Eritis sicut dei Milos Petrovic I have got plenty of wasted time And fresh figure for the new carvings (you will have become hornlike)

THE PEEPING TOM © 6/27/04 Connie Vigil Platt The television newscaster was talking about a county fair showing a Ferris wheel in the background when he switched in mid sentence to announce that a Peeping Tom had been seen in residential neighborhoods. “All women no, change that to everybody should be on the alert to watch for this low life. He has been seen sneaking around looking in windows. Seven houses have been broken into and all of the women were alone at the time. When he is sure a woman is by herself, he will break in and tie her up with her own pantyhose and rob his victims. He always uses pantyhose. Please be on the lookout for this perpetrator of innocent women’s safety. There has been a run on pet stores for guard dogs due to these incidents. The owner of Pets Inc. says, “I can’t get enough dogs to meet the demand.” The announcer went on to say, “Women out there arm yourselves with something and be prepared to protect yourself. This is a crime against everyone. You don’t want or need to be the next victim. This person will show no mercy. So you don’t need to show him any. Now good night and be careful.” Melanie was listening intently, absorbed in the story, when she heard a blood-curdling scream and than a loud bang coming from the bathroom. There was only one thing that made that kind of thump. That was definitely the sound of a body falling. Melanie jumped from the couch where she had been lying comfortably wrapped in a blanket, untangled her legs from the coverlet and ran to the next room. The sound had undeniably come from the bathroom. Her roommate of two years, Brandi, had gone to take a long luxurious bubble bath. Brandi ran out of the room with a towel wrapped around her dripping body, and bumped into Melanie causing them both to slip on the wet floor and fall in a heap in the hall ”What happened? What’s wrong?” Melanie asked when she could get herself straightened out. “I saw him! I think I killed him, I didn’t know he would be so big.” Brandi sobbed. “Saw Him? Saw who? Did you see the Peeping Tom?” “Peeping Tom? Is that what you call him? Look in there!” Brandi pointed to the white tile floor, as green liquid oozed from a broken shampoo bottle. “Oh my gosh! You’ve knocked his head off, Brandi! You’re a stone cold killer! He is pretty big though.” Melanie was completely amazed. “Well I didn’t mean too. What do you want me to do, sew it back on?” “Brandi what a ghoul you are. That would be out of the question.” “What are we going to do?” Brandi asked. “Not we my dear. You. You’re going to have to get rid of the what’s left of him. I don’t want anything to do with it.” Melanie told her. “I can’t touch it. He has such hairy legs. What will we tell people?” Brandi shuddered. “We don’t have to tell them anything if you’ll get rid of him. Nobody has to know. It isn’t as if he’s a little green man from outer space you know.” “How do you know? This kind of creature might live in space. You don’t know.” Brandi took a step toward the open door. “Be careful you don’t step on broken glass. You don’t want to go to the emergency room and explain how you cut your foot do you?” Melanie told her. Brandi shivered and reached for a tissue. “I certainly don’t want anyone to know we have cockroaches this big.” She said as she flushed the remains down the drain. The next night as both girls sat on the couch to watch television, the newscaster announced, “ The local police have made known that the Peeping Tom that has been terrorizing single women all over town has turned himself in. He claimed while he was watching the window of a bathroom he over heard two women talking about knocking an intruder’s head off and sewing it back on. That made him decide that it was too dangerous to keep on peeking in windows. He realized he has a problem and wants to get the help he needs. He said he didn’t want to get his head detached from his body like they were talking about.” Melanie and Brandi laughed gleefully together when they heard the news. “Maybe we did something for the good of the entire town.” Brandi said.

NERVE WRACKING Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Once my leg is patched up I will be out of here. Please don’t ask me any personal questions. It is too nerve wracking talking to so many strangers. It’s 2000 something or the nineties. If you know what the date is, why are you asking an old man for the date? It is too nerve wracking. I have no clue why I’m being kept here for so long. Patch up my leg so I can walk out of here.

one forty-five Matthew Josh Jim woke up staring at the ceiling and knew immediately that it was going to be one of those nights when he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. What time was it? The extra-bright digital clock to his left read 11:32. He had slept for less than an hour. Jim waited. Maybe he would fall asleep. The trick was to stop thinking about falling asleep. Then he would wake up at 5:45 ready for work and he wouldn’t even remember this moment. The trick was to stop thinking about falling asleep. The clock flashed 11:33. The trick was to stopÉ He threw the sheets off him and stood up. He would change location. That had worked before—put him right to sleep. He dragged the sheet from his bed down the stairs and flopped onto the couch. TV or no TV? He grabbed the remote and hit power. David Letterman. That wasn’t quite boring enough, but Jim turned it down as low as he could but still hear it, convincing himself that he wouldn’t watch it. Eyes closed, listening to David Letterman, dog licking cheekÉ Tyler, the dog, assumed that if Jim was out of bed, than it was time to go out. Jim must have forgotten. Jim threw the sheet back and staggered to the door and leash. It was almost summer, but the air outside was at least ten degrees cooler than the air inside. Tyler walked Jim around his usual path, marking all of the trees he had marked just two hours ago. Jim tugged him back into the house, hung the leash, and landed back on the sofa. David Letterman. Maybe there was something sexier on that would help him fall asleep. That worked, he convinced himself. One of the channels was showing a movie that seemed like it was filmed exclusively in bikinis, but that was the best he could find. It was after twelve. Crime show marathon. That stuck. He had seen them all already, so there was no way he was going to get sucked into the plot. Jim thought he might have slept a little. His eyes hurt. He thought of exercising, but wasn’t willing to give up on the chance that he might sleep. He thought of eating, but that too required him to get off the sofa. 1:00. He closed his eyes and listened to the new crime unfold on the screen. His eyes opened. He had slept. He felt like he was still sleeping, and if he went back upstairs he might just fall right back to sleep safely next to his alarm until it woke him up. He dragged the sheet up the stairs, flopped into the bed, and looked at the clock. 1:45. He slept. When Jim’s eyes opened again, he noted that the room was bright, the sun peaking through the curtains. Only, the sun shouldn’t have been peaking through the curtains at 5:45. Most mornings, he could still see the moon as he walked Tyler around the edge of the yard. He checked the clock. 1:45. How could the sun be up at 1:45? Jim swore, jumped out of bed and grabbed his cell phone. 6:50. He could make it. He should have been in the car a half an hour ago, but he could make it. Into the shower. Tyler followed him anxiously, sure that Jim had forgotten to take him out first. As Jim showered, he angrily cursed the clock. It had a back-up battery, and wasn’t blinking anyway, so the power hadn’t gone out. Still toweling himself, Jim went to the clock and checked the alarm. He had set it. Now it read 1:51. So it was running. Why had it started running now? Jim left the alarm clock alone. Fifteen minutes later, he was hungry, but in his car. 1:45. Jim was sure he had checked the clock downstairs before he went upstairs, and it had said 1:45 too. All day he thought of ways that he would test his alarm clock when he got home, and he rubbed his hands together with glee when he thought about setting a back-up alarm to make sure it didn’t happen again. He congratulated himself for not being tired all day. For some reason his ear was itching. Jim was sure that some bug had gotten on it while he overslept. When he laid his head down that night, he was ready to sleep and confident that one of the alarms he had set would wake him up at 5:45. Each clock was precisely programmed to match up by the second. He slept. 1:30. Exactly. Jim had that feeling again. He found himself outside with the Tyler a few minutes later. It would be 1:45 again soon. What was wrong with him? Why was he sweating so much? Why couldn’t he sleep? He was back in bed at 1:43, staring at the alarm, waiting for it to turn 1:45 and then 1:46. The alarm woke him up at 5:45, followed by the alarm on his phone and the alarm he had dragged into the hallway from the office. His stomach ached like he had been doing sit-ups all night. He rubbed his ribs and wondered if he had been awake to see the clock change or not. Maybe he had dreamed the whole thing. Downstairs, the stereo was on, softly playing static between stations. It wasn’t the first time Jim had forgotten the stereo when he went to bed. His friends at work got a kick out of his lack of sleep. Tylenol PM, they said wisely. Jim told him that was exactly what he would do, and even stopped at the drug store to get those Tylenol PMs, but forgot them when he found the cereal on sale. When he woke up, he knew without looking that it was 1:45, or close enough that the difference didn’t matter. Jim tried not to move, determined to convince Tyler that he was still asleep. Why was he waking up? Nerves. He had known someone who woke her self up every day without an alarm. Biological clock or Circadian rhythm or something. How do you turn that kind of alarm off? He suddenly noticed that the bottoms of his feet ached like they had been rubbed raw. That was silly. If he looked, Tyler would know he was awake. Tyler would get used to these nocturnal outings and he would never be able to break the habit. Maybe Tyler was waking him up at 1:45. Maybe there was a car going home each night around this time that made a lot of noise that he just missed hearing. Why did his feet hurt so badly? The pain was creeping into his calf, begging to be rubbed or scratched or something. Jim was suddenly sure that some disease-ridden rodent or South American killer beetle had invaded his bedroom and was the secret reason behind his failure to sleep. He reached up, clicked the light, and threw back the sheet, sure that he was about to uncover a hideous mauling. He envisioned his feet encased in a swarm of small black bugs with tiny piercing mouths. Nothing. The pain faded almost immediately. He looked at the bottom of each foot, rubbing his hands along their dry surface. They weren’t even red. Unlike his eyes—he knew they were red. The rest of him might persevere, but his eyes were killing him. Tyler’s nose peaked over the edge of the bed. Jim reached up, turned off the light, and pushed Tyler’s nose away from him. He would not be lead outside. He would ignore the dog. He would ignore the dog. Tyler harrumphed himself back onto his cushion in the corner, curling into a tight angry ball. Jim slept. Jim had already noticed it before the first compliment of the day. He had lost weight. His pants fit a little better. One of his married friends gushed behind the safety of her wedding ring about how good he looked and how he had such a good tan, which was bullshit. He told them he had been eating better, working out a little. He almost convinced himself. He certainly wasn’t tired, so maybe his body was adjusting to the way it was supposed to live. Not everyone needed eight hours of sleep. He had read about a woman who slept ninety minutes every night. Doctors had studied her and everything. They said she was perfectly fine. She was a librarian and spent all that extra time reading—almost a book a night. Imagine what he would be able to do if he could start using that time instead of laying in bed and staring at the dark ceiling. Jim thought he might just try to stay up, but when the time came to sleep, there was no denying it, he was tired. He fell asleep without even turning the light off, and he was sure that it was the light that woke him up. He glanced at the clock. Damn 1:29. Close. He reached up and pulled the light cord. Darkness. It was always dark enough at first that he couldn’t even see his ceiling. Jim played a little game with himself when the lights went off, to keep his eyes closed so that he could pretend it really was that perfect sleepy dark in the room. Where was Tyler? Jim was happy that the dog had learned that his wakefulness did not necessarily mean they were going out. Eyes closed. He wasn’t going to check. He heard a noise downstairs and figured Tyler must be getting water—the dog had just missed his sudden awakening. Eyes closed. No checking, he reminded himself, determined to play his game. But that feeling was in him now. There was something wrong, and he knew what it was. He felt it curl in his stomach and a hotness rush up into his chest and face. Eyes closed and breath held. Someone was in the house. Someone was downstairs in his house. He opened his eyes. Was Tyler in his bed? It was too dark. Was that Tyler or the old blanket he left on the dog’s cushion? If someone was in the house, should he leave the light on or off? In his last apartment, he had kept a baseball bat next to the bed. He didn’t have a gun. He didn’t even have a knife upstairs. Golf clubs. Were they in the office or the back seat of his car? His straining ears didn’t hear anything. He reached for the light, pulled the string. There was something there. Just for a moment. Something right in front of him standing in the doorway, and then it was gone. A man. He had run. Jim flew out of bed. He raced to the stairs, screaming threats. I called the police. I’ll kill you. Get out. Freeze. I’ve got a gun. There was no one there, but he hadn’t heard the door. Tyler? Tyler wasn’t in his bed. Jim stared into the dark living room, his earlier bravado dead. Was someone hiding? He had a sudden vision of finding Tyler hurt, maybe dead. He reached for the lights, felt like something was right in front of him. When the lights came on, he would see it right in front of him. He turned the lights on to an empty living room, searched the kitchen, the bathroom. Nothing. Had there been someone at the bedroom door? He couldn’t remember any features. Had he just panicked? He hadn’t heard anyone, and there was nowhere to hide down here. He went to the backdoor and turned on all the outside lights. There was Tyler, sitting on the porch. Jim opened the door to let Tyler in and then locked it back. He went for the phone in the kitchen. There’s someone in my house. I don’t know. Quick. I don’t know. I think so. They put my dog outside. I saw someone. I don’t know. The police, two of them, were not happy. They searched the house. No signs of forced entry. Everything locked with deadbolts. Anything missing? Can you describe the intruder? You’re not sure? About 1:45? Jim sat in his living room with all the lights on until it was time to go to work. The married woman thought he looked sick. Just yesterday he was tan and now he was pale. And thinner. Maybe he should go to the doctor. Jim left all the lights on again, sat in his living room with a kitchen knife and Tyler’s cushion newly placed next to the couch. He fell asleep until 1:40, he noted. They might come back. He felt so stupid for having left the lights on. No one would come up to the house if he left all the lights on, and he wanted to see who it was, didn’t he? Jim went through the house, turning off each light, and then stood by the windows, alternately peaking through the blinds at the front of the house and the blinds in the back. Tyler watched him anxiously from the cushion. Work. This time he got the Tylenol PM from the drugstore and took them right at 9:00 so that he would be asleep before ten. All the doors were locked, triple-checked. He had the knife. Tyler was with him in the room. He took the pills and read a story from a magazine about a man who hijacked a plane with a water gun in China. He was asleep before he found out that the plane crashed. It was hard to breathe when he woke up. Something was on him. He opened his eyes, but there was a hand over them and over his mouth. He gagged, jerked. His heart was kicking through his chest. His legs flailed. He was able to roll away onto the floor, but away from the light. He saw the thing across the bed for just a moment, a kid maybe—small, but strong. He grabbed the first thing he could and threw it across the room. The alarm clock’s cord was wrapped around the bed stand’s leg. It snapped back, hit Jim in the head with 1:45 on the screen. The thing was gone. Jim got back in bed, pulled up his sheet, and waited for his heart to stop beating so hard. In the darkness, he heard Tyler change positions on the cushion. He forgot to call out of work, and didn’t answer the phone when they called him. He put everything against the doors and windows—couch, shelves, tablesÉ and slept when he could force himself. Tyler paced. Jim assured the dog, but wouldn’t take him out. Tyler messed the office and was ashamed, but Jim didn’t mention it. He waited when night came. 11:45. 12:45. 1:40. This time he had left all the lights on. He would see it coming. 1:41. The lights went out anyway. 1:42. Jim grabbed his knife and poked at the air in front of him, back against the wall. 1:43. Something moved in the opposite corner. 1:44. It was on him. Tyler barked at his feet. The thing, the man, had wrapped its legs around Jim’s whole body at the waist. Its hand was on his face though. At his mouth. Pushing in. Jim tried clamping down on the arm, but the skin was like wet plastic, sliding in. Jim’s arm brought the knife around wildly. He stabbed himself in the side, dropped the knife. The arm was down his throat now. Jim’s scream was dead in his chest as the rest of the creature disappeared. But Jim knew where it was now. 1:45. He saw reflected from a mirror.

AN UNSEEN SUBSTANCE Anthony Gee And if you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could command a mountain into the ocean. I am convinced of my discrepancies and all else requires an incredible effort. The more I dredge this ocean where a mountain should be drowned, the harder it is to fathom: here I am with faith the size of a bowling ball and my lips unable to work. In matters of depth and distance, in measures of dimensions that tick and tock and conform to rule, I have a song and a prayer and desires, all of them twisting like hoses unheld, I have crossed all my wires and now there’s no single signal there’s no next minute. My fingers are not digits. My prayers are sneezes muffled in my hands, if I could touch heaven I’d leave them there.

untitled Umesh Ghosh The things that I do beyond my sensation at every moment is far more hard than that I fear to attempt. The earth is moving round the sun but I don’t realize. I do these things that I know I mustn’t do, bad or good. I even don’t work for anyone except me. I shame at the people doing misdeeds. But don’t want to realize I’m in the same path. I think myself as the best and the most powerful. Yet I’ve no power except love. I think I’m doing the right generally. I forget what wrongs I’ve done. That’s because I’m the slave of me. And I can’t prosper until I win over it. Actually the mind doesn’t want to understand.

The Fluttering Curtain Raud Kennedy Night whispers ride the breeze across the stale pillow to my ear, breaths of a fading summer from fallen leaves disturbed by footsteps in the night. I wake, muted anxiety rising like the bubbles in a bottle of seltzer. I’m afraid to stay in one place too long for fear I might catch up with myself.

INHALING LOST SOULS, DRINKING CORPSES, EATING A CUP OF INSANITY Mel Waldman Inside the Office of Oblivion, I inhale lost souls for breakfast, drink corpses for lunch, and eat a cup of insanity for supper. What does it mean to be a shrink in the House of the Dead? Enmeshed in my daily routines of madness, I sit with freaks who dance naked in my psyche. Inside my subterranean office six stories below Grand Central Station, I listen to dark confessions. I am not a priest or rabbi. Merely a therapist banished to this wasteland of darkness, the very first of my kind to explore these depths. It is very hot down here. Of course, my anonymous, alien boss has given me an air conditioner. But it is a broken-down piece of machinery-weak, ineffective, and antediluvian. There’s also a rusty fan in the corner of this steamy, rectangular room. Almost defunct, it will melt in a poignant moment of existential angst, in this seething cesspool where human debris dissolve in a cauldron of despair, disappearing inside the invisible office where I exist. Now, a young girl drifts into the Office of Oblivion, floating across the foggy room like a corpse at sea in sweet phantasmagoria. Yet she is still alive and desperately sucking on the polluted air, exhaling her moribund soul and other toxins. I inhale the poisonous gas emitted from her parched lips and wait. The circular silence is like a noose separating and connecting us, seducing us with death. In my timeless office, she will eventually reveal the cutting grief that severed her soul-the sweeping sadness that led her through a dark labyrinth to an underground guillotine- the Office of Oblivion-to find me-and be safe within the shadows of an invisible room. She will reveal... And afterwards, one by one, the others will drift into the Office of Oblivion. What does it mean? Don’t know. I sit and wait for them. They will come, like tomorrow, and another day at the office, inhaling lost souls, drinking corpses, eating a cup of insanity.

THE HONORABLE FATHER Mel Waldman December 1945 The boy worshipped his father who was a God-fearing man. Little John Turner thought his father was the beginning and the end. Mother told him that Daddy was an important man. “Your father helped win the war!” she told Little John. “What did Daddy do?” asked the boy who glowed with pride. Mother replied: “It’s a secret, Little John. A big secret. But our wonderful country owes a lot to your father. John Turner, Sr. is a great man!” “Can I tell the kids at school?” “What?” “That Daddy helped win the war.” “Well, it’s a secret, Little John. And we shouldn’t...” “Oh, Mom! What should I tell the kids?” “Tell them that your father is an important man. He works for the government.” The Turners worshipped at St. John’s in Georgetown, St. John’s Church in Lafayette Square, and the Washington National Cathedral on the crown of Mount St. Alban. When the Turner family went to church, John Turner, Sr. gave little John bits of wisdom which delighted the boy. One day when the family entered St. John’s Church in Lafayette Square, John Turner, Sr. asked Little John: “Do you know what Admiral George Dewey said about St. John’s?” “No, Dad.” “Should I tell you, son?” “Please, Dad.” “Get ready, son. This is sweet.” “I’m ready, Dad.” “Admiral George Dewey said: ‘My greatest and dearest personal ambition is to conquer Manilla and to be allowed to live in order that I may return to pass the plate at St. John’s.’” “That’s real sweet, Dad. Real sweet.” The following Sunday the Turners went to the Washington National Cathedral. As they entered the church, John Turner, Sr. announced: “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all people.” Momentarily, John Turner, Sr. paused and smiled at Little John and his wife Mary. He asked: “Where...?” Little John cried out: “Matthew 21:13, and Congressional Charter of 1893.” John Turner, Sr. was very proud, as were Little John and Mary. Indeed, the Turner family was God-fearing, all-American, and united. A strong bond of God, love, and faith kept the Turners centered and conflict-free. So it went-for one more year. November 1946 Thanksgiving The Turners stood in front of St. John’s in Lafayette Square. John Turner, Sr., a thin man of average height, had an air of confidence and authority which made him seem bigger than life. With his penetrating gray-green eyes, he looked at Little John and Mary. He said: “You know, Little John. St. John’s is not the oldest Episcopal church in Washington.” John Turner, Sr. paused. He was a man who believed in the power of silence. “The oldest Episcopal churches are Christ Church on Capitol Hill, St. John’s in Georgetown, and Rock Creek Church, which is out in the country off North Capitol Street.” He paused again and took a deep breath. “These parishes are far apart, Little John. So it was logical...only logical for some of their members to break away. Yes. And...” The silence filled him with a new potency. “And establish a new church downtown. A church destined eventually to become ‘the Church of the Presidents.’” There was a long silence. “Now, let us enter St. John’s and thank God for all He has given us. Let us thank God.” November 1946 On November 30, 1946, John Turner, Sr. was arrested for being a Russian spy. The Turner family was shocked and Little John went into a deep depression. The thirteen-year-old boy was swept away into a private world of fantasy. December 1946 On December 5, 1946, Grandpa Turner suffered a heart attack. A neighbor found him and he was rushed to Roosevelt Hospital. He survived. January 1947 Little John suffered a nervous breakdown. He was secretly taken to a private sanatorium. When people inquired about the boy, the Turner family said he was staying with his grandfather in New York. June 1947 Little John recovered from his mental illness. He stayed with Grandpa Turner in Manhattan for a month. He loved Grandpa Turner almost as much as he loved Father. In his diary, he wrote anguished words. Little John’s Diary June 16, 1947 Grandpa says he believes in Dad’s innocence. I told him I used to believe in Dad. Yes, I used to. Now I just don’t know. The kids called Dad a traitor. The papers are nasty too. Just don’t know. Once, I thought Dad was God. Today, Dad is in jail and on trial. Maybe God is dead. God forgive me for such evil thoughts! God forgive me! Little John’s Diary June 20, 1947 Grandpa confessed to me he was an exa... Exer... He spelled it for me. EXIST... E-X-I-S-T-E-N-T-I-A-L-I-S-T. Wow! I asked him if that meant he was an atheist. He said: “Oh, no, Little John. I am a man of God. A God-fearing Episcopalian. And it’s true that a lot of those E...s are atheists. Plenty of them gave up on God. Still, I like some of their ideas. Yes, Little John. I’ve always been an idea man. A thinker! And the E...s say there’s a difference between Truth and Reality. A very big difference. And there it is! Truth versus Reality! And that’s what this nightmare with your father-my son-is all about. The difference between Truth and Reality.” I was confused. Told Grandpa I didn’t understand. And he just smiled at me. With one of those heart-warming smiles of his. He said: “Bet you don’t understand, Little John. Most folks don’t. So here it is! The Truth is that your father is accused of being a Russian spy. The Truth is-he’s in jail and on trial. The Truth is-he may be found guilty. And people are already talking. Saying nasty things. Terrible things. Truth is all of these things and more...much more. More... Yet Reality is different. Reality is-your father ain’t no Russian spy. Not in his character. And your father-my son-has plenty of C-H-A-R-A-C-T-E-R! So I know he’s innocent. Even if they say he ain’t. Even... I love him. Yes, I love him, Little John. Watched him grow up. Only way he’s a Russian spy is...” Grandpa stopped. Entered this long silence-just like Dad would do-and when he came out of it, he said: “Only way he’s a Russian spy is...if he ain’t!” I looked up at Grandpa and now I was really confused. And he knew it. He kissed me on my forehead and gave me a big hug. “Truth versus Reality, Little John. That’s it in a nutshell.” Little John’s Diary June 30, 1947 Dad is innocent. He is being released today. He is not a Russian spy. The papers say he is a patriotic American. What happened was a terrible mistake based on circumstantial evidence. Okay. So Dad is innocent. But is this Truth or Reality? Maybe Truth and Reality coincide once in a while. Maybe... Little John’s Diary December 25, 1947 We had a normal Christmas today. Last year Dad was in jail. Unreal. Wish it never happened. But...I’m starting to feel close to him again. Grandpa flew in from New York. We had another talk. He told me I was right. Sometimes Truth coincides with Reality. Little John’s Diary January 1, 1948 Dad and I had a long talk. He told me he was never a Russian spy. He asked me if I believed him. I told him I trusted him. I said: “That’s Reality, Dad! Reality!” Little John’s Diary November 5, 1951 Dad and Grandpa had a long talk. Long and...very, very private. Something’s going on. Something. Little John’s Diary November 30, 1951 Dad was shot! Unreal. Why? Who did it? Why? What happened? Dad was shot! He’s in critical condition. I don’t believe this. Five years ago he was arrested for being a Russian spy. Five years ago. Today is the anniversary of that bizarre day. Today. Little John’s Diary December 1, 1951 Dad died at 3 A.M. Little John’s Diary December 2, 1951 The funeral was...killing! Grandpa was there. We spoke privately. Mother seemed far away. Her eyes were vacant and...she hugged me. Yet there was this rending distance. She must be in shock. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll... It’s okay. I’m strong now. Not gonna crack. Gonna join the army. The army! Of course. And when I get out, I’ll... I’ll be like Dad. Little John’s Diary January 1953 I joined the CIA. I was told there’s a dossier on me. There are no secrets. They know everything. Yet they have the fullest confidence... Christ! They even know about my breakdown after Dad’s ... They know I’m strong now and... They know. Little John’s Diary June 16, 1955 I married Betty Johnson. Mother and Grandpa are pleased. She’s the right kind of woman for me. Little John’s Diary August 10, 1956 Joseph was born at 4:40 A.M. Little John’s Diary November 30, 1957 They contacted me. Can’t believe... They want me to be a mole. A Russian spy! They claim Dad was... I don’t believe... Little John’s Diary December 5, 1957 They showed me the proof. Can’t believe... Truth versus Reality? Dad was a mole. A mole! Yet... Little John’s Diary December 24, 1957 They gave me one week to decide. Otherwise... The papers will get copies of the documents. The Turner family is condemned. No matter what I do. No matter! Yet they say I am lucky. I will be a rich man. A rich mole. Little John’s Diary December 25, 1957 Grandpa joined us for Christmas. He looked ill. Told him to take care of himself. He said he was feeling fine. So I didn’t bug him. I confessed! Told him Dad was a Russian spy. Told him. Grandpa smiled sardonically. He whispered: “I know. He was a mole. But he wasn’t.” I was confused. Just didn’t understand. And Grandpa just winked at me. I was swept away. Into the silence which followed. I waited. “Your Dad told me the Truth. He was a mole. But...” I floated in silence. “But he was really working for the CIA. The Reality was... Your Dad-my son-was a triple agent. The CIA ordered him to become a mole. So... Once more-Truth versus Reality. My son kept Reality from me-till the very end. He was afraid they had discovered... He wanted to protect us.” Truth versus Reality. I understood. I inhaled the silence and said: “Did they kill Dad?” “Probably.” “So what should I do?” “Wait a few days. If you don’t hear from Our Side, go see Roger Dawson. He was in charge of your Dad’s operation. He’ll know what to do.” Little John’s Diary December 30, 1957 Our Side never contacted me. I saw Roger Dawson this morning. He told me he’s been waiting for me. Figured I’d contact him once the Russians got to me. Dawson wants me to become a mole. I’ll report to him. Yet the others won’t know. Jones, my immediate supervisor, won’t know. When I asked if the Director would know, Dawson said he was unable to tell me. Why? He could not tell me. Then he said: “We’ll feed the Russians what we want to.” Dawson told me Dad was a great man. “The best agent we ever had,” he said proudly. “He’d want you to continue his work.” I guess I wanted to feel close to Dad. So I agreed. And Dawson said: “Welcome aboard.” Little John’s Diary December 31, 1957 I contacted the Russians. I became a mole. Dawson knows. And Grandpa. The rest of the Turner family is innocent. Betty and Joseph and Mom will never know. Never! Little John’s Diary December 5, 1958 Grandpa passed away. Yet he’s deep inside... Just like Dad. I feel his presence. Little John’s Diary December 25, 1958 A sad Christmas. I pray for Dad and Grandpa. Mom, Betty, and Joseph are by my side. Little John’s Diary December 25, 1968 Another Christmas. I’m proud of the Turner family. Little Joseph is becoming a man. Someday... No! Don’t want him to join the CIA. It’s no life... No! Little John’s Diary May 30, 1970 Roger Dawson died of brain cancer this morning. Surreptitiously spread through his brain. Just like the CIA. Wonder who will replace him. Little John’s Diary June 5, 1970 They contacted me. Bob Forrest is taking Roger’s place. So it goes. Little John’s Diary August 10, 1974 Joseph tried to enlist in the army. He was rejected. Classified 4F. He’s got a heart murmur. I worry about him. He’s fragile. Well, at least he won’t be following in my footsteps. Want him to live a normal life. Little John’s Diary September 5, 1974 Joseph has decided to go into computers. That’s good. The boy’s a weakling but he’s got a good brain. Little John’s Diary November 1976 Can’t relate to that boy. We live in different worlds. Well, at least... He’s close to Betty. Yet Dad and I were inseparable. Grandpa and I were tight. Never was close to Mom. Neither was Dad. Christ! Is Joseph gonna make it? Little John’s Diary November 1978 Joseph is a freak. With his computers and... He’s close to Betty. Very close. But he never goes out with... Does he like women? Little John’s Diary November 1980 Been keeping these diaries for ages. Locked away where no one can get to them. No CIA agent or Russian spy will ever find them. They are my Reality! Yet I’ve been thinking... Should I destroy them? No! I can’t! They are my fortress against the Truth. The Truth is such a damn lie! Little John’s Diary December 5, 1981 I will destroy the diaries after Christmas. Feel close to them. They anchor me and give me a sense of self. Self. And I’m thinking of divorcing Betty. Nothing there anymore. Maybe there never was. Little John’s Diary December 10, 1981 Mom spoke to me and insisted I fix things up with Betty. Divorce is unacceptable, she says. Don’t know. Wish Dad were here. And Grandpa. They’d know what to do. Little John’s Diary December 25, 1981 A magnificent Christmas. Starting to feel close to Mom. We talked for hours. The way it was with Dad and Grandpa. I’m going to make the marriage work. I’ll fix it! And Mom reassured me Joseph is normal. Thank God! He’s a computer freak and ... Never goes out with women. He’s got this mad passion and... Little John’s Diary January 15, 1982 I don’t trust Forrest. Think he’s a mole. If I’m right, we’re all in a lot of trouble. Little John’s Diary January 30, 1982 Don’t trust Forrest! Christ! What if Roger Dawson was a mole? What if I’ve been working for the Russians all along? What if Dad was a Russian spy? Then he fooled Grandma! Or he was fooled! Like me. What...? Hard to separate Truth from Reality. Little John’s Diary February 5, 1982 Don’t trust Forrest! Maybe... I should destroy the diaries. Yet... They anchor me. They keep me sane! If I destroy them, I may obliterate my soul. Reality is obscure. Little John’s Diary February 10, 1982 They’re onto me. Watching me. Won’t lead them to the diaries. Got this secret place. Nobody knows. Even if they trail me... Little John’s Diary February 11, 1982 Do the diaries exist? I mean... Truth versus Reality? Are they out there or in my mind? Little John’s Diary February 15, 1982 They’re closing in. Not much time to put things in order. Forrest is the mole. So whom am I working for? Which side am I on? Little John’s Diary February 16, 1982 Can’t breathe! They’re close. Very close. Forrest is super cool. Pretends he’s one of us. Got to do something. Something! But What? Little John’s Diary February 17, 1982 Had a talk with Joseph. There’s no connection. None! He’s a freak. I’m the loneliest man in the universe. Little John’s Diary February 18, 1982 Mom says I look troubled. Yes! Yes! Yes! Little John’s Diary February 19, 1982 Something terrible is going to happen. Happen! Happen! Little John’s Diary February 20, 1982 Went to see Mom. Told her someone was planning to kill me. Maybe the same person who killed Dad. She tried to comfort me. She couldn’t. Told Mom I kept secret diaries. “They explain everything,” I revealed. When she asked me where I kept them, I said: “A secret place.” She smiled at me. Guess she understood. Got to protect Mom and Joseph and Betty. Little John’s Diary February 21, 1982 Any day now and... Little John’s Diary February 22, 1982 Tomorrow... Tomorrow, I’m going to see Forrest. Gonna make him confess... Gonna... On February 23, 1982, John Turner, Jr., a.k.a. Little John murdered Bob Forrest. Then he committed suicide. On March 5, 1982, the mole met Joseph Turner in front of St. John’s Church in Lafayette Square. They went for a short walk. They stopped in front of the Jackson statue. The mole said: “There is in Washington, in Lafayette Square...a statue of Andrew Jackson, riding a horse with one of the most beautiful tails in the world.” “Wallace Stevens, ‘The Necessary Angel,’” said Joseph Turner. “Very good, Joseph.” “So my grandfather and father were Russian spies?” “Yes. That’s the Truth! We’ve got pictures and documents. Would you like to see them?” “No. Not now. Later, perhaps.” “We want you, Joseph.” “Why?” “With your expertise in computers...” “I could be helpful?” “Invaluable!” “Moscow must be hungry for high tech.” “It is.” “What if I say no?” Okay.” “What if I turn you in?” “You won’t.” “That’s right. I won’t.” “Joseph, you can walk away.” “I can.” “Or join us. Now! High tech has raised the stakes and broadened the game. The Silicon Valley microchips are now as valuable as NATO war plans.” “Of course.” “We need you, Joseph.” “I see.” “How does it feel to be needed?” “Great!” A long silence stretched between them. Joseph looked quizzically at the mole. “Why did you join them?” “There’s a lot of money in this. It’s truly the American way. The Russians pay more and there are fringe benefits.” “I see.” “Do you?” “Yes. But I’ll have to think about it.” “We need an answer. Now! They’re waiting.” Momentarily, Joseph looked at the statue. It’s beautiful,” he whispered. A magnificent horse.” “Yes.” “With one of the most beautiful tails in the world.” “Yes.” Joseph smiled at the mole. “So that’s it.” “Yes?” “Tell them I’m joining the team.” “They’ll be very pleased.” “I suppose sp.” “You’ve made an excellent decision.” “Yes. I’m an enterprising young man.” Later, the mole met with the others. One of the Russian spies said: “What will he do when the Americans contact him?” “I will instruct him.” “Will he do what you say?” “Of course. I know him. Absolutely no C-H-A-R-A-C-T-E-R! But plenty of greed. And a desire to be important.” “A familiar theme...” “Yes.” “Very well. Just keep him in line. The rewards will be...” “Plentiful!” December 25, 1982 It was a lonely Christmas for John Turner Jr. was dead. Yet it was a glorious Christmas for Joseph. At last-he was a king! Master of compute rs and Master Spy! Beside him was Mother and Grandma. Mother hinted she’d like a grandson. Grandma Turner told Mother to be patient. Then she winked at Joseph. He understood. While decorating the Tree, Grandma reminisced about the day she murdered Grandpa. John Turner Sr. had ignored her. Made her feel insignificant. Invisible! Only the boys were important. The women in the family were second class. So one day, she exploded. The Russians found out and recruited her. Offered her the world. And made her feel like... A Queen! Momentarily, she gazed at Joseph. The boy was under her wing and she smiled triumphantly. Truth versus Reality? Who knows? Joseph grinned sardonically.

She Told Me Gerald Zipper What to believe when you want so much to believe she told me she loved me I was her entire world I devoured it like a locust in a famine she told me I had to change I twisted turned and rebirthed she told me I had to want to be different I had to want to suffer I pretended and she pretended too.

FOUR SUBURBAN CHURROS Alveraz Ricardez fam-packed rusted volvo under patriot sun the kids; rubber banded jumping beans the wife drives like a thawing chihuahua my eyes roll back; a slow cooked, wet steak wait to cut a deal with the bad breath of traffic I’m rare right now, a nice taste sure to be well-done by san diego, and jerky by tijuana

The shape of grief Theresa Ward When I was a child, my mother wept quietly behind the closed doors and yelled through the open ones. My father was quiet during both the yelling and weeping. When I was older, she sometimes asked me to hold her tears. I grew frustrated that they fell so easily through my fingers. My father watched quietly as I searched for a bowl to contain them. I finally found, hidden in a cupboard, a hand-carved bowl. I hated her for the weakness of tears, for asking me to hold the shape of her grief. I loved the quiet impassiveness of my father’s calm watching. It was only later, I watched quietly, calm and impassive as my father cried over her grave, that I remembered her words, “Please, someone help me.” I wondered if he wished he hadn’t carved the bowl? I wondered if he wished he had been the one to hold her tears?

A prediction from the man in black Benjamin Green Slits of light cut into the darkness. The Plymouth moved forward, because the driver was having trouble seeing the road. It would have been easier if he had full use of his headlights, but wartime restrictions mandated blackout curtains. Marylin Maso put a hand on her husband’s arm, and said, “It’s nice of you to agree to stay with my aunt. She’s been a nervous wreck since the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.” Stanley scowled. “Maybe, but it is going to cost us the rest of our weekly fuel ration.” On the seat between them was a copy of the Chicago Tribune. The banner headline announced the Allied landings at Benghazi. “It’s not like we’re really going to need the car. After all, Gary isn’t a big town.” “Yeah, a wide spot in the road.” “We all need to do our part for the war effort.” Stanley placed his right hand over his heart. “Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition.” Marylin put her right hand over her mouth, and giggled. Then she pointed, and said, “Look! There’s a man by the side of the road!” Stanley squinted, and saw a vague movement. As he drew closer, he could discern a silhouette against the dark. He pulled over to the side of the road, and unrolled his window. The stranger crossed the street, toward their car. He wore a dark grey trenchcoat over a black suit. His fedora was pulled down low over his eyes, hiding his face in the shadows. Stanly briefly wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Then he said, “Evening, sir. You look lost.” “Nope. I just need a ride.” “We’re only going as far as Gary.” The stranger touched his hat. He had large, gnarled hands. “Thank you. I’ll get out at Hammond.” He opened the rear door, and got in. He sank into the rear seat, and seemed to wrap the shadows around him. Marylin tried engaging the stranger in conversation, but he only answered in monosyllables. After a fruitless half hour, she gave up. She leaned over, and whispered to her husband, “Do you have any idea who he is?” He shrugged. He didn’t know, and he would be glad when the stranger was on his way. However, he wasn’t going to say anything with the man in the car. At last, he said, “Here is fine.” Stanly pulled over to the side of the road. The stranger got out, and touched his fedora again. “Thank you for the ride. I’m afraid I don’t have any money to offer you, but I can answer one question or you.” Stanley considered that a minute. “One question, huh?” After another moment of thought, he asked, “When will the war end?” The stranger didn’t miss a beat. “In Europe, or the Pacific?” After a pause, Stanley said, “In Europe.” “It will be July seventh of forty-five, as sure as you will have a dead man in the car before you arrive.” A sneer caused Stanley’s lip to curl. “Yeah, whatever buddy!” He took off so fast that he didn’t have time to see the wry smile on the stranger’s face. His wife asked, “What did he say?” “He said the war would end a couple of years from now in July, as surely as we’ll have a dead man in the car before we arrive.” “I wonder what he meant by that.” “Oh, don’t worry your pretty head about it. That guy was probably just some nutcase.” Behind them, they saw a set of red and white flashing lights pull onto the road. A siren’s howl split the night. He moved to the right, to allow the ambulance to pass him. It moved right with them. “Look out! He’s coming right at us!” “I’m trying to get out of his way! That damn fool-” As they watched, the ambulance slewed back and forth. He stamped on the brake, and pulled to the side of the road. The other vehicle came within inches of sideswiping him, and lurched to the left. About ten yards ahead, the right wheel went into a ditch. Then it flipped over three times, before coming to a stop, right side up. “That ambulance flipped over!” Stanley considered for a moment complimenting his wife on her keen grasp of the obvious. Then he discarded it. Instead, he said, “Wait here!” Then he got out, and ran toward the ambulance. He was met by a frowning man in a white uniform. “You must help me. My patient is in critical condition.” “What happened?” The doctor shrugged. “The driver started shouting that the steering gear had gone out. Then the ambulance started swerving all over the road.” “What about the driver?” The doctor waved his hand in the air. “He’ll live but my patient might not, unless he gets to a hospital immediately!” He took one of the man’s arms, and Stanley took the other. Together, they hoisted the patient up, and toward his waiting Plymouth. The doctor shoved him in the back seat, and climbed in after him. “Stanley! What’s going on?” “Not now, dear. I’ll tell you when we get to the hospital.” He stomped on the accelerator, and hurried from First, through Neutral, into Second gear. The engine protested the unfamiliar treatment. He offered up a silent prayer, and stepped harder on the accelerator. The doctor asked, “Can’t you go any faster? My patient needs immediate medical attention!” “I’m going as fast as I dare as it is. It’s hard to see the road in these blackout conditions. If I go much faster, I risk smashing up the car.” However, Stanley stabbed it into Third, and stomped harder on the accelerator. The doctor grimaced, but said nothing. When they entered the town’s outskirts, the doctor began issuing directions. Marylin told him to turn left of right. He took turns without slowing down, taking several on two wheels. At last, they arrived at the hospital. Stanley mashed his foot down on the brake, and the Plymouth left a ten foot skid mark behind it. Two interns ran out, and grabbed the patient. The doctor hurried after them. Stanley opened the door for his wife, and told her what happened as they headed for the waiting room. Marylin said, “I don’t think you should have left the poor driver there. He might be badly hurt.” Stanley had no answer for her. The doctor met them in the lobby. He looked grim. “Thank you for stopping. Unfortunately, the patient died on the way in.” Marylin’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Just like the stranger had predicted!” Stanley grabbed her by the upper arms. “So the war will end in July! But what year? Do you remember what year?”

SOUL TRAVELER Eric J. Krause Joshua walked down the dark, deserted stretch of beach, muttering to himself. How could he miss such a glorious opportunity? Cindy told him flat out she wasn’t seeing anyone. She also made sure to hint that she loved Italian food. And what did he do? He agreed with her that Italian food was indeed excellent. And that was all he said. He took a swipe at the sand with his foot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Joshua plopped down in the slightly damp sand. At least he could watch the waves crash in the moonlight. He loved the beach during the day, but at night, with no one around, it became magical. If only he could enjoy it more tonight. Damn. The waves pounded into the shore and the stars twinkled above. As crummy as he felt, Joshua had to admit it was all so beautiful. He even witnessed a shooting star. And then another. But this one wouldn’t end. It started near the horizon over the ocean and kept coming towards him. Only when it was directly above him did it wink out. Joshua smiled at such a wondrous sight, by far the longest shooting star he’d ever seen. His smile, though, faded. Above him, at about the same point where the shooting star had vanished, something was falling towards him. Whatever it was, he could hear a whistling sound accompanying it. He stumbled to his feet, not wanting to be under it when it landed. He didn’t have to wait long to find out what it was. The object crashed down ten feet to his left. Sand sprayed all over him, and he had to spit out practically a whole mouthful. He tiptoed over to the newly formed crater and looked down. It was only a few feet deep, but whatever had hit now lay buried beneath a layer of sand. Joshua didn’t know whether he should dig it out or run away. Before he could decide, a hissing sound issued forth from the hole, and a metallic form pushed through the sand. It floated up and out onto the ground next to him. It was a shiny, black sphere, about a foot in diameter, smooth except for a small ridge that ran around its center. Joshua held his breath, waiting for it to explode or something. It didn’t. In fact, it didn’t do anything. Joshua knelt next to it, careful not to touch. He still couldn’t see what it was. He took a deep breath and poked it with his finger. As soon as his skin made contact, the top of the sphere, from the ridge above, disappeared. Joshua let out a gasp and jumped back. “Greetings,” a computerized voice from the half-sphere said. Joshua stepped closer to see if anything alive was in there. It looked empty. “Hello?” Joshua said. “Who said that?” “I am a traveler from a far off galaxy. I have been traveling eons to reach your planet.” It had to be a trick of some sort. It just had to be. “Earthman? Can you respond?” Joshua had to catch his breath before he could say anything. “What is this?” “This, Earthman, is my traveling device, what you would call a spaceship. In Earth terms, it might be called a soulship.” “Soulship?” “When I left my planet, my body remained behind. A trip this long would have rendered my body useless, no matter what care had been given to preserve it. This device allows only my soul to travel. In essence, I can live forever. Or you can. Or anyone who chooses to travel like this.” Joshua again glanced into the sphere. It still looked empty. “Earthman, would you like to travel in my soulship? You can see places others of your species will never see. You will live forever. Would you not like that, Earthman?” “Why are you offering this to me?” “I would like to explore your world. I can not do that unless I have a host body. My sensors directed my ship to you, and your body looks able enough.” Joshua’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. How could this be happening? He must have fallen asleep watching the waves. That was the only explanation. But the longer Joshua stared at the shiny half-sphere, the more reality sunk in. An extra-terrestrial being really was offering him the chance to travel through space. And to top it off, it was throwing in eternal life. “Earthman, I need your decision.” This couldn’t be all perfect. “What’s the catch?” “Isolation. Pure and complete isolation. You will have access to all the information the universe has to offer, but it will grant no companionship. You will also never see your home again. If you choose to come back sometime in your future, so much time will have passed that the planet you left will no longer exist as you remember it. Decide.” Joshua froze. A million thoughts ran through his mind, but none were coherent. He tried to speak, tried to say yes, but couldn’t. “Decide.” Space travel. Everlasting life. Infinite knowledge. What more could he want? He tried to speak, tried to say yes, but couldn’t. “Decide.” Cindy. What if she was the one for him? He could ask her to dinner on Monday. He just had to wait out the weekend. “Last chance, Earthman. Decide now.” Of course, he couldn’t give up this chance for her. They hadn’t even gone on a single date. She wasn’t worth it. He tried to speak, tried to say yes, but couldn’t. The being inside said nothing more. The top of the sphere reappeared, and the soulship hovered off the ground. Five seconds later, it blasted high into the night. “Wait! Come back! I’ll go!” Joshua fell to his knees. “Take my body. I want to live forever. I want to see other galaxies. Please, just come back.” It never did.

Sergeant Robertson’s Race Dr. Hugh Hammond John Robertson made private first class right out of boot camp, returned home to Henderson, North Carolina for two weeks liberty, then back to Camp Pendleton. He went through advanced infantry training and scout sniper training before being sent to Iraq. His unit was assigned the difficult task of retaking Fallujah, which had been a hotbed of insurgent activity. The operation started an hour before dawn; John’s unit quietly approached a dingy two story block home which had been watched by informants during the last two weeks. Despite a strong wind and blowing dust, the temperature was over one hundred degrees. The driver stopped the Humvee about sixty yards from the compound. Lt. Simms motioned to Mahmood Ali, the Arabic speaking civil affairs specialist, to approach the house. Ali had a Jordanian mother and had lived in the US before enlisting. “Sa lam ah la kum,” he shouted out pounding on the door. He quickly stepped aside. PFC John Robertson and two other Marines crouched low on either side of the door, nervously wiping sweat from their eyes in the blowtorch like sun. Hungry flies feeding on the garbage in the alley swarmed around them. After a long delay from inside, “Aiwa, Aiwa,” (yes). Slowly a scraggly bearded face craned out the door; he saw the Humvee with a Marine on the turret mounted 50 caliber machine gun; he saw two more crouched alongside the vehicle with M-16s pointed at the house. Robertson saw him jerk his head back inside; he quickly jammed the muzzle of his M-16 inside the door preventing it from closing. He led four Marines inside low crawling on the gritty tile floor. For a moment it appeared the suspects somehow fled. Ka thunk, “Grenade,” Mahmoud screamed as it hit the wall, skittering off the wall and slick floor. Fa whump, the grenade detonated spitting out lethal tiny wire fragments; they ricocheted off the walls; they blew plaster and glass; they killed one Marine outright and injured two others. John had fragments in his left arm and shoulder; he dragged the civil affairs specialist out, still conscious but with severe neck and leg wounds. Ali looked straight into his eyes, “How bad am I hit?” he said, beginning to pray. John left a trail of blood in the sand as he crouched low, staggering back toward the house after the other wounded Marine. Suddenly sand kicked up next to him. He screamed after rounds struck the sand all around him; he went down on all fours; blood pooled up on the sand from his shoulder wound. His vision blurred from the loss of blood; he kept losing his balance and fell down.The firing came from the second floor of a house across the alley. He struggled to get to his feet, fell down again got up again struggled back inside and dragged PFC Williams back to the Humvee, who was unconscious. Bu, bu, bu, bu, the 50 caliber turret gun erupted with an unmistakable sound chewing the concrete blocks of the adjoining home to powder. Two insurgents inside the home were dead; a third came out hands in the air. The lieutenant sent three more members of the squad into the home. The insurgents had escaped through a tunnel which led to the home across the alley. After a thorough search they discovered the body of one of the insurgents in the tunnel, and a large arms cache in a room within the tunnel. There were shoulder fired weapons, AKs, Chinese made grenades and IED materials (improvised explosive device) complete with a shoe box of twenty garage door openers used as detonators. All were neatly stacked in a four by eight foot area of the tunnel. Lt. Simms hugged PFC Robertson while the corpsman first treated the two more seriously injured. Later in the week all three were on a flight out of Baghdad to the large military hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany. After surgery, PFC Robertson was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery. When he reenlisted he was promoted to sergeant. His parents, brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all came to watch the award ceremony. Robertson’s father and one brother were career Marine Corps. Just about everyone in Henderson or Vance County who wanted to know something about the Marine Corps called the Robertsons. When a new recruiter was assigned to Henderson he or she always called the senior Robertson, who would often visit with the potential new recruit and show him pictures of his prior service. Recruiters in Henderson always filled their enlistment quota in the first six months of the year and many times were the top recruiters in the four county area. At the high school there was a computer terminal in the library with scanned photos of graduates who had served in the military. There was an entire section on the Robertson family. The senior Robertson retired as a sergeant major and John’s older brother was a staff sergeant in the Marines, a drill instructor at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. Following a stint as a recruiter Robertson volunteered for a second tour of duty in Iraq. The escort patrol was scheduled to depart an hour after sunrise. Robertson started sweating as soon as he stepped out of the air conditioned barracks. His convoy was escorting two trucks carrying civilian contractors, who were rebuilding electrical power stations. PFC Johnson from Oklahoma was driving; Sergeant Robertson was in the passenger seat in front. Four nervous Marines were in the rear Humvee at the back of the convoy; they were fresh out of boot camp and advanced infantry training. Prior to departing the camp Robertson held a short preconvoy briefing mainly for the benefit of the nine contractors. Their two guards were Americans with prior military service, but the others were a motley bunch: a Lebanese civil engineer, two Canadian electrical engineers and six Indian laborers. The Lebanese engineer did speak English, but it was tough to understand him. They checked all weapons before they left the camp for the four hour drive. Just half an hour out the rear Humvee started dropping behind. “OK taillights close it up,” Robertson belched in to the radio. “Cummin up,” came the reply with a thick Brooklyn accent from driver of the rear Humvee. He was one of the few from New York and was going to be a good Marine. Trash littered the road along with car parts or anything else people didn’t want. It was just pitched out the window. Up ahead they slowed slightly; there was a broken down car with the hood up. Two Iraqi policemen held up their arms for them to stop. Robertson quickly got on the radio trying to determine if the policemen were legit. A dead sheep just off the road erupted. The Humvee became airborne flipped upside down and landed on the roof. It was an incredibly powerful IED. The driver was killed outright; Robertson had a serious ankle injury. The only thing he remembered was using the radio. He finally came to on the medivac chopper which took him to the large hospital in Baghdad. After they stabilized him he had surgery then three days later was flown to Bethesda Naval Hospital. He had physical therapy for four months and with great difficulty and several false starts was able to slowly return to his favorite sport — distance running. He started out with a 5 K, 3.1 mile race. He had been painfully practicing for months trying to regain his pre-injury form but knew it would take much more time and may never come. Saturday was sunny; it was humid but a gentle breeze picked up from the west. The gun went off. He struggled to get into a rhythm, couldn’t do it and was just barely ahead of the walkers. In fact several times walkers passed him up as he see sawed back and forth for position. In mile two the pain started grabbing his upper thigh on his bad leg. He thought he’d run through it but couldn’t; the pain grabbed him like a bull dog bite. It wasn’t a big race or a famous race but there were several hundred runners. Finally he saw the finish line ahead by now limping very badly. Then he saw them; he couldn’t believe it. How many were there? Twenty, maybe thirty people. Four patients he recognized were lined up after the finish line, some wearing their prosthetic devices, others were not. Some were single amputees, others were multiple amputees. They all gave him makeshift salutes touching their prosthetic devices to their foreheads as he slowly ambled in. About half of them had not yet had a prosthetic device fitted; they simply raised their stumps in the air. Those in wheelchairs raised their front wheels in a salute like a wheelie while raising their stumps off their seats and waiving them in a circular motion. He recognized one loquacious patient from down the hall; he yelled, “In your face, you candyass; you slow son of a gun” while he waived both his stumps in a show of support. The orderly then waggishly zig zagged his wheelchair back and fourth and yelled, “Yes, yes.” The winner of the race had waited patiently for Sergeant Robinson to finish; he came by and shook his hand. The race director shoved a remote mike under his chin, “Thank you. Thank everyone for all your encouragement.” Then he sat on the curb fending off questions: How was it? Feel OK? Do it again? His physical therapist handed it to him, “Did it fit correctly? Do you have swelling?” He detached the ice skate blade shaped device specifically made for running then attached the traditional shoe shaped prosthetic used for walking. His fiancé from Roanoke Rapids showed up for a surprise visit. She picked up the running foot, flipped it in the air and nonchalantly caught it with her left hand. Then she bent over and kissed Robertson on his sweaty forehead.

Confinement Damion Hamilton Caves and jails made the civilization I was born into It made penicillin Guns Telephones Cars, Styrofoam, candy bars, bubble gum And other sundry things Caves and jails made The government It made the law It made marriage It made the church It made schools Caves and jails remind me of homes It reminds me of movie theatres It reminds me of parks and public transportation Caves and jails I can see it in the face of a woman at work I can see it in the personnel manager I can see it in the faces of my fellow Workers in repose I see it in the way buildings are made I often see it in processions of cars I don’t see it too often in small children But I see it in their parents These caves and jails made us It watches television with us It listens to rumors with us It irons a shirt with us It smokes a cigarette with us It falls asleep to beer and wine with us It awakens to the sun and coffee with us Caves and jails Jails and caves

THE WAY OUT Mike Lazarchuk Once a foreign Object like a Sock is shoved Beyond a certain Point in the Throat it becomes Impossible to Retrieve There’s nothing To grab on to You just keep Inhaling it down Till you suffocate The body’s gag reflex Works only to this Certain point In the throat Beyond that the Sock’s too deep & you die

Finding a wasps nest in my aunt’s house Christian Ward I found it nestled in the corner of a wintering cupboard, a paper coral made out of regurgitated wood pulp and last month’s news. The wasps hummed their Talmud as I slept that night, every word creeping through the floorboards into my head. They wouldn’t be there tomorrow. The hooded scarecrows would flood their home with mustard gas, under an auspice of peace, falling as if it were a biblical scene. There would be no one to sweep them up and bury them as the sky mourned.

A Poverty Of Sundays Christopher Barnes, UK Back-slap get-togethers Are ready to serve, With white-pepper gravy, Swedes approximating pus, Pulped King Edwards Aftertaste of powdered milk Impacted in the course of mashing. Runner beans Are like runner beans, Shape, form. And mother Scumbling with a dishcloth, The raised hand, Random motives, gesturing.

I am liquid Valium Karla Ungurean Glazed over eyes illuminated by glow of your Zippo Reflect only from stagnant mosquito- infested waters That masque all my fears and sweep the ashes under the rugs. I keep you sacred like Jesus under my pillow, And to suffocate myself I put you over my face and breathe you in, Until the last ounce of air is sucked from my body and replaced by Shadows. I see that box over in the corner, Stepped on and painted green To symbolize all that I am NOT to You. I am drugged and sad and crying into the mirror, Because I am pretty when I cry. This is the only thing I need to feel free in this world, This instinctive sadness and inevitable fear from The bleakness of the shadows hiding under my bed and connect with my eyes From across the room as you protect them from me. I know you hide behind the tiny origami figures, Praying to my god that the corners will engrave my eyes, With your sad, unoriginal monogram. I hemorrhage despair and leak it onto your Pale little cherub face.

Karma Chameleon Bill DeArmond “You’re not ready to go to Baccalaureate yet?” Geena had burst into her brother’s room and was dismayed that he was still in his pajamas. It was her big day, salutatorian of the graduating class of Holy Name Academy. “I’m not going,” he mumbled, covering up his head with a pillow. “Why not?” “It’s in a church, right? You know how I feel about all that religious crap. I didn’t go to mine and I’m not going to yours.” George had just finished his freshman year of college. And, as we all know, colleges turn the once-faithful into secular humanists. Unless you go to CTU (Christian Taliban University), then you graduate neither secular, nor human. “You’re being unreasonable, George.” “You want to talk about irrationality. There’s nothing logical about your Christianity. It’s all based on myths stolen from ancient cultures. The Bible says the earth revolves around the sun.” “No it doesn’t.” “Joshua halted the sun in the sky? And the church burned anyone who said otherwise for hundreds of years.” “Christianity is about Jesus dying for your sins.” “I’ve never committed a sin that anybody needs to die for. I don’t buy this we’re-all-born-with-original-sin nonsense.” “God has a plan for you, George. When He closes a door, he opens a window.” “And lets in flies.” “I’m not going to stand here and argue theology with a pagan in his underwear. I only graduate once from high school. If you really care about your only sister, the least you can do is show up for me.” When he only grunted in response, she yelled, “Boy, George, if you keep this up you’re going to hell in a hand basket.” She stormed out of the room slamming the door so hard it knocked his poster of Stephen Jay Gould off the wall. “A hand basket?” After a while, disquiet began to churn in George. He was torn. He had outgrown any need for religion and found the very idea of entering a church anathema. The hypocrisy of those extremists who professed faith yet were intolerant bigots made him sick. Although he no longer needed any community of dogma to feed his spirituality, he recognized that it did provide comfort to some people he respected. He loved his sister and knew she was right. If he really cared about her, he’d put aside his misgivings and admit this was more about Geena’s accomplishment than his own ego. Just before it would have been too late to make it on time, George jumped in the shower, threw on some clothes, and flew off in his car. A block from the church, a semi ran the red light and crushed George’s Honda. And George with it. He was rushed to Our Lady of the Perpetual Smirk Hospital where he was pronounced dead at 4:17 p.m. At 4:18 p.m. George woke up in Kansas.

Looking For The Muse In Bed Gregg Mayer* “But you don’t ever write anything,” she said, drawing out the word “write” into almost two syllables. “I do too,” he said, turning over in bed to turn out the light, thinking he wasn’t really in the mood to have sex tonight. It takes effort to toss off his shirt, pull down his shorts, throw them to the end of the bed, then do it and clean up. Sometimes it took longer to get his left sock off the whole thing put together. But she stays over in his apartment only a couple of times a week. This might be it until next Tuesday. “I have two notebooks full of stuff in there. I think I really have a good story with that ‘girl by the pond’ paragraph.” “No you don’t,” she said. “I looked through that stuff. It’s terrible. It’s senseless. What does “her eyes look like two pennies” mean, anyway? There are two little Abe Lincolns looking back at me? And it’s all just fragments that you wrote months ago, barely two or three lines a page. It looks kind of creepy, really, like you’re a crazy guy who scrawls notes before he kills somebody.” He hated talking about his fiction. He’s wanted to be a writer since the fourth grade, when he entered a student writing competition and got fifth place. He’s always worked other jobs - bookstore clerk, reporter for a weekly newspaper, ice cream scooper, and currently as an “official grader” - the guy who takes all the paper Scantrons from tests all over the country and runs them through the machine. It takes hours, running them through twice, and he has to double-check those overrun black spots which really ticks him off. Stay in the damn lines! Regardless of the job, he’s always thought he would be a writer, a real novelist, his picture on a book jacket, his name on bookshelves, his life spent looking out a window onto a wooded field, an occasional fox peeking out among the red and orange autumn leaves. He tried to make himself write with a pencil, like Steinbeck. But that never worked for more than a few minutes at a time, and he hated the smudge that erasing left. With his Scantron job, he hated pencils all together. He made notes, bound them in those notebooks she shouldn’t have looked at, and then stopped. He tried writing on his laptop that he bought just for writing. “Almost $1,000 just to have something to write on,” she snapped at the time. But, when he tried, he realized the charger had to plug in at the other room, and he couldn’t write in there, and when he was without the plug-in, he always worried the battery would die, so he couldn’t concentrate to write. “I told you I didn’t want you going through my stuff. It’s private,” he said. He was resolved to keep his socks on if they did have sex. “I was mopping your floor and had to pick that stuff up,” she said. “I couldn’t help myself. You talk all the time about being a writer, and I wanted to see it, to see what you could do. I was ready to really like it, even if I didn’t like it that much. I was going to tell you it was good, to keep going. But it’s terrible. You rhymed “nine” and “asinine” in a poem? You actually put those two words in a poem, together. It’s terrible, really terrible. “You really should think about getting into another hobby. Tennis?” “Hobby!” he shouted, sitting up in bed. “This is my dream. This is what I want: to write. I can’t help that. You just saw drafts. That stuff is supposed to be bad. Did you ever hear “one bird at a time”? No, you haven’t, because you’re not a writer. But that means a writer takes it slow, and the first stuff is bad, it’s always bad. So screw you. I’m going to write. It’s inside me. I’ve got to do it.” “No, you don’t,” she said. “Really, it’s bad.” He laid back down, not sure what to say. It was dark in the room. He couldn’t even see her profile, and for a second he wondered where she was. The two pillows he was laying on always propped him up in what he figured was a nice writing angle. He could put his laptop on his legs, lay back, and write the novel. But he didn’t have his computer, and he hated that battery. He didn’t have paper or a pencil. A pen next time. Maybe he’d do it tomorrow night. Screw her, he thought. I’ll write then. He reached his hand out to touch her bare leg under the sheets. * The author is a writer in Jackson, Miss. He has work forthcoming in Law & Literature and St. John’s Journal of Legal Commentary.

A Christmas Carol Austin Tally 7 o’clock, dark and windy i saw a deer asleep on the side of the street sprawled, running eyes lit up by the headlights lit up and empty and asleep and no one will move it off the asphalt it will rot on the road, and little children peeking faces out backseat windows will shudder quietly draw back into warmth and safety but they won’t let on, won’t give a hint as to what scared them because it’s cold outside it’s the end of december and halfway through the weak spin-drunk week between Christmas and New-Year’s and nothing bad can happen and the deer is just asleep just resting in the dirt legs tucked under, reaching and broken eyes still staring into the headlamp-glow that hummed and hovered and hypnotized hearing the horn and then the dull thud, and a dying deer falling to its knees but the truck drove on, radio blaring: it’s the most wonderful time of the year.

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

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.

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

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