cover

Photograph by Elizabeth DeMartino back cover

LIMITED EDITIONS2006

Contents

1

Kate Rose

2

there are no neighbors in the southwest americas

by Alex S. Hampshire

in the dry heat and sweltering heaves of western alcoves and treetop revival winds where the splintered yellow strings cross the bridge to the southwest undergroundthe teeth are as inconsistent and serrated as the flatlands

the day gets longer and the pot gets warmer-- the ingredientsa recipe from the cauldron of broken cabinetsa stew for the out-of-towners who haven’t eaten sincethe last waffle house in texas

five minutes past the first butter churnings of setting sun-spurting white foam stings the rafters in the open garagewhere rusty guitars impale the old invisible landlordwith leathered skin and dark marbled eyes

billowing in the driveways the old drunkard nativesare sheltered and separated from tarot card wielding new onesand in between are the university studentshumoring the convenient stores and countrysides

3

Aaron Pimienta

4

Marcell Porter

5

Jason Sipman

6

I’d been thinking about telling him to stop somewhere along the side of the road when we came past the woods and I saw the barn. It was on the right, set back from the road a little, a dirt drive leading up to it. I had him turn in and pull the car around the barn’s far side. I’m a city boy, but I could tell right away that the farm hadn’t been worked in a long time. It was late in the afternoon, not quite dusk, so you could see that the land had been left untended and had gone to scrub. I guess we were too far from a highway for the property to be worth anything to a developer. The barn was as big as barns are, with a steep tin roof that was black with rust, and sid-ed with long vertical wood planks and battens that hadn’t seen paint for a while. Out front were the remains of a stone foundation and chimney; maybe the house had burned down. I pulled him out of his car, one of those little Jap models, dragging him over the shift lever and out my door, helping him along with the point of the awl. He was a real whiner, pleading with me not to hurt him. I told him I only wanted his car and any cash he had, and that I’d tie him up in the barn, and he could get himself loose in a while and walk until either he came to a house or a car came by. If he’d been honest with himself, he’d have known better, but it’s been my experience that people want to believe you when you tell them they’ll be ok, and hope makes them easier to handle. I kept my left arm crooked tight around his neck, and the point of the awl in his ribs as we moved toward and through the open barn door. When I was done I looked around the in-side of the barn for tools, a shovel or a pick, but anything the farmer had left behind was long gone now. The place had a loft, I guess for hay or something, but the steps were under a hole in the roof, and were pretty well rotted away, so I didn’t look up there. I didn’t want to just leave the guy there

on the dirt floor. A little time invested in con-cealment could pay off in a delayed discovery of the body, or even no discovery at all, and that could only be good. I went over to the inside of the back wall and pushed on one of the planks. It was rotted along the bottom edge and had a little give to it. I stepped back and kicked it, then again and again, and that time the bottom of the plank gave way and it swung outward like it was on a hinge. I walked outside and around the back and grabbed the loosened plank and wrestled it all the way free. It was getting darker now; I could see stars peeking out of the purple in the east. I went back inside and tried to dig with the end of the plank. The thing was about eight feet long and maybe six or seven inches wide, and even though I picked a spot along the wall where the dirt hadn’t been packed down as hard, it was pretty tough going, more like scratching than digging. Finally I had a hole big enough to put him in, about six by two, maybe a foot, foot and a half deep. I didn’t know if that was deep enough to keep a dog or some other animal from digging him up, but it was the best I could do with what I had, and I was tired. I went through his pockets, then dragged him into the hole and pushed the loose dirt over him, stamping on it to tamp it down a little. I took the plank outside with me and pitched it away behind the barn, and slapped my hands together to knock some of the dirt off them. Puncture wounds don’t bleed much, not externally, so even there in the dark I knew I was probably clean enough. I got into the car and started it, but it stalled as I let out the clutch. I started it again, and this time let it out a little easier, and it grabbed. I found the switch for the headlights as I steered down the drive and turned onto the road, continuing in the same direction. There was no reason to go back.

Road Trip

by Tony Knighton

7

* * * It had been a mistake to take the judge’s offer last year, but I’d been tired of getting locked up, and the Marine Corps had sounded better at the time. Parris Island hadn’t been too bad; you knew where you stood. But once I got out into the Corps, well, that seemed like it would last forever. At LeJeune, I’d had a prob-lem with a lifer. Fourteen years in and he still hadn’t made Staff Sergeant. Dumb like a stump. He’d given me a hard time. I’d straightened him out. The Court Martial was short. Four years and a B.C.D. Four years in the Naval Peniten-tiary at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They tell me the prison is actually in Maine. I never found out. The chasers, two grunts that had the assignment to drive me there in a government van, got careless at a rest stop in Jersey. I got away from the highway and picked out a house nearby, forcing my way past the woman who answered the door. She almost seemed to have been expecting me. There was a calmness about her that you don’t often see in a person in her position. I saw right away there was no point in trying to blow smoke up her ass. She knew what was going to happen. I walked her ahead of me, down the basement stairs. I’m not saying that she wasn’t frightened; she was. But she wasn’t terrified or hysterical. People that are afraid of death are people that were afraid of life. I made sure it didn’t hurt. I got some food, and took a shower and shaved. Her husband’s clothes fit me ok. She had a little money in her bag. I didn’t take any of her knives. They were all those crappy stainless steel jobs, the kind that they sell on TV. A good knife has to be made from a high-car-bon steel, the kind of steel that looks gray and mottled. That’s the stuff that’ll really take an edge, if you whet it on a good oilstone. And the blade has to run all the way through the handle, or it won’t hold up. I looked around the guy’s

tool bench in the basement and found the awl. I slipped it down the inside of my boot. I didn’t take her car. I’d gotten what I re-ally needed. I didn’t want to draw too straight a line.

* * * What I needed now was gas. The whiner hadn’t fueled up the old buggy lately. The gauge read under a quarter tank-- more like under an eighth. I knew these little cars were easy on fuel but I didn’t know the car, and I didn’t know how far I could go. The road wound its way through the sticks, the headlights making a tunnel through the trees. It was fully dark now. There were thousands of stars out, way more than you can see from a city or town, but no moon. I wasn’t looking forward to a night on foot in the woods. After a while I came to a crossroads. The other road was wider, and I took a right. There were a few houses here and there, and a couple miles later I saw lights, and thensome buildings, and a gas station. It was open. I wanted to get a map, too. I had an idea that I would keep going west through Pennsylvania, and maybe north. Maybe Canada. I pulled up to the self-service pumps and got out of the car. I didn’t have a lot of cash, but thought it would probably be a good idea to pay for the gas here. The thing was, no one was at the counter when I went into the office. I opened the door to the garage. The guy was in there, working on a car, a red Camaro. Maybe his own, that late at night. It was up on the lift, and he was doing something underneath. He hadn’t heard me come in; he was listening to music on the radio. Not too loud, just loud enough. His back was to me. I didn’t have a lot of money. For a guy whose lungs were filling up with blood, he put up a good fight. He got us down on the floor of the garage and nearly bit through the fabric of my jacket sleeve. It was all I could do to hold on.

8

Here’s the bitch: afterwards, I couldn’t get the pumps turned on. I messed around with the register, and got that open, but I couldn’t figure out how to make the pump work. I thought about the car on the lift, but it had a wheel off, and I couldn’t take the time. I dragged him around back. The woods came right up to the back of the building, and I left him about fifteen feet behind the garage. I didn’t like leaving him like that, but I got nervous about spending more time there than I had to. I went back inside and cleaned myself up a little. My left forearm was sore and pretty badly bruised. Bites are the worst. I found the electrical panel and shut off the lights. I got back in the car and kept going. The buildings thinned out again. The car was run-ning on fumes. A couple miles later there was another intersection, with an old style diner on the near corner, the kind that looks like a train car, all stainless steel and glass. It was lit up, with some cars and couple big trucks in the lot. If I asked inside where the nearest gas station was, they might send me back to where I’d just come from. There was a fair amount of cross traffic at the intersection. I could chance taking the cross road one way or the other and looking for gas on my own, but if I ran out, I’d be on foot. Maybe I was paranoid, but I didn’t think I could afford to be that conspicuous. I pulled into the lot and parked in the back. I threw the keys away. Inside, the place looked half-full, and I picked a seat at the counter, next to an older guy who was sitting alone. He had on a red baseball cap and wore a blue flannel shirt and jeans. He needed a shave. A real hayseed. He had a cup of coffee in front of him. I don’t like to talk much. Most people do. They all say the same stupid shit. What’s the point? I had to say something now, though, if I was going to get anywhere. “Hi.” “Hey, how you doing? Nice night out,

ain’t it? You ever been here before? I recom-mend the cream chipped beef. This place is the best. You from around here?” I shook my head. “I didn’t think so; I don’t live around here, but not too far away, either, and I get out this way a lot. Got that rig out in the parking lot. How about you?” I was in luck. The guy was a moron. Maybe he was a queer. I had to play this right. “I got dropped off outside. Looking for a ride.” “Which way you headed?” “West.” I held my breath. “Well, I can help you out, maybe, if you don’t mind waiting while I get something to eat. I’m taking a load all the way out to Cleve-land, Ohio. That do you any good?” “Yeah, thanks.” “Don’t mention it. Get yourself some-thing to eat. Try the beef. We got time.” I had the beef and listened to him go on, saying yeah every once in a while. I’d of rather gotten out of there sooner, but there was no sense in trying to rush the guy. He talked while he ate, and a dribble of the white sauce from his creamed beef had run down the stubble on his chin. I felt like killing him right there. Finally, he stood up. “Well, if you’re ready, let’s get rollin’.” He insisted that he pay my check. I let him, and left a buck under my plate. Outside, we walked to his rig and got into the cab. He started it up, and said, “Almost for-got, I want to get them to fill my thermos bottle with that good coffee they got. Be right back.” He got out of the cab. For a moment I thought about stealing the truck but rejected the idea. Even if I had been comfortable driving some-thing that big I wouldn’t get far. Better to just take the ride, even if it meant listening to the asshole. I was amazed that even now, with all the stories, there were still people trusting enough to give a stranger a ride. He was back in a minute, and we got un-derway. “Have some coffee?” “No thanks.”

9

“Aw, go on. It’s good, and we got a real long drive ahead of us.” “Ok.” He held the thermos between his legs and took off the top, the cup with a handle, and passed it to me. Then he unscrewed the cap. Steam rose from the opening, and I could smell the coffee. It smelled good. “Here, hold out the cup.” I did and he poured, looking back and forth between the cup and the road. I listened to him go on and on, while I held the cup, sipping at it once in a while as it cooled off enough to drink. This was going to be a long ride. It was good coffee; a little metal-lic tasting. Maybe that was from the thermos. “So how does a fellow like you find your-self out on the road in the middle of the night?” Shit. I didn’t want to answer questions. I said something about missing a ride, and sipped the coffee. “That’s too bad. Well, we’ll get you as far as Cleveland, that ought to help. Shouldn’t have any trouble after that. Help yourself to more coffee.” I did. I’d been awake and on the move for a long time, and was starting to run down. “Thanks.” “Not at all, have all you want; there’s plenty. They make it just the way I like it, too. Good and strong.” “Want some?” I held out the cup and thermos. I yawned. “Not now. I had two, three big cups back there.” He shifted in his seat. “We’ll be go-ing past my place in a little while. Got a little house on a piece of land out this way. Big ga-rage, too. I do a lot of woodwork, restoring an-tiques and whatever, and I got the garage set up as my shop. Soundproofed it so I won’t bother anybody, not that there’s anybody close enough to bother. Haven’t done much lately, though; too busy driving. I got a good contract with the outfit I do hauling for. Go on, have yourself some more coffee. Looks like you could use it.”

He chuckled. He was right. The day must really be catching up with me. I couldn’t remember feeling this tired, not for a long time. Maybe not ever. It was hard to keep my eyes open. I raised the cup to my mouth, but spilled what was left down my front. I just sat there, looking at the empty cup. I felt him taking the ther-mos out of my other hand, and I looked over. It seemed to take a long time to turn my head. He was looking at me, a big smile on his face. “Here, I’ll just take that for you. You sit back and relax. We’ll be at my place before you know it.” I tried to tell him to let me out. I didn’t want to go to his place. I couldn’t make my mouth say the words. I tried to reach the awl in my boot. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, either. I closed my eyes.

* * * I can hear it. It’s a scraping sound. It sounds familiar. My mouth hurts. Something’s stuffed in it, and I’m gagged; it’s cutting into the corners of my mouth. I still hear the scraping sound. It’s rhythmic. It pauses for a few seconds, then continues. My head hurts. I still can’t move my arms or legs. It hurts when I try. I open my eyes. It’s a blur, but it’s coming into focus. I see a red spot. It’s his hat. He’s across the garage, sitting on a high stool at a bench, working at something. Scraping, scrap-ing. No. He’s drawing a big knife across a stone, honing it, making it sharper, and sharper. He takes it away from the stone and draws his thumb across the cutting edge, perpendicular to the dark gray blade. He looks over at me. And smiles. I try to move again, but it’s no good. He’s tied me too tightly. He knows what he’s doing. This is going to take a while.

10

Ron Nichols

11

Jim Gouv

12

Blah Blah Black Insomnia

by Megan Foley

The TV’s still on in the other room.Throw back the covers and turn it off.You think that static can drown outThe people stumbling home from the bar?The bass from that car’s stereo?

That ambulance, your neighbor’s dog, The moon, the news, the hang-over, the President,The past-due phone bill, the telemarketer,Your mother, the write-up waiting for you at workFor being late.Again.

In-grown toenail, no health insurance.The faucet drips, but the landlord’s in Daytona.Again.

The money you lost on the football game,Roll the bones,Or just roll another bone.

The bags under your eyes, another all-nighter.The worry, the noise.

Dry throat, copper mouthGot to get some sleep tonight Sandpaper eyes Grumblin’ gut, can’t eatJust make it through one more day Black coffee, burnt tar Jangled nerves, ground teethWired to the vibrations Plugged in to auto-pilot Please give me a nudgeGot to get some wake tonight If this is my dream.

Now pull the blanket over your head,Go back to sleep,Sheep.

13

Robbie Menke

14

I feel stuck in that point in time just

before waking or just before falling asleep,

everything looks like I’m peering through a

window covered in Vaseline. The fog starts to

recede when I realize that I have no idea where

I am, how I got here, or what I was last doing.

Its okay, I’ll just take it as it comes. No point in

worrying too much, don’t want to work myself

up into a panic. Wait, what about my wife and

kids? They might be worried about me. Hold

on, I don’t have a wife and kids. Pull your head

together, Ronnie.

It looks like I’ve been drawn into an old

postcard of Route 66. The long, straight road

doesn’t have much on it except for the gas sta-

tion I’m standing in right now and a few lights

on the horizon. There is desert on either side

of the road, mostly sand and a few bushes, none

of those stereotypical cactuses that look like

they’re waving to you. Surrounding the desert

is a huge mountain range that extends as far as

the eye can see, and the sun is falling behind it.

The gas station would be out of place anywhere

else but here. It’s brightly lit with a big red roof

overhead and is so clean that I would gladly eat

off of any surface here. They have those big, red

analog gas pumps with rounded tops that you

only see in movies, a garage with a few vintage

cars that are waiting to be brought back to life,

and even a small stand with a big checkerboard

sign that reads “Best Burgers and Malts.” This is

just too surreal, it’s like the fifties threw up in

the middle of the desert.

A young guy, I guess about 17, wearing a

short-sleeved button-up white shirt complete

with black bowtie comes out from the garage

and up to me. “Sorry sir. Bart, that’s our me-

chanic, sir, said that it’ll be a while ‘til your car

is up and running,” as he gestures towards the

garage with his freckled Irish hand.

There’s my ’85 Monte Carlo, looking as

out of place as a scarf in summer next to those

beautiful classic cars. It just looks so boxy and

awkward when compared with the sleek care-

fully rounded edges of the other rides there.

At least that seems a bit more realistic; this just

seems so much like a dream that I was half

expecting for him to point out an old Ford Fair-

lane as my car. Funny though, I don’t remem-

ber fixing the dent in the side of the Monte

and polishing it up to a high gloss shine. Then

again, there’s a lot that I don’t remember right

now.

“Okay,” I say in response to the sharp

looking attendant, “how long will it take?” Sure,

I could probably fix it myself. Problem is, I only

know the phone number for the parts store

that the garage I work at orders from. And from

the looks of it, I’m a long way from Jersey.

“Bart said that he won’t be able to fix it until at

least tomorrow,” says the kid while rubbing his

hands with a rag that should be dirty consider-

ing he just came out of the garage, “and unless

you know someone around here, I’d put it to

you to get a hotel room.”

Of course I don’t know anyone around

here, I don’t even know where here is.

“Where’s the closest one?” I ask, assuming that

there is one nearby.

“Oh, just a mile or two down the road,

better hurry up mister, it’s gettin dark.” And

without any hesitation I begin to turn around

to take a walk down that strange yet somehow

familiar highway, the embodiment of déjà vu,

when a voice surprises me from behind.

“You don’t have to make that hike, man,”

says the guy in the champagne Eldorado con-

vertible that seems to have just appeared out of

thin air while my back was turned. He’s obvi-

ously dressed to impress. His jet-black hair is

Ronnie and the Ferryman(novel excerpt)

by George Petner

15

slicked back in a pompadour style with long

side burns running down his jaw line. The two

piece suit he has on is gold and glittery worn

over a white butterfly collard shirt with the top

two buttons undone. And goddamn, he’s even

wearing blue suede shoes and sunglasses. This

guy has got to be one of the best Elvis imper-

sonators I’ve ever seen, or at least at doing

young Elvis. Hell, in this delusion it could even

be the king. “You can hop a ride with me, I’m

heading down the road myself,” he says to me

with one lip slightly curled.

All of my common senses should tell me

not to get into a car with an Elvis impersonator

at a strange gas station in the middle of God

knows where, but this is too good to pass up.

When I wake up, I hope I can remember this

dream.

As we pull away he asks me, “So, what’s

your name, slick?”

“Ronnie,” I reply, then try to follow it up

with the next obvious question but he cuts me

off.

“Well take it from me, Ronnie, you just left

one of the last slices of heaven outside of the

pearly gates themselves.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask him,

still a little confused by everything that’s hap-

pened in the last couple of minutes.

“ Lemme askya,” he says all jumbled togeth-

er in the perfect “king” accent, “When was the

last time you saw a full service gas station?”

“In Jersey they’re all full service,” I say.

“Naw man, I mean real full service, not

just someone pumping gas into your chariot. I

mean a place that’s clean, where the workers

there are actually happy to see you, and more

than happy to help you out any way they can.

When was the last time you seen that?

“I don’t know,” I say. Actually, I’ve never

been to a place like that before.

“I know you don’t know. You’re too

young to remember the days when that was

nothing out of the ordinary, when people took

pride in their service stations,” I don’t know

what he means by I’m too young, the guy looks

as old as me and I’m 29. But I don’t say any-

thing and let him continue, “I’ll tell you this

country’s gone to hell since it went self-service

at gas stations. Nobody takes pride in a job like

that no more. And why, just ‘cause you don’t

make a huge living on it? People don’t under-

stand that helping is its own reward anymore.”

I can’t argue with him. Less and less people are

volunteering in the after school programs at the

Y lately. Am I on schedule tomorrow? I don’t

even know what day it is.

“Well, what do you do?” I ask him. It’s

pretty obvious, I’m just making conversation.

“This is about all that I do, just a lot of

traveling.” He pauses for a moment as he watch-

es the sun finally set over the mountains. “You

like to travel, Ronnie?”

“Are you kidding? I can’t get enough of

it. Let me ask you…” Just then I realize that I

never did ask him what his name was. “…I’m

sorry I never got your name.”

“You can just call it like you see it, man. I

don’t see much use in formalities, a names just

a name, it don’t change who you are.” he says to

me so coolly that I can actually feel the temper-

ature dropping.

“Okay then um…Elvis, let me ask you, are

you headed to Vegas or something?”

“Actually man, I try to stay away from

sin city unless I gotta go there. That town just

holds too many bad memories for me.”

I think for a minute and take another

guess as to where he might be headed, “Atlantic

City?” I ask him.

“I guess you could say I’m headed to the

best damn casino ever, the one with the biggest

payoffs.” After that he gets a little smile on his

face.

“Sounds great,” I say, “I’ve never been too

much of a winner,” and boy, ain’t that the truth. 16

Even though I try to be good and charitable,

life’s still managed to throw me constant slaps

in the face. I’ve turned so many cheeks I think

that I may have run out. “Crap, I think we just

passed the hotel,” I say to Elvis as I see a build-

ing whiz past us. I didn’t even notice how fast

we were going; guess I should pay more

attention.

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, man, that place

is a dump anyhow. There’s a place that’s much

better down the road.”

“But that’s the closest place to the garage,

I don’t want to walk that far.” I didn’t mean for

that to come out so whiny, but I think it did.

“Hey hey now, you forget how friendly

these people are, they’ll drive it out to you,

provided you give them a lift back to the sta-

tion,” Elvis says to me, trying to calm me down.

I guess I did sound like a whiner. “Besides, we

can stop at my favorite diner before we hit the

spot I’m gonna take you to. It’ll be my treat.”

“Alright,” I say, “I am a little hungry I guess,”

and I think why didn’t I get one of those burg-

ers at the gas station.

“Shoulda got yourself one of those burg-

ers where I picked you up from.” He must be

reading my mind or something. “Best ever, and

their malts ain’t bad either,” he says as we con-

tinue down the road.

It got dark so fast that I didn’t even real-

ize it. I can’t even see the edge of the road, like

we’re driving through some kind of black abyss.

All I can make out is the long double yellow

line in the center of the road and what ever

the headlights of the car fall upon, which isn’t

much. This road is almost as tidy as that gas sta-

tion was. People around here must be obsessed

with cleanliness. “That’s weird,” I say aloud as

I tilt my head back and take a look at the sky, “I

can see almost every star there is. But where’s

the moon?”

“Probably just behind the mountains

still,” he says to me, “that happens a lot here.”

Whether this is a dream or not, I don’t want to

make myself look stupid by asking where here

is. I don’t want this guy thinking that I’m some

sort of mental case, even if he is a figment of my

imagination. “Here we are, baby,” Elvis says as

we pull into the parking lot of the diner. Again,

I did not see the diner until we were right next

to it. Elvis saw it in the dead of night, and he’s

still wearing his sunglasses. Guess I should pay

more attention.

We get out of the car and I notice that the

cars in the lot aren’t vintage like the ones back

at the gas station. They range from a ’47 Rolls-

Royce Silver Wraith to a 2004 Pontiac Sunfire.

I bet they had the same price tag the day they

came off the assembly line.

“Can you believe what they pass off as

cars these days? All of the new ones look like

the same freaky piece of plastic to me,” he says

with a laugh, and I couldn’t agree more. Some

of these chariots are in mint condition, like

someone had spent a lot of time and energy

on them, like they were their babies. Some of

the cars though were dilapidated and had huge

rust holes in them, cars that you wouldn’t want

to be caught dead in. But the most interesting

thing is that the cars are all separated; sweet

ones on one side and crappy ones on the other.

Elvis parked on the side that was more pleasing

to the eye.

We walk up the steps of the diner and

open the big glass doors that lead to a brown

sign with white lettering that says “please wait

to be seated.” Unlike the gas station, this place

is nothing that I haven’t seen before: Venetian

blinds on the window, booth seating with semi-

flat padding and loose springs waiting to poke

you in the ass, waitresses in light pink dress

uniforms, and a cook that’s so dirty and hairy

that you don’t want him to touch your food, let

alone cook it. They even have those lights that

look like a metal cereal bowl swinging from

the ceiling that make that soft humming noise. 17

It’s the typical breakfast-at-anytime diner that

I used to wind up stumbling into after a night

out with my classmates from Lincoln Tech. I

take a look around and see that many of the

folks visiting the diner are sitting alone, all by

themselves. The rest of them, which isn’t too

many, only have one person with them. Most

of them say hi to each other in passing though,

so at least this doesn’t seem like an unfriendly

place.

“Elvis, howarya?” asks a short waitress in a

nasally tone from across the room.

“Doing good, Rita honey,” he says back,

“this is my buddy, Ronnie,” and puts his hand on

my shoulder and smiles, “he’s riding with me.”

“C’mon, Elvis, you know you don’t have

to wait, you come on in,” says Rita, and she

escorts us across the grey tiled floor to a big

green padded booth where we sit down and

a spring pokes me. I hope the food is good,

‘cause the seating stinks.

Rita pours two cups of coffee and goes to

hand us our menus, “Thanks, but I already know

what I want,” both me and Elvis say at the same

time, and then give each other an unusual look.

“Peanut butter and banana sandwich,” says

Elvis, “fried”.

“Cream chipped beef on toast with home

fries.”

“Okay, that’s one PB and B – fried for Elvis,

and Shit on a shingle with brown on the side

for the new inductee.” says Rita. What does she

mean - “new inductee”?

“Whaddya mean ‘new inductee’?” I ask

Rita, and she gives me a look that all but says

you poor, dumb bastard.

“Elvis,” Rita says turning to my traveling

partner, “I told you last time: you gotta start

making sure that they know before hand if you

want to bring them here. I can’t stand to see

them make a scene.”

“C’mon, Rita, I only done that one time,”

he replies back to her as she walks back

through the swinging stainless steel behind the

counter and into the kitchen.

“Only did what one time,” I ask, a little

shaky in my voice, “Where are we?” I don’t care

about looking stupid anymore, this is starting to

freak me out.

“This is the hardest part of my job,” Elvis

says to me, and my blood freezes. I feel so

stupid that I didn’t realize it before, but all of

a sudden it makes sense now, “You got into a

really bad car wreck on the way home from the

Y. They tried everything they could, but well…”

he looks up; he can see it in my eyes, “I guess

you figured it out; I’m sorry man.”

“I’m dead.”

“Fraid so.”

“I’m…dead,” the words come out again.

It’s just something that I didn’t think I’d ever

say.

“Listen man, it ain’t all that bad,” says the

one and only king of rock and roll, Elvis Aaron

Presley, “I know it’s a shock. I popped up the

same way you did, not knowing what hap-

pened, or where I was. That’s what happens

with sudden deaths like your car crash. When

people aren’t prepared for death they cross

over and tend to forget what happened.”

“So everyone here is…”

“…dead. Like me and you,” he finishes my

sentence for me because I can’t get the words

out. I really am surprised that I’m not causing a

scene like I guess that I’m supposed to, but this

could still be a dream. Yeah, that’s it, I’ll wake

up in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…Who the hell am I trying to

kid?

“I can’t be dead,” I say, my voice quiver-

ing just a little, “I’m young, I never got to do

anything with my life!” I start to think of what

I missed out on and continue, “I’ll never get

married, or have kids, or see the kids at the Y

grow up,” I think about those kids for a second,

who’s gonna tell them about me? They look at

me like a big brother; they’ll be devastated, “I 18

can’t be dead.”

“Listen, death is just another part of life

man,” Elvis says to me with glassy eyes, “How do

you think I felt when I found out that I wasn’t

gonna get to see my little girl grow up?” He

pauses for a moment and collects himself, “But

you gotta move on, baby. No going back. Just

remember that if they do follow your example,

you’ll see ‘em again someday.”

He’s right, no point in worrying too much

about it. I don’t want to get into a panic or

anything. “Okay, I’m dead, you’re dead, we’re

all dead,” I say still just a little upset, “so where’s

the puffy clouds an’ halos an’ stuff?”

“Naw, man,” he starts, “This ain’t heaven.

This is just the last road, like the River Styx,

baby. Only they did away with the river and

the creepy ferryman with the black cloak and

bone hands, made people too nervous; dieins’

hard enough, no need to scare the folks too.”

I don’t know what I’d prefer to be honest, at

least if I saw the other guy I’d know exactly

what was up from the get go. “Besides, the job

is too big for one guy so they got a bunch of us,

all just drivin up and down that road.”

“So this is the road to heaven? Or is it

hell? Am I going to hell? Please don’t take me

to hell, Elvis!” Here I am whining to the king

again, and saying things that I never thought

would come out of my mouth.

“Just be cool there, little Ronnie, you did

good in life. Even though you weren’t dealt the

best hand, you played the low card and were

grateful for everything you had. You never com-

plained, you just went with the flow and helped

others along the way. That’s why I’m taking you

to the big payoff.” He says this first to calm me

down; at least I know I’m not going to hell, “I

saw you looking at those other cars out there,

you know, the busted-up ones?”

“Yea,” I manage to choke out in response,

still settling down from the fear of burning for-

ever in the lake of fire.

“Those are the rides to the other side of

the road, the side you ain’t going to. I don’t go

that way, there are others for that,” he says, again

clarifying that I am not going to hell.

Okay, I am pretty calm now for a guy that

just found out he’s dead, but now I have a mil-

lion questions flowing through my mind. “Why

aren’t you…” are the only words I squeeze out

before I’m interrupted by Rita.

“Here ya go, fellas,” she says while she

chews her gum like cud and places our food on

the table. Elvis digs right in. Rita asks, “Are you

okay, sugar?” full of genuine concern. What a

sweetheart.

“I think I’ll be okay, I do have a lot of ques-

tions though.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, hun, but after

you’re dead it don’t matter anymore does it?”

she says with a snigger, “you’ll get all the an-

swers you want once ya go through the gates.”

“Yea, but my questions are for him,” I tell

her and tilt my finger slightly toward my super-

natural companion.

“Well, let me pour you two some coffee

and leave you be,” and she did just that.

Where should I start? I guess it doesn’t

matter; time is all I’ve got now. “If heaven in so

great why are you out here on the road?” I ask

for my first question.

“Going off of what I hear, it’s a fine place,

best place in the universe as a matter of fact.

I wouldn’t know personally though,” he says

from behind a cup of coffee.

“You never were there?” is my second

question, one that I wasn’t planning on asking

to the king, infamously religious as he was.

“Thems the rules, we can only drop

people off, no entry for us.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of unfair? I

mean, you take guys like me to heaven all the

time and you’ll never get to go there yourself?”

“Well, it’s not that us drivers’ll never get

to our final destination. We do gotta wait for 19

the day of reckoning though, until the last soul

gets to where they stay.” Elvis finishes off his

coffee and sets it aside then continues, “After

that, the heaven bound drivers get to enter the

gates, and the hell bound fellas gotta go where

they’ve seen the entrance to so many times

before.”

“All except for one,” I hear come from

behind me in a strangely familiar voice. I turn

around and see black pants and a black button

up spaghetti western style shirt, worn by a man

who can’t be mistaken for anyone else. It was

the man in black, Johnny Cash.

“Hey there, Johnny, how’s the road been

treatin ya?” asks Elvis as he tilts his head back to

meet eyes with the man in black.

“A lot harder than it’s treated you. You

can bet your ass on that,” Johnny says with a

nod to the king.

I am just completely dumbfounded right

now. Two of the best known legends in music

are talking right in front of me, and they are

both dead guys who give other dead people

lifts to the great beyond. My dream theory is

looking pretty good right about now.

“Ronnie, this is Johnny Cash,” Elvis says to

me.

“Yea,” I pause for a second and peruse

through my thoughts of all that’s happened up

until now, “I know.” I wonder if it’s okay to get

star struck when you’re dead.

Elvis moves over in the booth to make

room for Johnny, who sits down and leans

forward with his arms up on the table. I spot

a shiner on his right cheek and he stares me

dead in the eye before saying, “You catchin a

ride with him?” and cocks his head towards

Elvis. All I can do is nod my head in response.

At least with the king I got to talk to him a little

before I realized he was the king, with Cash it’s

like getting hit by a train. “Goddamnit Elvis, you

have no idea how good you got it. Tell a man

you’re takin him to heaven, he couldn’t be hap-

pier.” Sure, unless he doesn’t even know he’s

dead. “You should try my route sometime,” he

says as he points to the bruise I had seen. “The

rider I got now I had to tie down, literally.”

“Aw man, now Johnny, tell me you didn’t,”

Elvis says with a sore expression on his face.

“He’s in the trunk now, figured I’d give the

son of a bitch some time to think over who he’s

messed with,” retorts Johnny while shuffling in

his seat. I’ve always heard about how he was,

or is, I guess, one tough bastard, but hearing

about it and falling witness to it are two com-

pletely different things.

“You’re takin the fella to hell, Johnny.

Ain’t that bad enough?” the king asks looking a

little more than upset.

“Not for me it ain’t,” is the man in black’s

response.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “Let me get this

straight. I thought that you, Johnny Cash, were

a deeply spiritual man, why are you goin to

hell?”

“I am, and I’m not,” he says back to me out

of one side of his mouth, and the look he flash-

es me could have stopped a Buick. I quickly

shut my mouth. I was already in a car wreck; I

don’t want to end up in a trunk too.

Elvis intervenes, “Johnny’s famous ‘round here

for more than just his tunes man. He died with

some bad things on his record that he refused

to apologize for so he got taken to hell, like

anyone else woulda. But Johnny here is one

stubborn bastard and he felt that an unjust

decision had been made.”

“Unjust ain’t the word!” Johnny barks and

slams his hand on the table, “someone upstairs

fucked up is what happened. I ain’t never done

a thing to no one who didn’t deserve it,” he

shouts, and everyone in the diner turns around

to see what the problem is. Johnny just sits

there and snorts like a bull. I’m pretty sure

he’s telling the truth though because he looks

pretty steamed about it, not in an I got caught 20

kind of way, but in an I didn’t do it but no one

believes me kind of way. I suppose then that

he had other reasons for shooting that man in

Reno, other than just to watch him die, I mean.

“Anyhow,” continues Elvis, “Johnny here

raised a huge ruckus in hell. No matter how

much fire and brimstone they threw at him

he just kept on cussin at his tormentors. They

beat and burned him to a pulp, but like I said,

he’s one stubborn bastard. The demons got so

fed up with him that they brought him before

Lucifer himself. And when they did,” he says

almost cracking up with laughter, “Johnny spat

in ol’ Scratch’s eye and flipped him the bird.”

Elvis and Johnny start laughing with each other

and I can’t help but chuckle a little bit too. I

remember my dad used to say that every man

knows he’s a sissy compared to Cash; he was a

huge fan. I never fully appreciated that state-

ment until about two seconds ago, because I

feel far from a tough guy right now. God, this

just makes my whining look even worse!

Johnny continues the story while calming

down from the laughter, “So, I get tossed out of

hell on my ass. Ol’ Scratch told me, ‘Don’t ever

show your miserable face around here again,

you son of a bitch,’ threw me out on the road

again, this time without transportation, and

locked the gates of hell behind me.”

Between my questions and this story I

forgot about my food, it’s starting to get cold. I

pick up a knife and fork and start to eat while

attentively listening as Johnny goes on with his

story.

“It didn’t take long for me to figure out

that I wasn’t gonna get anywhere on foot, but

after a while of me wondering around this

damn valley aimlessly, I hear a voice ask if I

need a ride somewhere.”

“I do that when I see folks that wonder

down the road and get stuck in the middle of

nowhere, if I don’t have a passenger already,”

adds Elvis.

“So I hear someone offer me a ride. I turn

around and there’s my old buddy Elvis sittin

in one of the most beautiful damn chariots I’d

ever seen. We were both happier than a con-

gressman on tax day to see each other again.

We caught up with one another, talked about

the years since I’d seen him last, even talked

about getting The Million Dollar Quartet back

together.” He turns to Elvis and says, “I still

think that’s a good idea.” Then he continues af-

ter his tangent with, “Any how, he told me what

he’d been up to and I told him my story. So he

tells me he’s gonna see what he can do.”

Elvis takes over for Cash, “Johnny steps in

the car and I drive up the road to heaven, pull

right on up to the front gates,” he says as he

shifts his body around to face me more. “Peter

was really mad to see that Johnny was with me,

since he wasn’t even s’posed to see the gates.”

“Peter,” I disrupt, “like the saint?”

Cash leans back in the booth and throws

a sarcastic smirk at me, “Nah, Ronnie, Peter

Rabbit; what the hell other Peter you know

that’s in front of the gates to paradise?” he says.

I know that the living are supposed to pay

respect to the dead, but the dead don’t seem

to show much respect to each other, or at least

not to me.

“Peter’s kinda our main dispatcher. He

lets us know where and when to go to make a

pickup.” Elvis goes on, “I tell him about Johnny’s

fix and he goes back behind the gates to talk to

the big man. Now, this ain’t something Peter

normally does, but he happens to be a fan of

mine.” Talk about the celebrity treatment. “After

we wait around for a while he comes back and

says that Johnny can enter provided that he

makes up for his ‘blemished’ record. And you

can pretty much guess what he had to do,” the

king concludes as he motions an overturned

hand towards Johnny.

“Wow, that’s one heck of a story,” I say

with a mouth full of food. Some of my meal 21

falls down my chin and onto my shirt. “Crap,” I

mutter and grab a napkin to start cleaning off

my face and shirt.

“Where the hell is the waitress,” asks the

man in black as he looks over his shoulder and

around the room. “All I want is some coffee,

that askin too much?”

“You can have mine,” I tell him. “Its not

too hot anymore, but I didn’t even touch it yet.”

Not that it matters if I drank from it or not. I

don’t think anyone who’s deceased is going to

care about possibly catching a cold from shar-

ing a cup.

“Thanks kid,” he says as he leans over,

takes my cup, and gulps it down in one seam-

less movement. “You weren’t kiddin, this shit

is like brewed ice,” he says and finishes the rest

before standing up and fixing his jacket. “Well

Elvis, I’ll see you around, I gotta finish this drop

off before I catch shit for being late again.”

Cash shakes Elvis’ hand and then turns to me,

“Thanks for the coffee kid, have fun on the

other side.”

“Sure thing,” I answer while he turns away

and walks up to the front of the diner. He stops

up front and pulls out his wallet in front of the

cash register. “Hey,” I interject and tap Elvis on

the arm, “did he get anything?”

“Johnny picks up the tab sometimes,” Elvis

says. “He’s a nice guy after he gets to know

you.”

“Oh,” then I realize that something doesn’t

make sense. “If we’re all dead, why do we need

money, and food, and stuff like that?” I ask, a bit

bewildered.

“Things here are the same as what you’re

used to, Ronnie,” he starts, “only difference is

that we can’t die. We still get hungry or tired

or even hurt,” like that shiner on Johnny’s eye,

“And we also have appointments to keep,” he

says when he looks at the clock at the front of

the diner. “We gotta get you to the gates pron-

to, or I’m gonna hear it.” He starts to move out

of his seat and I shovel the last bit of home fries

in my mouth before I get up.

We make our way to the counter and I

can feel that my ass has gone numb, so I pull

out my wallet from my back pocket, not that I

needed it, I just did it hoping to get the circula-

tion going better. But upon opening it, I see

that a lot is missing. No credit cards, no cash,

no pictures, even though the only picture I

had came with the wallet, still it’s the principle

that all of my stuff is missing. All that’s there is

an ID card that has my picture on it, beneath

which it says Ronald J. Walsh and under that

HEAVEN. I guess that’s all I need. “Oh yea, hold

on to that, otherwise you gotta go through a lot

of red tape to get in,” the king warns me, and

holds the front door open as I pass through and

slam right into a sprinting Johnny Cash. I fall

backwards right onto my tailbone and let out a

quiet undertone of pain as I look up at the man

in black who was still standing, but seemed to

be in a panic. And seeing the slightest look of

fear in the eyes of this man, who I was always

led to believe was unshakable, a man who was

thrown outta Hell for being too damn ornery,

fills me with the darkest sense of dread and

anticipation that I have ever felt.

22

Terry Eggebrecht

23

Jim Perretta

24

Dominic DiCello

25

I’m carrying my wife’s severed head in my bag. It’s in a styrofoam cooler, filled with dry ice, not just rolling around. Her last wish, before she died, was for me to cut off her head and have it cryogenically frozen, until they could find a way to bring her back to life. Why the head, I never knew. It was the only oddity in a wonderful relationship. It didn’t seem impor-tant to ask for details. Sadly, neither of us expected the cryo-genic facility to go out of business. I didn’t expect the call this morning from Val-U-Freez, to come by and pick up my wife’s head. “She’ll be fine,” said the technician as he handed me the cooler, “at least for the next twelve hours. Keep her out of the sun.” It’s been ten, however, and it doesn’t look like I have any other alterna-tives besides letting it thaw. It would seem most cryogenic facilities just “don’t do heads,” or are seriously out of my price range. I love my wife. Or loved. I didn’t just mar-ry her head. I married the whole package: body, head, mind, soul. Even if they could bring her head back to life somehow, would she be the same person? Same soul? How should I know? All I know is that I have two hours left to uphold my end of the bargain. The woman on the phone at America’s Discount CryoPalace is more than a bit upset. “I realize it’s short notice,” I tell her, “but her previous cryonics facility just went out of busi-ness. At least it’s just a head. I feel sorry for the people who had to pick up the whole body.” “Look,” she says, popping gum, “we’re just plain full up. Even if it’s only a head, we don’t have any freezers free yet.” “Can you please not call her an ‘it’?” She pops more gum, and says, “Try the CryoPalace in Bryn Mawr. I’ll give you the num-ber. “I already did,” I shout, “and they said to call you!”

“It’s all I can do. Sorry,” she says. She sounds like she’s trying to sound like she means it. I’m carrying my wife’s severed head in my bag. It’s starting to smell. People on the bus are looking at me funny, trying to figure out why I reek of death. I just want to explain to all of them that I tried my best. After all, she is, or was, my wife. I can’t just throw her head away, and we already had a funeral. The important thing to understand, I tell myself, is that life is not fair. Why, then, should death be? I’ve turned my freezer down as low as it can go. My wife’s head will rest next to the ice cream, and the uncooked ground beef left-over from last night’s dinner, labeled and dated. The plastic bag company guarantees no freezer-burn. I’m going to hold them to that.

My Wife’s Severed Head

by Richard Anderson

26

Alesia Gopie

27

Jorge Figueroa

28

River Talks

by James Perratta

The river is high and slow.

It controls everything near,

The air, the light, the talk.

We settle into chairs

And easy conversation.

No voice is raised,

The river won’t allow it.

The children quiet yet there.

Topic laps over topic.

A faux pas is submerged.

Like a bankside stone

In the wake of a small passing boat.

The evening does not end

But simply rounds that bend in time.

29

Gregory Fisher

30

The last time I saw you was in that in-stant right before your eyes closed on me, your smile eased, and something intangible about you receded like a tide. Then you rolled away from me into the shrouds of our bed sheets. As minutely as that moment can be measured, so finite was the last moment that I had you. I think this as we’re out to breakfast now, but the man sitting across from me isn’t you. I realized it with the first words that slipped from his mouth after the lady seated us and left us alone. What lies he unleashed then! So cool with his delivery, but so absurd are the things he’s saying: That he doesn’t feel our relation-ship is working for him, that it’s not fair to me that we continue under this pretense. I’m thinking, who is he to say what’s right for you and me? He isn’t you; he says he is, but he can’t be. He sounds crazy. Every night with you was a summer sol-stice; lingering light clung to us long after the sun finally recessed; the moon high, my senses higher, so that nighttime withheld no secrets; it was but bluer day. Vibrant. Coupling. Warmer, and more revealing even, of my own reflection in you. In those nights, I existed in two; we ex-isted in one, and in that conundrum there was perfection. The imposter in front of me continues to spew ridiculousness over his tea- which is the same kind you drank, how audacious-- say-ing really, he thinks this is best for us, insists that I somehow knew it, too; that I had felt this moment’s imminence. I? I want to slap him for that, but I’m fighting to clear my head instead, nailing my eyes to the headlines on the newspaper in my lap: Community Reacts to New Zoning Ordinance. Soul Found Murdered in the Night, Missing Other Half, Owner Unac-counted For. I think, oh, that’s when it hap-pened. Oh no. I should let someone know I’m here, out for breakfast. What a way to find out

your soul was lost overnight. Over toast. Read-ing the paper. Listening to someone who says he’s your boyfriend but he’s not because obvi-ously your boyfriend died last night, and your soul along with him. The newspaper says so, I think. This is so absurd. Fucking ridiculous. In those bright nights, I swam in your darkest oceans, your slightest movements send-ing me reeling, driven farther and farther from familiar shores by your warm waves, adopting your rhythm, your swell lifting me into the exotic and setting me down gently again. You could not have been more honest than that. Your look-alike maintains his calm oration, his blasphemy drifting around my head; around it and around it; tightening in my chest, don’t want to breathe lest this poison find its way into me. It’s not in me yet, isn’t real, shut him up, doesn’t he realize I just read about some-thing something and my dead boyfriend? My eyes dart, rest on anything for sanctuary; focus, distract. Today’s Breakfast Special: The First Meal you Didn’t Realize You’d Be Eating Single. Market Price. Obscenely cheap. Inhumanly expensive. God dammit, nothing makes sense. He has stopped. I look up, meeting his gaze. Did I win? Deny his charade until he gave up on it? I take a cautious breath, test the air, am immediately choked, my vision lost behind a liquid glaze. You remove your teabag, roll it in a napkin, and place it on a plate for the waitress to remove. It is spent, and will pro-duce nothing but bitterness.

Toast

by Will Shoemaker

31

Maria Paola Pardo

32

His Silent Release

by Stephen Rivera

Stuck in a state of lethargy

Folded arms

Black hat, wrinkled off white T-shirt

He stares blankly into abstractions

Three boys played guns

Bang BANG

Lost in their strategy

Homeless Hal headed north hopelessly

Thoughts--

Seems better to die

Than to struggle in this mess I’ve created

Where’s this benevolent Leader I hear so much about?

A man with a parachute took position on

The Top of a building

With no wings, took flight

Taking no notice,

Hal’s shlep continued

Into an alley

He took his own life

33

Lisa Hause

34

Wentworth stood in front of his bathroom mirror. His costume was almost complete. If only he could get his slightly oversized hat to stay put. Maybe a bobby pin would do the trick, he thought. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet and picked two of them from the random pile of accessories his sister had left there once again. The large mirrored door slowly creaked shut, closing almost completely when something caught his eye. A dark figure with the tiniest hint of glowing orange eyes appeared in the reflection. He could see only a small piece of its face, nearly hidden behind the hanging bunch of blazers in his bedroom closet. He had forgotten to leave the closet light on again. He shut the cabinet door and whipped his head around, knowing that, as always, it would be gone. Wentworth sighed and turned back to the mirror, staring at the reflection of his closet. “I know you’re here. I saw you. I’m really get-ting sick of this. Leave me alone.” he said louder than he expected, but not nearly as intimidating as he wanted. I’ve got tights on. Of course it’s not going to listen to me. He heard footsteps clunking toward his room. “Weeennntiiie! Are you almost done primp-ing?! You‘re friends are gonna be here soon and I still have to get your picture! How does it fit?” Wentworth cringed. His mother’s shrill pitch sometimes hurt his head. It sounded like everything she said was stretched like a rubber band. She stopped right behind him, grasped his shoulders and spun him around for inspection. As she smoothed his ruffled white shirt and knelt down to fix his large yellow belt buckle, he got a whiff of her distinctive scent: Absolut Vodka, hair spray and strawberry perfume. Or maybe it was strawberry flavored vodka and flowery perfume. He began contem-plating this as she hopped back up and sur-veyed him from hat to toe. She smiled, looking

suspiciously proud. “What an adorable little pilgrim you are!” Wentworth huffed, “Moooom, I’m a colonial boy! Not a stupid pilgrim.” She crossed her arms and stepped back, cocking her head and mov-ing her eyebrows as if looking at an intricate painting at a museum. “You’re sister’s tights look cute on ya, Wen-tie. Ha! Aren’t ya missin something? You need a prop. Did this come with a prop?” Wentworth stepped past her and grabbed his plastic gun from on top of his dresser. He waved it up in the air and headed toward the kitchen. He could hear her clapping excitedly behind him in the hallway.

About an hour later, Wentworth sat at the long dining room table drinking tea and leafing through his Scientific American magazine. His mother flew into the room, pausing briefly to extinguish her cigarette in the ashtray next to him before scurrying toward the front door. She put her face up to the window and clapped her hands again. “Oh good, Wentie, you’re friends are here just in time. I’ll have just enough time to put on my new dress and set up for the big shindig be-fore my lovely guests get here! Now don’t you leave before I get pictures of you. I know you’re sister’s gonna wanna see these when she comes back from school next weekend. I bet she’s out partying already, huh? Wait till you’re dad gets home from work and sees my dress! This party’s gonna be so faaancy! Thanks for folding those napkins for me, pumpkin.” She adjusted her big cloud of orange hair in the mirror and flung the door open before anyone could ring the bell. Wentworth slowly made his way to the entry-way where his mother was making his friends spin around as she hopped about, complement-ing their costumes. “Oh look at you, Jonah! Oooh, Violet, you

Every Light in the House

by Megan Brown

35

look so spicy! Your mother let you wear that! Goodness! Hehehe. Oh, look at Sophie. Watch out with that sword, honey. Charlie, that’s so cute! Weeeentie! Get your coat and candy bag and come over here for some pictures.” She hustled toward her bedroom as Wentworth appeared in the entryway, observing his friends’ costumes. Sophie, Jonah and Charlie were all in his classes at middle school. Their parents were all very chummy with one another, probably more than the kids were with each other. He mostly only talked to Jonah and Charlie when they would come ask for his help in Algebra class, sometimes they let him sit with them at lunch. Wentworth didn’t see Sophie much at school, she usually sat alone in the back and kept to herself, but when he did see her she was always friendly to him. She shared her raisins with him once after school. He remem-bered how she always carried around a He-Man lunch box. Violet was Jonah’s older sister. He knew she was in some year of high school. She was very very tall with dark hair and appeared to be wearing a small silky nightgown. Wen-tworth wondered if she even brought a coat with her. Jonah, a pirate, and Charlie, dressed as a large white ball with devil horns, eyed Wen-tworth’s costume skeptically. Even though he wasn’t much skinner or shorter than Jonah, he felt tiny standing next to him. Sophie, fully clad as Zorro, snatched his prop gun from its holster. “Cool gun! What did they call them back then?” Wentworth cleared his throat nervously. “A…musket. Nice sword. It looks real.” Before she could respond his mother was back in the room, clutching her camera. “Ok, now one at a time, then I want one pic-ture of you all together. Ready?” After her photo session the group headed out the door. Wentworth’s mother pulled him back for one last kiss on the cheek, then knelt in front of him, suddenly looking serious. Her finger was pointed at his chin.

“Now Wentie, I know I’ve said this a million billion times, but you gotta be careful tonight sweetie. I know you’re a cautious little guy, but be extra cautious tonight. No eating the candy before you get home and inspect it. Stay with your little group, I trust Violet will take good care a you kids. And make sure ya stop off at Mr. Falsetto’s house. I saw him at the grocery store today and he’s excited to see you kids all dressed up. He promised he’d have candy for ya too.” She pinched his cheek and stood up. “Now mom’s gonna go get ready for her first big din-ner party. Be safe my little pilgrim.” The door shut behind him and he headed down the driveway to join the others. The air was crisp and the houses on the bright street all smelled like their fire places were burning. “Isn’t that just the best smell?!” Wentworth heard Sophie tell Violet. He was walking a few steps behind her to avoid being poked with her sword. Violet stopped the group for a minute to answer her cell phone and adjust her make up. Jonah poked him on the shoulder. “What are you supposed to be?” Charlie looked excited. “Yeah, dude, it’s Halloween. Not Thanks-giving.” Wentworth looked away from them, pretending to gaze down the street and be nonchalant. “It’s a colonial period costume…. As in the Boston Tea Party, the American Revolution….” The two boys stared at him blankly. Instead of defending himself further, Wentworth shrugged and gestured at Charlie. “What the hell are you supposed to be, a big evil snowball?” Charlie glared at him. “Um, no, jackass. I’m a deviled egg. Get it? Horns. Egg. My mom said it was very imaginative.” Jonah chuckled, “Oh, did she?” Charlie, who was much larger than Jonah, especially as an egg, shoved him. Violet’s phone

36

snapped shut and she cleared her throat. “Ok, guys, stop playin’. Ready to get some candy? We gotta stop at Bobby Falsetto’s first, al-right? He’s real excited to see my costume. I’m gonna surprise him.” She grinned as they began shuffling after her. Jonah poked her, snickering. “Is that why you’re dressed so slutty, Violet? A little surprise for your gangster lover?” Violet swatted at him and kept walking. “Shut up, you little asshole.”

Wentworth wondered about the rumors Jonah would mention sometimes at the lunch table, about Violet and Mr. Falsetto being a couple, and Mr. Falsetto being in the mob. May-be tonight he would find out if it was true. A few minutes later they arrived at Mr. Falsetto’s driveway. Unlike the other houses on the street, which all seemed slightly smaller, there were no pumpkins or decorations to be found. But the house was brightly lit all over, especially the outside. Wentworth felt comforted looking at it. Violet buzzed the intercom on the short wall at the end of the driveway and whispered into it giggling. She led them up the driveway to the door, which had been opened for them. They walked into the large entryway and down a long hallway to an even larger living room. Mr. Falsetto was sitting on a large leather chair reading the newspaper. There was a small whis-key bottle on the table next to him and a filled glass in his hand. His pinky stuck out as he sipped from it. He raised it toward them as they stepped into the room. “Hey, hey, look at youse! Happy Halloween, kiddies. Make yourselves comfortable.” Wentworth sat with Sophie, Charlie and Jonah in a row on the couch near the large television. Violet stood in front of Mr. Falsetto’s chair and curtsied. He scowled at her. “What the hell are you supposed to be, a whore in her jammies?” Violet sighed and point-ed to a small picture a man with a white beard

that was taped onto her slip in the middle of her chest. “No, silly, I’m Freudian Slip. Get it? Freud?” She gestured once again to her dress as if she was presenting a letter on Wheel of Fortune. Mr. Falsetto picked a cigar out of a box under his chair and lit it. “Well, you’re quite the fuckin’ philosopher aren’t ya?” He laughed and patted the arm of his chair. She perched herself on it next to him and put her arm around his muscular shoulder. Wen-tworth noticed how the light bounced off the top of his slicked black hair, and wondered if he would ever be able to get his hair to look like that. It reminded him of a dark wet road after it rained. Mr. Falsetto turned to the couch. “Hey, guys. Help yourselves to the candy.” There was a large bowl of assorted goodies on the coffee table near the couch. Charlie was the first to jump up and start digging through it. “I had the maid make some caramel apples for ya too, they’re in the kitchen. I like your costumes. Wentworth, what are you, there, little guy?” Wentworth carefully unwrapped his lollipop. “Someone from colonial times.” Mr. Falsetto puffed on his cigar, amused. “Oh yeah? Say something colonial.” Wentworth shrugged, and then put his hands to his face in mock horror. “The British are coming!” Mr. Falsetto laughed loudly for a bit at this as the others munched on the candy. Wentworth shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He regret-ted drinking that third cup of tea at home. He stood up. “Excuse me, Mr. Falsetto, may I please use your restroom?” His macho neighbor appeared to be quite pleased with his politeness, once again grinning back at him and gesturing with his cigar. “Of course, son. And call me Bobby.” He stood up and pointed down the hallway. “Just go down there, see? And it’s the third

37

door on that side. Don’t go in the first or sec-ond one, you hear?” He gestured again.

“Third door, over there. You got it?” Wentworth nodded and headed down the hallway. He noticed one of the doors in the hall was slightly open. It was dark inside the room, and as Wentworth slowly passed it approach-ing the bathroom, he noticed a flicker of orange light from inside. He heard a low whispering noise and shivered, gripping his plastic gun. He peered back down the hallway toward the liv-ing room, making sure no one saw him poking around the wrong door. Everyone was watch-ing Sophie pretend to sword fight with Jonah, who had snatched one of the pokers from the fireplace and was swatting at her. Wentworth took a deep breath and turned the door handle, opening it an inch further. The figure that had been taunting him appeared to be gone. He sighed and closed the door again. This can’t go on forever, he thought. Can it? Inside the bathroom, Wentworth washed his hands and looked into the mirror. He contorted his face to appear angry, and slicked his brown hair back with his wet fingers. He pointed his gun at his reflection. The toilet made a strange gurgling sound that startled him, making him drop his gun into the sink. He tried flushing it again; this time nothing at all happened. He jiggled the handle as he’d seen his father do before. Nothing. He stepped back and thought for a minute. Wentworth pushed his sleeves back and lifted the lid on top of the toilet tank. He peered into the tank and prepared to fix the problem, when all of the sudden he noticed a shiny black metal-looking object floating in the tank. Wentworth stared closer into the tank and smiled. This is just what I needed. Now I can finally get rid of it. It will never be able to get to me again. Back at his house, Wentworth’s mother pranced into the bedroom where her husband

was getting ready for the party. She adjusted the straps on her gown and plopped down on the bed, watching her husband attempt to fasten his bowtie. “Honey, you should have seen our little man tonight, he looked so precious. Wait till ya see the pictures I got of him and his friends! I just hope he comes home in one piece. Dear Lord, remember what happened last year, you would have thought he’d seen a ghost! Was that the doorbell? Oh, dear let me help you with that!” She began to fiddle with his bow tie as her husband looked down nervously, not wanting to appear too anxious about his son or the impending flood of guests that were about to arrive. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, Julia. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

With their pillowcases already half full with candy from Mr. Falsetto’s house, the group trekked back down the street, stopping at a dozen more houses. The moon looked to be almost full, and by the time they got to the edge of the neighborhood, it was the only light around them. Violet trailed behind them, talking on her phone and snapping her gum. As they drew farther away from their houses, Jonah became more excited. “Come on guys, this is getting lame. Let’s go into the woods! I heard one of Violet’s friends saying there’s this haunted house a couple miles back. We should totally go check it out!” Wentworth glanced at Sophie, who re-mained quiet but looked a little nervous about the proposal. Charlie looked back down the long road at the safe group of light clusters that they now seemed to be miles away from. “I don’t know, Jonah. Those woods are huge. And you don’t even know where this mystery house is. I say we go back and see how much candy we scored.” Jonah stopped walking suddenly and looked at Charlie, defiant.

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“Fuck you and your stupid candy apple! You’re just too much of a pussy to go into the woods! I guess we should just start head-ing back now. I know Wentworth’s not gonna wanna go in there. Fine! You guys are scared of everything. What do you think is in there? Afraid the Boogeyman’s gonna get you?” Wentworth stopped and turned to look at Jonah, feeling braver as he clutched his holster. “I’ll go.” Everything was dark. There were only a few shadows that Wentworth could make out from the light of the moon. Even that was covered up by the tall pine trees every time he looked up to see it. He was following the dark mass in front of him that was Jonah. He could hear Charlie behind him, and Wentworth was sure he could feel him shaking. Poor guy. Wentworth was trying not pay attention to anything but the sound of Jonah’s footsteps. The wind and the crackling leaves under their feet sounded like the popping sparks of a fireplace. He couldn’t smell the fireplaces anymore. Sophie had stayed behind with Violet, who had angrily barked something about them being “eaten by goddamn cannibals” if they weren’t back in a half hour. She would probably be on the phone the whole time and wouldn’t notice if they were gone too long. Suddenly Jonah stopped, sending Wentworth and Charlie running right into him without warning. As they fell into each other and onto the cold ground, Wentworth sat up quickly and looked around. Behind a large nearby tree, he saw a familiar glow of flickering orange light. Then he began to hear the growl-ing. Jonah scrambled away, toppling over Char-lie and Wentworth, who were still on the ground. He backed up, staring terrified into the darkness. “What… what is that?” He whis-pered, barely audible to himself. Charlie slowly crawled backwards, nearing Jonah’s feet. “You see it too?” He trembled, his voice shaky and terrified. Gradually, Wentworth rose to his feet,

trying not to make a noise, all the while keep-ing his eyes focused on the glimmers of orange that were staring back at him. He stepped an inch closer to the gigantic dark mass that was only a few yards in front of them. “Wentworth, what are you doing?” he heard Jonah whisper. “Let’s go back. Now!” Charlie whimpered, “I don’t know what or who that thing is but I don’t want to find out. Now can we go? I want to go! I told you we should have gone back and had candy. Shit!” Wentworth inched even closer, and realized he was standing up straight, with a better, more confident posture than he could ever remem-ber having. He turned his head to the side toward Charlie and Jonah, still keeping an eye on the monster before him. “No. I have to finish this. I don’t want to be scared anymore.” The huge dark mass seemed to lunge at him, knocking him off his feet. He fell back onto the ground near the others. Suddenly the orange eyes were only feet away from them. He could see a small cloud of its breath in the air. It growled and raised its gigantic black arm. Wentworth pulled the pistol from his hip and pointed it at the orange glow. With both hands he gripped the trigger, shutting his eyes tightly and looking away for the last time. He squeezed the trigger and a loud bang filled the forest. “Oh, remember how we used to be afraid to go trick or treating after dark, honey?” Wen-tworth’s mother cackled loudly, clinking her glass with her husbands’. He smiled, sipped his Merlot and turned to face the rest of the crowd-ed table. “Julia, I’m surprised our little guy’s still out there, he’s got to be pretty spooked by now. It’s dark out there! Hahaha! I tell you guys, that boy is so damn practical and intelligent, you think he’d be a little less scared of the dark, you know?!” He glanced toward the other parents as they nodded and laughed together, sharing stories of their childrens’ phobias.

39

Julia refilled her drink and lit a cigarette. “You know, my Wentie is still so scared of his closet. I always have to close the closet doors in his room or he refuses to go to sleep. To this very day! I still think he suspects there’s something in there! So silly! Every day when I get home from work I come in and. . . .” She gestured to the ceiling dramatically, spilling her drink a little. “EVERY goddamn light is on! Every light in the house! I just don’t know what I’m going to do with that boy! Did I tell you all how he got first place in the science fair? I showed you all the ribbon, didn’t I?” She jumped up again and held her glass up to her table of guests for attention. “Everyone, there’s still some scary Halloween cookies left, and of course my famous chocolate cheesecake! Don’t forget to see me before you leave so I can get your piictuuuure!” Wentworth opened his eyes. It was finally gone. Jonah and Charlie helped him dig a hole in the dirt as he told them the story of his boogeyman and about how this real gun had come into his posses-sion in Mr. Falsetto‘s bathroom. “I used to be afraid of my sister, you know.” Jo-nah mumbled. “How come? Was it those huge heel boots she always wears?” Charlie guessed. “Or maybe her mobster boyfriend?” added Wen-tworth. “No, dude. She’s just so goddamn tall! When she used to babysit me and I’d see her comin’ down the hallway with her big hair, I thought she was Fran-kenstein or some shit like that.” Jonah shuddered, looking embarrassed. “What was that thing anyway, Wentworth? Was that really…one of those?” Wentworth nodded silently. He picked up the gun and carefully dropped it in the hole, filling it back up with dirt. They stared at the huge still heap in front of them. “Are you sure it’s dead? Should we… poke it or something?” Charlie asked nervously. “It’s dead.” Wentworth said.

“Are you sure?” “It’s dead.” He said again firmly. “I’m cer-tain. I just know.” A half hour later, the boys managed to find their way back out of the woods where Violet and Sophie were impatiently waiting. Walking back to the rows of lit up houses, Jonah and Charlie didn’t say a word as they respectfully followed Wentworth. Sophie looked up at him sadly, “You lost your neat little gun,” she said, disappointed. He looked at her, standing up straight and smiling for the first time in a while. “Yes, that’s true.” He said. “But I am sure I’ll find an even better one.” He reached over and took her pillowcase from her. “Let me carry your candy. I know those apples can get heavy. And since I don’t have my gun anymore you’ll have to protect us with your sword.” Sophie smiled. “I’ll protect you.”

40

Lonnie Monka

41

Maria Petrone-Clark

42

Megan Juliano

43

It was summer when Esmeralda returned.

The heat was stagnant, lingering in the thick

moist air of July. For weeks everything was still;

not a single tree wavered. Lakes had become

sheets of glass. No breeze could survive in

this muggy world. I sat on the front porch that

night, damp in my own sweat, listening to the

hum of mosquitoes. I could feel them biting at

my flesh, their bodies fat with greed. This air

that rotted fruit and made flowers soften and

wilt must have seemed like paradise to them.

Nan was already in bed. She had pleaded a

headache after brewing a pitcher of iced tea. Al-

though I knew better, I had seen her scatter the

used tea leaves across one of her worn plates. It

was in those soggy brown tufts, clinging to fad-

ed china, that she saw the future. It was a skill

she prided herself on, a family tradition passed

from one generation to the next. Her ancestors,

mine as well, learned to read the patterns of tea

leaves long before books.

“This isn’t good,” she muttered, dropping

the plate in the sink as if it was suddenly too

hot to touch. I had seen her predict the weath-

er, the occasional illness, but never had she

seemed so shaken. With a pale face she retired

to her bedroom, the door snapping shut behind

her, leaving me to wonder what horrible omen

those leaves had revealed.

So there I was alone, playing the game

of “what if” in my head. What if she had seen

death or maybe famine? Perhaps this heat

would scorch us until we turned to ash. I shud-

dered to think. It was then, with the clinking

of gold jewelry, that an apparition appeared. A

white billowing figure moving against the dark-

ness. With every hair raising on my eleven year

old skin, I knew it was a ghost.

I had heard Nan, for years, talk of the crea-

tures that haunted this mountain region. I

always laughed it off as an old woman’s super-

stition, but now I was ready to call out for her.

“Cassie!” it shrieked, causing the words to

hang dead on my lips. I knew the voice; I knew

it well. I had heard its rhythms before birth,

before anything else.

“Mom?” I whispered.

She was sweeping me in her arms then,

smothering me in her masses of golden hair.

“God, I missed you! It’s been so long,” she

said.

I know, I thought, three years and two

months. I remained silent, letting her scent

invade my nostrils. She smelled of lavender and

cedar, crisp and clean.

“You’ve grown up,” she said, holding me

at arms length. “You have the looks of your

father’s people. Dark. Not like me.”

She spoke so casually that I wondered if

she remembered that I didn’t know my father’s

people or even my father himself. He was a

mystery, a secret Nan refused to mention. I

wanted to ask her about him, but then the

screen door creaked open.

“Esmeralda in the flesh. I’ll be damned!”

Nan rasped. She stood in the half opened door,

her silvery hair wrapped around large blue

curlers.

“I’m home Nan,” she smiled. “Hitched here

all the way from San Francisco.”

Nan just shook her head. “How long are

you planning to stay?” Her lips puckered as if

she tasted something sour.

Esmeralda was silent.

“Well, let’s all get to bed then,” Nan sighed.

“Ezzy, we’ll talk in the morning,” she added,

turning her pale eyes onto my mother.

The morning came after a turbulent sleep

as I was twisting in my sheets sodden with

sweat. I was relieved when I could finally kick

myself free from the tangled linens and go

downstairs. Nan was in the kitchen. Esmeralda

Black Water

by Megan Kelley

44

wasn’t up yet.

“The only person who can sleep in this

stifling heat is your mother. She sleeps like the

dead.” Nan laughed. “Even as a baby, heat - it

never phased her. The devil’s child she was.”

She didn’t laugh when she said that.

I settled in front of Nan as I did everyday,

my tail bone digging into the linoleum floor.

Nan sat over me, the ninety-nine cent comb

from Ames poised in one hand. She would start

by gently pulling it through the ends of my hair,

breaking up the knots that had formed in sleep.

Once it was smooth, when she could run it

from top to bottom without a snag, she would

then begin to style it.

“Let’s do a French braid today; it’s too hot

to leave your hair hanging all over your face,”

she said. I nodded, my hair bobbing around

me. We sat for a while without talking. Nan

hummed a tune I didn’t recognize.

“I need to tell you something,” she finally

said. “And for you to make a promise. Okay,

Cassie?” Her voice was grave. Yet I knew what

she was going to say. I could hear the words in

my sleep; she had spoken them so many times.

They were about a lake, a lake that had no

name. Just miles from here, this body of water

sat, black as night, and unnaturally cool. If you

believed Nan, it was the cesspool of evil.

“I know Esmeralda never took a word I

said seriously. I told her to stay away from that

lake. The legends go back, you know. She didn’t

listen. But I want you to,” Nan said. “The people

that first settled here built a church next to it.

It burnt down within a week. They never built

any thing near it again - never even gave it a

name.” She looped a piece of hair under anoth-

er piece. “Then there were the stories of mer-

maids. When my mother was a girl people used

to go out to the lake and they wouldn’t come

back. They said the mermaids pulled them in,

to steal their souls. I know, I know - sounds like

rubbish. Maybe it is but. . .,” she trailed off, pull-

ing back another section of hair.

I looked at my feet instinctively, webbed

they were called, with delicate pieces of skin

connecting one toe to the next. Nan had said

they were caused by my mother’s dalliance

in the lake, that the spirit of a mermaid had

found its way into her womb. I didn’t know if I

believed her, but I never went near the lake.

“Nan,” I started, “I know the stories; you’ve

been telling me forever. I promise to stay away

from it. . .cross my heart.” I laughed.

“You’re a good girl, Cassie.” She kissed the

top of my head.

Esmeralda didn’t wake up until the sun

was just an orange sliver peaking above the

mountaintops. Darkness was already settling

around the edges of sky.

“Look who’s finally up!” Nan clucked her

tongue in disapproval.

“Sorry, it was my first real sleep in weeks,”

my mother said. She didn’t elaborate, only

yawned, raising her arms above her head like a

cat stretching itself out. “Cassie,” she turned to

me beaming, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Nan made a grumbling sound under her

breath, shooting Esmeralda looks of reproach.

In the end I found myself next to her walking

along a dusty road. Our foot steps cracked into

the dry earth breaking apart the quiet buzz

of insects that filled the night. We walked in

silence, our arms brushing against each other.

“You know why Nan hates me, don’t

you?” she finally spoke, her voice soft and flut-

tery.

“She doesn’t hate you,” I said, even though

it may have been a lie. She giggled.

“It’s okay--she does. But she has her

reasons. Other than the obvious.” She paused,

glancing at me. “You know my mother died,

Nan’s daughter. Well, even though it was years

and years ago, and I was just a little girl, Nan

never stopped blaming me for it. Maybe it was

my fault.” My mother stared straight ahead. “I 45

was about five. I wandered off to the lake. The

one Nan was always telling stories about, I’m

sure you know them,” she laughed. “I wanted

to swim with the mermaids. Stupid right? So

I went in, first just a few steps, then up to my

chin. The water was so cold, tingly almost. . .

.That’s when my mother found me. She was

frantic; she jumped right in and pulled me out,”

Esmeralda said, shaking her head. “I remember

she just kept saying ‘You could have died’ over

and over. I didn’t, but. . .well. . .” she hesitated,

“After that she got sick with a cough, but it just

got worse; within a month she was dead. Nan

said it was the lake. She wouldn’t have been

there if it wasn’t for me.”

I didn’t know what to say and Esmeralda

kept her eyes trained into the distance.

“You. . . it,” I stumbled over my words; my

tongue suddenly felt to large for my mouth.

“Oh, I don’t believe it now.” Her laughter

wrinkled the dense air. “All that stuff Nan talks

about, a bunch of old wives’ tales. It’s archaic re-

ally. Blaming a lake for every thing - death, your

webbed toes. . . .We might as well be back in

the Middle Ages!” She kicked a rock; it skidded

in front of us.

Again, we walked in silence. It was then

I noticed the road had become grainy; trees

slouched over it like arms warding us back. I

saw it in the distance, its gleaming surface like a

slate of ebony.

“The lake,” I whispered, not meaning for

the words to leave my mouth.

“I just wanted to see it; it’s been so long,”

she said.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she said, as we

stepped onto its shore.

“It’s black,” I murmured.

“It’s just because it’s night.” She laughed,

but the sky was still a pale purple.

“Let’s go for a swim,” she said suddenly.

I shook my head.

“Don’t be silly! It’s hot; the water will cool

us off. Come on, Cas!” She lulled her eyes, glint-

ing with amusement. In one fluid motion her

shirt was flung to the ground, crumpling in the

dirt. Her shorts followed, kicking them off as

she stepped towards the lake. The black water

slowly inched up her milky legs, its darkness

swallowing her pallor.

“Cassandra,” she called out in a sing song

voice. “Come into the water.”

I looked at her standing there in all her

glory, pale and silvery against the shadowed

lake. I wanted to join her, to swim in her rich

velvety laughter, and let the water encase the

nakedness of my body. Something stopped me,

though. I wasn’t sure if it was Nan’s voice in my

head or the smell rising from the lake. It was

the stench of metal, tangy and bitter, almost

strong enough to taste, and behind it the more

muted scent of something rotting.

“No,” I shook my head. “I’ll wait here.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged and slipped

beneath the curtain of inky water.

It was the next morning, before the sun

had even risen, when I found Esmeralda leaving

the house.

“I just need to go into town. I’ll be back

later.” She smiled weakly.

“It’s so far, though. Nan will give you a

ride when she gets up,” I offered.

“No, I need to clear my head; it’s only a

couple of miles, maybe five. . . don’t worry.” She

hugged me then. “Bye Cassie,” she whispered,

her breath warm on my forehead. I knew she

wasn’t coming back.

Later, Nan and I stood at the window

watching rain fall in sheets. It was like the

sky had finally given way. We could see noth-

ing through the water as it beat down on the

parched earth. Nan squeezed my shoulder, smil-

ing with the relief this storm brought.

“I’m proud of you, Cassie,” she said,

pulling me close.

46

Carolyn Rhodes

47

Vlad Gurevich

48

Shiho Hanaoka

Elizabeth DeMartino