Dusty Dog Reviews
The whole project is hip, anti-academic, the poetry of reluctant grown-ups, picking noses in church. An enjoyable romp! Though also serious.





Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies, April 1997)
Children, Churches and Daddies is eclectic, alive and is as contemporary as tomorrow’s news.


Volume 204, January 2010

The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine
Internet ISSN 1555-1555
(for print ISSN 1068-5154)

cc&d magazine












see what’s in this issue...


Note that in the print edition of cc&d magazine, all artwork within the pages of the book appear in black and white.


Order this issue from our printer
as a a $7.47 paperback book
(5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

order issue


















a note from the editor





the Evolution of cc&d

In the beginning of cc&d (I’m talking 1993 and 1994), the 5.5"x8.5" saddle-stitched magazine came out monthly, though even in the early days there were sometimes two issues which came out in a month. By 1995, four or 5 issues were coming out every month. By volume 75, because we had so many good contributions, we changed our format from 5.5"x8.5" to 8.5"x11", adding an expanded news section, a political news section, a letters to the editor section, a lunchtime poll topic, and a philosophy monthly section. We even started including sections of Scars books in issues. But when I was leaving to travel the country for nearly a year starting in the end of 1997, I decided to produce 6 issues of cc&d released in 1998 in advance, so I wouldn’t have to worry about the production of the magazine.
But after traveling the country until the summer of 1998, I was driving to visit my parents and was almost killed while stopped at a traffic intersection. I was unconscious for 11 days, and had to relearn how to walk and talk and eat.
And in all of this time (including my travel time), submissions were being emailed to me for cc&d. So because of my condition, I decided to release a book of the 1999 cc&d issues, in the end of 1998 (called Rinse & Repeat).
After the book release, I produced Internet audio issues, then web page issues only (although issues were released on the Internet via eworld.com and aol.com since 1995, this hiatus of being able to work on cc&d forced me to only release Internet issues temporarily). For the years 2001 and 202, issues were only placed in collection books (like Warm & Fuzzy, Torture & Triumph and the first Scars Publications books not released as two similar words separated by an ampersand, oh.). I worked on expanding cc&d and Scars Publications, so while releasing books, a few issues were released as audio issues on line.
Because I wanted to get back to my heyday of big issues of cc&d, I completed a few quarterly 8.5"x11" issues in 2003 (which at the time, with their color covers and their brad seams were almost cooler to see finalized than the books).
But by 2004 I then deciding to bring cc&d back to its original 5.5"x8.5" format. Through 2008 limited my inclusion in issues other than editorials and occasional pieces of artwork to accompany poetry. In the beginning of the re-emergence of the 5.5"x8.5" format issues, a performance art section started cropping up in occasional issues, which often contained my poetry from live Chicago performance art shows. As time has progressed, I have often made these performance art collection supplement issues/chapbooks in 5.5"x8.5" format of cc&d so that other writers could have more space in cc&d. Once 2009 came around, we had so many good writers that we not only stopped including performance art sections, but also stopped including editorials in the print sections of cc&d (though they are still available in the Internet web page versions of the magazine).
cc&d reduced the font size to fit more authors in issues and extended the page length of the magazine to longer than it had ever been for 5.5"x8.5" saddle-stitched issues. Even with those measures, cc&d still added extra issues once again to 2009 monthly releases (like the Indian Summer issue in mid-August, or the Winter Equinox issue in December).
So we we started talking it over with other staff members at Scars. cc&d magazine has had an amazing run of issue releases, in so many different formats. Starting in 2007, cc&d started releasing collection books of issues (2 in 2007, and then 3 in 2008 and 2009 because of the release of so many supplement issues). Because of the economy (and because of the fat that being a writer usually doesn’t pay the bills), book sales lagged while issue demand was as high as ever. So, because of printing restraints, and because if the increased demand, we decided that starting with the January 2010 issue, monthly releases of cc&d magazine would be digest-sized (5.5"x8.5"), 84 pages (longer than any digest-sized issue before), and perfect-bound (the first time regular issues of cc&d magazine would be released in this format). This would also allow cc&d to not only have full-bleed color covers, but also keep our body copy at the more respectable book size we have used in the past, and allow writers space on pages to showcase their work (by 2008 and 2009, there may have been 3 poets poems with 4 artist pieces of art on a single page, cramming work together to materials cannot be fully enjoyed).
Okay, I’m a bit winded thinking about all of the changes cc&d has gone through over the years. So maybe for this first perfect-bound issue, we will show some of the past covers of cc&d for the headings for the poetry and prose sections of this issue. Either way, we hope you appreciate this new, more sturdy (and more permanent) format for the new issues of cc&d magazine.

Creative Commons License

This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
kuypers

Janet Kuypers
Editor In Chief






















poetry: the passionate stuff





cc&d

poetry

the passionate stuff
















Shooting Midgets from a Catapult
and Watching Our Teacher Tap Dance Nude

Newamba

I woke up late today
The alarm clock had grown arms and legs and ran away
Scratching my testicles and stumbling into the kitchen,
I found an alligator eating my Cheerios

There was no time to fight him,
so I took off my nightgown and slipped into some edible panties,
red tights, a green tutu, retro basketball jersey, and funky tennis shoes

I brushed my teeth and put my hair into pig tails
Then I stepped out the door
and mounted the unicycle I ride to school
After giving a stranger the finger, I took off onto the highway
(The “Miami Vice” theme song played in my head)

Upon arrival at school,
I saw Tiger Woods out on the front lawn
with a neck brace on,
shooting midgets from a catapult

A group of mimes were next to him,
involved in a limbo contest

Behind them was a three legged homosexual donkey called “Rufus,”
chasing a rogue peacock in circles like a loon,
whilst singing Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face”
completely out of tune

Inside the school, a roaming pack of football players,
in pads and helmets, tackled random people throughout the hallways,
as two cheerleaders named “Buffy” followed, waving pompoms,
and chanting the school fight song

As I walked into class,
I noticed that our teacher, Mr. Schlomsky, wasn’t there yet
Everyone looked puzzled...
When out of the blue, without warning,
Mr. Schlomsky fell through the ceiling and landed perfectly on his feet
(Totally perpendicular to the podium!)

A balding, obese and hairy Polish man of 5'2,
he was entirely naked except for a large pair of Versace sunglasses,
Polka-dotted bowtie and large red clown shoes

He looked around the room and didn’t say a word for about thirty seconds
And then
Burst into a fiery lecture about Confucius,
which was peppered with Russian curse words,
spastic hand and arm motions,
and brief outbursts of tap dancing

At the conclusion of the lecture,
he juggled pineapples,
and I stood up and applauded

Mr. Schlomsky then shapeshifted into a pterodactyl and flew out the window

After class, I saw Tiger Woods riding away on my unicycle,
giving me the finger and throwing golf balls at pedestrians

I tried to hail a taxi, but they were all full
Fortunately the baboon that lives in my closet, Fred,
was driving an ice cream truck nearby,
so I pole-vaulted onto the roof of the vehicle and surfed it all the way home

I hoped that alligator wasn’t still in my kitchen because I was hungry and needed something to eat.





bio

Newamba was born and raised on a chicken farm in the Florida Keys by a suicidal cult of transvestite prostitutes who dressed up in gorilla suits and played loud Polka music from distorted speakers at all hours of the night. After escaping the chicken farm, he was taken hostage by an Elvis impersonator that forced him at gunpoint to write poetry. He was later able to flee from the Elvis impersonator and now wanders the streets of South Beach in a trench coat and women’s lingerie, spitting out bizarre poems as he pleases. His work has been published and featured at 10K Poets, BadWriter, NC Lowbrow, MySpace, EveryPoet.Net, PoemHunter, and various toilet stalls across Florida.












Then Again

Eric Obame

A fifteen-minute walk away from my house in Potomac
My parent’s house technically
Within a hundred feet of each other
There are a Baptist church, a Synagogue, and a Presbyterian church
I am not sure what the difference is between Baptist and Presbyterian
I was baptized again, when we came to the U.S, in a Lutheran church
A ten minute drive away
But I am pretty sure that everyone in the bibles is Jewish—almost everyone
There is a Mormon temple visible from the highway, as I near my home
Mormons follow the word of Joseph Smith who I think says he met Jesus
In America during the 1800s
A thirty-minute walk away in the other direction
Of the Jewish, the Baptist, and the Presbyterian churches
There is a Catholic church
A fifteen-minute drive away, in Rockville, I think there is a Mosque
There is a Buddhist temple now a few feet away from my old church
I have not seen my pastor in fifteen years
All these different places of worship for all my neighbors
Can there really be that many people around me seeking peace and salvation
Value, forgiveness, or hope through the worship of some outside force
They cannot possibly see, touch, or know?
Are there really that many people around today who still follow the words
Of simple, unscientific men—peasants—male chauvinists
Who lived millennia ago—a millennium ago—hundreds of years ago?
Then again, maybe they are right and I am the one who is lost
No, I am not a sheep, and I seek no shepherd—Then again
I suppose that faith is one thing that separates us from the other animals
Faith can provide comfort, strength and hope, even when all is going wrong
Even when life is spinning into chaos
Even when tragedy and adversity pile on
A common faith can unite a community or a nation of individuals
But being religious and being a good person are two different things
But having faith and not being a person who hates or kills is not one thing
Even today, soldiers marry religion with war—people mix guns with God
Even today some men and women base their hatred and intolerance
Of gays—pro-choice activists—people of other faiths—women, in religion
I am surrounded by churches, but I lost my faith
Then again, I still want to believe in a God












My Cross My Sacrifice, art by Adriana DeCastro

My Cross My Sacrifice, art by Adriana DeCastro












Roadside Cross

Richard King Perkins II

A complete cycle of heat and snow
has passed
and now the small white wooden cross
that marked your last misfortune
is missing.

Gone too
are your bleating
teen-age classmates
who stood roadside vigil
for the better part of a week
after the crash

but I’ve thought of you
for an entire year
without knowing you at all—
stared at the point
just off the shoulder
where your drunken car
plowed into a helpless tree
burning you both
alive.

Even today I noticed
as I drove past
that at just the right angle
your dead tree
looked not only like a grave marker
but like a crucifix, scorched black—

without the faintest chance
of being resurrected
in this world
or any other.

Originally appeared in Zillah.












The N Word

Mel Waldman

What would Martin Luther King, Jr. think if he wandered
across Harlem or the South Bronx or East New York and
heard The N Word reverberating in the miasma?

What would he say to other Blacks or Hispanics or Caucasian
wannabe-Blacks who catapulted The N Word into the
oppressive wasteland they inhabited,

sharing its foul scent of degradation, the raw odors of human
debris-the soul-cutting, gnawing, bone-breaking stench of
vomit, feces, and urine of unknown dead civil rights heroes?

Yes, what would he think or say?


Today, The N Word permeates all the urban streets. It lives and
metastasizes in the ghetto and even the good neighborhoods
buttressed by hypocrisy and lies.

I do not understand.

We fought hard and long for civil rights. We dreamed of racial
equality and non-discrimination. And yet our children annihilate
the triumphs and beauty of our accomplishments.


Beware! Topsy-turvy, upside-down, true-false, inside-outside,
ugly-pretty.

Our children twist, contort, and distort the real meaning of the
gnarled word. They deny its foul, noxious history of violence.
Some older folks believe the lies too.


Believe me! The N Word ain’t pretty. It’s the brittle shell of
Humanity’s ancient hatred.

The N Word is our obliteration and annihilation, the end of
human life we dreamed of and envisioned for our children.

It is the beginning of the end-the apocalypse!





BIO

Mel Waldman, Ph. D.

Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.












art by Eric Bonholtzer

art by Eric Bonholtzer












“On Tattoos” by a tattooist

Paul Pikutis

‘All white kids want Asian dragons and symbols they can’t read.
All Asian kids want rockabilly tattoos.
Fuckers should get all their shit together.’





Paul Pikutis bio

Paul Pikutis graduated from Emerson College in Boston, MA only to discover how useless a writing major can be. After conning his way into the medical editing field, he is now trying to fight his way into the publishing world. Paul Pikutis’ work has been featured in the Art Times.





the poem “on tattoos,” by a tattooist
by Paul Pikutis
Read by Janet Kuypers, Editor in Chief of Scars Publications
video Watch the YouTube video not yet rated


read live 02/02/10 at the Café in Chicago













Everybody’s in the Terrible Twos

CEE

The reason Princess Di
Will live forever
Is that from the start
We were told to NOT like her
Which is also why Obama
Will probably be president for Life
People want what they’re told to revile
So, I don’t understand
The Ten Commandments at all





Not a Roman Left

CEE

Never go back on your word
That is dishonorable
But
When your word becomes a problem
Evade
Delay
And
Blame Life
Terminology terminated
In Information Age
It won’t be bach
Won’t even be mozart
A lie is not a lie if the liar believes it
Or, if he calls it “truth”





When Taxes Supercede Death

CEE

Liberty’s torch was cooler in older times
When random people used to
Commit suicide by jumping off
The fact that that’s not allowed no more
Is a curtailment of freedom, in my mind
Why not cut Liberty’s arm off?
You’re essentially saying the same thing





the poem When Taxes Supercede Death
by CEE
Read by Janet Kuypers, Editor in Chief of Scars Publications
video Watch the YouTube video not yet rated


read live 02/02/10 at the Café in Chicago













Cage of Crows

Je’free

In a midnight dream,
A portrait of your funeral, shot in sepia,
Partly burnt, was tossed in a cage
And in the cage was a dozen of crows

Somebody ruffled the cage open,
Ruffled their feathers, ruffled the night,
The crows struggled for exit,
And abandoned the wrecked cage empty

I chased the crow that took your picture,,
Caught it for a while, then slipped through my hands
Photo of your death was delivered to the moon
Like the crows, my heart too, remained untamed





Anew

Je’free

Let me say this like the very first time -
I am a seed reversed from a wilted flower,
A painter, in a fresh start, with a clean slate,
A traveler, in baby steps, with no baggage
This is a beginning I have never ever been in
Where everyone is a potential friend,
Where there is not a tinge of bitterness
Here, my revirginized eyes see opportunities
From many unexplored faces and places
My reenergized body is reborn
Into infancy and curiosity
My hopeful spirit is cleansed into innocence
As every detail in this world brightens
Like it has never sparkled before












Cleveland Cinquain

Michael Ceraolo

Meeting-
it was time now
to put up or shut up;
sadly, the people would not do
either












playfield, art by the HA!man of South Africa

playfield, art by the HA!man of South Africa












Cleveland Cinquain (flag)

Michael Ceraolo

A sand
castle’s under
siege from the wind-blown waves-
they will attack and then capture
its flag












Milk With Marvin, My Cat

TendaiI R Mwanaka

I gave Marvin some milk to drink
But she just smelled it
And refused to drink it.

I spoke of the D.R.C
But she just stared at me.
I spoke of the elections in Nigeria and Kenya
She started jumping up and down the table.

I spoke of Zimbabwe’s problems
She stopped, and stared at me again.
I said it is all because of Mugabe
She just smiled at me like an elfin child.

I spoke of South Africa
And of how Jacob Zuma is good for this country.
She started mewing and growling
And moved out of the room.

And I thought it must have been-
The smell of the milk.



Johnny (John Galt, the white cat) and Zach under the Christmas tree Katie (the black cat) watching Johnny (John Galt, the white cat) shuck and jive in the bathtub Katie (the black cat), Zach and Johnny (John Galt, the white cat) eating, all with food on them



TendaiI R Mwanaka Bio

TendaiI R Mwanaka was born and bred in Zimbabwe, Nyanga district, in Nyatate area, in the village of Mapfurira. He has had a lot of stories and poetry published in over 50 magazines and journals in the following countries among others, UK, USA, Australia, Canada, Italy, New Zealand, India, and South Africa. He has work forthcoming in the following among other magazines and journals, Potomac, CAIRNS, Yellow medicine review, Memoirjournal, Red wheelbarrow, Decanto, Numinous, Inclement, Of-the-coast, and several poems have appeared in anthologies. He has also won several prizes. He is presently staying in Johannesburg, South Africa.












Extra Credit

Colin Gilbert

When the girl who looked like sun rays fell
and twitched like an electrocuted fetus,
most of the third grade class laughed. Some
even pointed as if marveling at shooting stars,

their fingers forming a miniature firing squad.
When their lightning-eyed teacher – frantic
from lack of control – ran out of the room, time
slowed. The next minute passed like a stuttering mistake.

Each second writhed with a fullness of life known
only to overlooked grass stains and casualties of war.
The chorus of whispering giggles blended with the tap-
scratching of the young girl’s shoes to form a ghost song.
Smirks gradually metamorphosed to fright.

The classroom became a convocation hall.
Students vomited their envy of her beauty
and drank healthily of worry.

Girls discovered cutting boards in their wrists
where jealousy would grow. Boys unearthed
empty liquor stores from stomachs
that would, one day, foster lust.

As the earthquake of blonde hair and innocent
skin mellowed to a hum, the teacher shot back
into the room like bullet lead birthed from a revolver,
an emotionally-measured school nurse mimicking

a whiff of smoke. They knelt beside the child
as if on a lawn broken glass and placed bouquets
of comforting words at the girl’s tombstone face.
The firing squad transformed to a 21 gun salute.

The teacher and nurse resembled pallbearers lifting her
by arms smooth as chrome. When they walked her
from the room, the entire class again marveled at her beauty
and paid respects to the perfection they had loved to despise.












art by Joel McGregor

art by Joel McGregor












The Rapacity of Avarice

Kevin John Dail

It’s time to exchange pigs for eagles
and make the brigands eat dirt.
I want to scream out my manifesto
like a fusion-powered disc jockey,
and launch a crusade against
the over moneyed storekeepers,
and sycophantic greed mongers,
that steal sustenance from my child.
Mark well my wrathful discourse,
and remember the rapacity of avarice
when corporate corsairs come to plunder.












Escalators and Vertigo

Joshua Copeland

The days go by like calendars
minus days or months.
Above the Sahara sculpted sands,
the sun arcs high, burning its brand into you,
then it sinks low, smearing a penultimate orange
into the sky, then nothing, night,
the stars shift across the sky,
gliding quietly.
It makes no sense, the bruise and percussion
I have to go through daily, the escalators that stretch
into the thunderheads.
I love no one, and it’s reciprocal.
My antennae reach out to no one, nothing. (Referring to myself
in the first person is a paradoxical disclaimer).
May you flame into cinders down there with
the rest of the miscreants and forever breathe the effluvium
of third degree burns...this is a godless religion which sports
a Spartan alter.












Minimal Haze, art by  Nick Brazinsky

Minimal Haze, art by Nick Brazinsky












Phobias Begin When I Get Married

Diane Fleming

A stranger’s gaze telescopes
from his car into my lap.

Everything moves fast
like a flood. I can’t escape

into a memory of cake.
No nails left to chew.

That song about him leaving?
It pulls my head in two.

If I could blacken the windows
and shrink, I could stop this fear

from thrumming a rut in my head.
But dread wrinkles my sight.

Now I can’t go here, I can’t go there.
I just stay home where nothing goes

wrong or right, or changes. People think
I am a plant, my tongue a leaf.

My roots beg for a drink
of clean water.





Diane Fleming bio

Diane Fleming is a poet and short story writer. She won the Tenth Annual Austin Chronicle Short Story Contest, and is the author of “Trip to Normal,” a book of poetry. She has an MFA in creative writing from UBC Vancouver. She lives in Austin, TX, where she is a technical writer for a software company.












Foot Fetish

David Lawrence

I pulled the goose from your stocking.
It honked.
It then flew away leaving
A bunion.
That transformed into a potato.
One potato,
Two potato,
Three potato, four....

I put some ketchup on your toe and
Ate it.
You taste good after all these years.
It’s not your foot that goes stale
But my hunger for
Athleticism.
You see, that never dies.

I love you as much as the first day you
Stepped on my face and
Told me that I’m yours.
I am.
It’s so much nicer to give in than
To fight against the necessity of a tight last.












Romancing the Babies

Julie Kovacs

Nadya Suleman was in love with being an Octomom
Jon and Kate were in love with having sextuplets plus twins
which did not equal octuplets but came close, anyways.
Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar, a Quiverfull they are,
having a baby every year, sometimes two at once.
Maria del Carmen Bousada, even though single and 66,
wanted a child badly enough to have twins.

The baby-centered western world has no shortage of women
being in love with babies, childbirth, and children
lavishing expensive necessities upon them like the six hundred dollar
stroller from the Land of Nod,
or two hundred dollar diaper bag from Great Beginnings.
Once the baby is born with a smile on its face, happy to
greet the world, mom is already frazzled with the crying and screaming
from the tiny one who is needy and dependent, not in love with the mother.
The romance of the babies died when Mommy was forced to face
the reality of taking care of the baby. The once blossoming and firm
twenty year old woman now has a sagging middle and lines forming
a tic tac toe pattern across her face from endless nights of sleeplessness.
The romance of the babies is dead and the romance of the children will die
once the myth of a child’s unconditional love is broken by a nine-year-old
screaming, “I hate you Mom.”

People would ask me why I am not in love with children.
I would simply tell them it is because I am in love with my bunnies,
sticking my smallest purple toy bunny in a baby harness and walk around
the local mall, just to see what kind of reaction I would get.

But since I do not romance babies, children, or childbirth,
I will romance chocolate, poetry, my bunnies and more chocolate,
happy and content with them.












In My Defense

Holly Day

It should have changed my life. I watched him
Hunched over the ground, hours spent
Dribbling tiny grains of colored sand in intricate patterns
On the ground, drawing blue flowers that turned into red flowers
That turned into one giant flower covering the ground. It was so beautiful
I would have given anything to roll the whole thing up
And take it home with me.
But the wind took it minutes
After it was done, smearing great swaths of color against itself until
It was nothing but a slightly grayer smudge against the blondness of the desert sand.
The little man stood up, smiled at me, and walked slowly away.
It should have changed my life. I should have taken it away with me
His lack of artistic conceit, his willingness to just
Let his day disappear in the pursuit of beauty, but just the beauty of the moment.
Be here now, and only now. Be here now here now here now here now.
I fully intended to go home and erase everything I had ever written
That day, that week, that year, in my life, because filled as I was
With the artist’s apparent satisfaction at the act of creation
And only in the act of creation, I figured that taking pleasure in just writing
Should be enough for me, too. I sat
At my desk for hours, staring at page after page of hastily-scribbled poems,
Notes, stories, books almost started and those almost finished
And couldn’t do it. I failed. I wanted to. I want to be free
Of these suitcases of loose paper, throw it all in the fire
Dissolve the part of me that was saved in those notes
But I haven’t the strength to let go.












Nightmare on Main Street

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Jobs tossed away like beer cans
in a trash bin;
houses repossessed, cash hawks
at the ready

Homes breaking up like levees
in a hurricane;
Marriages made in heaven filing
For bankruptcy

Bankers playing the blame game
to save face;
politicians relying on fiscal fears
for a free hand

In politics, business much as usual
(promises, promises...);
credit crunch or no, can—t go frugal
on the arms budget

World religions cleaning up on new
converts;
safety in numbers, unless you—re in
a war zone

Told to save on energy – and who—ll
save the children?












A Watery End

Adrienne Sass Paek

Tell me again
How the ocean rose up
And swallowed you whole
Or did you kneel down
And welcome its waves

Did you fight the current
As it pulled you under
Did you cry out
In hopes of being heard
Or were you calm
At peace
With your waiting fate

Did you see our faces
Did you think of the family you were leaving behind
Anticipating
The pain that would follow

Your lover
Filled with despair
Your children
To grow up
Without a father
And the rest
Left
To pick up the pieces
Of your broken home

To bear the burden
Of being strong
Putting grief aside
To walk numbly through this world
Waiting
For reality to sink in

So tell me again
How the ocean rose up
To swallow you whole
Or perhaps
You knelt down
To welcome its waves












Sea in my Eyes

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

It is always at night when you come to my memory.
The sea in my eyes overflows.

At dawn I wake from my recurrent nightmare
where each hour of my life with you

flashes by. It is always raining and I feel a sharp
pain in the pit of my stomach.

In this nightmare place I kiss you, but feel nothing.
I hand you a rose and you devour it.

You swallow the rose, thorns and all, and
everything is not how it seems.

In reality your kiss was bliss; but that was so long ago.
The sea in my eyes overflows.



and as an added bonus...
Dinah Stuart at the Cafe 12/01/09 reading
“Sea in my Eyes” by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Sea in my Eyes
a poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal,
read by Dinah Stuart 12/01/09

video Watch the YouTube video not yet rated












Floating Away with the Tide

Janet Kuypers
08/17/09

I always thought I was the center of the action
the one with the witty one liners
like bubbling champagne,
with people hanging on my every word

            I suppose that’s how I’m forced
            to think of myself

but I come to these gatherings
that are bubbling with conversation
and I walk over,
listen for a bit
try to crack a joke
            (can’t think of a joke?
            Make a funny face -
            anything for a reaction.)

But fine,
you make your joke,
they react, they laugh
bask for a minute
because the group you tried to butt into
quickly closes their circle again
after you tried to enter,
                                    to pop their bubble

because now you go out onto the water
to join the bubbles
that contain all that air
            just above the water

you keep trying to stick to them
but all you end up doing
is floating away with the tide





Janet Kuypers performing the poem
Floating Away with the Tide
video videonot yet rated
Watch this YouTube video
live at the Cafe in Chicago 08/18/09













How You Know
When You’re the
Wrong Height

Janet Kuypers
07/31/09

went to the unisex washroom
after drinking decaf coffee with vanilla
at a Chicago coffee shop on Chicago avenue

used the washroom,
went to wash my hands

there were two six-inch square mirrors
tacked to the wall over the sink

I looked at my reflection
in the two mirrors
the lower mirror showed a vision
from my breasts to my waist
the upper mirror showed the view
of the top half of my forehead
to the expanse of space above my head

after washing my hands
I stood on my toes
saw my eyes, caught a glimpse of my mouth
smiled
at where I found myself in the world
then started to laugh
before drying my hands
and leaving the unisex bathroom












Faith Comes Only

Janet Kuypers
08/17/09

You made your choice
and I went home,
all by myself

and you went home with your faith

I hope your faith
keeps you warm at night

I realized something
your faith
comes only
when you have nothing
concrete
to hold on to

nothing
to rely on

nothing
concrete

apparently you only have faith
when you have nothing else












Poem from the Spaghetti Scrapbooks
(Angie)

Kenneth DiMaggio

With Vito safe
from the law and into
the Marines our tenement
league football
team that for shared cultural
reasons was called “The Guinea Gang̵
was now short a monster as
well as a machine that could
break through any defense
& survive the shattering
that was the offence
from the housing project
Black kids who always steam-
rolled over our tabloid newspaper
padded leather jackets

And when Angie
wanted to join us--
“Why not! As your baby
sitter I always kicked your asses!̵

and if we thought
we would have to protect her
--who proved that she was
nobody’s girl
--fighting her own team-
mates for a ball which
she always fumbled & never
touch downed

but made every play & run
feel like a victory
that her own teammates
and their rivals
would secretly envy












Trying to be Beautiful

Sonya Feher

Sometimes, there’s a group of bodies, topless
teenage girls oiling each other, debating
a trip to the pool or should they
make brownies, maybe spend the whole day
pampering themselves with green clay
masks and nail polish.

By the time the discussion ends, sodas are finished,
and the neighbor boys start walking
down the driveway, the girls are sunburned,
their rarely exposed cleavage blistered
second degree, soft skin bubbles
popped by elastic on their bras.

So it is a rush for towels,
t-shirts acting as pillows now jerked on
to visit the kitchen, another remember-when session
with potato chips dipped in cottage cheese, Hostess cupcakes
unwrapped from plastic packaging.

Eventually the boys pretend to go home but spy
while girls make believe they don’t notice
giggles from outside, occasional bumps
against the window. Their hair pulled off necks
so Noxzema can soothe their bellies,
their backs, those freckles
that won’t be lightened by lemon juice,
boys hoping for more
glimpses of pink pink skin.
















cc&d

prose

the meat and potatoes stuff





prose from ccd, with past covers










Duality

Heather Rae Nelson

Most of the world has a spiritual concept of balance for the self. The Taoists used yin and yang in harmonious conjunction. The Germans believed their doppelganger could foretell disaster. I could wake up and stare at my spiritual balance snoring in the bed next to me.
Every part of me is a genetic anomaly. Red hair makes up less than two percent of the population. Type B negative blood accounts for less than ten percent of the blood supply. Identical, mirrored twins with red hair have practically the same odds as lotto numbers. The freckles on my left shoulder matched the ones on her right. I could arch my left eyebrow; she could only arch her right. I never needed to look in the mirror to suss out my appearance; she was across the room, trying to make me laugh.
My entire life was a competition against myself. I knew how fast I was and how smart I could be, I just had to watch Erica. Our mirror reflected our differences to the world, but to us we were the same. I broke my wrist, for three months she complained the opposite one hurt. She cut her hair short, suddenly my ponytail felt strange. The mirror was always there. Erica was the perfect athlete, universally adored, holding court at her lunch table. I huddled with the tortured artists, giving cheerleaders seductive looks and never meeting my potential. Still that connection remained; a sudden chill, an unexplained smile. Her subconscious gift to me.
As children we would often sneak into the other’s bed, even that few feet of space between us was too much. The gap between our beds was an abyss. I would put my hand over her heart, feel the ebb and flow of her blood beneath my fingertips. I would hold my breathe and feel my own. We were always in synch.
Our foray in adulthood faltered. I wanted to go back to my grunge roots in Seattle. I was convinced that my real parents were living in some amazing loft apartment with a Gibson guitar, waiting for me to return. Erica was going to sparkle in the pre medical program at Riverside. Everyone said the separation was necessary, healthy even. We needed time to learn to be our selves, whole and alone. I was incensed at this, I knew who the hell I was. I saw the other half of me across the kitchen table in her nightshirt and socks every morning. But I left all the same.
For someone who had never experienced isolation, this was a shock. Twins are an Event. For most of my life I never arrived, I made an entrance. Now I could slip in unnoticed. I guiltily enjoyed the fact that my face was my own, my accomplishments never shared.
I look at these photos now and wonder what I missed. Her smile seems different now, her freckles are more pronounced. There is a photo from our first Christmas back, there is a solemnity in your face, nothing ever quite reaches your eyes. The glitter has dulled. You smile for me though.
I ran my hand down your ribcage that night. I counted the vertebrae in your spine, there were too many. Collarbones were begging to be forced through, to give you some blood for your efforts. I knew what you were doing in that bathroom. Worry was casually swatted away, denial buzzed in my ears. I heard you fall. I heard the faint rumble of bone hitting wood, skin slapping tile. A personal earthquake I could never expect. The crash of ceramics brought our mother swooping, the sound a herald of my Temple falling. Seconds went by, I was in the bathroom next to you. You didn’t lock the door, maybe you wanted to be caught. I try to look in your eyes, gain my focus, but all I see are the whites. I grab your wrists, I don’t know who is shaking anymore. Your trembles merge with mine. Someone yells, maybe it’s me. I hear the phone dial those three dreaded numbers. The sync is gone. I don’t feel her anymore. The wail of sirens merges with my mother’s cries into a hideous symphony. Men in uniforms play Frankenstein. Harnessing electricity to bring my baby doll back. A shout of “Clear!” hangs like some broken toy off the shelf. Nothing is clear, everything is white. The walls of the waiting room, the doctor’s coat, my sister’s skin. They all merge. I go into my sister’s room. I come out of it. I can’t bear to be in that black hole, sucking out what is left of me. She took it all, I’ll let her have my heartbeat. A nurse gasps, no one told her that my sister was a twin. I have now become my own ghost.












ART 446 BR KUC, art by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI

ART 446 BR KUC, art by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI












Talk is Cheap

Ronald Brunsky

“Man this coffee’s hot — I think I burned my tongue!” Jason said, as he dashed to the water cooler.
“Are you alright?” Mark asked.
“I’m fine, nothing is going to get me down today. I’ve got a special weekend coming up.”
Jason sat back down next to Mark and sipped his coffee very gingerly. It was ten minutes to seven and the break area was filling up fast. Someone had brought in doughnuts, and everyone wanted to kick start their morning with a little sugar and caffeine.
“What you got planned dude,” Mark asked.
“Tonight I’m taking the kids to the grandparents; Tracie and I are going to a concert, and tomorrow the whole family is going to Paradise Park.”
“What nothing going on Sunday?”
“Sunday too — family reunion at Bluff’s Point.”
“Boy Jason, you really like that family stuff don’t you? Me, I’d rather stop at the corner bar and have a few, or go golfing with the guys.”
“Yeah, that’s alright once in a while, but don’t try and be so cool Mark, I know you’d be lost without Karen.”
“What’s up guys?” said Mike, setting his his huge three hundred pound frame across from them. “Some game last night, huh?”
Jason was going to answer when he was nudged by Mark. “Look who’s coming down the hall — boy what a loser.”
Jason shook his head. “Will you give Louis a break. He’s had some tough luck lately.”
“Most of that is his own doing,” added Mike, as he turned around to look, while munching on his first of three donuts, “Where did he go?”
“Must of stepped into the john,” Mark said.
“Getting back to the game,” Jason said. “Could you believe that fourth and one call?”
In unison “no way,” they answered.
“All they needed was a field goal for Christ’s sake,” said Mark.
“Or run Jackson up the gut — they hadn’t stopped him all night, but noooo. They had to throw deep.” Mike said, clenching his powdered sugar covered fists.
“Another playoff opportunity lost,” added Jason. “Oh well there’s always next year.”
“Always the optimist — you see the best in everybody and everything, don’t you?”
“Works for me.”
“Oh here he comes, hope he doesn’t sit by us,” Mark said, as Louis came into the break area. “What the hell ...... he’s holding ...... get down ...... he’s got a gun.”
Several shots rang out. Mike collapsed in front of Jason and Mark as blood splattered their faces. Total pandemonium broke out as everyone was running and screaming trying to escape or find cover.
Showing no emotion, Louis methodically picked out his victims and gunned them down at point blank range. In the close quarters, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.
Jason, safe for the moment behind a vending machine, stuck his head out to yell for Joan the switchboard operator to get down, but she panicked and tried to run out the back. She entered the hall-way and took maybe two steps before.......
“Bang, bang,” she fell forward landing hard on her face. Shaking violently, her white blouse turning crimson, she cried out, “Help!” and then nothing.
Almost everyone, who hadn’t escaped the room was either wounded or dead. Jason stayed put behind the pop machine.
Then Louis started silencing the screaming wounded one by one. He systematically marched around the room finishing their lives execution style. He was standing over Mark, when he noticed his supervisor, Hector Rias cowering behind a pole.
A smile came to Louis’s face as his attention momentarily left the wounded Mark. Louis had been let go and today was his last day. Hector, unfortunately had had the dirty job of telling him.
He approached him, Hector went to his knees.
“Please, it wasn’t my decision. It came down from administration. I swear ...... please, please.”
Louis placed the gun against Hector’s forehead.
“I’m enjoying this — now, I’m going to fire you.”
Louis pulled the trigger.
“Click, click nothing happened — the gun was empty. A sigh of relieve came upon Hector’s face that was quickly erased when Louis struck him with the butt of his gun, causing him to collapse on the floor.
Jason, seeing a chance, nervously debated what to do. He finally came out of hiding and charged Louis, but he had waited too long. Louis had time to install a new clip and fired a warning shot over Jason’s head.
“Not so fast, I’d like to keep you alive — for a while anyway — get back.”
Jason moved away as Louis refocused his attention on Hector, who was just regaining consciousness.
“Now where were we — oh yeah, I remember. I was going to kill you,” as he pointed the gun at Hector.
Mercifully, for Hector he was still woozy and was spared the knowledge of his impending doom. Louis pulled the trigger. Death was instantaneous as he was struck between the eyes. Not satisfied, Louis started kicking Hector’s lifeless body.
Finally, he moved to where Mark was laying. He had a leg wound and had tried unsuccessfully to crawl out of harm’s way while Louis had been occupied with Hector and Jason.
At this point, Mark and Jason were the only survivors in the room. The body count had temporarily stopped at nine.
Police sirens could be heard in the background as Louis gestured at Jason.
“I’m not quite through with you. I want you to get into the personnel office, and drag that no good piece of crap with you.”
Jason helped Mark down the hall. Louis followed them into the office and closed the door.
Louis pulled the blinds on the windows and locked the door. He then ordered Jason to sit down at the desk opposite him.
Jason thoughts ran wild, “Is this the way it’s going to end? Shot by a mad man. Will I ever see my family again?”

######

The arriving police team quickly secured the break area and interviewed the lucky few who had escaped. They knew that Jason and Mike were being held hostage and by phone demanded that Louis free them.
“My life means nothing to me. If you rush me I’ll kill them both and myself. I have nothing to lose.” Louis shouted back.
The police had no choice but to wait it out.
His palms were sweating. His heart was racing. Jason wondered. “What was he waiting for?”
Louis focused his gaze on Jason. “Guess I’ve got some time to kill — excuse the pun Jason ole boy.”
“Mark needs help. You’ve got me why don’t you let him go. He’s going to bleed to death.”
“I’ve got plans for him — you’ll see.”
“What do you want with us?” said Jason.
“You know pretty boy, you have so much. A beautiful wife and family, secure job, nice home, money in the bank ......”
“Yea, I’ve been pretty fortunate.”
“Up until today, you mean.”
“So why haven’t you killed us already?”
“Because I think we should have a little talk first.”
“What could possibly be so bad, that it would drive you to do this?” Jason said. He was hoping to buy some time, by gaining his confidence.
“Well how about my wife leaving me, the bank foreclosing on my house, and my boss the late Mr. Rias informing me yesterday that I was fired. Turns out it was his last day too — ha ha. How’s that for irony?”
“But, Louis all those innocent people — they never did anything to you.”
“All good little Christians, I suppose.”
“Probably, most of them, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, if they’re saved Christians they ought to be thanking me, they’re in heaven as we speak ...... right? Or when it gets down to it aren’t they just big hypocrites? Preaching salvation and going to heaven for eternal happiness, yet they will hang on to that last shred of life no matter how they have to do it.”
“You’re asking the wrong person, Louis. I’m a regular church goer, but I have my doubts. Probably, a lot of them felt that way too? All I know is it’s wrong to kill. Even if they are in heaven, it wasn’t for you to decide. Only God can make that choice.
“Well, they shouldn’t have doubts anymore. Isn’t that what religion is all about? I mean what happens to your sorry ass after you die — isn’t that the whole ballgame?”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
“Well since you’ll soon be finding out for yourself. What do you think the afterlife is going to be like?”
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Torturing me like this.”
“I guess so. I enjoy seeing the guy who has everything squirm a little bit.”
“Louis you could still do some good. It’s never too late. Let them take Mark out of here. You don’t need him.”
“Yes I do.” said Louis. “But getting back to my question, what’s next after death?”
“I don’t know. I hope there’s a heaven. I hope to see my dead relatives and friends again.”
“Jason, what about hell? Do you believe in hell?”
“I don’t know. I believe in a God — a fair God. One who wouldn’t sentence a soul for an eternity of damnation.”
“You think maybe I would get a few hundred years in hell, and then get to go to heaven?”
“What does it matter what I think? Nobody’s going to find out the truth one second sooner than their last heartbeat.”
“Jason, I’ve always been an atheist. And if I’m correct, all that I’ve done doesn’t matter. I’ll have nothing to answer for.
“Wait a minute Louis, if the atheists are right then what’s the point of all this?”
“All what?”
“Mankind, the universe, why do people have a conscience —why do they feel good when doing something right and have that empty feeling in the pit of their stomachs when they have done something bad or selfish, tell me? What’s the reason this was all started?”
“The circumstances were right and it started. It will run its course and end. There is no right or wrong, but only what happens,” said Louis.
“I can’t accept that. The one thing about the afterlife I’m sure of is ......”
“Yea go on.”
“That all of our lives will be judged.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Louis like I said before. If not, than what was the point?”
Louis smiled, “You know, I’m starting to like you. You make a lot of sense. You think things out — very logically. I like that. I tell you what; I’m going to give you a chance — a chance to live.”
“I’m listening.”

######

The police were almost ready to rush the office. The final plans were being made. Everyone was in position.
“Here’s what I’m offering you,” said Louis. I’m going to give you a choice. It will be up to you.
Either I can spare Mark, kill you and then end my miserable existence, or choice number two: I waste your buddy and you walk away. You get out of this blood bath totally unscathed, but if that happens I want to stay around and hear your story. Knowing that decision would haunt you the rest of your life would make this all worthwhile.
So, all you have to do to return to that precious family of yours, is yell shoot him when I point my gun at Mark. But if you hesitate in the slightest, I will blow your brains out. Fair enough?
Prove to me how righteous you are Jason, or will you grovel for the chance to stay alive? How will your decision affect that final judgment you’re so sure you’re going to receive? What will it be, us or Mark? Here’s your chance to play God?”
The police were poised to make their assault, as Louis started to train his gun on Mark.
“Don’t make me ......” Jason said.
“On the count of three,” the police chief instructed his men. “One ...... two ......”
“Bang ...... ...... ...... ......”












Hammered, art by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz

Hammered, art by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz












Smash it up

Ernest Dean

The bottle of Jack Daniels flew higher and higher and then it stopped for a moment, as if an ghost had suddenly grabbed it, only to start its descent a second later. It smashed loudly as it hit the ground, with the trademark sound of a bottle when it breaks. It was quickly followed by a flying XX beer bottle and laughs, lots of laughs. I remember smiling along but I must have done a poor job, because she stared at me and said:
“Hey, what’s the matter with you? Try having some fun.” Was it Debbie or Judy? I can’t remember. I’d always get them mixed up, but hey, it wasn’t my fault they were twins. “Turn back,” she said. I didn’t. “C’mon, turn back!” she yelled. I obeyed. She jumped on my back, wooing as she did. I took a grip of her legs. “Oh, my god, I can see the whole city from up here,” she screamed to my left ear.
“I can hear you.” And the sad thing about it is that she’d still be stupid long after the booze had worn off.
There was some whispering and I heard the other twin laugh, so I turned. The Russian was grabbing her thighs. She pushed him away and laughed, then she let him grab her again. What for? She knew what it was all about, so who was she trying to fool? “Drink some more gin,” the Russian said and poured some in her mouth. Most of it ended up in her t-shirt. They laughed again. It was such a Kodak moment.
I was still carrying my own share of twin on my back when I remembered the fat girl. She sat at the farthest corner of the roof, silent. Her name was Susanne. I had spoken to her a couple of times and decided she was smart. She had gorgeous blue eyes and would have been pretty if she had only weighted half her weight.
“Wooo!” Judy or Debbie screamed again at my left ear. I let go my grip and she almost fell to the ground. “Sorry,” I said but I wasn’t. I carefully put her down and my back was officially free of parasites. I looked up to the open sky, starless and huge, and sighted. Then I turned to her and said:
“Wanna go downstairs?”
“Okay,” she said and to the bedroom we went.

It was easy. It was quick, messy, and hot. She knew how to move and her pussy was tight, wet and warm. I came on her stomach as she laughed.
“Where’s the bathroom?” she said.
“End of the hallway,” and before I could add anything else she opened the door and ran away, naked. I walked over to the door and saw her as she reached the bathroom door. While looking at that 16yr old butt I thought to myself, “What a tender age.”
I had just got into my pants when there was a knock at the door. It was Susanne. Her face was a big neon sign with the word DESIRE written on it. “Can I come in?” she said.
“Yeah, sure.”
She sat at the edge of the bed and stared at my naked chest. I began to feel uneasy, so I looked for my t-shirt but it was nowhere to be found.
“Wanna drink?” I said, trying to avoid eye contact. She nodded so I grabbed one beer for me and another for her. I kept moving around the room as she followed me with her stare.
“Look at me,” she demanded. I did. “Why don’t you want me?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Why don’t you want me?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out of it.
“It’s because I’m fat, right?”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I disgust you, I know I do.” Her eyes went wet and she turned at the carpet as if she had suddenly found something very interesting.
“You are talking nonsense,” I said and sat next to her. I thought about hugging her and decided against it. It was easier to lie now that she was looking at the dirty carpet, so I said:
“You are a very beautiful girl, Susanne. You shouldn’t say those things.”
“You... remember... my name,” she said between sniffs.
“Of course I do. And lots of other things you told me. I remember you like Joy Division and that you are the only girl I know who reads Sartre.”
“That’s not true,” she said and smiled a little bit.
We’re doing just fine, I thought. Almost there.
“Yes, it is,” I continued. “Most girls your age never read anything that wasn’t assigned at school.”
She smiled some more and sniffed.
“I think you are smart and funny. You shouldn’t say such horrible things about yourself.”
Susanne turned her face to me and said:
“So, you like me?”
Beat.
“Yeah, of course I do.”
She smiled again, a big smile this time, and leaned towards me and kissed me really quick. She gave me a couple of seconds to continue what she’d started and I didn’t, so she crossed her arms around my neck and tried kissing me one more time. I turned my face away from her.
“Please, don’t,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” she said while her mouth kept looking for mine.
“I said I liked you but didn’t mean it this way.”
Still with her arms around my neck, Susanne stopped trying to kiss me and looked into my eyes. It felt as if she had looked right through me.
The door opened accompanied by Judy/Debbie’s voice saying:
“You won’t believe it, I fell asleep in the bathroom.”
Then she saw us and laughed real hard. Susanne let go of me as if she was a little girl and her dad had just found her playing a forbidden game.
“You were getting romantic here, huh?” the twin said, and walked towards us, unashamed of her perfect, tanned, young, naked body.
Susanne stood up and Judy/Debbie pushed her back to the bed.
“Don’t be shy,” she said, “I wanna see some action.” She pushed us together. “C’mon, get it on, woo!”
“Stop it.” I pushed back and stood up. Susanne stood up too and went to the furthest corner of the tiny room.
The door opened again and the Russian bursted into the room with the other twin in his arms, kissing and touching. He kicked the door shut while she took off his shirt.
“You started without us,” the twin said and laughed.
The Russian came to me and he probably thought he was whispering but he was actually pretty loud when he said:
“Man, we should do them both. They want it bad.”
“Okay, okay,” I said.
“But we should get rid of the fat chick.”
“Don’t worry,” Susanne said as she walked towards the door, “I’m not staying.”
Then she looked at me instead of the Russian, who was puzzled about her overhearing our secret conversation, and said: “I’ll be in the hallway,” as if she still had faith in me. Or maybe it was just hope.
She left the room, and the Russian and his girl began undressing each other. The naked twin came up to me and started kissing me while grabbing my cock, and I said, “Fuck it,” and unzipped my jeans.
“Russian, pass me the gin.” He handed me the bottle and I drunk what was left of it while Judy/Debbie sucked my cock. The Russian took care of his own twin, and when her panties were gone we had two identical beauties lying on the bed.
Cut to the Russian and me fucking these babes each with their legs around our waists.
Cut to me fucking one twin while the other tries to get the Russian’s cock hard.
Cut to me fucking the other twin to make things even, while the Russian tries to bone the one I did before with a limp dick.
A moment later he had already came and I still wasn’t done.

I put my pants and Chuck Taylor’s on, and found my t-shirt under the bed. I left the room while the Russian was saying:
“This never happened to me before, it must have been that damned coke.”
“You didn’t do any coke, Russian,” one of the girls replied and then the other laughed.
I crossed the empty hallway and went to the roof. There she was, her back turned on me, looking at the horizon of city lights. She was weeping.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said in a whisper.
I stood there listening to her weep and puffing at a cigarette, trying to decide whether I should apologize, or say something nice, or give her a hug, or a kiss, or maybe just stay with her.
I finished the cigarette and walked out of there. Back in the room the twins were still naked and drinking beer and the Russian was silent and had his pants on.
“Hey, girls, why don’t you get dressed?” I said.
“What’s the hurry?” said one of them.
“I wanna get some sleep, that’s all.”
They laughed at me and kept drinking. I grabbed a beer, opened it and drank until they left a couple of hours later.

I heard Susanne jumped out of her apartment’s window not long after that night. The twins and the Russian never understood, but then, they don’t understand much about anything.
As for me, I try not to think about it but its hard. To this day I haven’t seen such beautiful eyes like Susanne’s and sometimes I find myself wondering what she saw when she looked into mine. When that happens I just know its time for another beer.












DSCN1330, art by Paul Baker

DSCN1330, art by Paul Baker












Holmes Beach

Julia O’Donovan

I think I was about five that first time I went to Florida. I have a small photo album full of pictures from that trip. Me jumping in the pool clutching a swim ring, mom holding my hands walking me along the shore. Sitting with Grandma O’Donovan, pretending to be drinking a beer out of an empty bottle. That little album represents some of my most treasured memories of childhood.
I never realized just how fond of those times I was until this trip with Fran. Just walking off the airplane, smelling that distinct Florida smell. This is my first time here without family or by myself to meet relatives. I just go on and on about people and places Fran has no clue about but she politely listens. The first time Fran and I walk on a beach, the sandpipers hopping amongst the waves and I am back on Holmes Beach. Walking along the shore picking up shells with grandma. The seagulls call and I am on grandma and grandpa’s driveway feeding the fighting seagulls with grandpa. Grandma and Grandpa joined his two sisters on Anna Maria Island in 1978. Family made a lot of visits down there. We once got my entire family down there together for Christmas which was quite a task. Being that my brother and sister are seven and eight years older than me. It was a lot of fun though. We rented a station wagon and somehow all of us- including the great-aunts and grandparents all fit in this thing. We were wedged in, but we fit. We called it ‘the bus’ and all we could do was laugh on wide turns because it felt like a carnival ride the way everyone got pushed together and you could hear the gas swishing in the tank. The Gulf was just down the street from grandma and grandpa’s. In the guest room, you could hear the sound of waves hitting the shore as you drifted off to sleep.
Grandma suffered her second stroke in 1986 and my father brought them both back to Michigan. My mom and aunt J went and sorted through their stuff. I imagine it became lonely for grandpa’s sisters’ to the sudden departure of their brother and sister-in-law. They were all very close. They inquired often- might anyone be coming down soon? My sister and I took a trip out there in 1988. Our first time out there since grandma and grandpa moved. As strange as it was to see someone else’s car in their driveway, it did not really faze us as we saw them more now. It was great seeing Aunt Hazel and Aunt Rita again. They are so different, yet witty in their own way. They were delighted to see family again and treated us like Royalty. They asked how “Mary”- our grandma- was. Even though grandma and grandpa were no longer there, the schedule did not change. First the early bird dinner special. Then to the beach to watch the sunset, followed by a couple games of cards.
A lot has changed in the years I have been away from Holmes Beach. Grandma’s death for one. Her death can still make me sad. I was a wreck when she died. She had been so sick I had forgotten how close we were. How much fun my cousin Mike and I used to have when we got to spend the night at grandma and grandpa’s when we were little. They would take us out to dinner, then somewhere to get a toy. Usually a toy truck or something; and we would always leave it at their house as part of our collection. Sometime after grandma’s death, an older lady came into the drug store I worked at with a little boy asking if we had a toy section. I told them we didn’t and the boy seemed very disappointed. She told him they would try elsewhere. I kind of thought this was his grandma, and I wondered if his grandpa was in the car having fallen asleep while reading the paper. Just like our grandpa.
When grandma first came home she stayed with us. She slept a lot and I was very anxious to see her. It was late one night when my mother motioned to me that she was awake and I could say hello. She was sitting up, so I sat down next to her. Mom asked if she wanted her glasses and grandma said she could not see any better with them than without. Within a month she would be completely blind. She and my grandpa were moved in with my aunt J- dad’s sister. Grandma became fully dependent on people. It got to where at family functions I did not associate this tiny woman my aunt would lead in as the grandmother I remembered. All we could do was hold her hand and try and talk to her. She was still pretty sharp. She was pretty good about recognizing people by voice. Sometimes she would still break into that laugh. She had a very distinctive laugh. We cannot talk about her without someone saying something about her laugh.
Grandma laid out in her coffin looked just like grandma. Her hair was curled and her eyes shut hiding the hollowness of them. The tears came at the first sight of her in her coffin. I kneeled down in front of her and cried like I had not in a long time. I could not stop. For the entire viewing I sat in a chair just a ways from the coffin and sobbed. A photo album was being passed around titled “Grandma’s Brag Book” and it had pictures of all her grand children. They passed it to me and I just started sobbing more as I pushed it away. That would have just killed me.
This trip with Fran is my first time in Florida since we buried grandma. I never realized how much those times with my grandparents and great-aunts meant to me. This trip with Fran brought me to a place in my mind that I had shut off years ago, or maybe I had never even been in touch with those feelings. Until now. Hearing myself rambling about this time, that time, this place, that place. Poor Fran. I could not believe it when she offered to make the two hour drive to see my aunts. Fran was taken aback by my excitement. This was even before we entered the Island. Once we entered Anna Maria Island, everything became familiar to me. I could not sit still, pointing out different places. “Take it easy.” Fran said. “There it is!!” I yelled “What? Did we miss the turn?” she yelled. “No, that’s where my grandparents used to live.” “Don’t scare me like that.” She said. We finally got to my great-aunts, and they were so happy to see us. After all that driving, the visit was brief as it was near their bedtime (going on 8pm). Seeing them meant so much to me. They had Fran and I laughing with their wit and humor. I know I have grown a lot when the joy of seeing them is probably not something I would have felt two years ago. As we get in the car, I am so proud when Fran says “You have very nice Aunts.” Before we leave, we take a drive down the very road my sister and I used to play Frisbee on.
It just happens sometimes, you get so wrapped up in what you think is important, that you forget where you came from. Almost let it get away from you.












Portrait of the Artist at Home, art by Aaron Wilder

Portrait of the Artist at Home, art by Aaron Wilder












A Dose of Mistaken Identity

J. Rollins Hughes

“Mr. Wiltenham? Time for our medications,” the overly amicable plump young nurse stated as she entered the room quietly on her soft-soled shoes carrying a little paper cup in which she purportedly had some medications.
“What medications?” the elderly gentleman in the bed with all sorts of wires and tubes attached to or running into him from a plethora of machines and dangling drip bags surrounding his bed. “You can take your medications, but the only ones I get I must ask for, which I haven’t. And who is this ‘Wiltenham’ fellow?”
“Why you are, Mr. Wiltenham. Now, let’s not be silly, and just take our medications,” she said, pouring water out of the carafe on the bedside table into a cup with a straw sticking out of it in a most disconcerting manner.
“I’m not ‘Wiltenham’, young woman. My name is ‘Carbet’.”
“Don’t be silly now, you silly man. Here, take your medications,” she insisted, holding the medications cup in one hand and the cup of water in the other.
“I haven’t had any medications since I’ve been in this prison of yours, woman. Check my chart,” the old man grumbled.
“Now I am not going to have any of your silliness, you hear?”
“Nor am I going to have any of yours. Check my chart. Mr. Carbet doesn’t have any medications unless he needs them for pain, which I don’t.”
“Okay, you silly man. I’ll check your chart,” she reneged tolerantly, and, setting the cup of water and the little paper cup containing the medications on the bedside table, went to the foot of the bed where the chart was hanging. “See, it says right here that... wait a minute... what happened to the. . .”
“I told you, woman, I don’t have any medications,” Carbet thundered.
“Don’t take those medications!” she exclaimed, hurrying back to the head of the bed with her hand outstretched as if to stop him should he attempt to snatch up the medications and swallow them. Snatching the paper cup of medications off the bedside table, she stated, “I’ll be right back.”
“You better hurry. I’m terminal,” Carbet grumbled.
Within a very short period of time another older nurse appeared and asked, “Now, Mr. Wiltenham, what is our problem?”
“‘Our’ problem? The problem, my good woman, is your problem. First, my name is Carbet, not Wiltenham. Second, I have had no medications since I have been in this infernal prison you people persist in calling a hospital. Third, I want to know when nurses no longer were required to read to become nurses.”
“Oh, now, of course we know how to read. Let’s not be silly,” this new older nurse remarked with a most benevolent smile and girlish titter.
“Then read my chart,” the elderly man said, pointing to his feet, “and you’ll find that my name is Carbet and I am not supposed to have any medications unless I request them.”
“Okay. Okay, if that will make you feel better,” she said waving him off with her hand.
“Feel better? I’m terminal, you nincompoop,” he blustered. “I should be home in my own bed letting the life ooze out of me, but my loving children don’t have the stomach to watch that happen. Ergo, you get the pleasure of watching me pass on to my final reward.”
“Okay. I understand. Just let me read your chart here,” she said impassively.
Moments later, she turned and hurriedly left the room without a word.
“Danged incompetent nincompoop,” Carbet muttered.
Within a half hour, the older nurse returned with the younger nurse, and said as she entered the room, “Well, Mr. Wiltenham, we have found your chart. Sorry about the mix-up.”
“For the last time, I am ‘Carbet’, not ‘Wiltenham’,” Carbet groused.
“No, sir, we have found your chart and you are Mr. Wiltenham,” the older nurse explained, “and you’re here for a Colonoscopy, scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“I am here to expire. Die. Pass away. I am terminal,” Carbet explained emphatically.
“No you’re not. You will have a simple procedure tomorrow morning and then you’ll go home and live a long and fruitful life,” the older nurse said patronizingly.
“I have lived a long and fruitful life, thank you very much, and it is coming to an end, you fool.”
“Now. let’s not be naughty. You must take your medications to prepare you for the procedure,” the older nurse said, while the younger nurse nodded in agreement.
“If that is all I am in here for, you nincompoops, why am I hooked-up to all these infernal machines?” Carbet inquired.
“Well, now, I have to admit, that is strange. Someone must have made an expensive mistake,” the older nurse remarked and then tittered.
“Yes, my children for sending me to this infernal hellhole,” Carbet bellowed.
“Dad?” a voice that was not one of the three in the room intruded into the discussion.
“Melinda? Thank God you have come,” Carbet said.
“What is going on?” Melinda asked of the nurses.
“We are having a bit of a problem getting your father, Mr. Wiltenham, to take his medications,” the young nurse explained.
“My father is Mr. Carbet, not Wiltenham,” Melinda pointed out.
“Oh,” said the older nurse, “then you must be in the wrong room.”
“Oh, no I’m not. That man in the bed is my father, Mr. Warren Carbet,” Melinda insisted.
The two nurses looked at Mr. Carbet and then back at Melinda. The older nurse then looked down at the chart and up at Melinda again, and asked, “Are you sure?”
“I want to see Dr. Halverson immediately,” Melinda stated.
“Why would you want to see Dr. Halverson?” the older nurse inquired naively.
“Because he is my father’s doctor, of course.”
“Uh, no. Your father’s doctor is Dr. Witham,” the older nurse said, pointing to the chart she held in her hand.
“That’s not my chart,” Carbet stated. “My chart is hanging on the foot of my bed. I have been trying to tell them that, Melinda.”
“Of course it’s your chart, Mr. Wiltenham,” the older nurse persisted.
Melinda looked at the chart hanging on the end of the bed in which her father lay dying.
“What is that?” she asked in a sarcastic tone, gesturing to the chart hanging on the bed.
“Someone made a mistake and put the wrong chart in your father’s room,” the younger nurse said, reaching for the chart, but Melinda hurriedly grabbed it and read the first page.
“This is my father’s chart,” she said, tapping the chart she had taken off the foot of the bed.
“No, dear, this is your father’s chart,” the older nurse said, holding up the chart she had in her hand, “and it says right here that he is Mr. Wiltenham.”
“Am I to understand that you feel your chart has more credence as to the identity of my father than I do?” Melinda asked rather heatedly and snidely.
Carbet lay in his bed, wires and tubes all about him, and got interested. He knew Melinda
Carbet was not one you wanted to mince words with.
“What I am saying is that these charts are sacrosanct; the very bibles of this hospital,” the older nurse said with a lot of pride. “We must go by them or we would have a mess on our hands,” .
“Who are you?” Melinda asked.
“I am Mrs. Whitney, the head nurse on this floor,” the older nurse gloated proudly
“Well, you had better find Dr. Halverson in the next fifteen minutes, head nurse Whitney, and get him up here, you bumbling incompetent, or I am going to put this facility through a litigation mess like they have never experienced before.”
“And she can,” Mr. Carbet remarked. “She’s a powerful attorney, you know.”
“Dad? Let me handle this, please,” Melinda reprimanded with authority.
“With pleasure, my dear,” Carbet responded with a gleeful smile.
At that point the younger nurse scurried out of the room, wanting no part of this fiasco. As she did, she noticed Dr. Halverson at the Nurse’s Station going over some charts.
She hurriedly went up to him and explained they were going to be sued by a confused lady in room four-sixteen and he needed to get in there right away.
He handed her the chart he was reading and hurriedly went down the hall to the room.
As he entered, he said, “Hello, Melinda. What’s the problem?”
“Outside of the fact that I am in this funny farm?” Mr. Carbet questioned and got a smirk out of Halverson.
“Dr. Halverson, these people seem to be suffering from some illusion, or delusion,” the older nurse, who had remained in the room, commented.
“What illusion, or delusion is that, Nurse Whitney?” Dr. Halverson asked.
“They insist that Mr. Wiltenham here is a Mr. Carbet.”
“And that’s a problem, because?”
“Well, we have been trying to give him his medication in preparation for his Colonoscopy procedure tomorrow and he won’t take it,” she explained.
“Mr. Wiltenham’s medication for his procedure tomorrow,” Melinda pointed out.
“Nurse Whitney, may I have a word with you in the hall, please?” Dr. Halverson asked.
“Well, of course, Doctor,” she replied huffily and went out in the hall.
Dr. Halverson turned to Melinda and said, “I’ll only be a minute.”
“Good luck with that nincompoop, Doc,” Mr. Carbet carped and got a benevolent smile back from Halverson.
Five minutes later, Dr. Halverson returned and apologized profusely for the error.
“Error?” Mr. Carbet asked. “That’s what you call it? An error? These nincompoops would have expedited my passing by draining my life out of me from a more convenient portal. That’s an error?”
“Now, Warren, you have to stay calm and not be getting upset,” Dr. Halverson cautioned.
“Why, Doc? Because I might die?” Carpet asked snidely.
Melinda looked at him and her eyes filled with tears. Then she asked to talk to Dr. Halverson out in the hall.
“If he were home, how much shorter would his life be?” she asked after they had gone into the hall.
“That’s hard to say. Without the machines to monitor him, or even with them, everyday is a shot in the dark.”
“Well, I can’t take this place any longer,” Melinda remarked. “I want him released and I’ll take him home. We’ll get hospice care for him and let him let him live what’s left of his life in peace. There is no excuse for him having to put up with the nonsense in this facility.”
“Now, Melinda, this is a very good hospital and...”
“Very good hospitals are responsible for killing upwards of thirty thousand patients a year out of incompetence, Dr. Halverson. They hire some formidably incompetent people to do the necessary chores that should be done with competence. They have people’s lives in their hands. Mixing up charts is one of the more ignominious incongruities. What would have happened if
they had gotten him to take the medications that they wanted him to take?”
“At the worst he would have suffered diarrhea. The medications are given to evacuate the patient’s intestines so that the internal areas are more clearly visible.”
“A man in his condition with diarrhea? It would have ended him,” Melinda pointed out.
“Well, at this stage of his illness, almost anything could be the end of him,” Dr. Halverson remarked.
“So his being in his own home is no worse than him being here?”
“I cannot protest, with any verity, that is not correct.”
“Then I’ll take him home. I don’t care what my sister and brother say, he deserves to be there,” Melinda stated.
Dr Halverson sighed and said, “Okay, I’ll prepare the paper work before I leave and get the nurses to prepare him for transport.”
“Hopefully not the two that were in there earlier. That would surely kill him,” Melinda responded.
“You will keep me informed?” Dr. Halverson asked as he moved toward the nurses’ station.
“Certainly,” Melinda answered and went back in the room to tell her father the good or bad news, depending on his or your viewpoint.












GPS, art by Jay Marvin

GPS, art by Jay Marvin












Strings

Fred Venturini

“She was a blonde,” Gerald said. “A nurse named Sally. She worked out and had a hard body, but it was like talking to cardboard. She was devoid of imagination. She wasn’t you.”
Cindy was reading in the recliner, wrapped in a flannel blanket. “He was an astronaut named Buzz,” she said, closing her book. “He was a looker, too, but an empty person. Not you. Not by a long shot.”
She stood and unwrapped herself, blinking back tears. “Welcome home, honey.”
He damn near ran to her and gobbled her up in his arms, lifting her, her feet floating just above the hardwood. He kissed her neck. She stroked his hair.
Another year of beautiful, faithful lies.

*

Marriages form in a cast of good intentions. Built from love, forged with faith, stamped with a kiss. But these vessels aren’t built for the rough seas. Some make it to shore, boards splintered, sails tattered, crew exhausted and sick of each other. Others plain sink, lashed by the Leviathan of money, seduced by mermaids of sex, lanced by Poseidon’s trident laced with lethal boredom.
The Marriage Enhancement Act of 2012 pushed into the voting booths amid controversy, news outlets reported failure at the polls, exit surveys revealing the act was struck down, ninety-five percent against. Vote tallies revealed the act passed, ninety-two percent in favor.
Gerald Dixon voted against. He’s a Cancer. He enjoys keeping the family cars clean on weekends. His gutters are never clogged. He’s never been cited for a moving violation, but got a ticket once for drinking underage. He uses more elbow grease than sick days.
Today, he drinks Pepto Bismol straight from the bottle. He sits on a creeper in the garage, looking at the clock. Midnight’s coming.
Fuckin’ mandatory vacations, he thinks. My ass. He cracks open a bottle of Sam Adams and chases the Pepto with lager. Fuckin’ yellow-belly unconstitutional weeklong furloughs of social decomposition.
He wipes cold sweat onto his sleeve, then goes inside to look for his wife.
Cindy Dixon doesn’t vote. She swiffers their hardwood floors and does the laundry because that clumsy Gerald will shrink jeans and chew up cashmere. She cleans the cat’s litterbox with one scooper for urine patties, and a separate scooper for shit clumps. She actually has a favorite brand of toilet paper.
They have sex on Sunday nights, before her television shows are on, a perfect storm of sexual conditions. She is neither too tired nor too awake—sex can make her tired, he’s learned. She is neither too empty nor too full—empty and she feels nauseous, unable to enjoy the sex. But with a full stomach, the contents will slop around and make her nauseous.
They have sex the night before marriage enhancement week, as named by the federal government. Or singles week, a slang term coined by those with taste. Or fuck week, for those who get really excited and enjoy calling a spade a spade.
The sex before the absence ranks among their best. Kisses build into teenager-messy mashups of bumping teeth and lips. Greedy hands rake and pull at the edges of clothing, then become more gentle, yet still hungry when they move to flesh. On top of her, he breathes into her hair, searching for her ear for nibbling kisses and to whisper “I love you” over and over, in rhythm with their bodies.
Cindy takes her turn and insists on controlling his hands, sandwiching them against her skin, rubbing them on her torso and chest like a bar of soap as she rocks back and forth, her eyes never wavering from his.
“Remember this,” she says. “All week. Remember I’m your wife and I love you and we can do this the rest of our lives.”
They throttle into climax together, a simultaneous moment that shatters them into a sweaty mess on the bed. He ends inside of her, careful not to get any of his stuff on the good sheets, or the expensive comforter, or her silk panties.
He washes his hands with mango-scented soap he hates and they lay together in bed. She has her arm draped over his chest, her leg hoisted over his legs. They breathe together.
“So is all your paperwork together?” she asks.
“Yes.” He plays with her hair.
The Marriage Enhancement Act W-404 packet contains forms to file with your tax return, supplementation information including a FAQ about the Act, guidelines for planning your marital furlough, and of course, ample copies of the form required to record and notarize Exempt Acts of Federally Mandated Adultery.
“I hope you have fun. Really. Have a blast. You deserve it.”
He just smiles, locked into her eyes. They married young, and he tries to remember life without her, and can’t, and doesn’t care that he can’t.
“Tell Ryan I said hi,” she says, not meaning it.
“I’ll miss you,” he says.
“Pepper will keep me company. He’s enough man to last a week.”
And that’s the end of the conversation about fuck week. He gets her a glass of water with two ice cubes. They watch a romantic comedy.
At the stroke of midnight, he’s banished from his wife by law. He drives, letting her have the house during MEA week, as any gentleman would. His week will be hotels and eating out, catching up on movies tracking his sports teams. Cindy’s goodbye kiss lingers on his cheek. If he gets caught within 500 feet of his wife, he can be arrested and fined. Arrested he can live with. A fine would ruin the delicate balance they’ve achieved living paycheck to paycheck.
Cindy spends that first evening apart like she has the years before, laying awake in bed with Pepper purring at her feet. She grazes the edge of sleep, tossing and turning, the bed half-empty.

*

The line curls around the side of Barney’s Pub, the lighted reader board on the side of the building proclaiming, “Midnight Awaits!”
Ryan strolls along the line, finds Gerald, and slaps him on the shoulder.
“Where the fuck were you?” Gerald says. “I hate standing in these lines by myself.”
Ryan smiles, and waves his hand up and down in front of his crotch. “I poached me a blowjob before midnight. Kyla or Kaylee or some shit like that, a chick with a K-name, a hot mouth, and an attitude.”
“It’s not like shooting early during dove season,” Gerald says. “You can go to jail for this shit. It’s serious.”
“Shooting early is probably why she’s so pissed,” Ryan says. He stands beside Gerald in line, looking around, scanning the possible quarry, the married women dressed for competition, single-strapped shirts that come off easy, tight pants and skirts cut short.
“You should’ve seen it dude. I opened the floodgates and she comes up saying, ‘how am I supposed to get laid with cum on my breath?’ and I’m like ‘If you’re gagging at the sight of baby batter, you’re a fuckin’ stiff anyway,’ so she goes apeshit and starts screaming, and keys the car.”
“And you’re smiling? You love that car,” Gerald says.
“That’s the best part, it wasn’t my car. I just found some unlocked Grand Am and—what the fuck, this place cards?” He points to the head of the line, where a bouncer is checking credentials.
“The best places card,” Gerald says.
“Too many singles trying to cash in on the easy pussy, I get it,” Ryan says. “We’re prime meat tonight son, stamped, sealed and delivered.” He whips out his marriage license, curled up, and plays it like a trumpet, his fingers dancing over the paper.
“You slay me. Really,” Gerald says, his own marriage license rolled up in his hand. “You’re the biggest fake here.”
Ryan winks, then shows off his wedding band.
“Licenses,” the bouncer says. He examines the marriage licenses, and runs them through a security lamp to check the validity of the seal. Checks their identification. Nods. Hands them two condoms each. “On the house,” he says.
At the bar, they order beers. Gerald goes for something dark, with flavor. A Killian’s. Ryan eyes the bartender. She’s a slender gal with brown hair and friendly eyes. She wears a shirt that says, “Not tonight, not with you.”
“What beer, darling, would you say is least popular around here?” Ryan asks.
She thinks for a second. “Foster’s,” she says. “No one really orders it, and I can see why. Tastes like shit.”
So Ryan orders a Foster’s. It’s a conversation piece. Sets him apart. He drinks it with a grimace, but professes that he adores the flavor. He doesn’t like Foster’s but no one else likes Foster’s so he likes Foster’s.
Midnight has come and gone. Barney’s has rooms upstairs for rent, charging by the quarter hour. The bar bustles with the ebb and flow of folks looking to drink. To build their confidence. Maximize sexual stamina. Believe they’re really doing this. Forget about their spouses.
The dance floor pulsates with flesh. The women are dressed ten years too young for their age, moist skin revealed in flaps and cleaves. Men bounce around, grinding and feeling where they can.
Gerald sips his beer. Fuckin’ American dream. The wet part of it, maybe. Get married, buy a house, have a kid. Pick up the paper in your bathrobe while sprinklers turn on in the early morning, wave at your neighbor, go inside to eat a hearty breakfast while Norman Rockwell paints a picture from the city street, jealous and depressed.
Security personnel have earpieces and crossed arms. They surround the room, gauging the action. Job description: keep the peace. Job necessities: be single. Most married people demand time off during fuck week, and federal law states that employers cannot deny a married person’s vacation request during the year’s MEA dates.
Beams of light seizure about, carved by a disco ball over the DJ’s station. And the bar itself, marble smooth, like skin. Gerald keeps his hand against the cool tile until the heat from his hand warms it. Her skin.
“Let them wear themselves out,” Ryan says, nodding at the craziness of the dance floor. “First thing’s first—what you been up to?”
“The married life. Cut the grass and shit. Fish for a promotion. Catch new episodes of whatever show the wife’s obsessed with this year. Bears fuckin’ sucked this year, you know?”
“Touché,” Ryan adds with a hard gulp of Foster’s. “So, enough with the small talk, ready to bang some tail?”
Gerald drinks his beer, laughs a little. “You’re something else. What’s new with you?”
“Ha,” Ryan says, pausing. For a long time. “Living the life, man. One fat income. My Mustang is custom, it’ll blow your doors off. Did I tell you I got surround sound in that fucker? And a DVD player in the headrest.”
“But you don’t have anyone in the backseat.”
Ryan makes a face.
“I mean, while you’re driving. While the car is—”
“I’m not lonely, if that’s what you’re getting at. I enjoy life to the max, dude. How can you not love living without any strings attached? At least for one week a year?”
“I don’t know,” Gerald says. “How can you enjoy playing tennis without a net?”
“It would be pretty fuckin’ easy if you ask me,” Ryan says. “Isn’t marriage a net anyway? I don’t get you sometimes.”
Ryan eyeballs the bartender, thinking of a subject change.
“Maybe it’s tax breaks with heavenly bliss,” Gerald says. “Bound by God, and your local administrators. Dissolved only by death, or a judge, two lawyers, and lots of paperwork.”
“But you love her,” Ryan adds.
Gerald nods hard. Drinks a tough gulp of beer.
“So what about those Bears?” Ryan says.
Gerald humors him. They drink and talk about sports and weather and politics until Ryan’s dick starts tugging at him like a Doberman with a scent. Time to probe the dance floor, the dark corners, the places where married men and women exchange signatures, fluids, and fantasies.
He pulls Gerald along. And Gerald knows he’ll never be Ryan, a fact he knew back in the days he wanted to be Ryan.

*

She’s got raven-black hair with thick strands of red layered in. Mixed drink in one hand, her other hand kicks a swath of hair behind her shoulder, like she’s on a shampoo commercial.
The girl next to her looks more normal, and isn’t as short. She’s got blonde hair, blue eyes. She’s the cheerleader you couldn’t fuck, the overachiever you couldn’t touch, the gorgeous girl who never knew your name.
Ryan’s got her laughing right off the bat. He orders drinks. She tastes his Foster’s and makes a face. Laughs some more. He has his hand on the small of her back, which isn’t because he likes her or wants her, it’s a scientific move he’s long endorsed.
“Non-threatening physical contact forms an unconscious bond,” Ryan has said again and again. “Like a preview to a dirty movie, only a preview kids can watch. Then, when you touch her, look for flushing on her neck or chest. If you’re near a pulse area, feel for her heart rate. Flushing means she’s into you, almost turned on by the contact. Then, you’re golden.” Then a perfunctory swig of his beer of the night at whatever bar they’re at, and as punctuation: “I read that in Men’s Health.”
Gerald’s heartbeat filters out the music—he hears nothing but feels the bass thump in tune with his pulse. The girl with the confusing hair stands within arm’s reach. Stares at him, waiting.
He shrugs at her.
“Your friend is kind of with my friend,” she says, coming closer. She’s thrown a conversation softball at him, but he’s not swinging.
“That requires you to talk to me, at least.”
Gerald leans in. “There’s lots of guys for you here. I’m not on the prowl. Just enjoying a night out.”
She grabs his shirt and pulls him even closer. She’s short and smells like a mix of hay and honey.
“Maybe that’s why I’m talking to you, asshole.” She pauses for effect before laughing at him.
It takes forever for Gerald to stand up, rising away from her breath, her smile. Her skin transcends the terrible lighting.
“So if I’m a cop,” he says, “and I’m calling in your name and description, what hair color do I give them?”
Please Christ take it as an insult.
She slaps him on the arm. Playful. Chilling.
“I couldn’t make up my mind,” she says. “And there’s no law that says I have to. At least not yet. Officer.”
Her wedding ring’s diamond catches a flicker of the DJ’s light effects.
“Hey kids,” Ryan says, sticking his head into their circle of conversation. “We were thinking about getting a room. You know. Getting social.”
Ryan bolts with the blonde to get in line.
Gerald looks at her. “We really don’t have—”
The half-redhead interrupts Gerald with a tug of his arm.
“No, it’s OK,” she says, pulling him into line. “I’d like to get somewhere quiet and talk.”
Ryan glances over from his spot in line and gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. He’s got his arm around the blonde. She smiles, a devil in a black dress.
The half-redhead holds Gerald’s hand in line. He looks only at the colors spilling down her scalp.
“I’m Leah, by the way,” she says, rubbing his hand between both of hers.
“Gerald,” he finds the breath to say.
“You got papers?” she asks.
The papers are required to verify Exempt Acts of Federally Mandated Adultery. They are the final forms in the Marriage Enhancement Act packet, right after the information section, which mentions—among other facts—that the divorce rate was fifty-nine percent in 2012 when the MEA was signed into law, and has since dropped and continues to plummet. According to the packet, this preserves the sanctity of marriage and protects an important American institution.
Gerald nods, staring at the rashy patch of red blooming on her chest.
The notary public witnesses their signatures and places a serialized heat seal with the date and notary ID on their forms—for a fee of twenty dollars, tip not included. Every notarization comes with a free quarter hour in one of Barney’s rooms. Leah springs for another half hour on top of that. Gerald ignores the room clerk and walks into a dark hallway, Leah still holding his hand.
Housekeepers scurry about the hallway, young girls, unmarried of course, wearing white shirts and black slacks. Gerald passes them as Leah pulls him into a room that smells sterile. The bed is made with crisp, military precision—so neat they hesitate to sit on it. The room wasn’t meant for this, wasn’t built for this. Old-fashioned wood paneling clings to the walls, the flimsy kind that can be popped out with your fingers. Thick pieces of drywall tape bulge on the textured ceiling, where the fractures are covered, but not covered well. Patched and broken, this room.
She won’t let his hand go.
“This feels so,” she says, “different.”
Gerald nods.
“But good,” she adds.
Cool sweat mixes in their palms.
“You don’t say much. Nervous? This your first singles week or something?”
Gerald slides his hand away from hers.
“Fourth,” he says.
She sits down on the bed. “God! How old are you?”
“Almost thirty. Like that’s old? I’m guessing you’re barely legal to get in here?”
“Hardly. I’m twenty three. No offense, but you seem older.”
“I’ve been told I look old before. When I was a senior in high—”
“Not look older,” she says. “Seem older.”
She puts her hand on his thigh gently presses him into sitting on the bed.
“How long for you,” he says, tapping his ringfinger.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” She’s rubbing his leg harder now, with intentions.
“I think it does,” he says. And the rubbing stops.
“Hey,” Gerald says, getting close to her, feeling that humid aura that precedes tears. “It’s hard for some people. It’s supposed to be hard, that’s the point. The thing everyone’s forgetting.”
“I’ve never—” she starts. “My first—” she says, then she cries, the tears coming in shoulder-shaking sobs.
Gerald holds her close to him, her tears sopped up by his shoulder. He squeezes her, rubs her back, hopes she doesn’t feel how aroused he’s become.
“Truth is,” he says, “Nine years of marriage, four years of this bullshit and I’ve never. My wife has never. We forge our papers. I get a week off work. Catch up with old friends. Watch spring training games on cable. Maybe visit the family back east,” he stops. Measures his words. “Tonight I’d never do anything to you, to hurt you, to hurt my wife. Let’s just relax here, use our time up. Our papers are done up. We can walk out of here in a bit and just have a drink. No one will know the difference.”
She rubs his back as he speaks. Her hands sneak down, then around his torso, and end up fumbling at his zipper.
“You’re a good man,” she says, her shaking hands coming up to find his cheeks, squeezing them as they kiss, tongues probing and flapping, their teeth clacking, like she’s trying to eat him up. Then back to the zipper. And he sits, frozen as she undoes him. She yanks off his pants and underwear in one swoop.
Then he watches her as she peels off her tight-fitting top. She shoots her thumbs into her waistband, dropping her skirt and panties in one swoop. Her thick, trendy necklace strands click and rattle while she strips, hanging over her black bra, reminding him of rosaries.
“The bra stays,” she says. “They’re his favorite, and the bra stays.”
Then she goes down on him and Gerald sits, unblinking as she slurps at him, her mouth greedy and turned on.
Her right hand jabs him in the chest, knocking him onto his back. She works him, throttles him.
He stares at the ceiling the pale texture highlighting the moving shadows of her thrashing body. She’s a shadow, not Cindy. He can’t look at Leah, at her moving head, at her naked flesh. Somewhere, Cindy sits with a cat purring on her lap, watching television and waiting for him to come home with forged papers. He bites his lip. A guy can’t cry during a blowjob, can he? Not unless she bites or something, and he feels all tongue, all lips, all heat and passion. All the wrongness makes it feel even better. But Cindy wears the ring he gave her, a ring he made a promise with, and they promised each other to keep their marriage personal, lawless, and faithful, a rebellion that drew them closer, bound at the heart to make their own rules.
Leah stops. Dismounts.
“What is this?” she says, pointing at his crotch. “Am I not good enough? I mean, what is this?”
He gets up to put on his pants, a man proud of being limp. She shoves him a little.
“Am I not good enough?”
He slips one leg into his pants.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she says, then slaps him, a head-snapper with an aftershock of tingling.
He grabs her, two big hands that swallow her shoulders, freezing her.
“You love him more than anything. Right?”
She licks regretfully at her lips. “Sometimes,” she says.
“Then lie,” he says, releasing her softly. “And let him know it.”

*

At the bar, Ryan chuckles over another Foster’s. “Dude, so she looks up and says that she smells another girl’s breath. So what the fuck, I can just shrug, and she smiles and just keeps on dippin.’ I swear, I think her and her rainbow-headed oompa loompa friend pack a box lunch once in a while. That would be so hot, man.”
He claps Gerald on the shoulder.
“Hey, why the sour face? Do you finally regret forging your papers? That’d be a first. God, I love this shit. God bless America.”
Gerald watches the cute bartender work the patrons. She catches his gaze, smiles at him. He does not smile back.
“Six more days of this,” Ryan says. “And I got my papers popped on day one. The rest is just gravy now.”
Papers. Gerald runs his hand over the seal, over the slight indentation of her handwriting, the neat curves, bold letters saying she’s Leah and she’s proud. Gerald’s papers state that “consenting parties have performed, or intend to perform within a reasonable timeframe, vaginal, anal, or oral intercourse.” The frequently asked questions section maps out the requirements and benefits—during Marriage Enhancement Week, one notarized act of adultery is required. If you’re audited on your taxes and cannot produce proof of at least one MEW adultery, the fines and jail time are substantial.
One act and you’ve filled your requirements. Between two and four acts and you can claim an MEW credit on your taxes, as well as all expenses relating to your mandatory spousal furlough. Five or more acts, you will be required to attend government-mandated therapy sessions at the expense of the government. Domestic abuse is down seventy percent since 2012. Over twelve billion in MEA related tax-credts have been refunded to taxpayers, augmenting the economy.
The divorce rate in America is currently twelve percent.
Ryan doesn’t care much about the counseling sessions, but he still goes because he’s fucking his counselor too—an old fashioned, morally-wrong, illegal act of adultery.
“I have to ask,” Gerald says. “Are you happy? Or is it all one big bullshit story?”
“Oh shit,” Ryan says. “You did something with that girl. Didn’t you?”
They sit at the bar for a long time staring at their beers.
“I’ll never be happy, Gerry.” Ryan finishes his beer, a penance of sorts. “Not a big deal though. Really. I’m jealous of you. I don’t know what happened tonight, but I hope you and Cindy get buried together man, sixty years from now. Seriously. But since I think I’m your friend, I want you to know that I’ll never be sad either. And sex is a great way to pass the time in an unhappy life.”
“Another one?” the sexy, brunette, slender, untouchable bartender says.
“Just you in a glass, honey,” Ryan says helplessly. “All wet.”
And Gerry waits for the scowl from her. Waits for the slap. Waits for the tell-off. It doesn’t come. She smiles and grabs him another beer. Ryan touches her hand a little when she hands it over. Just grazes it. Their eyes catch and hold for a moment, their fate sealed.

*

He walks through the door, suitcase in one hand, papers in the other.
The papers say, polls indicate higher levels of marital bliss, making for a stronger America.
“He was a railroad worker named Lewis,” Cindy says. She’s washing dishes at the kitchen sink. “Strong, but only his hands. His body. Not strong the way you are.”
He drops his suitcase. The papers flutter from his hands, scattering on the floor in a kaleidoscope shape.
“She had black hair with thick strands of red, red like I’ve always wanted. Charming and quirky. Kind of beautiful. Not like you, though. Never like you.”
She puts on a smile, then turns back to the dishwater.
He puts his hand on her shoulder and stands there for a long time. She scrubs and rinses with shaking hands. Finally, a dish breaks in the sink and she starts to cry.
“Shhhh,” Gerald says, soothing her, his hands firm on her shoulders. He stares at her neck a long time—the suck-bruise looks days-old, yellowing on her skin. He thinks about how it’s supposed to be hard, about how in a few days, the bruise will dry up, a mark that leaves no scar in a world intent on forgetting. A world he can’t bear alone.
“Shhhh,” he says again, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her. He kisses her neck next to the mark that isn’t his.












The Black Morning

K. Agnihotri

At first, all I can remember about my dream is that I had been screaming. I had been screaming my lungs out. Something had just happened that made my blood run cold and my heart skip a beat. And then I woke up, and instantly forgot what had made me scream.
But a funny thing happened when I woke up – it was still pitch black. I couldn’t see anything at all. It was my alarm that had woken me up, so I knew it must be seven in the morning.
I have a bad headache this morning, just as I had been expecting. I drank too much last night. More than I have ever drunk, I think. Luckily, a good friend drove me home. I had walked upstairs to my bedroom and fallen asleep with my shoes on. There was nothing I wanted right now more than to get to the bathroom and puke my guts out. My head was spinning and my stomach kept churning. I don’t know if my girlfriend slept over here or not. I can’t remember.
“Hello,” I shout. “Is there anyone here?”
There is no answer. And then, for the first time, I realize that there is something seriously wrong with my eyes. It feels like there is something still covering them – keeping them sealed. Slowly, I place my hands over my eyes. Imagine my shock when I find that my eyelids are still completely covering my eyes. My eyes are still closed! I desperately try to pull my eyelids back, again and again. I use every muscle in my face to pull them up. Finally, I use my fingers to try to pry them open. It’s all useless.
I slowly move two of my fingers up to my eyes and carefully run them up and down the eyelids. Although I can feel my eyelashes, I can’t feel any kind of seam where the eyelid meets my skin. It is as if the skin on my face has grown over my eyes! I begin to panic and immediately jump off the bed. I have only taken two steps when I stub my toe against what I imagine must be the leg of a chair. I stop in my tracks and wait for the pain to subside. Slowly, slowly, I walk towards the door and step out. How strange one’s own room can become in the dark.
For a few minutes I just stand there like a fool. Nothing like this has ever happened before; I have absolutely no idea what to do. It appears as if I am in the house all alone. Finally, I decide that the smartest thing to do would be to find my phone and call someone over here. I begin walking down the hallway towards the living room. I am walking slowly, but walls and chairs seem to appear in front of me out of nowhere. I hit my feet twice against furniture on the way to the living room.
At last, I reach the living room. I walk up to the table and begin feeling around for the phone. My elbow bumps into a glass and something spills all over my feet. I ignore the liquid, and I finally find the phone on the carpet underneath the table. Feeling around for the buttons with my thumb, I attempt to dial my girlfriend’s number.
“Hello?”
Success!
“Hi,” I reply. “It’s me. I just woke up.”
“Hey! Good morning! How are you feeling?”
“I have a headache.”
“Well, big surprise there!” she laughs. “The way you were carrying on last night...”
“Listen, right now is not the best time to talk about this. I have to tell you something.”
“Go on, then.”
“I can’t see. I opened my eyes this morning and-”
“Hello?”
“Hello?” I shout back. “Can you hear me?”
“Are you there? I can’t hear you...”
And, just then, the phone goes silent. I am puzzled at first, but then I realize that I haven’t charged the battery for nearly a week. I place the phone onto a table. There is nothing else I can do. I do not know my neighbours very well – they are an old couple and they are rarely at home (they are usually at their son’s house, not too far from here). Should I go to someone else’s house? I certainly don’t want to ring a complete stranger’s doorbell and declare myself blind.
Finally, I decide to go to the neighbourhood clinic. I walk towards the door, and this time I don’t bump into anything. I open the door, only to find that it is freezing cold outside. My lungs are so shocked by the cold air that they seem to shrivel up. I quickly slam the door shut.
The clinic is five or six blocks down the street. Child’s play on a summer’s day, but not something to be taken lightly when you have woken up blind on a winter morning. If I get lost and start stumbling around, I might get frostbite. Even worse, I could slip on ice and break my head open on the sidewalk. What should I do?
Well, there is only one thing to be done. I grab my keys (they are always on a little hook right beside the door) and lock the door. I quickly run towards my car, start it up, and hope inside. The whole thing goes off without a hitch. I can feel the gear stick underneath my fingers. For a few seconds, I contemplate the whole situation.
There is no way I can walk to the clinic – it is far too cold for that. I cannot call anyone, because my phone has just died. And there are only two houses that neighbour mine – one couple are not home and the other couple are the sort that would not be up before noon. There is no point staying at home. I will have trouble feeding myself. Besides, it’s possible that no one comes over for another two or three days.
I can walk out in the middle of the street and just scream my head off until someone comes and helps me, but for obvious reasons I would like to avoid making such a scene. So, the decision has been made for me – I will stay in my car and drive to the clinic. I grab the gear stick and carefully push it down one notch to put it from ‘Park’ into ‘Drive’. I let go of the brake and the car gently rolls forward. I am sure that I can keep the car on the right side of the street, but I am worried about hitting a little kid. I move forward as slow as a snail.
It is hard to tell exactly how far I have gone. I cannot be going faster than five or ten miles per hour. Luckily, I do not have to make any turns on the way to the clinic. Occasionally, I hear some people walking on the sidewalk.
Suddenly, I hear loud honking behind me. The car continues honking as I sense it pull up beside me.
“What the hell are you doing?” someone shouts as the car drives past me and speeds away.
I cannot imagine how strange I must look sitting behind the wheel with my eyes closed. I begin to have second thoughts about this, but the car continues inching forward. Finally, I pull up in front of the intersection. It must be a red light right now, because I can hear the cars whizzing by right and left in front of me. Only when it is completely quiet does my foot let go of the brake. The car inches forward. No one honks at me. A little more confident, I press the accelerator and drive on.
After crossing the intersection, I pull up to the curb, driving slowly until I feel the tire bump the sidewalk. I step out of the car and lock it. It doesn’t sound as if there is anyone else around at this time. I walk onto the sidewalk and feel for the steps that lead up to the clinic. I am able to walk up to the door of the clinic without a problem, and I open it and walk in.
“Hello,” I hear a woman’s voice call out, “can I help you, sir?”
I do not say anything.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“I can’t open my eyes,” I finally whisper. “I can’t see anything. Please help me.”
I hear her get up from her desk and walk towards me. I feel a thumb gently running over my eyes.
“I can’t believe it! How did this happen? Are they glued shut? Did someone play a prank on you?”
“No... I don’t think so,” I reply.
“Well, this is an emergency. I’ll take you straight to the doctor.”
I feel her grab my arm and slowly lead me inside. She places her other arm on my shoulder and thankfully I do not bump into anything else. She knocks loudly on the door in front of us.
“Dr. Armstrong! Dr. Armstrong!”
I hear the door open, and a loud voice booms out.
“Yes, what is it? I told you not to –”
“Er... sorry, Doctor. But this gentleman here... oh, it’s so awful...”
“Well, what’s the matter with him? Why are his eyes closed?”
“I can’t open them!” I shout. “I just woke up like this! Please, do something!”
For the next ten minutes, I sit in a chair while Dr. Armstrong tries all sorts of things to see what the problem is. He shines a light into my eyes. He tries to lubricate my eyelids. From the tone of his voice, it seems that he thinks this whole thing is some sort of a practical joke.
“That’s enough,” I say. “What’s happening to me? Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“No. And, quite honestly, I don’t know what to do.”
It is rare to find a doctor who will admit his ignorance. Still, his answer scares me a little.
“What am I going to do? Please, try anything?”
“Well...” he mumbles. “I could slice your eyelids open. It would be a very simple procedure. It’ll be over in ten seconds.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll give you something, it’ll be completely painless.”
“Alright,” I hear myself telling him, “I’ll try it.”
I hear Dr. Armstrong moving around as needles and vials clink somewhere beside me.
“You’ll feel a quick sting.”
The needle enters my arm. I stop worrying. I see my thoughts floating in front of me, and soon I lose myself in them. I am floating peacefully, somewhere far above...
...and then I wake up. I hear Dr. Armstrong’s steady voice bringing me out of my sleep.
“Can you hear me?”
“Y-yes...” I mumble.
“The operation was successful.”
There is no light in my eyes, not even a dull grey. Everything is pitch black, just like it was before.
“Are you in pain? You... you still can’t see me?”
“No...”
“...How is that possible?”
“I still can’t see you... I can’t see anything.”
And just then, I begin to scream.












Halloween in Fulton River

C. Patrick Murphy

Tina and her parents didn’t approve of Halloween, but for little Brianne’s sake they agreed to a compromise. The family would ignore supernatural trappings associated with the holiday, instead treating it as a celebration leading to a masquerade ball. Brianne had no concept of ghosts, witches, or goblins. The skeletons and black cats displayed in neighborhood homes or downtown storefronts were meaningless decorations to her. For Tina and Brianne, Halloween was a celebration of autumn, a glorification of God’s changing seasons. Others could dwell on the macabre and the evil; the Waldon family would give thanks for the good.
During the week preceding Halloween, they ate bowls of hot buttered popcorn and drank mugs of cold spiced cider. Tina’s dad carved a jack-o-lantern sporting a benign happy face. Tina’s mom dipped caramel apples and assembled bouquets of colorful autumn flowers, bittersweet, and grasses. Tina and Brianne collected brightly colored leaves, pressed them between the pages of a heavy book, then coated them with a thin veneer of paraffin. For her daughter’s costume, Tina found a boxed pink and lavender princess outfit at the hardware store. She bought the costume a size too big so Bree could wear it again next year.
Tina thought a simple plastic bread bag or discarded grocery sack would suffice for collecting trick or treat goodies, but her mom disagreed. They maintained a household free of potential hazards, vigilance which included storing plastic bags in a drawer inaccessible to the two-year old. Tina’s mom didn’t want her granddaughter to begin thinking of plastic bags as potential toys. She found an old wicker Easter basket in a closet, cleaned it up, and decorated it with a small pink ribbon.
“Say ‘trick or treat,’ Brianne,” Tina’s dad said. He held a small candy bar behind his back. Brianne, dressed in her princess costume, looked quizzically at her mother. What was Grandpa up to?
“Trick or treat, Bree,” Tina encouraged. “Say ‘trick or treat.’”
“Trick or treat,” Brianne said softly.
With a flourish, Tina’s dad dropped the candy bar into Brianne’s basket. Brianne’s puzzled expression changed to one of astonishment.
Tina put on her heavy winter jacket. She hadn’t been outside much during the preceding week, busy with school and work and her daughter. The sights and sounds Tina associated with late autumn took place inside her house. The rooms smelled of cinnamon, apples, and caramel. Her mom pulled out their winter clothes from storage, and now the back bedroom smelled of damp wool and mothballs. There was the greasy feel of pumpkin guts and seeds squishing between her fingers as she helped carve the jack-o-lantern. Her family’s comforting routine formed a vivid backdrop for memories.
Once outside, Tina saw that autumn had descended on Fulton River like a prairie sunset, covering the town in burnished fiery hues. The trees in town and in the timber beyond became vast bouquets of scarlet, golden, and russet. Mums in neighborhood gardens mirrored the forests in miniature, forming deeply colored mounds. Jack-o-lanterns flickered on porches, while yellow, white, and green gourds decorated windowsills and countertops. The town was beautiful, as enchanting as any rustic kingdom from a story book.
Tina had planned her first Halloween trick or treating with Brianne very carefully. They would visit only the homes belonging to friends – mainly members of their church - all of whom had been warned in advance of their arrival. Although dusk had not yet settled in and they would return home long before nightfall, Tina carried a large flashlight for safety. She noted several parents accompanying toddlers who were similarly equipped.
Pastor Tim’s was the first house on their itinerary. The big man was clearing the newest crop of leaves from his yard, his rake scratching against the ground, drawing up heaping mounds. He smiled and called a greeting when he saw Tina and Brianne. Mary Lou answered the door. She dropped a handful of root beer barrels and a mimeographed Bible verse into Brianne’s basket. “Your daughter looks lovely,” Mary Lou said. “I believe she could pass for a real fairy princess.”
Chill moist air carried the smoke from Pastor Tim’s burning leaves. A little boy about five years old ran down the sidewalk to greet them. He was dressed as Frankenstein, and carried a plastic cauldron in which to collect his goodies. The little boy’s mother followed close behind; like Tina, she carried a large flashlight.
“They got popcorn balls over there,” said the tiny Frankenstein. “Want us to wait for you?”
“I’m Elise,” said Frankenstein’s mother. “And this is Josh.”
“Nice to meet you Elise, Josh. My name is Tina, and this is Brianne.”
“I’m not Josh. I’m Frankiestein.” The little boy growled and curled his hands into pink claws.
The popcorn ball house wasn’t on their list, but Josh and his mother were waiting. It would be nice to have adult company this evening, and maybe Tina could steer their new companions towards houses she knew.
“Shall we try this house, Bree? Do you know what to say?”
“Trick or treat,” said Brianne, holding the basket up expectantly towards her mother.
“Let’s wait ‘til we get to the door.”
Elise and Josh were waiting for them when Tina and Brianne retuned a few minutes later. A green popcorn ball wrapped in cellophane had been added to Brianne’s treats.
“I’ll walk with you,” Josh said importantly, grabbing on to Brianne’s hand.
“They’re so cute together,” Elise said. “I brought my camera along. Okay to take a picture before the night’s over?”
“I’m sure they’d love that,” Tina said. “We’re only going to houses we know,” she added. Josh and Brianne marched hand in hand up to the next door. The porch light shone brightly, indicating that the household was participating in trick or treat night.
“Oh, I know. You can’t be too careful,” Elise said. “These folks’re okay. You know the Pools?”
“Sure. Mr. Pool comes into the restaurant where I work all the time.”
“You work uptown then?”
“Mmm-hmm. Yellow Submarine.”
“We’ve eaten there. Food’s really good.”
Brianne held up her basket for her mother’s inspection. A small package of Gummi Bears nestled next to the popcorn ball.
“That’s wonderful, Bree. Did you remember to say ‘thank you’?”
“Yes she did,” Josh reported. “And the lady at the door said she was very cute.”
“Is Brianne your little sister,” Elise asked after the children headed up the sidewalk. “She’s precious.”
“Thanks. She’s my daughter.”
“Oh,” said Elise.
Elise took Josh’s hand from Brianne. They continued down the block, trick or treating the final few houses. “This is where we finish up,” Elise announced.
“Aw,” Josh protested.
“Now, you! It’s getting late. Nice meeting you, Brianne.”
“We still have a few houses left,” Tina said. “Maybe we’ll see you around.”
“Bye,” said Elise. She did not offer again to take the children’s picture together.
Josh looked back over his shoulder and waved as he and his mother hurried down the sidewalk. Elise did not look back, but kept a firm grip on her son’s hand. A flock of children and their parents passed by Tina and Brianne. Tina didn’t ask to join them, though there were still a few church members she wanted to visit before calling it a night. It might be best to continue with Brianne alone.
After making their rounds, Tina thought she and Bree might pay a brief visit to The Yellow Submarine Sandwiche Shoppe. There might be a good crowd tonight dining out with their kids. Derrick was working tonight, and Tina wanted him to see Brianne in her princess costume.

Drew didn’t usually leave the door to his bedroom open, and Chris was unsure whether this signified an invitation or an oversight. He hovered at the threshold of his brother’s bedroom, ready to dodge projectiles or profanities. Drew had been grounded for weeks, though Chris suspected he’d been able to sneak out a few times. The punishment seemed excessive, and Drew’s mercurial temperament made his brother cautious.
The desk lamp provided the only light in the room. Drew hunched over a stack of papers scattered across the desk.
“Whacha doin,” Chris asked tentatively.
“Algebra.” Drew’s tone indicated a safely mellow mood.
Concluding that the open door was an invitation to enter, Chris hopped up onto his brother’s bed, propped himself against the headboard, and hugged his knees to his chest. Dressed in commando garb, his face mottled with camouflage make-up, Chris was ready for the Halloween festivities. Tanner’s dad would be coming to pick him up soon, but Chris didn’t want to go downstairs just yet. Miss Brockton had come over to help pass out candy.
“Think Halloween’s my favorite time of year,” Chris said.
“I like Christmas,” Drew replied.
“Yeah, Christmas is cool, but I still like Halloween. Weather’s usually still nice. Other stuff goin’ on. Football. Hayrack rides. Can still get outside and do stuff.”
“Big break at Christmas,” Drew countered. Snowball fights. Forts. Snowmobilin’.”
“If there’s snow.” Chris thought for a minute. “Think Dad’d get us a snowmobile for Christmas?”
“Kiddin’ me? On what a teacher makes?”
“Bet he’d get us one if he could afford it.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Drew erased a mistake on his paper. Pink eraser crumbs scattered across the desk.
“Maybe Mom’ll get us one.”
“Don’t count on it.” There was a bitter cast to Drew’s voice.
Last year, their mother had sent them each a Christmas card containing a $100.00 gift certificate to The Gap. Teenage boys, she’d written inside their cards, were too difficult to shop for. She hoped they’d get something they needed, and didn’t waste their certificates on something frivolous.
“Yeah, prolly not.” Chris rested his cheek against his knees. He wished Mom would come home for Christmas, but he knew she was busy with her law practice. And mentioning the possibility would only put Drew in a grumpier mood.
“Somethin’ else I like about Halloween,” Chris continued, “goin’ out and prankin’ people.”
“Best watch who ya prank. Prank the wrong dudes and they’ll beat the shit outta ya.” Drew jammed his pencil into the electric sharpener. “No eggs. No soap. And don’t go swipin’ little kids’ candy. That’s chickenshit.”
Chris’s head popped up from his knee. “I wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. Osland wouldn’t do nothin’ like that.”
“Raber might.”
“Raber’s a animal,” Chris agreed. “Conklin wouldn’t do nothin’ like that though. None a us would.”
“Shit. Conklin’s likely ta get his candy swiped by little kids.”
They both laughed at the image.
When they were little, the brothers reveled in the weeks leading up to Halloween. Even last year, Drew had really gotten into the spirit of the season. They’d set up an entire fake cemetery with ghosts and skeletons in the front yard. Tonight would be just another night for Drew.
“Sorry you can’t go out with us. I’ll give you some of my candy.” Drew hadn’t accompanied his brother trick or treating in years, but Chris didn’t know what else to say.
Drew finally looked up from his desk. “Get your feet off my bed, you little slob.”
A horn sounded from the driveway.
“There’s Oslands. Bye.”
Chris’s plastic jack-o-lantern thumped hollowly against his leg as he bounded down the stairs. His dad and Miss Brockton sat on the couch, a big bowl of buttered popcorn resting on the cushions between them. A second smaller bowl of candy and an enormous squirt gun loaded with ice cold water waited on the end table. Few trick or treaters made it into the country, but Dad liked to be prepared for both.
“Got your flashlight,” Dad asked.
“Here in my pocket.”
“Watch for cars,” Miss Brockton added.
“Whatever. Back in a couple hours.”
“By ten. No later,” Dad said.
“Whatever. See ya.”
Mr. Schleich’s combine droned in the distance, its headlights sweeping across the field. A flock of birds heading south had landed in the big maple, apparently deciding to overnight in Fosters’ yard. The adjacent field would provide grain for their breakfast, and Chris’s dad added fresh water to the birdbaths. The birds called noisy encouragement to each other from the branches of the tree.
“Hey, Chris,” said Mr. Osland. “Lookin’ good.” In his orange polo shirt, Tanner’s dad resembled Garfield, the cartoon cat.
“Thanks, Mr. Osland. Appreciate your comin’ out and givin’ me a ride.”
Tanner, costumed as a scarecrow, rode shotgun. Vance Raber, wearing a black cape and long fangs, sat directly behind Mr. Osland.
“Still have to pick up Conklin,” Tanner said.
Bobby, dressed all in white and with his face coated with phosphorescent paint, was waiting for the ride on his front porch. In the gathering dusk, he stood out like a plump cloud against a gray sky. Bobby was teasing his cat with a laser light, flickering the red dot across the lawn, now clicking it off, now making the dot appear on the cat’s paw. The befuddled cat twirled and weaved and pounced at the peripatetic spot. When he saw Oslands’ car approaching, Bobby hoisted the cat by the scruff of her neck and tossed her back into the house.
“Scoot over, Raber,” Bobby said, hurling the car door open.
“No way, dude. I got the window seat.”
Bobby huffed as he clambered over Vance Raber. “Why aincha wearin’ a costume, Tanner,” he asked.
“Funny. What’re you supposed to be? The Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man?”
“I’m a ghost, retard.”
“Uh-huh. ‘The Ghost of Christmas Fats,’” Raber laughed.
“Okay, boys,” said Mr. Osland. “Pick you up here in front of the library in an hour and a half. Got your watches?” It was seven o’clock. “And you remember,” Mr. Osland said, pointing at Tanner, “no funny stuff. Any problems tonight and you won’t leave your room for a week. Got it?”
“Right, Dad. No funny stuff.”
The past few weeks of autumn transformed Fulton River into a brilliant kaleidoscope of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. There had been leaf piles and bonfires and hayrack rides. The air smelled of smoke and rain; windows reflected late afternoon sunlight the color of honey. The boys gorged on hotdogs and popcorn at high school football games, caramel apples and candy corn at relatives’ houses, and pork roasts and earthy vegetables at home. They reveled in the season, and tonight autumn culminated with trick or treat night.
“Whadya wanna do now,” Raber asked after Mr. Osland had driven away.
“Kiddin’? Let’s make the rounds,” Tanner said. “Last Halloween for trick or treat ever. Can’t go when you’re in high school.”
“Let’s find some girls ta go with us,” Raber said.
“Screw that,” Bobby answered. “I’m gettin’ me some candy now.”
“Me, too,” Chris added.
“No point missin’ out,” Tanner said to Vance Raber. “Let’s go.”
Their buckets were heavy after canvassing several blocks. Chris was relieved to see other members of his class costumed and begging for candy. Some pretended to accompany younger siblings, others barely dressed up, but none of them fooled Chris for a minute. As immature as it seemed, a lot of eighth graders still went trick or treating.
“Uh-oh,” Bobby said. “Here comes trouble.”
Three witches, their faces painted green, gathered around a fire hydrant. They cackled menacingly when they saw the four boys approaching.
“Tanner,” shrieked one, as she embraced the scarecrow. “Give us a hug.”
“Hey Amber,” Chris said to the second witch. “How’s it goin’?”
“Didn’t think you was comin’ out,” the witch said crossly. “Told me you guys were stayin’ in playin’ video games.”
“Well, ya know how it is,” Chris stammered. “Kind of a last minute deal. Conklin’s idea.”
“Me,” Bobby exclaimed, his mouth smeared with chocolate.
“Lookit what that preacher’s wife is givin’ out,” Meghan Hinshaw said as she released Tanner from her iron grip. She pulled a small sheet of paper from her cauldron. “Some kinda Bible sayin’.” Meghan crumpled the paper and dropped it into the storm drain.
“‘Mind me not to go there,” Bobby said.
“Got your math for tomorrow done,” Amber asked, obviously not willing to let up. Chris began to wish he had stayed home and played video games, even if Miss Brockton was lurching about the place.
“Sure,” he answered. “Pretty simple.”
“Oh, suppose it would be, if you have your tutor do it for you.” Amber’s voice dripped venom.
“Hey! She didn’t’ do ‘em for me. Did ‘em all myself.”
“I’m sure you did. Been doin’ a lot by yourself lately, haven’t you?”
“Whoa,” Tanner said.
Amber was glaring at Chris, ready to go, when an egg landed with a wet splat on her shoulder. Egg yolk and slime crusted with white shell dribbled down the front of Amber’s black dress.
“Eeewww,” said Bobby Conklin. “That’s a egg!”
“Really,” Tanner said, spinning like Bobby’s cat as he searched for the culprit. “May we quote you?”
Moronic laughter emanated from behind a denuded lilac bush.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Kazense said, stepping out from behind the thicket. “That was meant for your little boyfriend there.”
Chris stepped protectively in front of Amber. “You’re not funny, Kazense. Coulda hurt her.”
“Wanna see somethin’ funny,” asked Fat Bob Dent. He hurled a second egg from point blank range directly into Chris’s pumpkin. The egg shattered amidst the candy within. “Now that’s fuckin’ funny, punk.” Fat Bob gave Chris a shove that sent him sprawling onto the lawn.
Jarvis smacked Bobby alongside the head. The egg he was holding splattered in Bobby’s hair. “That’s funny, too,” Jarvis said.
The minions laughed as they disappeared around the corner. Tanner helped Chris to his feet. Amber, now focusing her considerable glare after their attackers, brushed leaves and twigs from Chris’s backside.
“We’ll get those guys,” Tanner promised. “Don’t worry.”
“Want to stick with us,” Amber asked. “Safety in numbers.”
“Sure, sure,” Bobby said impatiently. “Let’s get some more candy while we’ve still got time.” The egg clotting his hair didn’t concern him at all.
They combed the block opposite the direction in which Kazense and his minions had gone. Chris plucked treats from his bucket, pausing now and then to wipe the wrappings on his commando pants. Shimmery globs of egg streaked his thighs.
“Need to wash that off your candy when you get home,” Amber said. “End up getting salmonella food poisoning. Mrs. Freeze told us about it in science.”
“Say,” Tanner said, stopping in his tracks. “Isn’t that Kazense’s car?”
“Sure is,” Raber replied, pulling on the passenger side door handle. “Oh, I don’t fuckin’ believe this.” An expression of horrible joy lit his face. The door popped open.
“Looks like the fucker forgot to change his dome light,” Chris said. “Be a shame if something bad were to happen.”
“Careful,” Tanner said. “We don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Fuck that,” Raber said. “Lookit what they did to us.” He fished three small ampoules out of his pants pocket. Chris shined the beam from his flashlight onto Raber’s hand. The ampoules were filled with straw-colored fluid.
“Stink bombs,” Raber confirmed.
“Where d’ya get those,” Bobby asked.
“Joke shop in Chicago. Picked ‘em up when my dad wasn’t lookin’.”
“Wisht I’da known,” Bobby said. “Woulda had ya get me a couple.”
“Think we should,” Chris asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“Oh yeah,” Tanner said. “Isn’t like we’re destroyin’ anything. Dude’s got it comin’.”
Chris dipped his finger into the gooey fluid in his bucket. He smeared a liberal dose onto the glass ampoule. “Where should I stick it,” he asked.
“You ladies keep watch,” Tanner said. “See if you can jam it into the spring under the seat.”
Chris crawled into the car and balanced the tiny tube beneath the passenger seat. The springs were firm, and might not shatter the glass even if someone heavy sat down. Still, it was the best they could do. “Lemme have another one.” The second ampoule was soon in place beneath the passenger side floor mat.
“Think it’ll work,” Tanner asked.
“Dunno. Worth a shot.”
“Aincha afraid you’ll get in trouble with your dad, Osland,” Bobby asked, remembering the man’s stern warning.
“Nah. My dad saw what those punks did, he’d prolly be helpin’ us. I’ll tell him what we done when I get home, just in case.”
“Got one more,” Raber offered.
“Gas pedal,” Tanner suggested with relish.
“Fuck yeah.” Chris smeared more egg white onto the last glass ampoule. He fastened it in the center of the pedal, certain it would be hidden in the dark. Let Kazense punk himself, the bungwipe!
“Sure love ta see the look on those fuckers’ faces,” Raber said.
Tanner shook his head. No dice. “Best be far away from here when them things bust,” he said. “We’ll hear about it at school. You all gotta swear not to tell though. Dudes’d kick our asses they find out who done it.”
His six friends nodded. Nobody would know except them who had pranked Kazense.
“Time to head back to the library,” Tanner said. “My dad’ll be pickin’ us up soon.”
“Hey, Chris,” Amber called after them. “Call me this weekend, ‘kay?”
“It’s only Monday,” Bobby said. “Why’d she want you call her this weekend.”
“Shut up, dick,” Raber said.
All in all, it had been a grand end to their trick or treat tradition.

The Yellow Submarine Sandwiche Shoppe was as busy on a Monday night as Tina had ever seen. Little trick or treaters and their parents filled the booths, making an evening of their night out on the town. High school students dashed in for a quick sandwich before embarking on a night of mischief and merrymaking. There wouldn’t be a lot of homework completed on this particular Halloween night. When Tina saw the huge dinner crowd, she suspected she’d made a mistake making an appearance with Brianne. Sure enough, when Ted saw her, he made his urgent plea. “Think you could give us a hand, just until the crowd dies down? Derrick’s still a little slow, and Alicia doesn’t have much patience with him.”
“I dunno, Ted. I’ve got my daughter with me.”
“She could sit in the back office, maybe watch some tv. We could pay you time and a half. Probably be just an hour or so. No more.”
Tina relented. The money she made would pay for Brianne’s Halloween, and it would be a nice gesture towards Mr. Blaque to help out in the restaurant. She phoned her parents to let them know where she was, put on an apron, tied back her hair, and pitched in on the sandwich line.
“I’ll take over here,” she said to the harried Alicia. “Go ahead and take care of the front dining room.”
“Thank god. I’m about to strangle slowpoke here.”
“It’s okay, Derrick,” Tina said. “Take your time. People appreciate a good sandwich.”
“Think I’m getting’ the hang of it,” Derrick replied. “Alicia thought I was puttin’ too much meat on some a the buns. Ran outta the pre-measured stuff at five thirty.”
“I’m sure you’re doing fine.”
An hour and a half later, the crowd had thinned. Derrick disappeared into the back storeroom where he supposedly uncrated more bags of potato chips and cheese curls. Ted abandoned the cash register to begin tallying receipts. Alicia caught up with the dining room. Tina thought she could safely clock out.
“Sure appreciate you’re workin’ tonight, Tina,” Ted said. “Be sure to put a in good word for you with Mr. Blaque.”
Brianne perched on the manager’s couch, her crown askew, the candy in her basket forgotten. A shrill scream erupted from the television set. Ted was watching a movie while he tallied the evening grosses. Tina watched in horror as a hatchet cleaved the face of the actress on the screen. Brianne stared at the screen as if hypnotized. How much of this movie had Brianne seen? What would she remember of it? Tina could have shaken the store manager for watching such filth with her daughter. But she needed the job and Mom needed the job. She couldn’t afford to be difficult.
Mom would know how to handle things with Brianne. She might even have a word or two in private with Ted. Maybe Mom could come and pick them up. They didn’t live too far away, but Tina wasn’t sure she wanted to take her daughter out into the dark night. The whole situation had become traumatic.
The door to the restaurant chimed, but it wasn’t a new customer entering. Tina’s mom must have read her daughter’s mind.
“Thought I’d drop by and see if you needed a ride,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay, honey. Let me just poke my head into the office here. Need me to do anything before we head out, Ted? Help with the tally? Quick round of the tables?”
“Thanks, Ann. Think we got it. Where’s Derrick, anyway?”
“He’s in back. Unpacking snacks, I think,” Tina said. “I’ll go get him.”
Derrick was tucked away, sitting by a shelf and reading a comic book.
“Don’t let Ted catch you messing around back here,” Tina cautioned. “Lose your job for sure. We’re leaving now. Be a good time for you to start cleaning up the bathroom.” Tina took his comic book. “You can pick this up from me at school tomorrow. See ya.”
“That kid is something else,” Tina’s mom said.

Mitchell Kazense was in a worse mood than usual. The town cops had been out in full force tonight, parked in the shadows, endlessly patrolling the streets, popping up and the most inopportune times. It wasn’t like Mitchell and his friends intended any real damage. They’d soaped a few car windows, tee-peed a few trees, put some junior high kids in their place. But they’d also been careful not to get egg on aluminum siding or automobile paint. The line between pranks and vandalism, bright red and clearly drawn, made the difference between a stern lecture from Officer Burnside and a trip up to Galesburg in the back seat of a squad car. Anyway, they hadn’t got to pimp as many people as they would have liked.
It really didn’t make an impression on Mitchell when Fat Bob got into the car without waiting for the door to be unlocked. The faint popping sounds from beneath the seats were all but drowned out by Jarvis’s mindless chatter. Was that a pebble on the gas pedal beneath his foot? Mitchell pressed down on the pedal and started the car. A burst of skunk odor enveloped them.
“What the fuck, dude,” Jarvis exclaimed.
“Stink bombs,” Fat Bob shouted. “They’s stink bombs in your car!”
The car doors flew open, and the three boys leapt into the street, eyes watering.
“Gotta leave your car here, dude,” Jarvis said. “Can’t drive it home like that.”
“How’d stink bombs get into my car,” Kazense asked angrily. “One a you dorks drop somethin’ outta your pockets?”
His two friends shook their heads.
“Damn! Well I can’t leave my car here overnight. Someone’s liable to do somethin’ worse. Just have ta drive with the windows down. Air it out in my driveway over night.”
“Sorry, dude. But I’d rather walk home,” Fat Bob said.
“Think I’ll call my brother from the restaurant,” Jarvis said. “See if he’ll come get me. Hey, aincha gonna wait?”
But Kazense was already behind the wheel. The tires squealed as he drove off, leaving the minions behind him.












Bens

Kelsey Noble

“Allegra, look over there,” Skye leaned in to talk to me then pointed at somebody across the room. “Isn’t that the guy that came up and talked to you after the poetry reading last week?”
“I don’t see anybody that looks even remotely familiar. Where are you looking?”
Skye pointed again and Allegra’s eyes landed on the guy Skye was thinking of.
“That is the guy that talked to me afterwards. He was an okay guy.”
The girls’ friend Chad walked up to them, drinks in hand. They quickly relieved him of the beverages. “Hey ladies! How’s it going? Enjoying the party? Having a little female gossip time are we?”
“Chad, do you know the blond guy over there?”
“That tall, muscular drink of water? That’s Brendan. We’ve been friends since high school. Why do you ask?”
“This is girl gossip,” Skye replied, sticking her tongue out at Chad.
“Girl, puh-leez, you are talking to Chad! I need as much girl gossip as the rest of you females. In fact, I need it more! Straight guys do not dish.”
“Allegra’s into him.”
“I am not. You’re the one that started it.”
The three of them looked startled when they noticed that Brendan was headed over. Allegra groaned inwardly. They obviously all looked guilty. Brendan would know that they had been talking about him for sure.
“Chad! How’s it going?”
“It’s going pretty good. These are my friends, Skye and Allegra,” Chad pointed to both of them.
Brendan shook hands with both of them but kept his eyes on Allegra even as Chad and Skye kept gabbing. Allegra tried looking away but Brendan kept staring at her. She glanced sideways at Skye. Skye winked at her—their signal that nothing was on her face and things were going good. She tried to relax but couldn’t shake that Brendan was still gazing at her.
Allegra was used to being Skye’s sidekick wherever they went. It wasn’t that she was ugly or that Skye was exceptionally pretty. Allegra accepted her short, light brown hair, smattering of freckles, and filled out figure. She could call herself cute without feeling like a snob. But there was something about Skye that guys just couldn’t get enough of. Maybe it was her light brown, creamy skin. Maybe it was her radically bright purple hair. Maybe it was her skinny figure or her unique style. Allegra wasn’t quite sure what made Skye so irresistible—but there was no denying it. Guys fell under a spell when they came near Skye. Allegra didn’t blame her. It was just weird that Brendan was still looking at her in such an intense way.
Her cell phone beeped in her pocket with a text message alert. She ignored it and began thinking. She didn’t know where the night would take her. Maybe she would like this guy. Maybe he would like her. She took another sip of her drink. At this point, nothing could hurt.

“Beep! Beep! Beep!” Allegra opened her eyes to search for her phone. She looked at the screen and realized it was the alarm that she had set before she and Skye went out last night. She sat up on the couch that she had slept on. Skye was just coming down the hallway from the bathroom.
“Morning,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here and go eat breakfast.”
“Okay,” Allegra mumbled back.
The girls drove to the restaurant in Skye’s car.
“Don’t leave me hanging. What happened last night?”
Allegra looked out the window to avoid the question. What did happen last night, she thought to herself. She rolled down the window to let the cool morning breeze wash over her.
“Allegra, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just trying to figure out what happened. We wound up in one of the bedrooms. And we were making out which was fine. But then things got a little heavier but it was still nothing serious. I ended up, you know, doing stuff though.”
“Did you have sex? Or just give him a blowjob?”
“The second one.”
“You can’t even say it, but you can do it?”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
“If it makes you uncomfortable to hear it and say it then why did you do it?”
“I thought he was just kidding. And I think he thought I was just kidding. We were just calling each other’s bluffs until something happened. He thought I was too innocent.”
“I thought you were too innocent too,” Skye commented.
“I think that’s why I did it, you know? I’m just sick of people thinking that I’m this innocent little thing that can’t handle sex. But I can. And it’s not just talk. I’ve proved it,” she ended her mini-speech triumphantly.
“Good luck,” Skye said resignedly.

Allegra rolled over and looked at her glowing, vibrating cell phone. She attempted to focus her eyes on the screen. The words blurred under the gaze of her sleepy eyes. She flipped it open.
“Hello?” Her voice was held down by grogginess.
“Hey, what’s up?” The voice on the other end sounded too awake for two in the morning.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Brendan.”
“Oh,” she sighed and rolled onto her back. She flopped her arm over her eyes and tried to concentrate on staying awake.
“Yeah, is this a bad time?”
“Not really. I was kinda sleeping though.”
“Oh, my bad.”
“It’s okay. What did you need?”
“Not so much something I need, but something I want.”
“Um, okay,” she mumbled. “Come on over. Just walk on in. The door is unlocked.”
“Cool, I’ll see you in a little bit.”
Allegra let the phone snap shut. She desperately wanted to just roll over and go back to sleep but instead she climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. Her reflection stared back at her. Not bad, she thought to herself. She ran a brush through her hair and scrubbed at her teeth with her toothbrush. Above the toilet in the bathroom cabinet she reached for an oil-absorbing sheet and ran it over her face to make sure she was presentable.
She went back to her bedroom and straightened up the bed. In a few short minutes the sheets were straight, the blanket was folded back, and nearly every pillow she had lay at the head of the bed in a big pile.
The door opened and she could hear Brendan take off his shoes before tip-toeing through the apartment. Allegra stood in the bathroom doorway.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re looking good.”

Allegra heard the phone in the kitchen ringing. She dashed through the apartment and grabbed it right before the answering machine picked up.
“Hello,” she answered.
“You’re late.”
“Skye, I’m not late. I have ten minutes before we’re supposed to meet at the restaurant.”
“Yes, but I’m willing to bet that you aren’t ready to leave. And it will take you at least five minutes to drive here.”
“Then why are you calling me and interrupting the process?”
“Because I know you love me and I love to do it,” Skye laughed.
“I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can. I’m just running a little late.”
“Okay.”
Allegra walked into the bedroom. She pulled the blanket back. Cold air immediately hit Brendan.
“You need to leave now,” she said firmly after seeing one of his eyes pop open momentarily.
“Why?”
“I’m leaving now. Besides, you weren’t supposed to spend the night.”
“I still don’t understand that rule.”
“Because, Brendan, we are not in a relationship. It’s not cool for you to sleep over. We are friends with benefits. That’s it. Now get out of my bed.”
“Okay, okay.” He was achingly slow about leaving but finally Allegra was able to lock the door and head to the restaurant to have lunch with Skye.
After they were seated and had ordered the girl talk began.
“Why were you running late?”
“I overslept. I was supposed to wake up early and do some homework before lunch, but that definitely didn’t happen.”
“So, what did you do last night?”
“I tried to go to bed relatively early but I was woken up by a two a.m. booty call.”
“Ah, one of those. Brendan?”
“Yes,” she sighed heavily.
“You don’t sound too happy about it.”
“We’ve been friends with benefits for six months.”
“And?”
“Well, I just thought it would turn into something more.”
“Sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but that’s not what happens with bens. You don’t become something more. You stay friends with bens. That’s it. Are you becoming attached to him?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m just sick of the constant booty calls. I mean, it’s nice sometimes. I like being detached about it sometimes. But at other times I just want somebody that will take me out to dinner before we do stuff, you know?”
“Well, is the sex good?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have a decision to make. You can choose to keep ignoring your feelings, or you can break things off with Brendan and ignore your urges.” Although she was being serious Skye gave a little giggle. It was hard to think of sweet Allegra with urges and a friend with benefits. Skye could remember Allegra two years ago at freshman orientation, innocent and naïve. A few things had changed since then. But it was still difficult to think that Allegra was actually becoming ‘experienced.’
“I don’t know. He is a good guy. I mean, he actually does seem to care a little bit about me. But the problem is he doesn’t follow my rules.”
“What do you mean, ‘rules?’”
“I want one hour advanced notice, he can’t sleep over, we can’t call each other pet names, and if he sleeps with other people then we don’t talk about it. And absolutely no kissing on the lips—before, during, or after. None. Those are my rules. I want to keep things simple.”
“Honey, you’re in a relationship that can barely be defined. It’s going to get complicated. It’s hard to draw the lines, to see the boundaries...putting rules on the situation may seem like a good idea in your head, but in reality it’s obvious that they’re going to get broken.”
“Why do you say that?” Allegra asked with a whine in her voice.
“I think that if you play it cool, then maybe he’ll back off a little and you’ll be more relaxed about the situation.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”

Allegra rapidly punched in Brendan’s number into her cell phone and pressed send. She wanted to end it. She had decided. This was the way to go. She needed to break things off with him and move on. She didn’t need all this baggage anymore. Let go, move on, meet new people—that was how things where after a break-up.
He picked up on the first ring.
“We need to talk. Can I come over?”
“Sure. I know what you need to talk about,” he replied. “I’ll clean off the bed.”
She hung up without bothering to correct him.
Whipping into an empty space, she locked the door and walked up the sidewalk to his building. This would be a short trip, Allegra thought to herself. I refuse to waste time. Short, sweet, and to the point.
“Brendan, I’m serious we need to talk,” she announced as soon as he opened the door. She marched past his surprised face and sat down on the couch.
“Okay,” he hesitated before closing the door and sitting in the puffy armchair across from her.
“I can’t do this anymore. This isn’t the way things were meant to be.”
“I think you’re just having a few doubts. Maybe you just need some space to think things over.”
“No, I don’t,” she said softly. “I just can’t deal with this type of friendship, relationship, whatever this is that we’re doing. It’s not that I have feelings for you, and it’s not that I think it’s wrong to just sleep with friends, but this just feels wrong.”
Brendan reached out and stroked her face.
“You don’t like what we have?”
“I like the sex. But you don’t follow the rules.”
“Why do you have the rules?”
“Because I need them,” she said in a melancholic voice. “I like you, but this is too much.”
“Just one last time,” Brendan said, looking deep in her eyes.
“Brendan, no.”
“Come on,” he said in his ever-so persuasive voice. “You know you want to.”
“Brendan,” she said weakly.
He led her down the hallway and laid her down on the bed.
“If we do this then it will never stop.”
“I know,” he stated simply. “I know.”












Steps and Windows, art by Cheryl Townsend

Steps and Windows, art by Cheryl Townsend














Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997)

Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics.
One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.



Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Ed Hamilton, writer

#85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious.
As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.



Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet

I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?


what is veganism?

A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?

This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?

We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444


C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies)

cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.
I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem.
I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.



Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer

The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.


MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.


Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site)

I just checked out the site. It looks great.



Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs)

Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool.

(on “Hope Chest in the Attic”)
Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.



Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies)

The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!



Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.


Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)

I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.



The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)

Brian B. Braddock, WrI passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.


Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.


Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)

Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!



the UNreligions, NONfamily-priented literary and art magazine


The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

copyright

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.

Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

email

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.



Children, Churches and Daddies
the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine
Scars Publications and Design

ccandd96@scars.tv
http://scars.tv

Publishers/Designers Of
Children, Churches and Daddies magazine
cc+d Ezines
The Burning mini poem books
God Eyes mini poem books
The Poetry Wall Calendar
The Poetry Box
The Poetry Sampler
Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters
Reverberate Music Magazine
Down In The Dirt magazine
Freedom and Strength Press forum
plus assorted chapbooks and books
music, poery compact discs
live performances of songs and readings

Sponsors Of
past editions:
Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest
Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest
Poetry Calendar Contest
current editions:
Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites)
Collection Volumes

Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment.
Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design, 829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books.
To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.