[port.man.teau] an independent literary journal

volume III

port.man.teau Vol. IIIwww.CurseMag.com

send submissions & inquires to: cursemag@gmail.com

thank you to:

The Northampton Arts CouncilFlying ObjectMeri AmesChris SlempJoe LoftusRachel Statham

rachael rothEditor, Design

ben parsonAssistant Editor

diana waldonAssistant Design

PORTMANTEAU IS AN independently published, quarterly fiction journal that pushes the boundaries of literature.

This issue focuses on work from current and former residents of the Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts and was made possible by the Northampton Arts Council.

Whether you live in the Pioneer Valley or beyond, we want your stories, poems, artwork and souls. Thank you for helping keep print media alive.

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in this issue:

stories:lindsey leimancharles hobby

lea sorannogabriel squailia

bryan gillig william vanben parson

dan biegner alex butler

poems:elmira elvazova

amanda dranerachel statham

alexander andreosatoscatherine weiss

art:diana waldon

front & back cover, watermarksramiro davaro-comas

pgs. 19, 22 &38

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SHEILA HAD BEEN nagging me about the carnival for weeks, and all the while Johnny stood by her leg making those sickeningly desperate doe-eyes. The weekend had come around, and I finally got tired of it and packed them in the car. Sheila tried to make conversation with me, but I had specifically indicated earlier as I stabilized myself against her side of the bed to tie my shoes that this day was about her and Johnny and to leave me out of it.

The scene was somewhat similar but considerably worse than I expected: a grotesque, glowing thing, a dark and festering hog house packed tight with sweaty, slobbering faces, cheeks full of cotton candy and dough and vomit. Johnny beamed and pointed towards a booth offering a goldfish if you could toss a ball in a glass. He tugged on Sheila’s hand and she turned to look at me, emotionless. We are going this way now. We got in line behind a man who kept snorting and spitting, and wore a shirt that said, “I love pussy” with pictures of hairless kittens beneath. Johnny asked Sheila if he could get something to eat after he played the game, and Sheila uttered a hesitant “sure,” looking at me again. “We’ll eat lunch next if Lily gets here by the time you’re done.” Lily was Sheila’s younger, plainer, less intelligent sister. She was way too thin and usually had a cluster of acne around her mouth.

I sometimes dream of passionate affairs with women I wouldn’t otherwise be attracted to, and afterwards I sense a residual admiration of them, a suggestion of romance on their lips that was never quite there before. This is what happened with Sheila’s sister.

I was lying on a beach in San Juan during our last family vacation, only it wasn’t our last family vacation because the beach was completely different and Sheila wasn’t sitting next to me in a floral visor stealing sips of my red stripe when she thought I wasn’t look-

Signs of SpringLindsey Leiman

6

ing, and Johnny wasn’t distracting me from my book every fifteen minutes to show me the latest shell he found. I was completely alone until, suddenly, I saw a figure emerge from the ocean and begin to walk towards me. It was a woman, nude and adorned in seaweed. As she came closer, I realized it was Lily, but instead of feeling the mixture of repulsion and indigestion that I usually experience with the sight of her mouth acne, I felt compelled to kiss her. And I did, running my fingers through strands of her thin, brittle hair and laying her gently on the sand beneath me. Her mouth tasted a bit like the smell of a dead animal. I awoke to Sheila passing gas.

We stood waiting for turkey legs in a seemingly endless line of jesters and contortionists, whistling and balancing children and spraying popcorn about as they laughed. I was the first to notice Lily, limping a bit under the weight of a bag on one shoulder and scratching at her zits.

“Oh Johnny boy, have I got something for you!” she teased in her irritating, mousy voice as she reached into her bag and pulled out a candy apple. Johnny squealed and hugged her. She stood up to acknowledge us and wrapped her tiny arms around Sheila and kissed her cheek. Then she turned to me. “Well, well. It’s been a while hasn’t it. How are ya Henry?” she said with a smirk, and I stiffened as she attempted an embrace. “Fine. You?”

“Oh, I’ve just been so busy with everything, what with the…” was all I heard before I crept back into that sick fantasy on the beach, kissing and caressing a putrid woman who, if I didn’t know any better, could pass as a malnourished teenager.

Sitting on a picnic bench and trying to protect myself from the sun under a sickly maple, I watched the three devour turkey legs. I looked around me at all of the other animals, some very young like Johnny and some who seemed too old to be able to handle the weight of the massive hunks of flesh, each unrightfully claiming limbs and suckling on the tender muscle, dead remains clinging to the corners of their mouths. I burped, spraying acid across the roof of my mouth, and poked at my side salad with a plastic fork. Sheila and Lily were asking Johnny to recite little snippets of knowledge he picked up from school (as if a dog couldn’t be more impressive) as I peered over at the table next to ours. A plump woman was cackling with a cell phone held to her ear as three young boys threw tin foil at neighboring tables. I pictured myself standing up, walking over, smacking all three boys and the woman. I dug my shoe into the dirt beneath me and inserted my lower lip between my teeth.

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While Johnny rode the tilt-a-whirl, Sheila and Lily chatted with a lady who held her four children on leashes while I stepped aside for a cigarette (leash mom didn’t want her children breathing in the smoke). “Hey buddy, you got a light?” I heard a raspy voice hiss, and I turned around to find a rather short one-armed Carney looking up at me with surprisingly similar doe-eyes to Johnny’s. He held the box under his right armpit. “Sure,” I sighed, lighting the man’s cigarette and attempting a smile.

“Crappy day, huh?” he said after a moment.“Sun’s out.”

“Well, yea. I guess so.” I scratched my head. There was something amusing about this man. He seemed nervous around me. Just then, leash mom began to yell obscenities at an older fellow for apparently saying, “fuck” in front of her children. The man snarled and pointed his finger ferociously as Sheila and Lily tried to shoo him away. The man lifted a leg and farted just above the smallest child’s head before shuffling off.

“Bunch a’ freaks around here.” said the man with one arm. I smirked watching Sheila and Lily comfort the crying kid.“Yea,” I said.

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The Moth That WasAmanda Drane

You are more beautiful in death,than ever in life.

Your final journey stands—a piece of artworkon the stretch of wall above my shower.

Your shiny sheen is a graceful dance…

You clung to the damp wallas you plunged to your watery deathand your glittering dust remains.

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I FALL PAST the moon in the direction of a far-off star. The thrusters have long since quit

but I still feel their impact above my jaw, on top of my cheeks, deep within the corners of my eyes, as though I’ve been smiling too long. The dashboard throws itself around the cabin, warms the walls with ghostly yellows and oranges and reds. Buttons are arranged, pulsing and pausing to some pattern preprogrammed above. The scientists at AstroTech set it all up, told me not to touch a thing, to just say there’s no place like home if I ever needed anything and they’d immediately respond. I didn’t even need to click the heels of my STKs together, they told me. I turn off the straps and float out of my chair.

They tried to prepare us for this moment at AstroTech. They’d regularly throw us in the AG Booth, but even the new model only lasted 15 minutes and its groans called atten-tion to itself and it made the air taste hot and artificial. They’d sometimes keep us in the F90 all day, flying us up and down for hours. We’d fly in circles, climbing to the cusp of the world and nosedive back to earth. But it was too short. All I’d ever remember after we pulled out of each drop was the slow, long climb and the lurch I still felt in my gut.

So a few of us, addled on vapors, would get completely naked except for a breather strapped across our faces, and dive and cannonball and fall and jump into the pool. And then we were still. We almost gave up though, since we could still feel the pull from the surface; each of us curled up in balls, eyes closed, just trying to forget our own weight. I closed my eyes a little tighter and tried not to notice that tug, acknowledge the air on my spine. But then one of us, I think it was Courtney, brought her dumbbell set and we took turns holding them to our chest, removing or adding bits until we just were, not rising or sinking, while the rest of us watched from the edge, stooped on the balls of our feet, shivering, giggling. It took weeks to perfect, to find how much more was needed to keep me from returning to the surface. I ripped open Max, a stuffed toy monkey my

SmithereensCharles Hobby

10

mom had given me on my 6th birthday, and stuffed him with rolls of electrums, 18 GWs in total. Each of us would then line up with his own perfect extra: me with Max, his arms and legs tied around my neck and waist; Courtney and her dumbbells; Schuler and his backpack, mysteriously packed; Mark and his belt, cans of food his mother sent him hered all the way around; Sam and her old sheet, folded in half and filled with bits she stole from the lab equipment when the scientists weren’t watching.

Each day, they would get out sooner and sooner. Quietly, as though not to wake me, they would remove the extra weight on them and, still wet, put their clothes back on and head back to the flashing lights and the music and the vapors. I still remember the letter I sent her, the instructions I gave her on how to find out her own extra so she would neither sink nor float, how I used to set up an exact time and day, she in her pool and I in mine. And I would stay under for hours, till my brain got fuzzy and I lost my limbs, till the breather ran out and my lungs forced me back. I’d stand in a puddle on the tile floor, woozy, really feeling Max on my back, puzzled by the light of tomorrow, imagining her also just getting out.

But down here I don’t need Max. Hovering 9 GLs above the seat, I think about him locked in the darkness of his cardboard box in my parents’ attic. I see that he will pass all the years unchanged. Before I arrive at 95633 Anu and certainly after my mom and dad will have been moved to The Pasture or died, Max will still smile with that same thread-thin smile, stare with those same marble eyes. I think about how I forgot to take the money out of him before I boxed him up and hugged my mom and dad goodbye. I think about the kid whose parents will buy Max 100 years from now and how the kid will find the small treasures Max contains. And I think Max will go by a different name. And I think she probably doesn’t even have my letters anymore. And I think about stretching my legs.

I push off from the chair and walk as best I can from the cockpit to the rest of the small ship. Even though no one is here at all and I know no one is here at all, I take each step as though practiced, as I used to when I lived here on Earth, before the ship and I were put into space. Three months after her last letter to me, one month after my last letter to her, 5 hours after I’d agreed to go on this mission, they set me up in the Lifeboat so I could get accustomed to her layout and restrictions. I float-walk from room to room while I remember how I walked from room to room. It’s been less than a day and I already miss pacing.

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The Gym is so small that the chair sits in all four corners of the room. They told me I would need to use this twice a day, that an alarm would sound at these precise times and would only silence after I was fully seated in the chair, only after it had started working on my muscles and my bones. A man can waste away down here. His legs and arms will become all bone; his bones will become almost nothing. I sit in the chair, but just like back on Earth, it only sits there too, only programmed to work at those two specified times. The straps do not secure me in place. I stay seated for a little while and wipe the pristine, metal armrest with my thumb.

In the dining room, I turn on the straps for the single seat in front of the one countertop. Three times a day, just as it has been for the last month and just as it will be for the entire voyage, a bowl full of something pops up from the countertop, with a loud pleasant beep. I eat it. I put the bowl back on the counter and it sinks away. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There is no time down here. Luncheon is meaningless without a sun and a horizon. Courtney and Schuler and I threw our watches in a basket before taking full residence in our Lifeboats. They told us they’d keep them for us while we were away. They told us that we could have them back when we returned, if we wanted. When I asked them what I was eating, they told me with a smile, “100% science, kid,” and I left it at that.

The bathroom has a door and I’ve always wondered why.

And next to the bathroom door is the locked door that will remain locked until I arrive at 95633 Anu. I peer through the small window and see the device. They included its manual--I can see it wrapped in plastic and hered to the metal wall--even though I have no need for it anymore. My fingers feel almost like themselves, holding onto pieces of the device. When I look at the parts, I see the whole. I see what it becomes. And in 100 years on the surface of a desolate planet orbiting a foreign sun, alone and encased in a fully pressurized DX50, I will breathe and my fingers will be lithe. And I will construct the device.

For the past two years I’ve gone over it and over it. They’d finally advanced on the earlier models that could get us from New York to Hong Kong or São Paulo to Cairo and realized a way to travel much farther. Of course the devices only travel between themselves, so for the past two years I’ve suited up and built the device, then taken it apart. I got to the point where I no longer dreamt, but continued training in my sleep, hearing their instructions in my helmet, putting together all the pieces, organizing them by part number, memorizing their vibrations and their weights. Even in my sleep I knew

12

how cold they were, knew their densities. I dreamt of her on occasion in the beginning, I dreamt of us. Even though it’s pointless, I think of her in 25, 50, 100 years, I try to picture what she will become, where she will be. I still think of her from time to time, but even now I mostly dream of the machine.

I get back to the cockpit, strap in and pull out all my own belongings. By my 23rd birthday I no longer received any presents. Everyone knew that before the next one, everything I owned had to fit in a 63 x 36 x 22.5 GL box. Some of my friends back home joked about how they’d have 100 presents ready for my return, others said that I’d still come home to celebrate my 24th birthday, that this was just a century long leap day. My grandmother gave me a smile and looked away. The AstroTech kids didn’t do anything at all. Some of them did have their own parties probably thinking since they’re not going to have another birthday for a while, why not go out strong, go out fighting before falling away from the planet. But most of us pretended not to know, that it was just an ordinary day.

She had actually sent me something. This was a little before she stopped writing me. I thought at the time things might be getting better, that this was some sort of sign. They weren’t, it wasn’t. It’s strange how sometimes you can see things most clearly from inside a windowless rocket falling faster than you can imagine away from everything. I open my little box of what I have left. I honestly didn’t use the space very well. I could have packed more in here. I take out my Book that I had sINKed to the GU library the day before yesterday and put it on the table attached to the chair. Next, I take out a pic I had taken of her years ago. I had a bunch of pics of the two of us posed and smiling together. But I liked this one. She never saw me take this pic even though I was standing almost in front of her. I don’t think she knows it exists. We were on the top of a mountain, I think, or maybe in a field. I recognize her, even now, in her lips and nose. In the pic, her eyes are looking somewhere else, somewhere far away. I here the pic to the wall and go back in the box.

I don’t know why I brought her letters, but I brought them, all of them, and I don’t know why. I leave them in the box for now.

I pull out the final item, a small box holding the gift she sent me on my 23rd birthday. I open the box and see all those little pieces, the gears and springs and screws and dials and wheels and bits. She had given me a replica pocket watch, like the kind they used millennia ago. This isn’t the real thing, a cheap imitation but nice nonetheless. Before I took it apart, I noticed it had a very satisfying tick, a perpetual and even noise that re-

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minded me that the seconds weren’t just falling away, that time had some measure. But AstroTech has a very strict no timepiece rule for all Lifeboaters, so I took it apart, piece by piece, and stored it in this small box. It would be a fun project, to put it back together and take it apart, over and over, for the next 100 years.

The alarm goes off for the gymnasium chair so I close the small box and place that in the larger box and put that back under the seat. The alarm is still going, loud and even. I float-walk to the gym and take a seat in the chair. This time the straps close around my wrists and forearms, my calves and ankles. I don’t feel anything. But the alarm stops so I assume it’s working. I play some music in my head and hum along quietly. The straps turn off and I’m good to go.

Strapped back in my chair in the cockpit, I pick up my Book and start reading the newest Spencer Cook novel. My eyes run back and forth across the Page, but I’m not paying attention to Cook. I look up at the stars on the viz in front of me. I try to pass the time by finding some of the constellations that I know, try to make all those points of light recognizable. But there are just too many of them and they are just too far away. I imagine Courtney and Schuler out there, the three of us distinct points in the infinite. I think there were more of us too, sent out years ago, in the First Wave. The scientists didn’t talk about them too much, just as inspiration for our work, just to remind us how important we are, how this network of devices will allow us to take the next big step for humankind. They told us that others were already prepared to sacrifice 100 years for this, they told us that the First Wave, like us, would come back soon, rich and healthy and able to spend the rest of their lives as they pleased.

I want to turn the viz off but I can’t find the switch or there isn’t one. I shut my eyes. I think about putting the pocket watch back together now, but it can wait. I’ll do it to-morrow. With my eyes closed, I can still feel the soft glow of the dashboard, those lights as faint as light can be, I can feel them on my face, on my fingertips. I’m red. Now I’m orange. Now I’m yellow. Now I’m red. Now I’m yellow. I open my eyes. I look at her pic on the wall. Her face changes colors too. I watch this for I don’t know how long.

I close my eyes again, this time tighter, and I turn off the straps to my chair. I push off from the chair and pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs. In my head, I make a list of names for what that kid will call Max. In my head I say there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. I even click my heels together. But I don’t say anything out loud.

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Someone says Yes

My love, somewhere there are paragliders on a descent.Sometimes a field is the only good place to land.

From my window I can see the afternoon light is fading, but the landscape is unmoved.

I think I have learned nothing new since I was a child:The blossoming trees are as usual.The sky we’re both under.

I’m only here to tell you about it, like I want you not to be still.

Somewhere there is a telephone ringing. Someone says Yes, but not for you.

Yours is what you can tell before the light goes out.

Elmira Elvazova

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(An excerpt)

IN THE LONG, heated days, before Reida was old enough to sweat, she would comb her hair while looking out the window, her eyes traveling past the old fruit trees and the sun dried, perfumed fields. She would think about her plan. A stranger would come to town and be with her just long enough to make a child. She would give herself to this baby, and she would watch it grow. She would see her own features in her child, but in miniature form. And this would be love.

It was a few years later when the boy who smelled of soap and pine entered Reida’s life. She had been airing her sweaty and aromatic body that day under the dark tent, which the town gathered under, during the church’s fumigation. The tent was gray and covered in the dusty afterthoughts of mud. It was unlike the colorful one that covered the old church while it was being sprayed. The makeshift structure was filled with men and women, adorned in the same dreary shades, and Reida, sitting there grew disinterested, apathetic. She could see grass poking in from the edge of the tent, reminding her of all the color that rolled down the hills just outside of the canvas. She stretched her foot out from under the edge, carefully raising the fabric to test its give. The metal poles that shaped the tent strained the material, but Reida rolled out from under it, undetected, and escaped out into the day.

That was when she saw the great yellow and red tent where there had once been a stone church. She was quite sure that everything she had ever wanted lay under this colorful vision. She walked toward it. The moisture of the heat ran between her thighs and under her knees, and slid her toward the fumigation tent’s yellow flap. She pushed aside the material and went in, past the fabric gait and in through the church doors. She had been here many

In the Way of DreamsLea Soranno

16

times before, but never alone. The windows didn’t bring in much light, and she looked through the midnight of the saints constructed from stained glass. The chemicals and the heat swayed before the windows and Reida assumed that she could for once see what she had always believed was swirling around her, making her feel things she couldn’t explain. She thought that everything she had ever dreamed about was finally about to begin. It was at this moment that the fumigation sprays caught up to her, and she slowly fell to the ground. Reida stared at the floor. It was no longer made not of wood, but of glass, glass atop smoky lights. She couldn’t tell if she was high in the air or low under the ground. With one eye open and the other shut, she looked toward the walls. They were also com-posed of lit glass. The whole place shined in bright colors: red, blue, green, and yellow. She realized that the tent she had walked through was not made of canvas, but glass, and that the colors were not imprinted on the fabric, but reflected through mirrors and colored lights.

Just as soon as Reida got a sense of what she was in, the lights turned off. A spot light’s blinding gleam shot out from the bowels of the glass and directed her attention to a juggler. He must have been there for some time, for he seemed to be well into his act. Balls and pins lay scattered at his feet, and he was now juggling giant scissors. He didn’t seem to be performing for anyone. There was no one to perform for except her, and she had just arrived.

The juggler stopped juggling the scissors, placed them on the floor by his feet, picked an object up from a table and began to examine it. He seemed bored and unhappy with his work, as though it no longer entertained him. Reida coughed and the juggler looked up, surprised by her presence. He had thought himself alone, and he looked at Reida with a questioning stare.

Despite Reida’s strong belief in her destiny, the shock of seeing the man with the telling eyes before her, in addition to the thick fumigation gasses, caused Reida to swoon and fall to the floor a second time. The juggler rushed to Reida’s supine body. Reida, blinking back to consciousness, looked up at the juggler. He didn’t speak. He was the type that didn’t talk much, or so Reida presumed.

“Excuse me, juggler?” Reida said

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The juggler knelt down on the ground, looking at Reida’s face as though he were not sure what to do with it.

“Juggler, I believe you were the man I saw out my window. Or perhaps it was in my heart, but either way, I think you belong with me.” Reida said.The juggler only smiled.

“Well, do you agree?” Reida asked

The juggler picked Reida up from the glass ground that was now made of dirt. The lights had stopped shining long ago.

“Except it’s Shepherd,” the Juggler said. “My name is Shepherd.”

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19

when i was 8i didn't worry anyone

would ever yell thingsat me out of moving cars

as a grown up

yesterday there wasa big jeep thing

full of college brosat an intersection

where i was waitingto cross the street

someone shouted something vulgar

it was completely painlessand over in an instant

i wanted to say thenbut i'm just like you

(minus the whole beingan asshole thing)

you have made a mistake

i always belongedinside the car

and now suddenlyi'm out on the pavement

with ice waterslowly trickling down the back

of my neck

Ice WaterCatherine Weiss

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Oh Motherdon’t be sador madthat we’ve grown oldersince we’ve been bornno one is youngerand the truth of youth is that it will ageso tears for what? on a changing pagelike hate for leaves and their lovely phase

listenno tree is lesser for rings round it’s centerbut heights signify who is elderand life will abide by its measuretill cut by the same that has woven the tetherOh Mother

Oh Mother Alexander Andreosatos

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THE DOOR BANGED open the moment after it had slammed shut, and Avery spilled out of his bedroom, stinking of whiskey and searching for the spiral-bound notebook he’d filed among the dirty dishes that erupted from the sink onto the kitchen counter. He pulled the notebook from between two towers of plates, wiped its cover with a grotty tea-towel, over-turned an upside-down chair, then perched at the kitchen table, muttering. He turned out his gray hoodie’s pockets, lining up a watch, a cell phone, and an alarm clock whose alarm had never been set, then beginning to take notes on their times. The digital watch he’d tak-en from his wrist believed it was two days, six hours, thirteen minutes, and forty seconds later than the alarm clock did. The cell phone was simply confused, though it agreed with the alarm clock once he’d turned it off, then on again. Once Avery had checked his figures, he flipped to a running ledger and added the time he’d accumulated during his latest nostalgia trip to the grand total he’d spent Else-when over the course of his life, or at least since the moment he’d recognized the problem with his Valence.

Avery had been seventeen when his Valence was triggered by the last problem on his Trig-onometry final, which would be over in a minute and a half. He’d watched twenty minutes whip backwards around him, all joggling pens, flickering clouds, and lightning-fast fidgets, and then he’d taken his sweet time finishing the test and handed it in early (that was the single most productive thing he’d ever done with his Valence.) Three months of Now-time later and he’d recognized the problem: the more he used his Valence, the older he got, while all his friends in the Now stayed as young as he should have been. The notebook was his attempt to keep tabs on his relative age, though it couldn’t assuage the anxiety he felt about all the zipping around he’d done before he’d started it.

“Hey there, Van Winkle,” said Hipipipotta, dancing out of her bedroom in socks and an

The Finite KidGabriel Squailia

23

oversized T-shirt. “I could swear you just went to bed a minute ago.”

“Never gets old, Hip.” His patented move was to head off to bed, then stagger back out a Now-moment later, hair all bed-fluffed and sleep in his eyes.

“Too bad we can’t say the same of you,” she said, tipping a minor landslide of unexam-ined mail off the seat of a chair, then spinning it around to sit with her thighs splayed across its open back.

Avery tried not to glance at her panties. He didn’t really have a thing for Hip that way, but at times he got surges of interest that seemed to come from deep in his skin. Hip liked them, though Avery doubted she’d take him to bed even if he’d go. They’d been living together too long, by any measure, to break their Platonic routine.

“Ave, you’ve been keeping this notebook tally a secret too long, and you know I could look any time I wanted to.” This was true, but Hip never would. Secrets were sacred to her. “So give it up. What’s the damage, darlin’?”

Avery sighed, fitting his ballpoint pen in the notebook’s bent spiral. He’d never told Hip or anyone else how many years he’d lost zipping, but the big round number staring up at him from his book demanded to be spoken aloud. “Five.”

“Five -- months?”

“No. I just, as of two Avery-hours ago, cleared five years.”

Hipipipotta rocked back, her eyes going saucer-shaped. “Five years? Fuck! Avery, that’s -- fuck!”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Particularly you. Particularly yourself, Avery. Jump back to five years ago and fuck yourself in the boy-ass.” Hip folded her arms over the top of the chair and buried her chin in them.

“I’d have to jump back ten years, if you think about it. Ten for me, five for --”

“This is a waste, kiddo. A waste of your Valence. A waste of your life.”

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“Says the chick who gets squirrels high for fun.” He and Hip had hated each other for most of their high school careers, but they’d bonded at a summer camp for kids with innate Valences after Junior year. Hipipipotta Burnett, it turned out, had been born with the power to induce potent drug experiences in anyone within her line of sight, a Va-lence with enough practical applications that she was frequently called in by the V.S.S., an honor that rankled the hell out of Avery. His Valence was among the most powerful ever recorded, but the government considered it too volatile for extra-personal use. He was like a nuclear bomb, so notorious that he was effectively useless. In the single meet-ing he’d had with the bigwigs, they’d acknowledged that he was beyond their ability to control, then let him go, satisfied that what they called his personality profile would keep him from making trouble for anyone but himself.

“Five years,” Hip said again. Her eyes went glassy the way they did whenever she decided she’d rather be a little bit stoned, which was more and more often these days. “So you’re --”

“Twenty-seven years old.”

The seal between Hip’s lips popped open, then closed again. She didn’t need to say it out loud.

She was twenty-two, just like Avery should be.

“Jesus, A, at this rate --”

But she didn’t need to say that out loud, either.

They stared at each other for a few seconds less than a minute. Things got so uncom-fortable while the time elapsed that Avery considered zipping it back, not because it would erase the memory from his mind, but because he hated being the first to look down.

He looked down. “Don’t judge me, Hip. I miss her.”

Hip’s look softened, and Avery, like the rest of her Lost Boys, just wanted to curl up and take the hug he knew she was dying to give him.

“I know you do, sugar,” she said. “We all do. Nobody as bad as you. And I’m not judging. I just -- miss you.”

“You see me every day, Hip.”25

“Every day of my life,” she said, getting up from the chair. “But I’m missing out on yours. And you’re forgetting what a good influence I am.” Hipipipotta winked and stretched her arms over her head, standing on her tippy-toes and letting various parts of her midriff show as she rolled her torso around in languid circles. “Why don’t you give it a rest for a while? Live like the rest of us do. Without a temporal escape hatch.”

Avery wondered whether it was high-grade marijuana she’d just dosed herself with or something harder. She’d tell him if he asked, but he kept his mouth shut as he shoved his chair away from the table.

“And don’t forget, hun-bun, you’ve got work in half an hour. Momma needs that rent money.”

“I didn’t forget,” he said from the doorway of his dark-curtained bedroom. It smelled like the laundry of ages in there. “I’m just going to sleep for twelve to fifteen hours first. But I’ll zip it back and be right on time.” His bedroom door was still swinging shut when she said the word. “Junkie.”

26

1.

THE GUY IN the brown VW van drove by us twice before he picked us up. He didn’t say much of anything for most of the ride.

“Do you like jelly or jam better?” asked Jenny. “What?” asked the guy. He wore thick glasses through which he watched the highway, never taking his eyes off the road. He was pale and overweight and his breathing was loud. “Do you like jelly or jam better?” Derrick turned in the front seat and looked back at me, his eyes wide. The guy let us out one exit after he picked us up. “Did you see what that guy was doing?” asked Derrick as we watched the van leave. I slung my bedroll over my shoulder. “What was he doing?” “He was pulling hairs out of his arm,” said Derrick. “Constantly. One by one. Pulling the little hairs out.” “That’s creepy.” Jenny made a creeped-out face. “He had a soda cup from Jack in the Box. He was pulling hairs out of his arm and putting them in the cup. You guys didn’t see him doing that?” I shook my head and Jenny shrugged. “He was doing it constantly. The cup was full, man. Full of hairs from his arm.” We were sure that the guy had wanted to kill us.

2. I was looking at my arm and thinking about how it looked like a lizard arm, except for the hairs on it, which were very thick and dark. They didn’t seem to belong, like they were breaking through the skin as proof of a creature hidden beneath.

HairBryan Gillig

27

I had been eating pancakes out of the trash that morning when a man had given me a twenty-dollar bill to buy some food with, so I went and found a guy I had run into earlier and bought a few hits of acid in little green gel-caps.

Then I was sitting under a tree with Arc and a girl we knew came up to us. We knew her from town and also from last night when she had sold us some bunk acid.

“I just found out that all the acid I sold last night was bunk,” she told us. “I’m really sorry, you guys. Here, have some real acid for free.” Then I was looking at my arm and thinking that the hairs did not belong on a reptilian arm such as mine. A kid came over and sat down next to us. “How do you like the festival?” he asked. He had some kind of accent, German or French or something. It was difficult to tell. He seemed insane. “I like your hat,” he told me. I looked at him, reluctantly. It was a truly beautiful day; not even being at a hippie festival could ruin it. But something told me this kid might. “Let me wear your hat,” said the kid. I let him wear my hat and he started telling Arc and me lies about himself. “At home, my friends and I have a water-pipe so large that one must insert oneself inside it in order to smoke from it,” he said. “My father is very rich, and he buys me pounds of weed, and also por-nographic magazines” he told us. “When I get home my father will buy kegs of beer and throw them into the deep end of the swimming pool,” the kid informed us. “One for myself, and one for each of my brothers. We must swim to the bottom of the pool and bring the kegs to the surface if we wish to drink from them. If not, he will beat us perfectly.”

Me and Arc didn’t say much, just looked at him. All the while he was packing a pipe with weed. I had to admit that the weed smelled pretty good, although smoking it doesn’t affect me at all when I am on acid. The kid kept saying that the hat was his now, but it wasn’t true. Nothing could belong to anyone.He was taking his time packing that pipe. He was being very diligent about it. He had borrowed a pair of scissors that I had in my pack and he was cutting the weed up very fine. A big fat bumblebee flew by and in one deft motion he reached with the scissors out into the air and snipped the bee neatly in half.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” moaned Arc. “That was a bee, man,” I said. “A creature.” “Now we smoke the bee!” exclaimed the kid. His features were contorted and glowing. He put half the bee into the pipe and lit it. He took a deep toke and passed it to Arc. “I’m not smoking a fucking bee, man,” said Arc. “Actually, I’m getting the fuck out of here.” 28

“Me too,” I said. “Give me back my hat.” But the kid would not give back the hat unless I took a hit off the bee-pipe.

I looked at the bee. It was so close to me, there in the pipe right under my nose. It had hairs on its legs, stiff dark hairs like the ones breaking through the lizard-skin on my arms. But these hairs looked like they belonged there, growing organically from the legs of the bee. There was no secret creature inside the bee; its hairs were its own, and its exoskele-ton contained only those organs essential to apian life. I took a perfunctory drag, snatched my hat, and moved on.

3.I had become obsessed with plucking my nose hairs.

For one thing, there was a hive of insects living deep in my sinus cavity. They were no trouble really, except that sometimes one would get caught in my nose hairs while trying to leave and I would have to disentangle its corpse from my nose hairs and pull it out. They always came out in pieces, it was never clean.

The insects seemed mostly to be wings. No legs or abdomens or heads, but what a lot of wings! At first I just plucked my nose hairs with my fingertips – when they got long enough to extrude, slightly, from my nostrils. But the insects kept getting stuck, so I began to use tweezers.

I kept a pair of tweezers in my pocket at all times and whenever I felt a hair growing I would reach up there with the tweezers and just go to town. The insides of my nostrils were like certain mountainsides in the Pacific Northwest that I have seen. Acres and acres of hacked-off stumps and torn-up undergrowth and raw, churned soil. I stopped having insect problems, but I experienced some side effects.

With all the hairs gone, I could sense the texture of the air much more clearly, and to my dismay I found that most air is of an inferior texture when you actually take the time to notice it. Poor air texture is something that I will not abide, which is why I had to move out here where there are some really good pockets of high-quality air texture. All the abandoned paper mills and the thickness of Indian ghosts add a certain something, a luminous vellum-like quality. The air slides through my flayed nostrils like velvet milk.After a while, I realized that the insects had all moved out – so I started letting my nose hairs grow back a little. But now that I have a taste for decent air texture, I like to keep them nicely trimmed so that I can appreciate how lucky I am to be alive.

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THE UNDERCOVER AIRLINE official escorts me out of the terminal for trying to bring a parachute aboard the plane. Over by the baggage carousel, a person picks up their life jacket. Brutish and silent, the Official leers at them as if I’d started a trend, unconcerned with his current prisoner. He eases on his grip, ending my mental anguish at being clutched so tightly. With all the lights and moving objects, I’m re-reminded of the carnival. You always have to be so suspicious. What’s so special about the baseballs they use to smash through the bottles? Or is it the bottles that are rigged? My treatment so far is appalling! He clutches my arm even harder as we walk through the massive halls, next to carriages and foreigners who need protection from my well preparedness for the very worst.

A rack of magazines to my right offers all sorts of material and more: gum, pillows and earplugs, all prizes to console you into submission, thirty-two thousand feet in the air. No prize quells my concerns, except the parachute, which I can’t bring on board. Even though I’m bound by the Airline Official’s superior strength, I see my opportunity. Cal-culating the length I need to reach with the other arm, in hopes of snatching the latest issue of the one with the captivating cover, I go for it.

Thwarted, the Official accidentally pulls the reserve chute chord on my chest while pulling me away from the cart, from material, the only hope of not being bored in the padded cell I’ll likely find myself in. The small red pack drops pathetically between my legs like some clown in the bathroom. If only I had a mallet to defend myself, I’d whack the mole! He’s been following me before I even got in line. Dangling limp ten feet behind us, the Brute’s forced to remedy his mistake. Reeling it in like a ship line, I fall to the floor laughing. He’s tickling me the more he reels the parachute in. The diversion works; I run.

CarouselWilliam Van

“It’s an extension of myself!” I yell mid stride before he tackles me to the ground. The voices of the crowd take over as I recover to approach my audience and bow, acting as if nothing happened. The interested few gather slowly, unsure of the scenes severity. One of the infant’s in the crowd giggles before sobbing, which I mimic in hopes of saving face. I recover from my tantrum as the chute is finally shoved back in. I’m whole again. Head hanging low, crushed with shame, I mumble, “My safety net.”

Stepping through the sliding doors, the congested tunnel of exhaust oppresses us with noxious chemicals, showering us with that semi-transparent blue hue. What could he do with me now? The Official searches desperately for a more official official, some ringleader to give him some direction. The cab lines are too full to just let me go. He’s scared to release my arm and for a moment I wonder who has more control. His grip tightens to remind me that he does, as a new string of traffic barrels forth, coughing mad chimneys through the tunnel. The Haitian drivers laugh as I hear my plane fly overhead, making better time that I thought for having just kicked off their most quizzical passen-ger. The girl sitting beside me on the plane had thought the parachute was endearing. I compared the airport to a carnival.

Suffering from severe sweatiness, I feel I can make a break for it before the Official flags down the policewoman, whose finishing her own magazine. She’s parked beside the “Departures” door, at least thirty feet away. He’ll have to walk over to knock, since the way she clinches the first page indicates she’s not leaving anytime soon. Realizing his whole job is focused more on departures than arrivals, I take the opportunity to reason with him.

“Let me go.” I smirk when being sincere. My voice quivers but he’s suddenly on the lev-el. My desperation gets through to him. A burst of persistence forces him past the line of irritated morning flyers. Working in a city where their family doesn’t live must be trying. The Taxi agent lets him through, hiding his bribe from the driver who always gets the wealthiest passengers. The official tosses me in. I got to skip the line! Before slamming the door, he’s sure to tell me, “It wouldn’t save you,’ insulting my parachute.

The Driver turns to me as he cuts a guy off and says the air conditioning costs extra. Behind me I reach for the tether that will keep me from catapulting through the windshield.

“And the seat belts broken,” I hear him grumble.

It doesn’t matter anyway. I left all my tokens on the plane.

31

Green EyesBen Parson

A BOOK FELL. Jessica flinched and looked up. She was alone, nestled between a shelf and the wall. Her eyes struggled to take in a world larger than size 12 Times New Roman. Through the shelves she could see windows, and through the windows street lamps cut against a sky that hung heavy with grey. She pulled her phone from the bag beside her. 8:13 PM. She’d let time get away from her.

She stuffed her bag with books and pulled out her hair tie. Blonde strands frizzed and fell against her cheek. She’d taken her shoes off hours ago, and now carried them in her hand as she plodded along the carpet in woolen socks. She weaved through the rows of shelves, letting the fingers of her free hand brush along the tightly grouped spines. Jessica rounded the corner of a shelf and entered the main hall. She stopped. In the center of the hall, framed by empty tables and empty chairs, stood a boy.

Jessica had spent most of three months in this library. She’d seen the librarians. She rarely used computer catalogues, preferring to ask for numbers and directions. She’d come to know the faces, the backs of heads, the tears in sneakers, the footsteps, and the awkward coughs. She knew the librarians. This one was new.

He was moving between tables, gathering the stray books and tossing them into his cart. He was tall, and tufts of meticulously disheveled black hair shot out in all directions. He hadn’t seen Jessica. She stepped back behind the bookshelf, slid her shoes on and

32

smoothed out the straggling pieces of hair. Deep breath. She stepped about from the shelves and pushed a scream past her lips.

“Oh!” she said. The librarian dropped his book and looked up, his eyes wide. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she began to laugh. He smiled. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone,” Jessica’s shoes scuffed against the tiles of the reading hall. She picked up the book and offered it. “Neither was I,” he said taking the book. “You know we close at eight, right?” “I get lost sometimes,” she said. “In general?” “In books,” she replied. He smiled at her. His eyes were green. Jessica liked that. “I’m Jessica.” “Derek,” he replied, offering his hand. Jessica accepted. His fingers and palm felt strong and callouses brushed against her skin. She liked that too. "You know, Francis Bacon often compared books to food," she began, "he said that you should taste as many as you can, but only swallow a couple." "And what did he say about Librarians?" he asked. "Gluttons, the lot of you," she smiled. "Do you often go around quoting seventeenth century writers to strangers?" he asked. "I like to start out conversation light," she said. “I haven’t seen you before.” “I come and go, but mostly work at the Amcotts Library in South County.” “A mercenary librarian” she said. "The Yojimbo of the Dewey Decimal System," he said, laughing. "I see you more as a potential Han Solo," she said. "Now you're just trying to flatter me," The muffled ringing of her phone interrupted. She reached into her bag and smiled at Derek. “Sorry,” she pressed the screen. “Hello?” she said. The voice through phone was layered with the voices of a crowd, and the pulse of music. “I can’t hear...I know...I be there in a bit.” Jessica hung up. “Sorry about that.” She met his eyes, and for for moment neither of them blinked. “Hopefully I’ll see you around?” she asked. “I’ll be around.”

As she was heading for the door she heard Derek’s voice. “Would you wanna go out some time?” Jessica stopped, but didn’t turn.

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As the tiny hair follicles of her inner ear vibrated against the ebbing waves of his voice, she could see everything. They would plan to go out on Friday, but he would call and say that he’d forgotten he was already busy that night and apologize. Jessica wouldn’t mind too much and be happy to reschedule to Saturday. He’d knock on the door around 7:04 PM. His clothes would be neat and his shirt would make those green eyes pop like emerald fireworks. She’d catch his eyes wandering around her chest, which would look really good in the light grey top she’d wear, and her eyes would wander too. The movie would be alright, and at dinner he’d have lots of interesting things to say about the history of film, and how it all stems from Dreyer’s genius. He’d make her laugh; say mostly the right things, and all the wrong things would be cute or endearing. He wouldn’t try to kiss her at the door, nerves get everyone in the end. But as he turned away, she’d pull him back and kiss him deeply. They’d see each other in the library for the next few days. Every time hanging out longer and longer. They’d talk about books and movies and read each other poetry. He would be a poet, and never published. His words would be too raw. She’d find out that he wore glasses too, and pretended to hate them. He’d find out she chewed on pens, everyone’s pens. They’d go out again. Then again. They’d make love, and he’d make sure that she came first. Their worlds would be separate at first. She had her car, her apartment, her friends, and he had his. She would laugh at the bands he’d never heard of, and he would scoff at the ones she listened to. He’d meet her friends, buy them drinks, remember their names, and complement their tastes. She would never really spend any time with his friends, ex-cept one night when he’d be late getting home. She would wait with his roommate, and in the course of five minutes exhaust everything they had to talk about: him. He'd like to drive, and she would let him. His car would be smelly in the beginning, and littered with empty CD cases and soda bottles. Then she’d come to know the rolling lines of the dash, the tears on the side of the passenger seat, and his smell would always be there.

Weeks would pass. Then months. And at a certain point she would say three words. They’d probably be whispered over the phone, or in the moments after orgasm. But she would say them, and after sitting in thick silence so would he.

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She'd have graduated now, and be lucky enough to find a job as a guidance councilor at a high school. She’d be good with the girls. They would like her for her youth and experience, but swear behind her back that they'd never be her. Boys would find reasons to go to her office, and as silly as it was, a small part of her would like the attention. She’d help at volley ball until 6PM three days a week, and then go back to her place, which was now their place. Derek would leave his roommate and the library, south county was too far from the high school. He'd get a job at Barnes & Noble, which was more serious and payed better. He would write before work, during work, and then at home as well. But as time continued to pass he would only write before and during work, then just during the coffee breaks and lunch hours, then not at all. He would blame Jessica for this.

He would drink more. His stomach would become round, not large, but round. He'd go out during the week with his friends: school nights. He'd drink more. Jessica would wake him up early for work, and try to talk about his friends. The talk would get loud. Old problems would become new ones. They’d both leave, and both apologize when they came home. They'd make love, and it would be better than it had been for a while. But they wouldn't talk much in the mornings after that.

After a time, routine would take over. Wake up by 6:55AM, in the shower by 7AM. Volley ball Monday, Wednesday, Thursday; chicken breast with rice and peas Tuesdays and Fridays; sex on Saturdays, with maybe a little fooling around on Wednesday. The apartment would be quieter. Jessica would give her words to the kids, and Derek would be sick of words. Her voice would annoy him, and his silence would eat at her heart. But neither would remember how they got to this place.

One night, any night, Derek would be late. First a few minutes. Then a half-hour. Two hours. A set table. A cleared table. Three hours. Chicken and peas sat in steamy tup-perware, it must be Friday. Five hours. Jessica’s eyes wouldn't close, there are too many tears. His phone would go straight to voicemail until it’s full. Derek doesn’t come home. Not really. Something would come through the door the next morning, but not him. Jessica will look into eyes sunken into red sockets; those same green eyes. She'd know. His scent is gone. Replaced with rosebuds and bubble gum, that burn in her throat like stomach acid.

She would nod. She would cry, and scream, and rage through all the small things that had filled the years. Had it really been years? Yes. Four dark years that would strain the 35

light from a few bright days. They would leave each other’s life, and Jessica would try to find the girl who let time get away from her. The girl who was still in the library. Jessica hadn’t moved. Derek’s words hung in like the echo of whispers against rows of bookshelves. This wasn’t right: nothing she really wanted. Games have a way of getting serious quickly, unless you’re careful. She knew her answer. Jessica drew a heavy breath as she turned, and as the words were about to fall from her lips she met those eyes. Those green eyes. The glinted with a mixture of what must’ve been fear glazed over by hope. She looked into those eyes and saw everything else. She’d say no. She’d go to her friends, drink away the shivers, and follow her feet home. Then, many years later or maybe not so many, she’d be standing in a church. Standing next to a man, who would be many things. And when it was her turn to speak, the mem-ory of those green eyes would be there, and the words would lose their weight.

Jessica smiled and took a few steps towards the boy with messy, beautiful hair. “What’d you have in mind?” she asked. A laugh forced a smile across Derek’s face. He had nice teeth too. “What do you think about tea or coffee?” he asked. “Ethically or personally?” she said. He laughed. “That sounds nice,” she continued, “when?” “Well,” he began, “my friends were gonna drag me to this poetry festival on Saturday. I’m sure they’d let me out if I had a date.” “Already using me for excuses? Very romantic Mr. Librarian.” she said, “Are you sure you wanna ditch your friends?” “I’m not really into poetry.”

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The rabbit is a nervous creature.It stays very still or hops quickly into black holes.

Bunnies can become so frightened their hearts stop.The rabbit fears the fox.

The fox is beautiful; it is hot fire blue.The fox chases the rabbit.

The rabbit is scared, but feels alive in the game; it has something to write home about; it is wild.

The fox wishes to consume the rabbit--sometimes he does.Foxes cannot hesitate when a rabbit is in their jaws.

The hunter can stop the fox.It proposed a solution.

The hunter murders the fox.The hunter traps the rabbit.

Rabbit Problems Rachel Statham

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38

Pluto: the Frozen PhoenixDan Biegner

ONCE, I WAS a part of something - a special group, an elite club. I was someone. Sure, I was a little odd and a little different, but I was still cool. It’s because I was a bit of an outsider that I was so awesome. Through my short-lived, high-class status though, I was a controversial figure. Some loved me and couldn’t imagine a world without me! Others made every effort to belittle me and drive me out of the club. 

When you sit near the edge of the galaxy, it’s hard not to feel like an outsider. It’s a cold, dark place. Sure, every once in a while you’d have the extremely occasional run in with Neptune. And sure, I had many moons. They’re great companions and I don’t mean to sell them short, but sometimes they can hog the spotlight. There were times where I felt like I was the moon and they were the planet! 

I loved the attention, of course. When you’re a nobody floating in the frozen depths of the solar system, it’s easy to feel isolated - moons or no. I moved around from place to place trying to make my big break into the galaxy’s consciousness - I even tried a different, more oval and unusual orbit. After what felt like millions of years, I finally got noticed. 

Some guy on Earth caught my act one night and things took off. It was kind of a big deal. Despite my small size, I received Jupiter-caliber attention. It was great! The sun’s rays might take a long time to reach me, but I was the media’s little heart throb in an instant. They gave me status. They gave me a name. They gave me meaning. I was Pluto, the frozen planet that marked the end of our solar system. I was the little guard dog standing at the entrance of our home. I was important. 

For nearly sixty years, everyone knew my name. People were inspired and the mystique of

39

my name expanded faster than the universe! Every year, a new class of children learned my name! At first, I was just that tiny dot on the map; I was a tiny king. Then, my stylish orbit caught their eye as well and I became the most unique member of the bunch! I didn’t have the fancy colors of Uranus, nor the showy rings of Saturn. I wasn’t in the “inner circle” of rocky planets, but those guys are jerks anyway. Mars? Yeah, don’t talk to me about ice caps!  

Still, I was part of a club. There were just the few of us. The outer circle and inner circle had a rivalry going, but it was all in good fun. I had more in common with the rock solid inners, but I related more to the inflated gas giants. In the end, we knew that we were all we had. Regardless of our countless differences, we all came from the same humble beginnings. We each knew that together, we defined this system.  

I was living large. There was nothing better in the whole universe than this feeling. I was famous and loving the attention, but I was also thrilled to be a part of this. And then? 

BAM! It was over. Something happened. It was like a giant asteroid crashed into my ego. I was somehow kicked out of the group. Kids no longer learned nine names. Food based models no longer included the jelly bean to represent me. Mercury lost interest. Venus never stayed in touch. The asteroid belt seemed to become more important than me! 

It knocked the solar wind right out of me. Suddenly, I went from living large to floating aimlessly in the depths of space. Neptune was incredibly polite every time my path crossed his, but it still was embarrassing. He could barely even stand to look at me knowing that I was no longer one of his kind.

Hope seemed lost. I thought about leaving the system altogether. Do I really want to be part of a planetary system that doesn’t want to include me? Suddenly, this place felt as cold as it actually was. The sun’s light seemed to take even longer to reach me. Perhaps I’d take my chances somewhere else. Maybe a smaller system with only a few planets. Maybe I’d fit in with a more uniformed collection of planets.  

Then I heard the noise. People on Earth started shouting and yelling and making a giant stink. They were fighting to keep me around. It turns out that even though I hadn’t been around long, I had nevertheless become and integral part of the town. They loved me after all!  

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The top minds battled each other, vigorously debating my status in the planet club. Many argued against my membership, but a lot more seemed to offer their hands in friendship. It was refreshing. My moons and I just sat patiently waiting. After all, if my status dropped, theirs did too. They’d all be reduced to mere “satellites.” It was every young satellite’s dream to be known as a moon

After long deliberations, they reach a conclusion of exclusion. My planetary status was revoked. Instead, they called me something else entirely. I must admit, I kind of stopped paying attention near the end. It’s nice to know that there was so much support for me, but I came to realize that on the very edge of the solar system, me and my moons had only each other. We got along great with the other guys, but we weren’t like the gas giants. We weren’t like the rocky inner circle guys. We were icy dwarves. We were the outcasts.

That’s the way it always was though. We might have had dreams of being something bigger and brighter, but it was never going to be that way. It couldn’t. It took a rapid rise and sudden fall for us to realize this. Nothing changed for us. It changed for everyone else. Planet or not, that’s their problem. We know who we are. 

And in the end, we got something else, something better. We might be the outcasts - bonded in our exclusion and separation from “normal” planets - but now we have our own classification. It’s not that we don’t fit into their group anymore - it’s that they don’t fit into ours. We’re dwarf planets and you can’t find us anywhere else in the solar system but here.  

I don’t have time for rings or storms, but I am Pluto and I contain multitudes! I’m too busy being the best dwarf planet the galaxy has ever seen. 

So—suck it, Saturn!

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THE AIR WAS dry and the sun was long gone when he wrote in his journal. Hunter glanced out to a sky the color of pewter as he scribbled and raced to finish his column. It was a piece about lost love in the city, missed connections, and though he had a plethora of examples at his fingertips —all he had to do was look at this lonely bar — Hunter was edging his deadline. His eyes hurt. He had gone two days with barely any sleep and his customers were starting to notice.       

‘Any chance you’re going to visit this end of the bar again? Any time soon?’         Late night at the Underground Lounge was hit or miss. Either you would get a crowd of University students itching to get crazy or you had a night like tonight, with four Spanish deli workers bickering over the jukebox and two stale regulars hypnotized by Sports Center.         

Hunter dropped his pen and carried a bottle of Old Overholt over to the far end. Dez and Antonio had run dry.       

‘So, who’s going to call it? You think the Packers got this one?’ he asked, pouring the shots and snapping open three PBRs.        

‘Jesus,’ Dez said, frowning, ‘You don’t look so good.’

Dez was wearing his puffed out green Jets jacket, dreds rolling over the shoulders. Heavy set with hands the size of dinner plates, it was always a surprise for Hunter to see him so gentle and sleepy after a shot and a beer. This man should be able to go three solid rounds in the ring with Sugar Ray Leonard. Instead, Dez chose carpentry. Once his union split up, and he could no longer collect, he did odd jobs around the Upper West Side neighborhood. Readjusting loose floorboards, repairing futons for students, desks and the whatnot. It’s how

UndergroundAlex Butler

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he managed to drink for free in the Underground — he had a knack for finding weak door trim as well as paranoid landlords and gullible business owners. After explaining to management that all of the doors of the Underground had a weak shim on the strike side jambs, he found himself a permanent stool at the bar.  

‘I’m fine,’ Hunter reassured them. The shots were neatly lined up. ‘Let’s go.’

The stale and humid air hung in place as he pushed the curtain aside and hollered for an order of fish tacos. Hunter waited for the usual grumble and shifting of pans. But there was nothing. Hassan was a permanent fixture in the kitchen, a stubborn wart of a creature who seemed to regard any task asked of him as a personal affront. He had a tired, pained expression and was constantly sweating. He drove too fast, hated American music, wore four rings on each hand, and was always phoning Morocco — his friends? family? Hunter could only wonder. He also had a weird obsession with Frida Kahlo, whom he could rattle off the most obscure tidbits of her life. ‘Did you know she never sat in the front seat of cars while a man was driving? Or that she hated pastries and the smell of garlic? Her jewelry box combination was always 5-5-5. She loved willow trees. She never wore yellow on Fridays. Never.’ And so, Hunter and management agreed the less customers interacting with the Moroccan, the better.      ‘Hey,’ Hunter called out, ‘Poison Pits. Did you hear me?’        

Nothing.        

The kitchen of the Underground was in complete disarray—heaps of beer boxes strewn over the floor, plastic tupperware with films of grease, huge sacks of red potatoes—and it was the last place Hunter wanted to be. But somewhere in this mess was a tired Moroccan who needed to make some fish tacos.         His mind was drifting back to his column as he opened the walk-in refrigerator to find Hassan on his cell phone, listening. He pretended to look busy, shuffled the tomatoes when he saw Hunter.    

‘Are you at work or what? Need an order of fish tacos.’

Hassan pursed his lips, furrowed his brow and nodded affirmatively. I’ll get right on it in Arabic.        

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The bar was filling up. That is, three more deli workers had crowded the jukebox. Dez was drifting off halfway through his PBR and left Antonio to his business. Despite what City bar owners and managers may say, the presence of a ‘house dealer’ is not only acceptable, but advisable. Having Antonio was a liability, for sure, but his presence meant de facto security and a slew of late, late night regulars. He was a dwarf but what he lacked in height he more than made up for in attitude and gusto. Arguments broke out around him often, and, despite the reassurances of the managers, made Hunter uneasy. Nevertheless, Antonio provided the Ritalin that kept him limber. He would stay out of sight after midnight, his signature Parliament smoke billowing into view around the front porch windows.         Hunter closed his notebook and met a doe-eyed brunette at the counter. ‘Here, I’ll make you a kalimotxo. It’s Spanish. Spain Spanish.’         After halving a wine glass with a Rioja tinto, Hunter added the secret ingredient—cola—out of view. It was the simplest cocktail in the world. The girl’s eyes remained fixed on him, large, dark. She tapped her lacquered nails on the bar.      ‘My brother is living there. Sent me a long letter the other day with the recipe. Said all the top bartenders in Europe serve it to their best and most prestigious clients. It was in-vented around the time of Cervantes, supposedly, and the recipe had been kept a secret. Here.’ God, he thought as he set it before her, So much of bartending is storytelling. This is the most romantic profession in the world.         It had been awhile since the two had spoken. It was difficult to place exactly when his older brother started acting different. Felix was always a bit aloof, sure, but it was around the middle of high school when he started having that thousand-yard stare. Felix began sitting for hours with an open book, eyes absolutely glued to the pages. The shelf on the bookcase dedicated to travel writing and photography would always feature gaps in the row of bindings. National Geographics missing. It was a collection that was established years past, when their uncle was more prominent in their lives. Uncle Albert, having a hard time with his new girlfriend, would drop off boxes and boxes of hardcovers and magazines. ‘Crazy bitch is going to steal all of these while I’m asleep,’ he’d reason,

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creating a miniature library on the shelves of the living room. ‘I’d much rather keep them here. You don’t mind… just for a few months.’ The books became a fascination for Felix, Hunter remembered, but never got to the point of obsession. He would spend weeks pouring through histories and ask unre-lenting questions. Of archeological digs: ‘Do you know why archaeologists dig square holes?’ Of the arctic: ‘Did you know polar bears can track each other by scent as far as thirty miles?’ Back then, it was just a budding curiosity. ‘Hey! Sleeping beauty! I might have to start pouring my own if you keep nodding off like that.’ Joe Jackson. Hunter squinted, breathed, and mechanically reached back for a bottle of Beefeater gin and a jar of olives. Joe was on the far end, sitting with Dez, who was already out cold, and twirling his empty martini glass. He was grinning. ‘You seem pretty pepped up,’ Hunter began, ‘Must have been a big case.’

‘Twenty-three year old kid ice-fishing in the middle of New Hampshire, right? And this mother fucker is all alone up there. He’s sitting there for hours, in some hut on a lake, getting blasted. His parents said he took a couple days vacation to get over a break up or something. All day, and he’s only getting nibbles. Then, he must have gotten a big one. He jumps up and slips on his ass, cracking the ice. The hut lurches over and tilts. And this mother fucker gets up and tries to save the bitch from falling in. Broken back. Twenty-three year old kid. The surgery took seven hours.’ Joe was an anesthesia resident at St. Luke’s Hospital up the street and was full of stories like these. He would come in every so often and vent his gruesome tales from the OR to anyone willing to listen. Hunter loved it. Joe not only spiced up the mood, but often drove people to drink more with his stories —something about an eight car pile-up just begged for a stiff cocktail. The Underground had seen Joe all the way through medical school at University and though one might think vast amounts of alcohol would hinder

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a medical career, nothing seemed to slow him down. Hunter had seen Joe act out once, which was when he had completed his first surgery of a pediatric patient. He stood on the front tabletop later that night after a bottle and a half of gin, screaming, ‘These hands save lives!’

‘Jesus….just stay at home. Why the fuck would anyone want to go ice fishing in the first place? To drown sorrows over some cheating bitch? Lordy. It’s gotta be some white person shit. That true, Hunter? You going to go ice-fishing when Allison leaves your sleepy ass? Am I going to straighten your broken back, too?’

‘Pfft,’ Hunter lifted his arms, ‘Why, I’ve got my hut right here. You’re all the fish I need.’

-End Part 1 of 4-

Contributors

Lea Sorannoholds a BA in English and an MLS in Library Science with a concentration in archives. Her story, “In the Way of Dreams,” is an excerpt from a longer work in progress with the same title. Lea enjoys books, films, and just about anything that tells a good story.

Gabriel Squailiais a professional DJ, amateur author, and full-time nap enthusiast.

Elmira Elvazovais a native of New York City. She currently lives and writes in Western Massachusetts where she attends the UMass Amherst MFA program for Poets & Writers.

Alex Butler works in the operating rooms at Mass General Hospital in Boston, dividing his time between Labor & Delivery and Radiology. He graduated from UMass Amherst in 2009 with high honors. He lives in Cambridge.

Ramiro Davaro-Comas is an Argentine/American painter and illustrator who bases much of his work on character studies and depictions. His dark and humorous surrealistic work taunts the viewer, and invites them to step into this playful yet obscene world of funny characters and weird backgrounds. His recent work has been exploring the imagination and its role in travel through the US and abroad, and has taken a 3D and installation base to his exhibitions. In the next few projects Davaro-Comas will be exploring non-traditional exhibition spaces, and installation works, heavily involving guest perception and inter-action. Davaro-Comas will be pulling his guests into his mind and world through these inviting and vivid exhibitions.You can see more of his work at: www.trucostudios.com.

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Catherine Weiss is a writer who has recently relocated to Northampton, MA from New York City with her two dogs, Wampa and Chewbacca.

Alexander Andreosantos is a writer and musician currently swimming in Northampton. He studied anthropology and religion at universities around the Pioneer Valley.

Amanda Drane is a local journalist who writes poetry in her spare time. The recent graduate of UMass Amherst writes feature articles and takes photos for the UMass ResearchNext website by day and waits tables at MRKT Restaurant by night.

Bryan Gillig is a professional apple-stacker in Western Mass. He lives with his girlfriend Naomi and his dog Shelly, both very beautiful and wise. Mainly a songwriter, folks can check out his music at bryangillig.bandcamp.com.

Ben Parsonwill reprise his role as high school mascot for the Chinook Pygmy Marmosets this coming fall to gather research for his next novel, Two Cheers for Me.

William Vanhas written articles, film reviews and now, a short story. His novel isn’t finished yet, but when it is, he’ll be sure to tell you. He was born in Boston but came West for sanctuary from the city.

Dan Biegner Once, there was nothing. 14 billion years later,enough star dust settled to form Dan Biegner. He’s been ever since.

Diana WaldonLikes castles.

Rachel StathamQueen of bananagrams. In her spare time she enjoys reading Faulkner and watching videos of baby animals on the Internet.

Charles Hobbyis a linguist’s linguist, a man’s man. In his spare time he tries to touch his tongue to the tip of his nose. So far, his efforts have been unsuccessful.

Lindsey Leiman is a graduate student exploring her wanderlust and attempting to make all of her con-flicting and contradictory dreams come true. Her interests include rock climbing, sour cream, and doodling on important documents.

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