Assignment of Blame
Your car grinds dust, spins it through the passenger window, coats my hair–stopped.
“What?” I say. You point up through the windsheild. A thing in our way. Big.
I was awake or thought I was, but did not glimpse its shadow on the horizon, did not notice your shoulders jerk as they must have before you slammed the brakes.
“Did we lose the road?” I am careful. Do not say you. Did you lose the road. It’s something I’ve been practicing with my therapist–wording sentences without blame in mind, not even at the back of my mind, no possibility of blame. Instead, observe. State what is. Formulate neutral questions.
“I don’t know,” you say. From inside the car, your head is cut off and the angle of its shadow makes it appear your neck is talking. Disconcerts. I step out of the car and ask again. I want to see your mouth enunciate the words, erase the image of a talking neck from my brain before it’s what I see from now on.
“I don’t know,” you say again, this time through your mouth. You are staring up at the thing. I am staring at it too. Here is our first encounter, I think. Relationships have these pivotal moments. My therapist and I have discussed how they do. Events that drive two people apart or hold them together. She has written a book.
“Traditionally, couples accelerate encounter through marriage, having children, starting a business together. A mutual project.”
I told her we were trying to adopt, that we both wanted a girl and it was hard to find a baby that reflected or at least approximated both our gene pools. Really, neither of us like kids, but I didn’t want her to think I was avoiding encountering the you of you.
Your hand swings at your side. When I reach, you raise it away as if to touch the towering hull.
“Don’t–” I say, not sure what I mean, only that it seems better to hold still, to stay close to one another.
“How would I?” you say, assuming–what? That I thought you would make contact? That you couldn’t possibly? That its limitations are visible to you, to any moron?
The sun glances off the metallicky surface. Shines directly in your face. You squint. You are dogged. Your whole body reflects this, poised, your lips parted, your arm still raised. Reaching.
You were always good with those 3-D puzzles. “See the eagle?” you’d ask me. “Sure. Right there,” I’d lie. Right there. It’s amazing. Infinite eagles diving from crested peaks.
“Wow,” I say into the glare. Heat shrivels my eyeballs behind closed lids. A hundred yards beyond a car rushes by. We are not on the road, not close to it really. Of course we’re lost. I only asked so you’d know something at the same time I did.
Let’s go, I think. Your hand dangles above you, gravity defiant, moving upwards, away instead of dropping like how we’re supposed to, closer and closer to earth. How gravity works.
I turn and let myself plummet into the passenger seat.
Now that I know where to listen, I hear more cars. One by one. You can measure time in their passing whoosh. People don’t drive this stretch unless they have to–and people that do, speed. Orange billboards warn of scorpions, thirst, flat tires, sunburn. People don’t veer off to contemplate a glow.
“Let’s buy a sandwich truck,” I yell through the broken driver’s side window. “We can drive through the desert with pastrami on rye and bottles of water. Help people keep from getting trapped.”
“What are you talking about?” you say. “Did you see this thing?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Right there. It’s amazing.”
Originally from southeastern Michigan, L. D. Blue has dwelt promiscuously in New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Mexico City and Olympia, Washington. Her fiction and essays have appeared on the Stoneslide Corrective and RedLemona.de, as well as in the Hybrid Beasts anthology. An MFA candidate at San Francisco State University, she resides in Oakland where she is writing a novel about ghosts, golems and the Midwestern genderbent. Poetry, painting and halfcocked criticism can be found at http://lukedaniblue.wordpress.com.
Two Days or Three
Michael pounded down loose, jagged rocks on a mountain as steep as a playground slide. He maneuvered around huge, gray-pink stones that were scattered along the cliff as if God had thrown them down in handfuls. It rained hard the previous night, and ruts were gouged into the pebbly sand between boulders. The air smelled heavy and earthy. His mind was on Chloe. Damn, why didn’t he say something supportive? Michael strode too close to a deep furrow in the trail, and the ground under his boot gave way. He somersaulted over the edge of a steep drop and landed on his blue rucksack. Michael’s head snapped back like he’d been clocked with a right cross and smacked a sharp stone. He blanked out. When he awoke it was late afternoon. His hair was matted damp, and he had a bump the size of an onion. His legs under kaki shorts were tangled in a thorny bush and ripped bloody like a harpy had gone at them with talons. He tried to move, but pain shot up his spine like a driven nail. The pounding in his skull brought tears to his eyes. He laid back. He was under a tall oak, and the sun tattooed his face with leaf shadows. His sunglasses had flown somewhere. He closed his eyes to the sun’s glare that shot through the branches.
* * *
Michael spotted Chloe walking into class in white short-shorts: legs like sculpted bronze. She was a starting forward. He treated her to a movie, and a burger, and they lingered over glasses of the house red wine.
Chloe sipped from her tumbler. “My coach encourages me to play soccer professionally, and I have the desire, but my father wants me to pursue medicine or law; sports for him are frivolous. When I was a kid my Dad wouldn’t let me ride my bike past the corner of our street like he was afraid some maniac was going to grab me. Anyway my parents have the money and it’s like I’m cocooned in financial bondage.”
They dated, and Michael attended her games. One day he watched Chloe play an entire half through an eyelet in his baseball cap, so he could shut out everything but her.
* * *
Michael’s mouth was sticky. He grasped for his water bottle, but it was crushed under him against a rock. The ground was still wet, and he dipped fingers and brought gritty dampness to his lips. He strained his ears for a distant voice or a footfall above the rustle of the breeze through quivering leaves. Someone will come, he thought. He focused on his breathing. Everything will be okay. Someone will come.
* * *
Michael and Chloe had been together six months. They sipped lattes at an outdoor table of the University coffee shop. Michael had a recruitment brochure spread on the wrought iron table. “After school I’m headed for the Marines. They only take genius-jocks into OCS; you know 4.0 grades and leader of the swim team. But once I’ve done a tour, they’ll accept me at Quantico. Lieutenant Michael Breen. What do you think?”
Chloe made a half smile. Her finger ran along the crease of the booklet. She said, “I’m pregnant.”
Michael’s mouth opened like a baby poised to receive a spoonful of pabulum. He sat back. “When did you find out?”
Chloe took a sip of her non-fat latte and looked away. “Tuesday.”
“You waited to tell me?”
She shrugged.
It was his baby, it must be. The world turned for a few minutes.
Chloe poured the remainder of her coffee into the grass. “I have to get to class.”
* * *
He slept fitfully during the night. When the sun cracked the horizon, the water from Michael’s bottle was just a cool spot of earth. How many days can you survive without water? Two? Three? He forgot. His throat felt like shoe leather, and it was hard for him to swallow. He thought of his mother, and his stomach sickened. No one saved her.
The day Michael’s mom and dad sat him down was fused in his brain, and the word “malignant” cracked a cold sweat on his forehead. After the operation and the chemo, the doctors said she was in remission. She bought some hairpieces and kidded that at least she needn’t worry about gray roots, but a few months later they removed her kidney. At the end his father had to give her morphine injections. His mom lapsed into a semi-coma, sometimes she’d cry out. When she was gone, at first Michael was relieved that her suffering was over. But afterwards, he locked himself in the bathroom and cried. Chloe was the only person he told.
* * *
Michael tried to stay awake the second night. Maybe they’re looking for me? He strained his ears. He thought he heard a voice, but no. Michael shivered with a cold that covered him like a shroud. Was this how it would end? He was too young. The words sputtered out. “God help me.” After his mother’s death, he hadn’t talked to God. If he got out of this, he’d marry Chloe. If there were a God, He would allow him to see the baby. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. His baby. Michael sobbed. “Chloe, I’m sorry.” His heart started to pound. He screamed, “Help, help.” He couldn’t just lie there. Tears filled his eyes. He shivered uncontrollably. He saw a shadow. “Hey, please, over here.” He bore the pain, and with dead legs he clawed toward the phantom.
* * *
It was the sunglasses. Who leaves a pair of polarized sunglasses on a rock? It got the two hikers looking around, and they spotted the royal blue of Michael’s rucksack under the cliff. They called out, but Michael didn’t move. They needed rigging to get to him. He had dirt in his mouth, and his fingernails were broken and bloody.
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife, Jane, lived in Greece, Brazil, Belgium and Netherlands. They now live in Texas with their little Shih Tzu, Sophia. Joe’s stories appeared in Alliterati Magazine, Ascent Aspirations Magazine, Bartleby Snopes, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Black Heart Magazine, Bong is Bard, Crack the Spine, Forge, Infective Ink, Johnny America, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, Milk Sugar, The Newer York. Orion Headless, River Poets Journal, The Shine Journal, The Stone Hobo, The Summerset Review, The Waterhouse Review, and Writers Abroad.
Engl. 501
“Welcome to the writer’s workshop. I’m Greg Benson and I’ll pretend to know what I’m talking about…”
Engl. 501, Creative-Writing started like most other classes. We were fourteen random people attending Butte Community College for a myriad of reasons. I figured the class would boost my GPA; others needed 501 to graduate; some of them probably liked writing.
“I have one question,” said Mr. Benson as he dramatically scanned the fresh faces. “Are you ready to get naked?” He had probably asked that question and delivered the motivational propaganda that followed a thousand times. He was sixty years old and looked more like a reader than a writer.
“You need to strip off your clothes and peel back your skin. Remove your bones and break them in half, the marrow that spills out will be your ink. Fiction is honesty, people.” The gay woman to Mr. Benson’s left was eating it up. The pierced boy to his right was daydreaming.
“Please take out a piece of paper. Take a few minutes to think about this…” Again he paused for dramatic effect. “I want you to share your darkest secret.” Now the students were scanning the room, as if to see how honest we were willing to be.
“I don’t care if you’ve stolen candy from a gas-station. I don’t give a shit if you masturbate. We all whack off,” he snorted. “Tell me your worst and everything else will be easier. Do not. I repeat. Do not sign your names. You have three minutes.”
I considered writing about the time Kyle Oliver and me killed a Yellow Labrador. But when I saw the circle of misfits, I felt the need to outshine them. Besides, some people pay hundreds of dollars to share their secrets. Mr. Benson was going to listen for free.
“Time’s up!” He handed a shallow red basket to his left. The collection plate rounded the room, stopping briefly at each person’s desk, taking in our dark memories. When it was handed back to him, Mr. Benson simply turned it upside down, removed the carrying vessel, and grabbed the top paper. There was no shuffling. Some people might have realized his folly at that moment. I didn’t understand what was happening until he began reading.
“‘I still fantasize about my ex-girlfriend during sex with my wife.’”
“Now that’s honesty, people!” encouraged Mr. Benson. The woman to his left began blushing beneath her short blonde bowl-cut. It was a small classroom, more of a conference room really. The air was all used up and there were no windows to escape the faces.
“‘I’ve had three abortions with three different men.’” The girl sitting beside the lesbian had a long black ponytail. She looked Republican.
“This is perfect,” beamed Benson, after reading from the next paper, “‘Believe it or not, I’m still a virgin.’” It was no shock to me. The kid had extreme acne and the four hundred pounds of bodyweight wasn’t going to help him get laid anytime soon.
“‘I did time for selling fake insurance to old people in Florida.’” The young man actually did resemble someone capable of cheating the elderly out of retirement money. His tight fitting polo shirt was tucked in and the gold watch on his wrist shouted: I’ll do anything for money!
“Who hasn’t!” joked Mr. Benson and half the class laughed. At that point in time, the room was split evenly between the attentive and the clueless. The ignorant sat apathetically while the others, the knowing, began to display signs of apprehension in the way of darting eyes, glowing cheeks, and nervous ticks. Mr. Benson was too self absorbed to notice the blushing lesbian or the sweating virgin.
“‘My father was killed by a hit and run driver in Butte, Montana. I never cried.’” Mr. Benson didn’t have a witty remark to lighten the mood and when the girl five seats to his left began crying, the young man to Benson’s right stood and left the room. Others shook their heads disapprovingly.
“‘I cheated in math class last semester.’” Mr. Benson took a moment to think about a joke. “…And nobody cares. Hell, I cheated on my wife last spring!” When nobody laughed Mr. Benson said, “I’m joking, people.” He continued, “Remember, folks, readers want secrets. They will know if you’re wasting their time.” The cheater, a tiny Mexican girl, didn’t find his anecdote amusing.
“‘I poached gorillas last year with my stepfather in East Cameroon.’”
“Okay,” acknowledged Mr. Benson, again taken off guard and not knowing quite what to say. “We have some very honest people here today.” He pulled another paper from the pile.
“‘I saw three soldiers rape a young girl in Iraq.’” The class froze. Some people stole glimpses at the young black man two seats to my right, as he stared through his desk, trying not to cry.
“‘I fantasize,’” Mr. Benson paused to read the writing, “Now this is ironic, ‘I fantasize about being gang raped.’ You can’t make this stuff up, people.” The hippie chick with dreadlocks didn’t fit the profile of someone longing to be raped (if anybody does). It was my turn.
“‘I could have saved my brother from drowning.’” I didn’t feel any better when he read my secret. He didn’t say anything and I felt cheated.
“‘I was a member of the Ku Klux Klan for eighteen months.’” The black veteran of the Iraq war looked towards the skinny white boy in the hooded sweatshirt to my left. The shady looking Chinese girl grinned as Mr. Benson took her confession.
“‘The production and sale of methamphetamines is paying for this class.’ We also have a drawing here…” Mr. Benson narrowed his eyes in an attempt to make sense of the picture. “We have a man having sexual relations, doggy style, with another man.” The meth dealer was quite pleased with Benson’s description of her artwork.
“‘I’m going to change the world with my words.’”
“And, I’m going to be sick,” joked Benson. This time, he actually received a few chuckles. “Talk is cheap, people.”
The last paper was taken and all eyes focused on the empty seat to Mr. Benson’s right.
“‘I once hit and killed a man in Butte, Montana. I was drunk and I fled.’”
Dustin Hyman has recently returned to his native state of California after teaching in Santiago, Chile. His master’s degree in English (creative writing) is supplemented with gritty life experiences. Dozens of horrible jobs have infiltrated his writing, so too has spending time in jail. He’s provided content for literary journals, newspapers and magazines. Dustin is currently a struggling freelance writer and one hell of a model American.
Two Counts in Revolution Square
Wonders happen if we can succeed
in passing through the harshest danger;
but only in a bright and purely granted
achievement can we realize the wonder.
— Rainer Maria Rilke
At four in the afternoon, Shah of Iran, declared martial law and curfew in Tehran. That was the winter of 1979.
“Sister,” the gray pigeon said, in a hushed, shrill voice. “Who is this young boy, sleeping under this mulberry tree?”
He was a skinny boy, pretending to be asleep in the shadow.
The White pigeon returned: “haven’t you heard sweetie? This is Bahram. He is gonna be the next leader of the poor.”
But women’s quarrel scared away the pigeons. Haji’s wives were fighting… again…
His Young wife was hitting the old wife…again…
They were second and third. The first was Bahram’s mother who left the house after the second marriage.
Kokab, the second wife, was old, short and thick; whose hair was covered with a gray scarf like maids. While Leila, the third wife, with milky young skin and cascading hair, was tall and slender. She wore the newest lipstick in Tehran but she was still the third.
People had asked: “Why the second marriage Haji?” and Haji had answered: “Kokab is soft.” And then people asked: “why the third marriage Haji?” and he answered: “Well, Leila is soft.” With his full mustache and his wild beard.
When Haji came home that afternoon, wives were still shouting. He went in the room and took off his hand-knitted shawl, a souvenir from Bahram’s mother. Leila khanoom was inhaling the smoke of her cigarette playfully with Kokab, crying at her feet… again… as Haji was lecturing about the big change, the revolution.
Bahram heard them, but he didn’t care. The only thing he cared about was me. I was Bahram’s best friend, I’d sat in the same class in the same bench with him for six years and I was the only person who believed in talking pigeons. In that frozen afternoon of curfew Bahram left the Haji’s house to see me.
He went into the streets of Martial law. There wasn’t a single soul left in the silent, soldier-lined allies but he didn’t scare. He knew twists and turns of those dark tunnels as good as twists and turns of my body.
–Well, chicken, you have failed mathematics, right?
– Difficult exam.
– It’s difficult only for you chicken? How come everyone else could do it?
-hey, stop yelling. It’s just math.
Bahram and I had explored every corner of those allies together. In them, we’d told each other stories. In them, we’d learned why the fat woman of Thirtieth Street took all those men to her house. In them we’d found the old toymaker who always laughed behind his large mustache and his bushy hair.
-you have no good mark, you lazy chicken.
-It’s the teachers, they just don’t like me.
-let’s face it chicken, you are the most stupid child in the history of this family.
– I really don’t know why you are yelling like that.
Bahram was shivering from both fear and the biting cold. He stood under my window, first looked around in fear; and then called my name gently. Keyvan, Count Dracula.
And looked around again, he could see the soldiers’ phantoms; hear the vogue noise of their army boots on the soil. They had mushroomed everywhere with their loaded guns.
I was waiting for Bahram by the window all that afternoon. I’d sensed he would come. I am coming down Count of Monte Cristo.
I ran down the stairs and opened the wooden door of our house. It was a traditional house where hundreds of people were born and dead. It still exists and its door is still wooden. Come in count of Monte Cristo.
I took his hands.
You know why I am here Count Dracula, We should go.
He was hopping from one foot to another to keep warm when I just nodded deep in thought, like grownups when they think about money. I can’t Bahram.
I’ve come in the curfew Keyvan, You tell me no?
I can’t go anywhere you crazy dreamer, What about life? Education?… marriage?… what about My Father?
Times are changing Keyvan.
What kind of change? Men will wear skirts?
I was all dressed up, as always. Appearance was really important for me back then.
That was why the old toymaker, who always laughed behind his large mustache, told me once: “Hah, Finally someone who knows how to wear.”
It was our first meeting with the old man. We’d gone to find out whether this old man was really a half-human connected to Geniis or he was just a simple salesman who made small toys, years before the martial law when we were only children.
It was late in the afternoon. Lights of his toyshop were off, but its door was ajar.
Bahram volunteered. He crept to the door, and pushed it lightly. I was hiding behind a wall.
Toy shop was a tiny place with mountains of toys on toys. That was it. No steamy magic drink, no alchemy book, no man with horns and hooves, No spell book or wand. Bahram saw a dark figure standing by the door, a statue.
“What’s going on Bahram?” I was shouting like mad from the street.
Suddenly, Hands of the statue grabbed Bahram’s collar and pulled him into depth of the shop.
No sound. My knees were shaking. The door opened and Bahram was panting in a man’s hands; A man with thick mustache and Einstein hair.
“Don’t do anything stupid son of Adam, or I cast a spell on your friend and he’ll be a crow.” But his voice was warm, like cooing of pigeons. “I know you love your friend, you lazy child. I can see it in your eyes. Come here.”
I started to walk, heavily.
“Go into the shop.”
We went in. Then He turned on a pink lamp that colored everything in the dim box. The dingy place instantly turned into heaven. In that pink gentle light we could see all those toys shining in their happy bright colors.
And he said, no he yelled: “You thought I didn’t know you were coming, ha?” he always yelled like showmen. “I see; you don’t know about pigeons. They are my informants.”
Glass eyes of wooden, sweet soldiers with their little plastic guns and knives were watching us.
The toymaker’s intimate tone gave heart to Bahram to ask. “You keep pigeons?”
“Oh, no. They are famous.” The old man laughed. “When you are hopeless they come to you between sleep and waking and talk above your head about your happy ending.” Then he gazed at me. “Pigeons had mentioned you. They said I would see a sharp stylish boy, who knows what to wear and how to wear it. Yes, cloths, the main problem of this country.”
The university student slammed the door and came in, pale and panting. I’ve always had this eternal image of him, pale and panting.
His mustache almost covered all his mouth. Everybody had the mustache, Haji, Toymaker, The student, my father.
“Send them out.” He said sharply with a dirty look.
“Speak out. They are friends.” The old man said.
“Friends? Who are they?” He was involved in politics for sure because all the time he tried to look so tough with a pair of girlish hands.
“He is a kid who wears stylish clothes.” The toymaker said. “And this is the one who dared to come here to find out who I am.”
“And you are still crazy. Just hide these things father Geppetto; I’ll give the money later.”
He gave the old man a pile of papers, something was scribbled on them. The pink light in the shop was so annoying now.
The toymaker cleared his voice: “Money first. I’ve always helped you and your friends but I have to eat. ”
“I don’t have enough time now, we are preparing for a country-wide demonstration. I’ll pay you next week. It’s not a game you old wizard. This is real. This is happening.”
The Old wizard’s eyes were registering every detail. “And I am real too.”
Bahram jumped in. “He is right. I thought he was a statue but he was real.”
“O, fuck me.” The student said.
“Watch your tongue boy. There are children here.” The old man growled. “What are these papers anyway? Relax, you can talk. They are just innocent children.”
“Being innocent wouldn’t help when the wild interrogator puts out his cigarettes in your eyes.” The student said. His hair, like the old man’s, hadn’t seen a comb for months.
“What makes you to trust me then?” The old man asked.
“Statues don’t talk.” The student said.
“So tell me about these papers, ha?” The old man said with no pause.
“You just sell your paper-made men when the revolution is spreading in the city like…” he was searching for the word. “Like…” and he was searching. “Like…”
“Cancer.” The old man finished.
The student didn’t hear the word even though the old man said it loud and clear. “Send one of these clowns with me… You, little one, come here.” He was calling Bahram. “I give your money to him Father Geppeto. I really don’t have time to come back here.”
Bahram and the student went out. Two weeks later, the student got arrested.
The student’s apartment was a messy place, with slogans and pictures against the Shah, everywhere on its walls. Bahram sat on musty sheets of a lonely iron bed in a corner, as the student pulled a fistful of money from a broken shelf, Toymaker’s money.
“It’s time for change little one.” The student said.
“Changing your apartment?” Bahram said.
“No stupid, changing the world.”
“My people never change.”
“Don’t like them?”
“I live with two women, Leila Khanoom and Kokab who covers her hair with a gray scarf like maids. They are a dirty Haji’s wives, an old man, my dad. My real mother left us after Haji’s second marriage.”
Bahram saw the shine of the student’s eyes; they were not those soulless eyes in the toymaker’s shop. “Tell me more little one.”
“Leila khanoom with her snow-white, silky skin makes Kokab to crawl on her hands and knees.”
“Does she hit her?
“Yeah. Her golden bracelets jingle when she hits Kokab.”
“Ok. Enough, Go find the toymaker, give him the money.” The student said.
Bahram sensed a sudden change in the student. He got out immediately with money in his hand and closed the door. Now he could hear the rattling iron bed from inside the apartment, even the unzipping pants. Then the student’s voice: “Ohhhs … aaaaahs… Leila Khanoom, My dearest, I am even seeing lines of your body… your shaved tall legs… Look at Kokab’s scarf …ohh …” And a long loud sigh.
You never told me what you saw in the student’s apartment Bahram, Why you refusing to answer?
Let’s go Keyvan; I am afraid of this neighborhood.
Answer me. Did he talk about liberty? Did he show you their guns?
He just played with himself and talked about my stepmothers.
What do you mean count of Monte Cristo?
Are you coming or not? There are many things I want to tell you.
Such as?
Two pigeons, they were on a tree, you know, Talking.
Ha, the pigeons that never bring bad news?
They said I am an unknown boss of some kind of group, a leader. They said I am a hero.
Well, maybe you are a hero.
I am not. Heroes smoke a lot and all women are in love with them. Like Humphrey Bogart. Let’s go Keyvan, my dear count Dracula.
But I couldn’t go with him. What about my father?
My father was a middle-aged, with a broad face. But some say it wasn’t that broad. He had icy eyes but some say there was kindness in his eyes. They were blue, but some say they were black. And I don’t remember because I hadn’t looked at his face for years. I almost spent most of my time with my mother. In the referendum of 1979, at the end of revolution, my father and all my friends voted for Islamic republic except Bahram who’d disappeared, but I simply wrote on the vote: “my mother.” And after that, did so in all elections.
Bahram with a sad look in his eyes was still begging me by the wooden door of our old house to run away with him. Then he went without goodbye. People had broken the curfew. He floated away. I called him. “Count of Monte Cristo.”
Now I am here in the age of forty, making my way through the narrow, crowded streets to our old house with its wooden door. I remember the house stone by stone. I remember my father narrowed his flaming eyes and shouted with a purple face: –You can’t even finish elementary school with these grades Chicken.
– I will work in a factory.
– I am ashamed of you.
-But you were always Karl Marx’s fan.
The Revolution square has changed now. It is lined with dancing lights of the bookstores and veiled women like Kokab are everywhere. The toymaker’s shop was here, right here. I can still see the Soldiers’ phantoms of martial law in the allies. They are walking with machineguns ready to open fire.
I see a mulberry tree in a lane and sit under it. I hear a shrill voice above my head. I can’t believe my ears.
“Dear sister, who is this sad man under this tree?” The white pigeon says.
“Its Keyvan sis, Bahram’s and Toymaker’s friend.” The gray one returns.
“That toymaker who handed all revolutionary students over to the police?” The white pigeon says.
“Yes dear.” The gray one returns.
Mustafa Hoseyniun (Hosseinioun) is a writer and translator from Iran. He has published two novels in Iran and studies the classic literature at Tehran University. He is also working for radio, adapting famous masterpieces of fiction into radio dramas. Even though he has experiences in screenwriting and poetry, fiction has always been the only love of his life. He enjoys Kafka, Salinger and Dostoyevski.
Savior
July, 2012
Through the window blinds, Hank eyed the honey locust tree being blown back like a limbo dancer. His folks, watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns from opposite sides of the couch, didn’t even notice the lights flicker. He knew if the wind decided to have its way and tear the house from the ground, they’d be swept up without ever realizing what hit.
The village tornado sirens sounded just before the house went dark. “Let’s get to the basement,” Hank said.
He hovered over his parents, cell phone lighting their way, as they plodded down the steps, one at a time, hands gripping the rail. “Why are you herding us down here like cattle? Let the Lord’s will be done already,” Mom said.
“Just be careful, Ma.”
They took cover under the stairwell, Mom resting atop the box storing the Christmas tree and Dad, eyes shut, holding himself up by a water pipe. They waited there in silence, ears perked, for permission to go back to their lives or maybe some sign that the world was indeed coming to an end.
When the worst had passed, Hank crept out into the night. “Holy shit,” he uttered. It barely lasted ten minutes, but the storm had rearranged the neighborhood’s unblemished suburban face. Tree limbs were sprawled on lawns like battlefield corpses. The honey locust had been split in two, its better half spread clear across the street. Nelson, the neighbor, stood in his driveway with a flashlight clenched between his teeth, revving up his generator. “I’m guessing we’ll be without power for a couple days at least,” he said.
“A couple days, huh?” Hank made out his parents pressed against the bay window. He raked his hand through his hair. “What am I going to do with them? They’re going to go nuts without TV.”
“This is nothing, man. Count your blessings. I could name you about a hundred worse scenarios that would wipe us all out in a heartbeat. Google it.”
*
The next day, Hank hid in his work cubicle and researched end-of-the-world predictions. He had his back to his cubemate whose fingers were fumbling between Fantasy Baseball and a box of Popeyes chicken. As it turned out, a modest twister had touched down, missing Hank’s house by only a few miles. Nelson was right, it could have been worse. And it would be, if Hank believed the hype he was reading on the web about December 21st, 2012. It was the last day of a 5,125-year-long cycle in the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar, which many believed marked the end of the world as Man knew it. There were a multitude of fears: the mysterious Twelfth Planet Nibiru colliding with Earth, alignment of the December solstice sun with the Galactic equator triggering massive earthquakes and other global upheaval, solar storms that would pummel the Earth and decimate power grids.
A help request came in from a partner of the firm. “My fucking computer doesn’t work,” it read. Hank’s cubemate turned to him. “You got this one?”
Hank closed the browser. He pointed his middle finger at the back of his cubemate’s office chair as he walked away. He hated the guy. He hated his job, the people he worked for. He hated the fact that he was too afraid to quit.
“What’s the problem?” Hank said when he got to the partner’s office.
“I told you already, didn’t I? My fucking computer doesn’t work.”
On the desk was a picture of his wife on a giant stallion, decked out in equestrian attire. His bookcase was loaded with bestsellers he’d probably bought at airport gift shops. He had a “2007 Top Accountant” trophy that looked like something he’d been given by the kids for Christmas. Hank ducked under the desk and started playing with the cords. When he gave one a light yank it fell into his palm.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” the partner said. “Fuckin’ technology. Damn computers.”
Hank cracked his head on the way up. He plugged the cord in and started the computer. “There we go. Your power cord must’ve popped out.” The partner lifted his gaze from his Blackberry. “And your battery died.”
A guy like this, Hank recognized, with all his worldly might wouldn’t have a chance if the universe decided to attack Earth. That was the thing of it all. As long as the world was intact, this guy could yell at his computer all day long, f’ing this and screwing that, treat hardworking people like dirt, and be considered king. He could go home to his four-car garage and his 1200-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and kick his dog. But if the world got knocked on its ass, see, he’d be curled up under the wet bar of his 2000-square foot basement wondering where in hell his housekeeper kept the canned tuna. And guys like Hank, with faces resembling the surface of Mercury but brains that rivaled those at NASA, would be the fixers, the saviors. Guys like Hank would be the seeds of humanity’s next great chapter.
*
Dad’s forehead was pressed against the vision screener. Hank had taken him to the DMV to get his license renewed. It was all the old man had left. He couldn’t work anymore; didn’t have the energy to do house projects. He couldn’t even smoke – doctor’s orders. But he could still drive himself and Mom to the produce store or post office on weekday mornings if he chose.
“Read line four,” the examiner said, a woman probably close to his age with platinum blonde curls and painted fingernails reaching out like a hawk’s talons.
“L, E, P, V…”
The woman shook her head, chin rested in her palm. “No, no, no, no, no. You’re missing all sorts of letters. Try the next line.” And more head-shaking. “Do you wear glasses?”
“He only wears them to read,” Hank interjected.
“Mm hmm. Let’s try again.”
“B, K, Q, S…”
“That’s enough, sir. There’s no way I can pass you today. You’re going to have to come back and take it again. Maybe get your eyes checked in the meantime.”
“Please, ma’am,” Hank said. He felt the collective glare of the mob waiting behind them. “He’s a good driver, trust me. We’ve been sitting here for an hour. The fluorescent lights probably got to him.”
“Sorry, hon. No can do.”
Hank let Dad drive home. His big head hung over the steering wheel. He blew past a stop sign as they weaved out of the strip mall. “They discriminated against me,” Dad said, “I can see perfectly fine. I got all those letters right.”
“I know, Dad, I know.”
“They can’t take away my license just because I’m old. You take away a man’s license, you take away his dignity. Might as well put me underground.”
“You’re right, Dad. I know, you’re right.”
*
Hank sat under the light bulb in his makeshift basement office, beside a stack of old comics and a case of bottled water. He was working furiously on a new website he’d decided to create – “How to Survive the End of the World.” He envisioned it being a life boat of sorts for people just like him, a modern day ark. The door squeaked open and Mom hollered down the stairs, “Dinner’s ready. Are you coming up?”
“Go ahead without me. I’ll come grab something in a bit.”
Hank worked on his first post about essential survival items. He’d been doing his homework. Humans only needed about 1500 calories a day to live. Canned goods had a short shelf life, maybe a year tops. The best bet for survivalists was freeze-dried, nitrogen-packed food in #10 heavy-duty lined cans. Those suckers could last thirty years, perhaps more. Unfortunately, they were out of most people’s price range, including his. 2500 smackaroos for a one year supply. Yeah, canned goods would have to do: beans, dehydrated potatoes, condensed milk, some fruits and veggies for a little variety.
Hank wasn’t convinced that 12/21/12 was doomsday. But if it was, he wanted to be prepared. If another tornado blew through town, only this time down Hank’s street, he hoped to be ready. If nuclear holocaust broke out, if there was a terrorist-delivered smallpox attack, if an asteroid struck the Earth (actually predicted to happen in 2036), Hank’s plan was to survive. The basement wasn’t an ideal bunker, he knew that. An underground blast-proof shelter was preferable, of course. But he figured the basement was at least a decent option – lots of pipes overhead, a fair amount of ductwork.
“As early as December twenty-first, my friends, there may be nothing left,” he wrote. “And we’ll have to give rise to an entire civilization from scratch.” He added to his growing list: windproof matches, bleach, garden seeds, chicken wire, a can opener.
Hank already had one blogger who “liked” his site: Pam Martin. Her profile picture was a self-take apparently using the bathroom mirror. The camera’s flash exploded across half her face. Hank clicked on the photo. From what he could tell, she looked to be in her early forties like him. She was fairly attractive. Attractive enough, but for the Kate Gosselin hairdo circa ’08. She blogged about coupon clipping – how to be a couponer, coupon lingo, hot links for coupons. Resourceful, Hank appreciated that. She was the kind of woman who’d have a puncher’s chance at weathering a plague. He commented on her blog: “Good stuff, Pam. Any coupons out there for magnesium fire starters or chlorine dioxide water-purification tablets? Lol.”
Hank went back to his site and waited for Pam’s response. He continued with his post: “There are so many different catastrophic scenarios that something is bound to happen eventually. My hope is that this website helps you survive, friends. My hope is that this website saves you.”
*
October, 2012
Nelson, the neighbor, was a Sales Specialist in Home Depot’s Electrical Department. He’d been bugging Hank to stop by one of his Do-It-Yourself workshops. It finally seemed like the right time. He took Dad along. The workshop was titled, “How to Build a Solar Panel.” Hank sucked in the sawdust-laden air; it made him feel like a man.
Nelson had a pencil behind his ear, his orange apron covered in grease and metal shavings, plywood and pegboard resting on his construction boots. “Today I’m going to show y’all how to build a solar panel that can deliver about sixty watts of power in bright sunlight. In layman’s terms, that’s enough to charge your laptop or run one light bulb.”
“That’s all?” someone said. “How much would it cost me to build enough solar panels to power my whole house?”
“Well, houses vary in size. I’d say anywhere between ten and eighty K.”
Four of the seven people there turned around and disappeared into the hardware aisles. What didn’t escape Hank was that if the end days arrived, the first thing to go would be power. He figured it a good idea to brush up on ways to generate it on his own. He’d been reading about solar energy, not to mention wind turbines, diesel generators, and using stationary bikes to juice up batteries.
Nelson knew his stuff. He’d been an electrician in the Army and had helped Hank and his family with some home projects changing outlets and replacing burnt fuses. He dabbled in other trades too, though, like plumbing and flooring. The guy would a great addition to any survival community.
Nelson screwed the pegboard to the plywood frame. Dad leaned in towards Hank. “Who’s this guy again? I know him.”
“It’s Nelson, Dad.” Hank turned and stared at him, confused. “You know Nelson.”
“Oh yeah, Nelson.” He was silent for a moment. “He’s Aunt Ruth’s friend.”
“No, Dad. Nelson’s our neighbor. He’s lived next door to us for twenty-five years.”
“Hmph.” He nodded his head. “The neighbor.”
Nelson was holding up solar cells and saying something about tabs and polarities and voltage, but Hank lost focus. He watched his dad who was staring off into the distance. The old man was losing his mind. He was losing it and Hank didn’t know what to do.
*
The lawn was buried under dead leaves. The basement was slowly being buried by survival gear. There were mouse traps, a hand-powered grain mill, sleeping bags, fishing equipment, shovels, toilet paper, a crossbow. Hank’s prized possession was a box of Cuban cigars – Cohibas – that he’d gotten from Dad on his fortieth birthday. There were only eight left because they’d smoked two of them that night. He’d pick the right moment to appreciate them during the end times, when there was reason to celebrate or when all hope was lost or when there was reason to celebrate that all hope was lost.
Hank sat on his computer and played with the wording for a Craigslist ad. He was satisfied with the website, but he wanted to take it further now. He wanted to attract a community of people with various skills and talents who would join together when catastrophe struck. So the ad was intended to generate a little buzz. “Recruiting for a Chicagoland survival community,” he decided on. He kept the exact location secret so as not to be inundated with vagrants when the final days arrived. He already had four followers, although one – Ashish – lived in India.
Hank and Pam Martin, in particular, had grown chummy, commenting back and forth on each other’s sites, exchanging barbs. They had a lot in common: both lived in Chicago, both Virgos, both obsessed with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The relationship evolved into phone conversations and what Hank hoped would be more. From the basement headquarters, he called her. “Hey, I was thinking we could get together for the Eve of 12/21/12?”
“Yeah, sure,” Pam said. “That’d be great. We can call it a ‘Doomsday Party.’”
“’Doomsday Party.’ I like that. You never know, right?”
“You never know. Are you going to invite the rest of the group?”
“Yeah, I might. I’ll probably do that. Except for Ashish, of course. We can order some pizzas. You like Salerno’s? If all hell breaks loose, we won’t be having Salerno’s again anytime soon.”
“I love Salerno’s.”
That night, Hank lay in bed thinking about Pam. He fantasized about them becoming lovers when the end of the world arrived, procreating, beginning the next phase of humanity. They would be dirty and sweaty and hardly even have the energy, let alone the privacy, to make love. But they would give in to their carnal desires because they couldn’t hold back any longer and because it was good for Man anyway. He’d wanted to make love to her all along really, since the calamity unfolded, but he was too concerned with keeping himself and the other community members alive. This often happened in high-stress, traumatic situations – individuals fell madly in love with each other. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the high cortisol levels. Hank suspected women would be especially prone to falling for the leader. What he would only come to find out after they’d made love, actually over and over again, was that Pam had wanted him from the start too. That even before the disaster, she’d wanted to be the mother of his children.
*
December, 2012
Hank paced with his coat pressed to his chest. He chewed on his fingernails. Mom and Dad were sitting out in the lobby. The doctor was scribbling notes down on a chart. “So you think we’re looking at Alzheimer’s?” Hank said. “Dementia?”
“Let’s see how the blood tests and urinalysis come back. We’ll take it from there. Order some brain scans if we have to. Bring in a neurologist.”
Hank leaned back against the exam table; the paper crinkled under him. He looked up at the wall covered in diagrams of swollen prostates, osteoporotic hip bones, arthritic joints. The bleakness of it all was offset by a picture of three happy old ladies doing side-to-side twists with exercise balls. “What can I do to help him?” Hank said. “To fix it?”
“Nothing you can do. Unfortunately your dad’s getting older. Things start to fall apart a bit with age. Nature’s course. Any family around that can help out?”
“No. No one but me.”
The doctor pulled out his pen and jotted something onto a script. He handed it to Hank. “Here, this is the info for a good therapist. It might benefit you to talk to someone. This can be a hard thing to go through.”
Hank put it in his back pocket and shook the doctor’s hand. He thanked him; for what, he wasn’t sure. The guy, with his infinite schooling, could run his tests and slap a name to Dad’s constellation of symptoms. But he couldn’t save him, couldn’t freeze him in time or reverse the effects of his aging. That was the thing with geriatric medicine. The doctor could fill his day with back-to-back appointments, old folks complaining about insomnia and back pain, and maybe he could patch them up, push them back out there to fight the good fight. But in the end he couldn’t save them no matter what he tried.
*
Hank’s cubemate was playing Tetris on his laptop. He’d just been promoted to Manager. Still, it wasn’t a rash decision Hank was making. He’d been contemplating it for months at least. Only now he finally had the nerve to do it. He cleaned out his desk drawer deciding what to throw out and what office supplies he could potentially find alternate survival uses for. A paperclip, for instance, could be used as an emergency fish hook, a splint for minor toe and finger injuries, or a makeshift antenna for small electronics.
His boss called him down to the office. “You wanted to talk to me?”
Hank had been with the company for a decade-plus, but the job was getting more demanding, not less. Fewer employees, longer hours, emails day and night. He was even starting to get grief about taking time off for his dad’s appointments. It wouldn’t be long before they replaced him with someone younger and cheaper, easier to push around. Do you have any idea who I am? he wanted to tell his boss.
“So what do you need?”
“I’m quitting,” Hank said. “I’m putting in my two weeks.”
“You’re quitting? Why would you do that?”
He thought about it for a second. “I don’t know. I guess because I can.”
*
On the Eve of December 21st, the forecast called for mild temperatures, light p.m. snow showers, and winds northwest at thirty miles per hour. Nothing Earth-shattering. Hank was nervous, nonetheless. He didn’t even sleep to his alarm. A gamma ray burst, for one, could occur without any warning at all, cooking the atmosphere and destroying the ozone layer. Plus, Hank was anxious to see Pam Martin in person for the first time.
He was in the basement headquarters, setting up some Doomsday Party decorations – confetti and streamers, posters of mushroom clouds, R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” cued up on the stereo – when he got the call.
“Hank? It’s Pam.”
“Pam. Hey, what’s up? Wait ‘til you see these ‘Party Like There’s No To-Maya’ shot glasses I picked up. Hilarious.”
“Look, Hank, I can’t make it over tonight.”
“O – kay.”
“There’s something you should know too. I realize I’m the only female in the community. I don’t know how to say this, so I just will. I’m not capable of having children, Hank. I’m infertile. Which, when we’re talking about continuing humanity, kind of makes me expendable.”
“Yeah, I mean, that’s, you know, whatever, I didn’t think – .”
Hank felt embarrassed, like Pam had somehow infiltrated his secret fantasy. He reminded himself, though, that they were part of a survival community and, as such, each had a special role. Being the only woman, Pam had obviously assumed hers, although she certainly must have had other useful skills. Hank listened while she explained premature ovarian failure and how it left her barren. How her mom had it too, even though she was lucky enough to pop out a kid first. How it was a black mark on her family that she couldn’t manage to avoid. Hank told her that stuff like that happened with no rhyme or reason. That he had male pattern baldness that could be traced to every male relative on his dad’s side dating back to at least the 1800s, though it didn’t seem to provide Pam much solace. She sounded like she was about to cry when she said she’d talk to him later. She told him to have fun with the rest of the group, unaware that nobody else was coming, and hung up the phone.
Hank spent the night alone in the basement. He polished off a liter of Dr. Pepper and a large Hawaiian from Salerno’s on his own. He watched Rocky 4 on basic cable. He hoped that 12/21/12 didn’t mark the end of the world, because it certainly was no way to go out. After the nightly news and the newscasters mocking the notion that this would be Earth’s last day, Hank made his way up to bed and checked in on his parents. He cracked open their door. Mom was resting on her side, mouth ajar, arm hanging over the bed. Beside her, though, the sheets had been pushed away. Hank stepped into the room, opening his eyes wide. Dad wasn’t there. Dad was gone.
He looked around the house – in the bathrooms, the kitchen, the closets – but his dad was nowhere. He checked the doors. The front was unlocked. Hank ran outside. The neighborhood was illuminated by Christmas decorations. He could make out the glow of the television in Nelson’s living room. He considered knocking and asking him for help. Nelson, the Army Vet, the Man’s man, but he decided to keep going on his own. Hank ran down the block and then turned around and got in his car. He crept down the quiet streets, passing nativity scenes, inflatable Santas, and plastic reindeers. Finally, in the distance, Hank saw a figure. It was Dad, near the playground, about three-quarter miles from the house. Hank jumped out and jogged towards him. His dad was in his blue pajamas, his feet bare and white.
“Dad, where are you going? What are you doing out here?”
“I’m going to buy a pack of cigarettes,” he said.
When Hank was just a kid, they’d lived in an apartment in the city. There was a convenient store, Hank recalled, that his dad would walk to every night to pick up his smokes.
“C’mon, Dad, get in the car.” He wrapped his arm around him. “I’m going to take care of you. I’ve got something for you. Just come on with me.”
When they got home, Hank went inside and clomped down to the basement headquarters. He knew what to do. Beneath a pile of tents and maps and mosquito nets, the Cohibas he was saving were tucked away. He took two from the box and headed back up. He slipped his sneakers over Dad’s cold feet and threw his winter coat onto his bony shoulders. They sat outside on the front stoop and Hank gave the cigars a light, Dad’s first.
“Nothing like a good Cohiba, eh Pop?”
He nodded. “Now we just need a little cognac.”
What was left of the honey locust hung over them, its branches reaching down like they were threatening to scoop Hank and Dad up, like they were planning an abduction. Hank drew in a puff of smoke and held it for a minute. He savored the taste – its woody flavor, a hint of vanilla – before opening his lips and letting it out. “Watch this, Dad,” he said. Hank blew smoke rings at the sky, out to space. He blew them at the giant black holes waiting to swallow Planet Earth, at the asteroids preparing to slice through Earth’s atmosphere. He blew smoke rings, small ones then bigger ones, at the next great disaster inevitably on its way.
Steve Karas lives in Chicago with his wife and daughter. His stories have appeared in Necessary Fiction, Little Fiction, Whiskeypaper, Bartleby Snopes, and elsewhere. He also writes for The Review Review. You can visit his website at steve-karas.com.
Vespro
The two trees in the Garden
of Eden did not bear apples.
Fig leaves on the domes
of your eyes, your lids
crumpling smoke-blue at dawn
reminded me, in half-sleep,
how your breasts from their inward
transformations had reemerged
through your back,
where they doubled
as shoulder blades
and it was good.
A cool wind chases through the Eternal City.
Were new angels singing at noon?
From the green peak of the Gianicolo
over bleached grass-blades and violet
paving stones, the day-moon
and the dome of St Peter’s
are both eclipsed
by the enormous testacles
of the stone-armored steed
of the mounted Garibaldi,
unifier of Italy.
The moon and the dome of St Peter’s
are pale fluorescing breasts.
When I squint, these sunspots
are areolae the color of split figs.
Your lips are split figs.
We are encrypted in a garden
within the air
behind the air. All of Italy
is ripe and sticky.
Stephen Massimilla is a poet, critic, professor, and painter. His latest book, The Plague Doctor in His Hull-Shaped Hat, was selected in the Stephen F. Austin State University Press Poetry Series Prize Competition. He has received the Bordighera Prize for Forty Floors from Yesterday; the Grolier Prize for Later on Aiaia; a Van Rensselaer Award, selected by Kenneth Koch; and multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Almost a Second Thought was runner-up for the Salmon National Poetry Book Award, judged by X.J. Kennedy. Massimilla’s work has appeared in hundreds of publications. He holds an M.F.A. and a Ph.D. from Columbia University and teaches at Columbia and the New School. Website: www.stephenmassimilla.com
Sex is Such a Boring Topic
Sex is such a boring topic
lap dances and push-up bras
porno tapes and sex clubs
saunas and leather chaps.
Boring.
I’m more interested in creating
that frittata, baking cornbread
with buttermilk, finding a recipe
for the garam masala
I don’t care who’s having an orgasm
again
if anyone has ejaculated
this morning
or if there’s a drop of Eros
left in the tube.
Keep your handcuffs, your jockstrap
your butt plug
I’m perfecting a Devil’s Food cake
a vanilla rose frosting
I’m considering homemade lasagna
Let someone else wear the French
maid’s costume, the thigh high boots,
the crotchless panties;
by all means, enjoy the rubber sheets.
take my place in the sling,
I’m trying to master the biscuit,
the lemon bar trifle,
the blackened sea bass
I want to roast the broccoli,
blanch the asparagus, ice
the orange pound cake.
I want to candy my own rose petals.
I want to fill you up with all of this.
I never want to stop.
Christopher P. DeLorenzo lives in San Francisco, California, where he teaches writing at the University of San Francisco, and leads multi-genre writing workshops in his home (in the Amherst Writers and Artists method). He has published poetry in numerous publications, including The Rockhurst Review and Karamu. He is currently revising his third novel manuscript, Not a Love Story.
Railing Against the Past
I have her laugh, I’m told
and my arms flap as I talk
until I hold them down, remembering
how her movements drive me mad
And that noise she makes,
a strange air sucking
She seems hollow, spending
her days alone, denying a grief unimaginable.
a deluge of tears
will drown her. I know that.
She holds her arms around herself.
I do, too.
Susan Carter Morgan is a writer and former teacher from Virginia. She is a member of LibertyTown Arts Workshop, where she has a small writing studio. Her work has appeared in journals such as Haunted Waters Press, the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Curio, and The Front Porch. She also shares writing on her blog scmorgan.net.
Lady Parts and Dreams
Smack me in my Margaret thighs!
The wind’s made a full turn
and I am anxious
to find a mother in Kathmandu.
But this weekender yacht is a liking
to crap
made of American parts, no wonder.
Did you bring the paddles?
The feathers and glue?
Well spank my Barbara bum!
Look at this! We can raise our foot flags
save a lack of direction
in the stratosphere. What’s that you say?
Why can’t we choose a closer country
where body parts are more
laissez-faire? Well, seeing
as any kind of rowing is most dependent
on my Sandra arms
that would make sense.
But we all know
individuality doesn’t really exist
just as oceans don’t signify
an absence of
ground. It’s incorrigible the illusions
intelligence springs
like we are choked by a fourth arm
that really exists. Our
lady limbs will go on hanging
from wherever they hang
no matter what voyage we conjure
from what escape
to what next
whether or not our hawk boat
reaches the clouds.
Alex Schmidt resides in Charlotte, NC, where he works as assistant manager at Trader Joe’s. He’s been a Trader Joe’s employee for ten years, as long as he’s considered writing to be a life-long pursuit. When he is not writing or working, his neighbor’s usually spot him walking with his basset hound while reading, seemingly a different book every time. When he doesn’t leave the house he is watching movies, learning to become the reasonable heir of Sam Peckinpah or Jean Renoir, dancing to Otis Redding and Funkadelic with his wife, and cooking delectable fireworks of joy in his kitchen. Sausageshapedearth.wordpress.com.
Second Coming
you gonna need more than that stick
a couple nights ago he was in rare form
he caught this little white boy trying
to pull the copper out his wire why
that old man took out his gun and said
powpowpow
that little white boy moved so fast
rice couldnt catch him
that little white boy said shit
that niggers crazy and took off
he took to running heading out like
buckwheat or farina seen a ghost and said
forget you to them tools the police found them
when they come they would have took that old
man in but this a stand your ground state
so they couldnt say a thing they asked him
if he could identify him and he said he
was a little white boy they all look the same
he had gloves on so
they couldnt get no prints so the old man got
new tools that he set out in case that boy
decides to come get them when you go
in keep that stick close by right
in your fist then you can
protect yourself you kind of high yellow
not natural brown
in the light he might suppose you come
for more and though old
his aim is good the second time around
J. E. Robinson’s essay, “Notes from a Janitor’s Closet,” appeared in Karamu, Bluestem’s predecessor, and received the Illinois Arts Council Literary Award. He has also received two Pushcart Prize nominations. His essays, poems, and short stories have appeared widely. He is the author of “Skip Macalester,” a novel, and of “The Day Rider and Other Stories,” which is forthcoming. He teaches at the Saint Louis College of Pharmacy and lives in Southern Illinois.
Food Chain Sonata
I.
Not song, but stick legs, chopsticks
poking surface tension as wings,
arranged just so, pluck waters to
create circles underlining circles.
II.
I am alone, the osprey is alone.
III.
By the time the ripples arrive,
diminished, cypresses shake.
Trout argue about property,
laugh in the dark corners, by weighted
depths defined by how cold they are;
IV.
shaken water, bitten by a thousand
larvae swimming upside down.
At dawn, when this crowd of lonely authors
look sidelong into the same indigo expanse,
when fog loses pace and dies before touching
the bank, which voice will cry out first?
Joddy Murray earned his MFA in poetry at Texas State University, San Marcos, and his Ph.D. in composition and cultural rhetoric at Syracuse University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in over 65 journals, including American Literary Review, Berkeley Poetry Review, Carquinez Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, Confrontation, DUCTS, Existere, Gulf Coast, Hawai’i Review, Meridian, New Orleans Review, Passages North, Pembroke Magazine, Portland Review, River Oak Review, Texas Review, and Wisconsin Review. He currently teaches writing and rhetoric at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, Texas.
U
A dictionary poem for my father
Unutterable. Unworldly. The up
heaves of yourself from yourself
those sulky outbursts and groans
upset our uncertain universe –
even as a comparable conundrum
presents itself: A glacier up
heaves then sulks and groans
in its efforts to upend continent –
even as the bedrock of you begins
its slide into unearthly dementia.
Bo Niles is a former magazine editor who specialized in home design. She is the author of a number of books on this subject, as well as a travel memoir. In retirement, she has been taking poetry workshops at the 92Street Y, in New York City, where she lives with her husband. Her poems have been published in journals and anthologies, and a chapbook, intimate geographies, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2012.
The Distance Between My Mother and Me, or Postmodern Education
The news channel says
such and such percentage of people
in Liberia trace their heritage to here,
and my mother scoffs in disbelief because
she thinks the passage from Africa
ran only one way.
I enlighten her gently: for her,
history is a different animal. It is
what happened; it is facts in books;
a continuous line
moving into the future
with no tangents, no digressions.
She thinks I am a diagramed sentence:
even the splinters have splinters.
To her, I’ll probably never be whole again.
Hannah Cook Cross is a poet-mom living in Arizona. Her work has appeared in Poetry Midwest, New Millenium Writings, and Knoxville Writers Guild anthologies.
Yellow Spider, Black Fly
the ancient ancestor of this angling arthropod
could have crawled across the concrete
of a palace, or a prison
could have crept close to a condemned criminal’s crippled claw, curious of
the fumbling of fetid fingernails fighting feebly against
expected death.
the forefathers of this fly
maybe befuddled brilliant boys like Bacon
appearing as if assembled by angry alchemists
as maggots molting, multiplying, mounting air
fleeing free from fermenting flesh.
the ancient intimates of these insects
may have met millennia ago
suffered the same sort of scrutiny
I have them under now.
Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch, and Music Theory for Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, Spanish, Russian, Portuguese, and German. Her novel, The Trouble With Clare, is due out from Hydra Publications in 2013.
Put On the Map
There is no space so location is guess work.
On the other side of the river there is a land mass before
The next river.
Are we fishing?
Will I lock my hook into your zipper and pull off your dress?
The sadness of your distance is three skips of a rock
Across the water.
I get there smooth as a pebble.
You are the environment I put on the map.
You are the snack stand I would open to support you
With the tourists’ coins.
I am the car that has broken down before your loveliness.
David Lawrence’s last poetry book was Lane Changes (Four Way Books). Last year his memoirs about his boxing career and slide from riches to rags was published–The King of White Collar Boxing. It can be found on Amazon. He has published over 600 poems.