In This Issue... Dawn Miller David Lawrence Raud Kennedy Story Rhinehart A. Frank Bower Mel Waldman G.A. Scheinoha Pat Dixon Sandra E. Waldron Janet Kuypers Justin Fitzpatrick Ken Dean Mark Joseph Kiewlak Wednesday Lee Friday Joshua Harriman Devin Wayne Davis

MEADOW LAKE Dawn Miller     When my bother, Andy, went away to college, he left me his fishing pole, a well read copy of THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS and a stack of Playboys. As a burgeoning adolescent, you would think I would be drawn to the centerfolds, but not me. It was the worn out novel which lured me and caused the most trouble in return, so much for being literate. For you see, it was amongst those battered pages that I learned my beloved sibling was a murderer. ***     I guess deep down I’ve always known ever since the night Sarah Joe Johnson disappeared but I was afraid to let my suspicions come to the forefront of my mind. Now they could not be denied. A confession, written in Andy’s own hand was staring me right in the face. It had tumbled out from between the pages when I picked up the book. Its precious contents must have slipped Andy’s mind in the excitement of preparing for school and the upcoming football season.     I stuffed the dog eared paper into the pocket of my jeans, grabbed the fishing pole and headed out to Meadow Lake. Summer’s green luster was slowly fading. The cool September nights were replacing the emerald glow with a smoldering red orange. From the distance the leaves danced back and forth like flames. Silently, they beckoned me toward the soft rippling water. I obeyed, hoping to cool off the fire which had begun burning in my belly after reading the letter. The ground leading to the peaceful oasis had been pounded down over the years into a smooth path. I paused halfway down the hill. At the bottom was the lake. Its dark waters had held the secret all these months and never told. This was my favorite spot in all of Boone County and I would never look at it the same way again. Meadow Lake would no longer be my sanctuary from teenage angst for now I knew it was the unmarked grave of Sarah Joe Johnson. ***     Andy had been the first born and that heralded place of honor hadn’t stopped there. For as long as I could remember, he was first in everything, first in Mama’ and Papa’s hearts, first in his graduating class and the first from this small backwoods town to receive a football scholarship to a big time university up north. Andy had it all, brains, looks and a god given talent with any piece of sporting equipment he laid his hands on. The trophy cases at home and school were filled with awards bearing his name. Everyone, including me, worshipped the ground he walked on. It was tough following behind in his shadow but I did it gladly with love in my heart.     So it really wasn’t a surprise given his penchant for success, when two summers ago Andy came home with the prettiest and the most sought after girl in town on his arm. Long golden curls surrounded Sarah Joe’s delicate face. She had a personality that could brighten up the darkest day and a figure that could stop traffic. At least that’s what Papa said after they’d left for the movies that first night. I didn’t really know what that meant at the time. I was only twelve. Sarah was sweet and she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my short life and my brother killed her.     I settled on the rotted platform we used as a diving board. Dangling my feet over the edge, I stared across the lake at the over grown wildflowers behind the towering oak Andy had described perfectly in his letter. A quiet wind had snuck up and began making music in the trees. I tried hard to listen to its rhythmic beat but all I heard were the desperate cries of Sarah Joe’s mother echoing in my head.     I’ll never forget that night, not as long as I live. The grandfather clock in the living room had just struck two when she began pounding on the front door. Her animal like squeals had made Papa grab the shotgun before he headed down the stairs to answer it. Between waves of tears and cries, she held onto Papa’s nightshirt asking if Andy was with Sarah Joe.     No, Mama had explained patiently from the top of the stairs. Andy had come straight home after dropping Sarah Joe off at her house at ten o’clock. Mama knew because she always waited up to tuck her precious baby boy into bed. Andy was sound asleep when she went to bed at eleven.     Mrs. Johnson was shaking her head and pointing at Andy with pleading eyes. Papa led her away into the kitchen to calm her down. I glanced at Andy. He sat silently at my side, staring straight ahead, his hair and skin still fresh from the shower.     “You boys get on back to bed,” Mama had said. “Sarah Joe probably slipped out for a late night walk. She’ll be back.”     Andy rose and returned to our room. I wondered what Mama would say if she knew her precious baby boy had snuck out the moment he’d heard soft snores escaping from her bedroom, snuck out to meet Sarah Joe at the lake for a midnight rendezvous. ***     I’d sat on that damp rotting wood for a long time wondering what to do with the letter in my pocket. Andy had addressed it to God. Perhaps I should give it to him or at least someone close to him. On my way into town to speak with Father O’Neill, I passed Sarah Joe Johnson’s house. I didn’t have to. It’s not like it was on the way to the church. I wanted to.     I wasn’t the only one that fateful night who noticed Andy’s damp hair. The next day when the town organized a search for Sarah Joe, Mrs. Johnson was pointing the finger straight at my big brother. Andy insisted he had dropped Sarah Joe off at ten and returned home right after just like Mama said. No one questioned his integrity. He was Andy Geiger. No one asked me either. I was just the little brother. Even though I knew it was a lie, I began to believe it too after a while. Andy spoke the words with such conviction. It was hard not to.     For a moment, I stood outside the Johnson’s well kept Colonial. The big old house was empty except for Mrs. Johnson and the family mutt. Sarah was her only daughter. Mr. Johnson had been killed in Operation Desert Storm when Sarah was in kindergarten. The sun rose and set around Sarah Joe much like it does in our house for Andy. I often wondered why my parents had had me since they obviously got it right the first time. Andy used to call me the accident and up until now I used to think he was right.     The note felt like a weight in my pocket. I took a couple of steps toward the mailbox. I even slid my hand inside and felt the soft paper. The little voice in my head was pushing me to take it out. In the end, I didn’t listen. Instead I kept right on walking, walking past the church and eventually back to my house. I was going to put the paper back where it had spent the last two years but I left it in the pocket of my favorite jeans. I pushed them into the darkness of the closet floor and left them there as if that would solve the problem. That winter I became reacquainted with Edgar Allen Poe. THE TELL TALE HEART became my mantra. I thought about sending a copy to Andy. Perhaps he would get the hint. ***     The winter was a long cold one outside and in. Its icy grasp held tightly and refused to let go. Eventually spring won the war. It would not be denied. With the April thaw came an answer to my prayers. Meadow Lake finally told her tale so I didn’t have to. She left out a few of the major details in her version. The decaying body of Sarah Joe Johnson was discovered under the big oak by a couple of duck hunters. It was right where Andy said it was in his confession though I was still the only other person alive who knew that.     The elements had washed away any evidence linking him to the crime. Our police chief reasoned that Sarah Joe had encountered a drifter on her midnight stroll, a faceless individual who had taken her out to the lake and stolen her most precious gift. Trouble was I knew the face. It haunted me every night before I closed my eyes to go to sleep and it would until the day I died. ***     With the daffodils in full bloom on the hillside, Mrs. Johnson buried her little girl in the family plot. It was a private ceremony. I watched from the distance wearing my favorite jeans and holding an envelope tightly in my hand. I waited until the last person left and then went to pay my respects. I knelt down. The dirt felt moist and cold in my trembling hands. I dug a small hole in the soft soil, folded the envelope and placed it in. I closed my eyes to keep the tears from spilling. Sarah Joe had loved Andy too so maybe she understood. Silently, I prayed Mrs. Johnson would find some peace. In my heart, I knew I never would and Andy? Well, I suppose he had made amends with his demons long ago. That must have been why he wrote the letter.     He was on the Dean’s List at school and there was talk of a Heisman Trophy this season. As always everything in Andy’s universe was perfect except for one tiny ripple. A girl in his dorm had disappeared without a trace just like the wind in the willows.

REPUBLICAN POLITICS David Lawrence Then we begin again like two dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. We come back through the ages to telescope In dated pictures of us in vacation bathing suits In Lokrum, Yugoslavia In 1970. Those days we did Europe on five dollars a day, Just another tulip in the bouquet of time. Here we are in the grandstand of the present. When the athletes show up, We are gone. The audience never dies. We are the future of salt on a dead bird’s wing. You look positively prehistoric. I love the way you weight the earth with the footsteps Of your opinions and Republican politics. I like your party. Your champagne has realistic bubbles that accept The mouth and cavities of time.

Shadow Memories Raud Kennedy I drive around Southeast Portland killing a warm afternoon looking for the trigger to freedom. When I lived in the Southeast I felt it then. But now I carry with me so many reasons not to do things that my arms are tied to my sides and I can’t even open the door of the box I’ve shut myself in.

WHEN JESUS CAME BACK Story Rhinehart Everyone asked Why he hadn’t come back sooner? He said, “I’ve come back many times Just not in forms you would expect to find; I only come now, looking the way I do, Because you have been so blind.”

ESCAPISM A. Frank Bower     I drink. Sue me. I know; it is a bad start. If you are the kind of person who wants explanations, read on. If not, go do something constructive. I have little better to do with my time in jail, so I will tell you how I got here.     The world is full of problems. This is not a news flash. There are no answers; flash. Do not get me wrong; I have utmost respect for those wonderful people who fight for fulfillment, seek answers, struggle to overcome obstacles, and effect changes. God bless them. However, I ask, what does it get them?     Has this blue and green ball progressed one iota in ten thousand years? Damocles’ sword has dangled over our heads the entire time. The sole change: the cord got thinner.     I seldom hear escapism used. When I was growing up—sort of—it was bandied about more than peace, love or chocolate. I—we—were told to face things, not avoid them. Grow up. Deal with it. You know what I’m talking about; don’t play dumb. Look at “pop culture”. It is escapism. America is escapism. We may not want to admit it, but there it is. Take a great piece of pop art...like Oscar-winner “Crash”. It deals with issues; I love it. Know what? It massages our sense of ethics. While end credits run, it is gone.     I subscribe to Shakespeare’s idea; “‘Tis a tale told be an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing’”. Again, there are no answers. I work, struggle, strive. Like you. My efforts led to the same results humankind’s have. I ride the merry- go-round, never get off it. I reach for the brass ring: it is drenched in Krazy Glue.     So, to all you dreamers, grab a drink and get real. There is no cure for pain. We can just numb it. I know my choices of numbifiers cause other problems. I did not say I am stupid. I have tried Percocets, pot, et cetera. This is America. Alcohol is legal. Sure, I still get in trouble, but no drug charges.     So, again, I drink. My name is—are you ready for this?—Jack Barmash. Not John, Jack. As in Daniel’s. My old buddy. Furthermore, the nickname I have worn for four decades is Jigger. I believe I should live up to my name. I do.     A friend of mine refers to alcohol as genius juice. I could not agree more with the negative connotations. It describes where my brain goes when I over-indulge. I call it Stage 5. Blackout behaviors. Allow me to itemize.     Stage 1: First two drinks. Socialization, with no perceived internal changes.     Stage 2: Three to five. Mellowness begins to soothe me. My muscles relax. At this stage, I am able to stop.     Stage 3: Six to ten. Humor reigns supreme. I enjoy people. At some vague point during stage 3, the logic of alcohol kicks in and makes it impossible to stop.     Stage 4: More than ten. I achieve numbness. This is the goal. However, this is the most difficult stage to maintain. It is the problem. To remain numb, I must continue to drink, which leads to—     Stage 5: Too many. Beyond stage 4 and before 5, is a hazy area of numbness where control disappears—more or less the point. If I could spend my life at 4.3, I would have it made. That Herculean task has yet to occur. Stage 5 blackouts did not happen in my early years. I achieved blood-alcohol saturation; those sedative buzzes were exquisite. Alas, the body rebelled. Saturation was short-lived. My last visit there occurred when I was twenty-two.     My first DUI, at age twenty-six, my level was 2.6; nowhere close to saturation— although far above legal limit. I attended classes for ten weeks to clear my record.     My second DUI happened in another state; I managed not to pay dues for it. The state just wanted my money. It is why I was pulled over in the first place. You know, out-of-state plates.     I did not avoid the third. My driver’s license was suspended. I drove without it until my next DUI. My bicycle became my friend again. You have no idea how much ribbing I took. You try to barhop on a bicycle.     Luck has never been a lady to me. I smacked my bike into a mailbox while headed downhill in stage 5—witnessed by the occupant of a squad car. DUI number five. How could they count that? Well, they did.     I took much more verbal abuse after the incident. My next step did not help. I barhopped by bus. I refused to walk. There would be too many witnesses to my swagger...stagger...whatever.     Before long, I just could not take people’s put-downs. I quit going out to drink. I stayed home. I discovered my cat, Amaretto, did not like his namesake. I do. However, he does love beer. We shared many. On occasion, I invited people to my apartment. Those who accepted were in worse shape than me. So, I returned to solo sipping...sloshing.     A month ago, while in my familiar stage 5, I drove my car. Damn thing was idle fifteen months and needed to run. Good excuse, huh? I do not remember driving it.     I must have thought I was in unfamiliar territory; I got lost. What do you do when lost? Ask for directions. I looked for a gas station, but it was the middle of the night. I saw—sort of—a building with lights on. I parked in front, finished my beer and went in. I admit my vision was impaired. At the time, I did not perceive video; I saw collections of snapshots. Did I weave? O course I wove. I asked the first mobile image to register to my vision, “Where am I?” I will never forget his answer.     “The police station.”     Like I said, there are no answers to problems. I have seen strange things here. You know, ‘pink elephant’ syndrome. No, I have never seen pink elephants—make the connection, will you? I did see four black dudes shoot craps in the corner of my room...cell. Yeah, like there is room for other people in here.     I do not mind hallucinations; they are humorous. Besides, I know what they are; they will go away. I can deal with this temporary situation. The shakes bother me; I keep spilling things. I need my coffee. I have just one problem in jail.     I can’t drink.

THE LIBRARY Mel Waldman     Richard Court was not a violent man by nature. He could not defend himself in a fist fight and had no inclination to prove his manhood by confronting neighborhood bullies or other tough guys. But he wrote murder mysteries and owned a .38 which was locked away in a secret safe hidden behind a wall of books.     He called his .38 Big Brother or BB. And in a pinch, BB would blow the bad guys away.     The self-effacing author completed his latest novel “The Double” at 3 AM. In “The Double,” Phil Gordon is murdered by his twin brother Carter. Carter gets away with the murder since no one in town knew that Phil had a twin. Not even Phil or his parents knew he had a twin who was sold by the doc at birth to a desperate couple willing to pay a lot for a beautiful baby.     Carter assumes Phil’s identity and prospers.     Upon completion of his novel, Court makes himself a cup of coffee, smokes a King Size Kool, and thinks about his next book. He sits in his living room and meditates. He will not sleep tonight.     In a few hours, he will go to the library and read about unsolved mysteries of the past. The research will take a few months. Then he will begin Chapter 1.     Before he goes to the library, he calls Mother. She is ill and he worries about her, especially since Father’s death. (Mother and his “sick” boy, who is away in a hospital, are his only concern.)     During the conversation, he mentions he has completed his novel. He tells her he will be doing research all day at the library.     Mother asks him to come for dinner. There is something very important she must discuss with him.     Okay. He’ll see her tonight.     At the library, he removes 12 books from the shelves. The first (and last) book he examines is entitled “Unsolved Mysteries of the Twentieth Century.” By chance he opens the book to page 220. (Coincidentally, he lives at 220 Ocean Avenue.) On page 220 is the story of a murder which occurred 50 years ago on June 16, 1942. (How strange! June 16, 1942 is his birthday!) The murdered man was named Phil Gordon. The murderer was never caught.     He flips a few pages until he comes to a photo of Phil Gordon. Suddenly, his heart beats rapidly as he looks at a photo of himself. The murdered man is Richard Court! Murdered and reborn on the same day!     He slams the book shut. He takes out a heart pill and swallows it. In a few minutes he gets up and staggers out of the library like a drunk.     Unnerved by the bizarre discovery at the library, he sits anxiously with Mother. As she feeds him, his mind drifts off to the library where he reconstructs the recent events of the day. He convinces himself that his mind played a trick on him. He did not see what he thought he saw. Of course, it was an illusion.     Slowly, he unwinds and begins to relax. Then Mother announces: “You won’t believe this, Richard! I got a call from a young man who claims he is my son-your twin brother. He’s coming over tonight to see us.”     “It’s true!” Court cries out. “Now, I know who killed Gordon on June 16, 1942!” Terrified, he rushes off, leaving his mother behind to face his lethal twin alone.     Court returns to the library and searches frantically for “Unsolved Murder Mysteries of the Twentieth Century.” He can’t find it and asks the librarian for help. She informs him that the last copy was taken out earlier in the day. When Court requests the name of the person who took the book, the librarian informs him that such information is confidential. He insists that this is a matter of the utmost importance but she refuses to reveal the person’s name.     Eventually Court convinces the librarian to answer one question. “Was it Carter Gordon?”     “Yes. How did you know?”     He turns and walks away.     “Is he a friend of yours?” the librarian inquires.     Silently, he leaves the library. He does not look back.     Compelled to solve the 50 year old murder mystery and to discover the “truth” about his twin, Court returns to the library later in the day. Inside his jacket is a .38.     He scurries from aisle to aisle, hoping to find another copy of the book. He fails. At 3 PM, his desperate eyes dart across the room and see his mother enter the library. Someone is behind her. He grips his .38. His heart races. His rolling eyes follow Mother.     Court removes the .38 from his jacket. Mother rushes slowly into the room. He can’t see the face of the other.     Hidden inside an abandoned aisle, he points the .38 at the center of Mother’s forehead. If she moved to the side, the view would be perfect.     His heart beats rapidly. Sweat pours down his forehead. Vertigo. He grips the .38 with both hands. He struggles to stand tall.     “Mother, get out of the way!” he screams within his mind. He is mute.     Unexpectedly, Mother steps to the right. It will be a perfect shot. Clutching the .38 with both hands, he aims for the man’s forehead. But he steps to the left and keeps moving. Court can’t shoot a moving target. The other moves a few feet and stops. Court sees his profile but not his face. He waits.     His body shaking and hands twitching, he still grips the .38. Slowly, the other moves his head and looks in Court’s direction.     In the apocalyptic moment, Court’s eyes, desperate balls of fire, fall on his face. “You!” he screams silently. The .38 slips from his hands and falls to the ground, followed by Court who is already dead before he lands.     Court will never know that his mother had come to the library to tell him his “twin” never showed up. He will never know that the man behind his mother was a stranger who entered the library by chance at that lethal moment. And of course, we will never know what his mind saw. We will never know who murdered Phil Gordon or the real identity of Carter Gordon. Or will we?     Perhaps, it was a hoax concocted by Mother and/or the “sick” son. But why is the librarian smiling wickedly at the corpse?     The librarian goes to the bathroom to freshen up and change her clothes. She will remove her mask now or later, when she sits alone by candlelight, drinking white wine and reading a Richard Court novel.     Tonight, the ceremony will begin. Inside the library, the magic will create and destroy. Deep inside the library-at the center of the universe-in the labyrinth of the librarian’s mind!

ALWAYS THE NIBBLER G.A. Scheinoha She eats little morsels of you with each day’s passage. You’re in the elevator when you notice that bite out of your shoulder; the cartoon simple jagged saw mark where only the unbroken curve of trapezius once existed. Other times, it’s more subtle She sidles by on the sidewalk and you glance up moments later, vaguely aware some small part of you is missing, gone with that second’s aching. On most occasions, you couldn’t name the missing piece either by lot number or location. Perhaps it’s a memory. A twinge tells you it might’ve been important, your anniversary, wife’s mother’s birthday. At least you’ d have a legitimate reason. Though you’ll probably NOT mention who took it. Geez, she’s young enough to be your daughter. Mother-in-law might call you an old fool. Wife shake her head over your mid-life crisis. And you, you just touch the secret place, if that’s where it’s really disappeared from this time. Feel the soft imprint of crowns before the firm clamp and tug, the caress of unseen but clearly felt jaws. A smile spreads with the impression. What a way to go, one quick chaw at a time.

Sea Change Pat Dixon It was the tenth anniversary of their decision to move in together, and Michael, recently promoted to full partner in a prestigious law firm, took Jessica, his “main squeeze,” to their favorite expensive restaurant to celebrate. “Nutritionists claim that red meat is best for us after all,” said Jessica casually as she glanced over the menu. Claude, their waiter, nodded his large hairless head in silent approval of her words. Throughout the fads for fish and chicken dishes, he at least had always believed that red meat would make a triumphant comeback. Michael reached forward and tenderly stroked Jessica’s bare upper arm. “Are we ready to order?” he asked, gazing fondly into her large dark eyes. Jessica nodded, and Michael beckoned to Claude, who immediately came forward. “I’ll have the liver platter with a red lettuce salad--garnish both of them with thin slices of lemon, please,” said Jessica in a soft, liquid voice, looking up at Claude who stood beside her in a military manner, his silver fountain pen poised above his small note pad. “Would madame care for a beverage?” he asked, his eyes wide with interest. “No, but--what is the soup tonight, Claude?” “Tonight we have the fine noodle soup with long strands of tripe and tiny cubes of rump steak, mildly seasoned with Chef Roger’s Secret Number Four. I believe that this has been the favorite with madame on earlier visits here--if I may be so bold.” “You’re quite correct, Claude. With your infallible memory and tact, you are one of the chief reasons I and my--my--why we both prefer to dine here. Yes--I would like a large cup of your noodle soup tonight.” “Madame is very kind. And you, monsieur?” Michael smiled inwardly and took a deep breath. “I’ll try your kidney pie, Claude. I feel, since this is a special occasion tonight, that I’ll treat myself to a very large kidney pie. And I’d also like a medium bowl of your fine noodle soup.” “Of course, monsieur. Excellent choice, both.” As Michael and Jessica waited for their food to arrive, they stared fondly into each other’s eyes. “Did you ever think we’d make it to ten years?” asked Michael suddenly. “I never had the slightest doubt, dearest,” she replied. “Did you?” “Not about us, darling. But the economy has been so uncertain these past six years that I did often wonder whether we’d be able to continue to afford our life style. And I did wonder--sometimes--what you would think if we might have to cut back and move from our condo.” “I would be happy just living in a cave with you, Michael. Did you ever doubt that?” In five minutes Claude reappeared with a large tray. Skillfully, he set their food before them. Jessica marveled as she always did at the elegance and artistry of her food’s appearance. Then she glanced across at Michael’s food. “Michael! What in heaven’s name have you done? I doubt that even a pod of orcas could put away a dinner that size! Surely you’ll eat moderately--because I love you--and we can take most of that home in a doggy bag.” Michael grinned across at her. On the table before him was a huge kidney pie--eighteen inches across and ten inches deep. “Now, Jessie,” he grinned, “don’t nag me about my diet. After all--you’re not my mother.” Jessica caught her breath to snap something back at him in reply, then hesitated as she saw the bright twinkle in his large, soft eyes. “Have it your way, sweetie,” she said in a low, soft voice, picking up her spoon to begin her soup. Michael peeled back the crust of his pie and let out a loud gasp. “Good heavens! Jess! Jessie! Look at this!” Jessica stared across the table and into Michael’s kidney pie. A pair of large cardboard boxes were visible now that he had lifted away the flaky, light brown crust. “Come see this,” said Michael, rising from his seat. Claude, smiling to himself, deftly helped Jessica with her chair. At Michael’s urging, she reseated herself in Michael’s chair and gazed at the lids of the two boxes inside his huge pie. Both of the boxes had her name written in fine calligraphy across their tops. “What could this mean?” said Michael in mock surprise, bending low beside her. Jessica gazed up at him and touched his shoulder affectionately. “Try the box on the left first--the larger one,” he urged. Prying open the lid of that box with Michael’s fork and knife, Jessica saw that it contained a large mass of tissue paper. She lifted this out and carefully unfolded it to find a large jewelry box. “A little something Claude and Chef Roger and I cooked up,” said Michael, stroking the back of her neck. The box contained a two-yard-long necklace of carefully graduated yellow and orange stones. “Just my size,” giggled Jessica. “Will you help me put it on, please?” As Michael fastened the clasp, she opened the lid of the smaller box, removed another large wad of tissue paper, and found another jewelry box inside it. “Jess, please let me do the rest.” He reverently pulled a large gold bracelet from the box and slipped it over her upper left wrist. “Will you bring me joy, Jessie, by agreeing to be my wife?” Jessica rose and embraced Michael tightly, and they stood trembling together for almost five minutes, as Claude tactfully looked away and hummed to himself. “Yes, yes, yes,” whispered Jessica ninety-seven times. Finally they caught their breath, and Michael invited her to look more carefully at his token of affection. Like the necklace, it too had yellow and orange stones--large and very fine. “They’re my favorites,” she said. “Gall stones and kidney stones.” “Until last month, except for heirlooms, they were as illegal to own as new ivory--but the chief reason I was made a partner is the way I helped the firm get those old human rights laws overturned,” said Michael proudly. As Michael nibbled on the side of her cheek, Jessica read the printed label inside the box which had contained her bracelet. “Michael! Oh, Michael! They’re all natural stones, too! Not the newer cultured kind.” “Natural stones cost me a hell of a lot more, sweetie--nearly two month’s salary--but nothing’s too good for my girl.” Jessica began to nibble affectionately at Michael’s cheek and felt five of his tentacles groping her in an amorous manner. Claude tactfully slithered into another part of the restaurant, giving them privacy in their happiness.

Carousel of Windows Sandra E. Waldron Gray sky above, fused with onset of whispers, ascending steps to roundabout porch. Boards creak. Stolid adult faces speculate. Child, on tiptoes, peeks inside first of carousel of windows. Dinner table set for a king: goblets of wine, tasty treats, half-eaten turkey-carcass centered on grand table. More whispers. Four chairs wait on each side of table; one holds Raggedy Ann doll, button eyes stare back; each end, single chair, vacant. No father. No mother. No family. More whispers. Walks around, follows others, peering in here and there. All is gloom, no lights, no glow of candles. Thanksgiving! Child wonders, where’s the laughter? Man coughs. Woman cries. Child peers in again, white lace tablecloth, fine silver, embroidered napkins, half-empty bowl of dressing, her favorite. Woman takes child by arm and pries her away. Man coughs again. Woman sniffles. Man says dressing was bad. Back to steps, descend porch. Child looks up. Sky’s gray.

letter 09/16/06 Janet Kuypers     I’m 36 years old, and I played gin with dad for the first time ever today. All my life I have remember mom and dad playing gin with another couple coming over, playing at our poker table (not turned over, of course), and I learned how to play, it’s the same thing as rummy, but instead of 8 cards there’s 10, and you can’t put 3 of a kind (or a series of 3 or more) down during the game, and you can’t take all of the cards on the discard pile, you can only take the top card. So if a card has been discarded, you’re out of luck, there’s no chance to get it back. Anyway, I think I never played gin with my parents, but I knew how to play it, and I probably played with my sister Sandy (but I can’t remember specifically ever playing with her), but now all I do is teach my husband to play gin. And we play together when we want to feel like we’re at a bar and want to spend time doing something other than talking or listening to music (only rarely are we dancing, so I didn’t bother mentioning that). Anyway, I asked my dad after mom died if he wanted to play gin, because I hear that he played cards with people before, when people were around and people hadn’t died yet. But they played pinochle, and like how they played gin, they don’t just play with two people (even though gin is a two person game), when he played gin in the past he played with partners, and they counted points, so that whatever team got to 500, then they’d win. Well, when John and I play, we don’t bother counting points, we just see each game who wins and leave it at that. And probably because I knew the game and taught the rules to him, I win more often. But when we play as a pair without counting points, we call all the time, because why not? It’s just a game, right?     So anyway, because dad has been trying to find things to do after mom died, I didn’t know what to do for him. Some of his friends asked for suggestions, and I said, “find people to play cards with him, because it would give him something to do other than playing computer games or drinking,” but no one knows pinochle other than one guy, and he couldn’t think of two other people. I don’t know pinochle, but apparently, like gin, you have to play in a large group. But anyway, I’ve asked dad a few times if maybe he’d want to play gin, and he always says no. Yesterday even, he was playing a computer game, and I offered to play a game of gin with him, and still he said no. But today, my second to last day here, he was playing a computer game and I thought, okay, I get into a rut, and they say I’m like him, so I should take some initiative. So I went and got a deck of cards and sat down next to him and just started shuffling. And he finally paused long enough form playing computer solitaire (you know, you can always pause that game, like you really are so caught up in solitaire that you need to be distracted) to see what I was doing, and I said, “I got a deck of cards. Want to play a game of gin?” and he said, “let me finish what I was doing, and okay.” So I kept shuffling until he was finished playing, and dealt.     I actually ginned the first game, when I got the winning card form his discard I said, “I’m sorry, but gin,” and then we played again, he called and beat me because I had absolutely nothing in my hand. And then we played a few more hands and then he said he was wanted to watch the game, so we stopped playing after about 4 or 5 games.     And I talked to John on the phone long distance this evening, and I said that this was probably the first time in my life I had ever played gin with my father.     Interesting, I learned this game from my father, without him trying to teach me, and this was the first time I had ever played gin with him. Interesting.

People will try to see past you Justin Fitzpatrick People will try to see past you They will think they have you all figured out They will pin you indifferent Or they’ll pin you with a cliché People will never pin you < What you want to be seen as People only care< How far they can throw you down People only care When you yourself have no base to stand upon Why? It’s the only way they can raise themselves up And it’s the only path in which to destroy ourselves There are some of us that do end up destroying ourselves And the rest just become higher

Temple Blues Ken Dean     Somewhere in the An Najaf area of southern Iraq:     It had been in a state of rest now for millennia. Suddenly there were infidels invading its temple. This could not be tolerated. There were several blinding blue flashes. It dispatched all of the invaders quickly and violently.     Private first class Jordan M. Franklin was struggling to crawl on his one good arm and impossibly twisted leg. He had to get away from the terror and mayhem. The fact that he was still conscious was amazing. His right arm had been severed from his body along with his left leg. He was losing a lot of blood and wouldn’t last long. Some people would have gone into shock quickly; somehow Jordan was able to hang on for a few minutes. But his death was a given fact. He was able to make out his M4 combat weapon off to the right in the sand. It had been melted out of shape by whatever bizarre force that had flung it out of the temple. Beyond that he could make out the severed head of private Desabato lying in the sand. His helmet was still on and his lifeless eyes were staring blankly into the harsh, noontime sky. There were still some low moans and guttural sounds behind him; all the men in the twenty-man squad must be dead or dying.     He blacked out for a moment, but came to laying on a piece of exposed rock that wasn’t sand covered. His entire body was descending into numbness. A half minute was about all he had left before darkness closed in. A warning had to be left for others that may come this way. And his fellow Marines would surely come looking for him and the rest of Recon One soon. Jordan used the blood that was flowing out of his severed right arm and coated his finger with it. He began to write a message on the exposed rock, clumsily scrawling out ‘DO NOT GO IN’. That was all he could manage. The blackness was closing in on his vision and his ears were filled with a loud buzzing. It was over. His head fell to the ground and death overtook him like a cheetah its prey.     Al Hillah Marine outpost designation Border Watch Three:     Colonel James Brady was sitting at his desk waiting for his breakfast. It was eight in the morning and he was going through briefs on the days upcoming activities. Included were a disciplinary hearing on a fight between two of his Marines the night before, and some combat drill training to keep the men’s edge up. There was also a memo from the deployed forces coordinator that Recon One had failed to check in at their designated time. Odd; could be communications problems. He would have Hanson check on it.     Brady loved the corps, and liked to keep those under him on a fighting edge; ready for anything. He demanded respect from his men and they gladly gave it to him. His mix of toughness along with being fair and understanding was well known in the corps.     There were times he didn’t agree with certain assignments or deployments, such as commanding this small Marine outpost in south-central Iraq. It felt too far from the real action.     His base was just outside the small town of Al Hillah in south central Iraq. Brady and his men were here to patrol the surrounding area in case any unwanted traffic, weapons or insurgents might make their way north from the Iranian border. At least the locals in this area of Iraq seemed friendly, although he wasn’t sure what the populace thought of his outpost and men. His assistant Hanson was given orders to have Intell recon get him a better picture on that. The people in this area of Iraq were more respectful and trouble was at a minimum, unlike Baghdad and Al Fallujah to the north.     Brady totally believed in his nations fight against terrorism, on that point he had to agree with his present assignment. He had often thought that it was a good thing he wasn’t the President on that terrible day of 9/11. He knew he would have handled things in a much different way. And he had great admiration for the President’s staff and the President himself for staying calm at a moment when emotions were running high. Brady couldn’t claim the same for himself. There were several times he had talked with his fellow peers about his viewpoints and expressed the fact that America should have used the ‘Big Stick’ policy, although somewhat modified. Some had agreed with his viewpoint, some hadn’t. His take on the methods of that principle would have been for America to put its intelligence communities to the task (and that they had better work together on it) of making absolutely sure where Bin Laden was hiding out. Once that was accomplished, the country (let’s say Afghanistan) where good old Bin L. was resting his ass would have been given the designation of being terrorists themselves. America would then missile over a nuke to an uninhabited part of that country (probably a desert or mountainous region) to get their full attention. A warning to that country would then be issued that if Big Bin wasn’t surrendered over to the US in two weeks, the next nuke would be painful; your choice.     It was actually a good thing for the world that Pax Romana (The Roman Peace) wasn’t still in effect from antiquity. America would absolutely rule the world with a nuclear fist. The ‘Big Stick’ strategy wouldn’t even apply in that scenario. It would be Americas will and dominance or harsh retribution to any nation that didn’t accept it. But that scenario belonged to a different timeline. Brady was daydreaming and disappointed that he didn’t live in it. He had been called a war hawk before and took pride in the nickname. In this reality, the US was altogether too nice and amiable; even to those who wished it harm.     His assistant, second lieutenant Robert J. Hanson, had just brought his breakfast in and sat it on his desk, being careful not to cover anything the colonel was working on. Hanson was the best assistant he had picked for quite a while. Smart man; followed orders and respected authority. He was also a useful source of information. Brady could always count on him to follow up on the details of any briefs or memos, the overall mood of the outpost and the local populace, any current scuttlebutt, etc. The colonel would make sure that Hanson got the breaks he deserved when it came time for promotion.     “Thanks Hanson. I’ve been up since five AM and I am absolutely starving. Have you already eaten?’     “Yes Sir, about an hour ago.” He knew where this was leading. The colonel usually asked the question as a precursor to a quick meeting to go over the days activities.     Hanson always found the man reasonable; all he wanted was essential info gathered concerning pertinent happenings about the outpost, men and the local populace. Not a hard job to do considering that he had the colonels cart blanche to ask questions of anyone. He had also earned respect among the men as a right-hand man who was trying to make the base commanders’ job easier. And the men knew that, if asked, Hanson would put in a good word to the higher-ups about any topic that wasn’t too outrageous.     Robert wasn’t stupid about the workings of moving up in the ranks. He knew if he kept the colonel happy, it would only help his overall career in the corps. It was good luck on his part that he was picked to be his assistant. Being from a poor farm family in Kansas, he was bound and determined to take advantage of any opportunity to advance his career.     “Then go ahead and have a seat. We’ll talk about today’s agenda while I eat.”     “Yes Sir,” He replied, taking a seat at the table.     Brady shoved a piece of toast covered with egg and bacon into his mouth and still continued to speak. Bad habit. But Hanson wasn’t about to point it out to him. In the military, that would be worse manners than the bad habit. Plus it might have negative repercussions.     “There’s one item I want to know about, since I’ve heard little bits and pieces from different sources. Have you been hearing any rumors about odd behavior from the locals? What I mean is; have you heard of anything out of the ordinary, peculiar, funky, etc? And drop the Sir; Colonel will do.”     “Yes, Colonel. There have been reports from the men on patrol here at Al Hillah that the locals have seemed quieter and more somber. The men reported they would barely make eye contact with our soldiers while on patrol, and if they did, they would quickly look away with what seemed to be pity in their expressions.     “Pity—why have pity on us?”     “Hard to say. But what’s even more fantastic is that I’ve also heard reports from my contacts in Baghdad and Al Fallujah that the same conditions are being reported there; along with even more rumors of a total absence of any insurrection activity. It’s amazingly quiet. No roadside bombs, suicide vehicles, or any other attacks on our troops have been reported at all in the last few days.”     “Just like that, huh? With no explanation. Seems like someone threw a switch somewhere. Okay, all that unexplainable bullcrap aside, the other briefs I received this morning are important. But the more disturbing report is the one about Recon One not checking in yet. They were sent out to check an isolated structure spotted by our satellites a few days ago in the An Najaf area. Hard to tell what could be hidden down there; especially given the isolation of the area.”     “Totally understandable, Colonel. What would you like me to do?”     “Well, first off, the satellite image of that area is only able to make out the structure and our helicopters due to a small sandstorm in the area. So I’m thinking comm problems or trouble, maybe both. They were sending regular check-ins until shortly after they landed, right?”     “Yes Sir, I mean Colonel.”     “What I’d like you to do is set up an exploratory mission, code name Recon Two, to copter down southwest and investigate. I want the team to be assembled from the MARSOC unit, thirty troops plus the pilot and copilot. Also make sure that max armament for both the helicopters and the troops is provided. We’re not sure what happened down there. And as the Boy Scouts say, ‘Always Be Prepared’. You have my authorization to conduct the mission briefing and to make sure they get airborne ASAP. I’d like to have this resolved before sundown since it’s only nine AM now. And have them check-in with Intel on the hour, airborne or ground. Clear enough, Hanson?”     “Yes, I will get on it immediately. Anything else, Colonel?”     “Yes, have the cook send in another breakfast. I was talking so much this one went cold.     Something else, I want you to be in charge of Recon Two. You need to get out there and get more field experience instead of waiting on me all the time.”     “With pleasure, Colonel.” Hanson stood and gave a snappy Marine salute which Brady returned.     Hanson proceeded directly to Ops to make all the mission arrangements. He had to contact the MARSOC commander about the thirty troops he needed, get in touch with flight Ops to have the birds they would need fueled and weapons loaded, and a NAV/flight plan in order.     He had been through basic and officer training, plus had a short tour in the more troubled parts of Iraq. Fear of the upcoming mission wasn’t a real problem. There were some possibilities that the Colonel may have over-looked. If there were any Marines left alive from Recon One, they would have found a way to communicate back to the base. There was comm gear on each copter, plus at least one Marine would be carrying satellite uplink comm gear for ground communications or for reporting back to base. Either all the equipment had been destroyed, or all the Marines were incapable of using the equipment. This left open the possibility that they had all been captured or killed. There had been twenty combat-hardened troops on that mission, and they were as familiar with their weapons and tactics as wiping their own ass; so either possibility seemed a little far-fetched.     Hanson went to the mess and grabbed an early lunch. About an hour later he had reports back from the various units that the birds were ready and armed. The troops had been briefed in part by second lieutenant Navis one of his chopper pilots. He could hear the talking and joking in the briefing room before he entered.     “Ten-Hut!!” someone exclaimed as Hanson entered the room. The men all snapped to their feet. He out-ranked them all; along with being mission lead.     “At ease, men. I’m going to finish your briefing and we need to get airborne ASAP. The Colonel wants this mission completed today.”     Hanson filled the troops in on some more details.     “The word is green for go, so every one gear up and get out to the choppers.”     The men quickly obeyed orders and assembled out at the airfield waiting to board; the choppers were idling flat-blade fast and loud as hell. Once everyone was on board the pilots of the five Huey choppers applied more power and angled the rotors down, biting hard into the air and lifting the birds quickly while leaving a large wake of swirling sand.     The mission course was southwest towards the location of Recon One.     Hanson was in the lead chopper wearing his headset and mike. Navis was one of the best pilots at the base; Hanson was glad he had chosen to fly with him.     Navis was keeping the group on the correct heading; flying at an altitude of about two hundred feet while watching the horizon and landscape below. This was some of the more inhospitable areas of Iraq. All he could see were rolling sand dunes with an occasional outcropping of rocks.     “Lieutenant,” the pilot came over the headset, “Intel requests to speak to you personally, Sir.”     “Roger that Navis, put them through.”     “Yes sir, Lieutenant.”     “Lieutenant Hanson here, proceed.”     “We were told to inform you ASAP if any conditions of the mission changed sir,” the Intel radio operator began, “and there has been some new satellite data that’s directly related.”     “Roger that, what’s changed?”     “The sandstorm has cleared up and the view on Recon One is crystal now. We can clearly see all four birds on the ground along with numerous bodies around the structure dressed in desert camos. What’s more disturbing sir is that many of the bodies seemed to have been dismembered.”     ‘Shit’, Hanson thought. The satellites could pick the up the brand of a golf ball if the atmospheric conditions were right. ‘What the hell are we getting into’?     “Colonel Brady has seen the same report Lieutenant, and has instructed you and your Marines to proceed with extreme caution.”     “Roger that Intel and copy the Colonel, we will continue with the hour checks.”     “Affirmative, Intel out.”     My God, Hanson thought. What could decimate a squad of twenty Marines so easily? A bomb? Intel hadn’t mentioned any signs of explosions.     “Sgt. Navis, what’s our ETA?”     “About fifteen minutes, Lieutenant. Any changes in course or speed?”     “Negative on that Navis, stick to the mission parameter.”     “Yes sir.”     Hanson switched to allcomm so that the troops in the other Hueys could hear him.     “This is Lieutenant Hanson. Ready-up on all your weapons and prepare to disembark once the choppers touch down. I will give further instructions then. Side-gunners in all choppers have the twenty-mil gatling guns ready also.”     He could already see something on the horizon; at this distance it must be at least one-hundred meters high.     “All birds, I want to make at least a two-circle pass to assess the situation.”     Hanson received an all roger on that request.     The structure was in sight now. It looked like a mosque of some sort, but with flavor of a much older architecture.     Hanson commed through to Intell back at Border Watch Three base.     “Intell, this Recon Two checking in. We are about to ingress into Recon Ones area and check the situation.”     “Roger that, Lieutenant. I will put the message through to Colonel Brady. Intell out.”     The choppers were beginning to make their circle. Hanson could see the four helos from Recon One sitting off to one side, undamaged. They flew around the front and saw the horrendous mess of bodies and body parts littering the sand all around and out from the structure opening along with the Marines weapons flung in every direction. The other men had to be getting the same view.     “Lieutenant! What the hell happened down there,” an agitated Navis asked.     “Just keep flying the recon circle Navis; we’ll find out soon enough,” Hanson answered with a hard edge of determination and anger to his voice.     “Roger that, Lieutenant.”     “Listen up,” Hanson put out to all the birds, “Come to a hover behind the temple while I think strategy for a minute.”     Roger came back from all birds. Hanson thought back to his training for incursion scenarios.     He again put out to all the choppers: “Marines, this is what I want to happen. Jackson and Rogers; set your two birds down towards the temple entrance with gatling and chain guns manned and armed facing the entrance. The other three birds set down behind the temple and we will proceed from there. Every man will have his mike and earpiece on for communication. I will address further in person once we land. Pilots, stay in the choppers with rotors on flat idle just in case.”     He loved working with these Marines. They were the best of the best, special ops training and everything that went along with it. They ate ‘Semper Fi’ for breakfast. They would die trying to carry out the orders given them.     The five birds settled to the ground as ordered, sand swirling all around as they touched down. The men had been in desert combat before, and instinctively knew to wear their desert gear plus goggles so that they could egress the choppers without waiting for the clouds of sand to settle.     They quickly grouped up at the rear of the temple; at least that what Hanson believed it to be.     No one had said anything yet, and being combat-hardened troops they most likely wouldn’t. It was an eerie site to see dead brothers in arms in front of the temple from the choppers on their approach in. That along with the smell of rotting flesh at ground level in the hot noon-day sun was enough to make the average person toss a bagged lunch.     Hanson kneeled in front of the group of Marines and drew in the sand a representation of the temple, their positions, etc. with a stick he found nearby.     “Listen up. Three hueys are on the ground behind the temple on standby takeoff if needed. The other two are facing the temple entrance with a shitload of firepower. Johnson, Brands, Oakes and Goldmayer-I want you four in back at the corners on watch for anything that might come across the desert, each soldier armed with a LARS rocket launcher and your M4 assault weapon. The rest of us are going to round the temple sides and form up two groups on either side of the hueys. I know it’s a hell of a mess out front. Something inside or outside did that to our men. Concentrate on what killed our brothers and let it keep you cold and frosty, understand? Whoever did this will pay; I can assure you that. Okay, form up two groups and lets round the temple to the entrance. Go!”     The men broke up and double-timed around the structure so they were facing the entrance in two groups. It was a large opening leading in with no door or closure. It seemed eerily dark inside. They tried not to look at their fallen comrades, but like gravity, the eyes were pulled to the travesty of death that lay on the sand.     “Lieutenant Hanson,” sgt. Handel shouted, “I got a Marine here who made it a little further from the temple than most. Looks like he left a message.”     Hanson rushed over.     “‘Do not go in’- written in his own damn blood. Could there be a trap inside?”     “Hard to say, Lieutenant, I don’t know what kind of a trap could do this to so many men. There’s not even any sign of an explosion which would account for all the body parts and destroyed weapons.”     “Good point. I’d say we proceed with caution.”     “Allen, Goldberg - over here.”     Both soldiers responded quickly. “Yes sir.”     “You Marines feeling brave?”     “Sir, Yes Sir!” they shouted with enthusiasm.     “Good! I want you both to turn on your helmet mini-cams and lights, go to the entrance and each take a side. Work your way around the inside and reconnoiter. I’ll be listening on headset and watching your progress on video from here. Give me a good look around with your cams.”     “Yes sir.” They proceeded towards the entrance.     Both of them picked a side of the entrance and hung there for a few seconds, and then both turned their heads slowly to get a look inside. It was dark; the TAC lights on their helmets and M4’s bit through the darkness. The room inside was quite large and looked like the inside of a mosque. They proceeded to edge along the walls noting that they were totally covered with Arabic-looking symbols and inscriptions. The interior had a smell that was a combination of old cave and your attic stuffed with musty crap.     Both Marines had just about walked the distance around the circular room and were close to meeting each other. They stopped short when they came upon a shrine-like alcove in the wall that was in a direct line with the door. Looking at each and nodding, they both trained their lights on the inside of the alcove. The brilliant reflection almost blinded them! The ledge inside the alcove was at chest level and resting there upon on a purple, velvet-looking rug was a brilliant, silver sword. It was curved sword and of a scimitar type. Everything around was dusty and musty; but the velvet rug and sword looked pristine, no dust or corrosion whatsoever.     “Lieutenant Hanson, you catching all this?” Private Allen asked.     “Every bit Allen. What do you make of it?’     “Could be silver, but it would be corroded if it had been here for a while. Stainless steel is another possibility. Hell, someone could have brought it in yesterday and sat it in the alcove. But I’ve never seen anything so reflective and brilliant. Whoever made this was a damn fine craftsman.”     “Go ahead and pick it up. Bring it out here for examination.”     “Yes Sir.’     Allen set down his M4 against the wall. He slowly reached into the alcove and picked up the sword. It felt as light a feather. It couldn’t be made of – there was suddenly a brilliant blue flash! The sword dropped to the floor. Even though momentarily blinded by the flash, Goldberg was barely able to make out the form of Allen’s body being flung up into the air and hitting the opposite wall hard. Goldberg heard an awful splat when Allen hit the wall, his body then falling on the sandy floor. Goldberg’s sight was returning as he was backing away from the sword. He ran over to Allen’s body remembering to hang on to his M4.     “Allen, Goldberg—what the hell just happened? We saw a blue flash and Allen’s cam went dead!”     “Allen’s dead, sir. He was flung up against the far wall by something — hit so hard the back of his helmet and head are caved in.”     “Get the hell out here, now!”     Goldberg wasn’t listening. He was mesmerized by the sight of the sword lifting up and starting to glow an eerie blue. But then his training took over and he began to fire his M4 at it to no effect. Dropping his weapon, he had time to let out a shrill scream as the sword rushed in his direction, slicing him into several pieces.     Outside, they heard the weapon firing and then the snuffed out scream.     “Dear God,’ Hanson said, “what’s happening in there? Both cams are dead now. Damn it! Marines, get in there and fire at will!”     They all howled to run in but never had a chance. The sword had appeared at the opening, spewing out what looked like flat, blue lightning that was slicing back and forth. It had cut down the all the Marines at the opening into several pieces before they could make a move.     Hanson screamed into his mike, “Everyone — open fire!”     The two hueys responded with a deafening roar of twenty millimeter rounds from chain and gatling guns as the side-mounted rocket launche rs joined in. Likewise the four Marines in back of the temple had rushed around at the order and started firing their LARS rockets and M4’s. The maelstrom had no effect on the sword or the temple. Blue sheets of lightning whipped out to cut the choppers into several pieces causing them to explode in flames. Any remaining Marines plus the four who had rushed from behind the temple were all mown down. Everyone except for Hanson, who had dropped all of his equipment and was just staring in disbelief at the massacre before him.     The pilots in the choppers waiting in back disobeyed orders to hang back after they heard Hanson scream over the comm system. They powered up and were lifting above the temple to fly around front when they suffered the same fate as their fellow Marines and tumbled burning to the ground. The choppers from Recon One weren’t left alone this time. They also were sliced to burning shards.     The only one left was Hanson. The sword slowly floated up to him, highlights of blue flashing back and forth across the reflective surface. He tried to back away, but couldn’t. Something was forcing him down to his hands and knees. He tried to resist, but to no avail. The sword lifted up, and then swiftly sliced through Hanson’s neck.     It was intelligent. It knew that if the temple had been invaded twice that more would come. It must venture forth from its resting place to seek out all infidels and destroy them.     The true Jihad had begun.

Ready To See Mark Joseph Kiewlak     It began when I heard the church bells ringing in the middle of the night. I got up out of bed and went out into the street. There was no movement, no sound. Only the bells to guide me. The world was frozen in place and I did not think this strange.     I opened the door and saw that the lights were on, that the body of the church was crowded with people. I tried to think of what holiday it could be, but none came to mind. I couldn’t find a seat. There was not one empty space.     Then a little girl with dark hair stepped out into the aisle and walked back to where I stood. She took me by the hand and led me further back to empty pews that I had not seen before. She sat beside me with many empty rows between the rest of the congregation and us. Her hair was pulled back in a fancy bow and her gown was black and velvety. Candles were burning all around.     “Sit here until you’re ready,” she said.     She knelt forward and I did the same, hands clasped before me. The others were all in the same posture, with heads bowed. No one was speaking.     I waited and then the sound of the bells abruptly ceased. I turned toward the girl. “What is all this?” I said.     She looked at me as if the answer was obvious and I was a moron for not knowing it.     “It’s the end of the world,” she said.     I paused for just a moment before I took her by the wrist, stood up, and led her out into the cold. I noticed now that I was wearing my pajamas and slippers from home. The world around us still wasn’t moving.     “I’m not going back in there,” I said. “And neither are you, until I understand what’s going on here.”     She slipped her arm free of my grip and smoothed her gown beneath her as she sat down on the cold concrete of the church steps. She hugged herself, huddling forward and rubbing her bare arms to stay warm. And as she did this, she seemed to me a very old soul in possession of this little girl’s body.     “What were you doing,” she said, “just before you came here?”     I stared down the length of the empty dark street. “I’d rather not say,” I said.     She rocked a little, back and forth.     “Oh, I already know what you were doing,” she said. “But it’s important to have you say it, so we can get this thing started.”     The light around the street lamps formed a succession of motionless halos dwindling out of sight. There was no sound in the world but that of my voice.     “I was waiting to die,” I said.     It had been with me everywhere these past few weeks — the intimation that everything in my life was about to change. I had turned away from this feeling as best I could, in order to live my daily life, but it just kept getting stronger. So much so that I had spent the past few days settling my affairs and saying my good-byes. And then, just a few moments ago, as I prepared for bed, I was filled with the sensation that the end was near. That there was nothing else in front of me. Nothing left to accomplish here. I knew I was ready to move on.     “And so you have,” the little girl said.     I knew I had not spoken aloud.     “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Now please concentrate. It’s coming into focus now.”     I sat down next to her, but I wouldn’t close my eyes. It seemed important not to do that.     “We’re moving on,” I said.     “That’s right.”     “But how did I know that?” I said. “Where did that thought come from?”     She shivered a little and smiled slyly to herself.     “From your greater self,” she said.     I felt doors opening inside of me, chains falling away, locks being released.     “You knew about this,” she said. “You knew that you were a part of a greater whole, an aspect of something that you could never quite grasp. But you knew it was there just the same.”     I watched her in profile as she spoke with wisdom beyond her years, and I tried to feel the words, to let them change me, but the larger part of me still resisted. There was a strand of hair hanging down over her forehead and I wanted to reach over and tuck it back behind her ear.     “Why here?” I said. “Why was I led here?”     “This is a sacred place. A holy place.”     I glanced behind me at the towering spires. The fog, too, was motionless.     “But I stopped practicing this religion a long time ago.”     She smiled her sly smile again. “You have it backwards,” she said. “You seem to think that this is a holy place because of what’s been built here. But this has been built here only because it was already a holy place. A gathering point of energy. A nexus of vitality.”     “What about the others in there? Are we the last ones left? What’s happened to the world? Why is everything so quiet, so still?”     She was beginning to shake now from the cold. I wasn’t sure what to do. I had no coat to give her.     “They’re all here for the same reason you are,” she said. “Because they’re ready.”     “Ready to die?”     She shook her head.     “Nobody dies,” she said.     “Nobody dies?”     “It’s a safe universe,” she said.     I felt myself again just within reach of what she was saying, but I couldn’t close the gap.     “This isn’t the end of the world at all,” I said.     “No.”     “Then why did you tell me that it was?”     “At that particular moment it was the only answer that you could understand. The only belief that would lead you forward.”     “You still haven’t explained what’s happened to the world,” I said.     She got to her feet and glanced toward the sky.     “Nothing has happened,” she said. “It’s still there, just as you remember it. And you’re still there, too. The You that you remember. A part of you is still that person. But this part of you isn’t.”     The absence of sound was adding weight and resonance to everything she said.     “Many parts of you carry memories,” she said, “of many other parts.”     I felt indecisive suddenly, as if I couldn’t move at all from the cold concrete until my understanding was resolved.     “So this is a new Me?” I said.     “On a new adventure.”     “I’ve just been created?”     “Not yet,” she said. “You’re holding things up.”     “Inside the church, you mean.”     She nodded.     “And you’re out here freezing to death, a lovable little girl, to give me further incentive to go back inside and do whatever it is I have to do.”     “Now you’re catching on,” she said. I could hear her teeth chattering.     “I’ll go back in,” I said. “But first I need to know who set all of this up.”     She walked past me and climbed the stairs and held the door open for me.     “You did,” she said.     I followed her back to the same pew we had occupied before. We knelt forward.     “You’re still not ready,” she said.     “Why not?”     “You’re beginning to understand, but you don’t yet believe.”     I kept my voice to a whisper.     “What is it exactly that I’m supposed to believe in?”     She smiled her sly smile and said not a word. She placed her hand atop my arm and I closed my eyes automatically, without thinking.     I saw my life as one long progression into becoming. But becoming what? What I did for a living was of no consequence. Character is not built on such things. I tried as best I could to bring joy to those around me. I had at some point taken ultimate responsibility for my own life. No one could make me sad. No one could make me happy, but that I allowed for it. It was all up to me. I had learned to focus only on the moment at hand, and to create freely, with only the best of all possible outcomes held in my mind for each endeavor in which I took part. I had been happy and satisfied with all that the world had provided me, each unique experience, but there was, always on the periphery, a power inherent in this understanding that I shied away from. I felt not worthy of what it was telling me, for it was telling me that there was only goodness surrounding me, only grace. And because I could not accept this, I had concocted demons, manifested them in all forms around me. I knew of a perfection that caused me pain because the world kept spinning it out of my grasp. But I could make the world stop, if need be. And I had.     We all had that power.     “Open your eyes,” she said.     I opened my eyes and everyone was gone.     “Go outside,” she said. “Your final steps.”     I made my way to the door and was disappointed to find the world still frozen in place. I stepped out into the middle of the street.     And then it began.     New senses that I had previously been aware of only in dreams were inundating my consciousness. As the world began to move again I could feel the energy of everything. I could flow with it if I chose, lose myself inside it, or I could stay outside the flow just enough to maintain awareness, to watch the sun burn away the fog, to play with the light and the heat that it brought. I was awestruck by the way in which each surface, each substance, each atom reacted to one another.     Everything was alive!     I could paint with sounds. I could become the elements. I could fly!     And the others I had seen were there too, moving at a new vibration to the world. We weren’t even separate anymore. There was a link across space and time, which weren’t even real. The universe was a playground to me. And I was a child forever.     I saw her then, coming down the church steps, the little girl in the black velvety gown. I smiled at her and acknowledged, without speaking, all that she had helped me to understand. She nodded and gave me that sly smile one last time.     “It was always there in front of you,” she said. “It was just a question of when you were ready to see.”

Charles Whitman, I ain’t Wednesday Lee Friday     There were only eighteen bullets. Six were already in the gun, and I had what you call “speed loaders” in my pocket. They’re actually quite ingenious, like a little tray that holds the bullets just right to go into the gun with a tiny twist. If anyone tries to tell you that speed loaders aren’t cute, you can be reasonably sure that they’ve never actually seen one.     I walked to the tallest place I could find that didn’t involve me climbing a ladder. I’m really not a fan of ladders, and lots of them aren’t very sturdy—especially around here. That basically meant that I had one gun, a fifty-seven magnum to be exact, to begin my shooting spree. It also meant that I would have to begin it from the tippy top of the women’s dorm.     I pulled out my pot pipe and took a few hits. Normally I prefer to smoke from a glass pipe than a wooden one. But these new dealies were very handy. You could pack them in advance and then use the swivel lid to keep everything in place until you need it. I know! Who would ever have thought potheads could master the concept of function meeting design? Like I always say, you can be stoned without being stupid. This particular toking device was designed to look like a lipstick. Normally a lipstick would be a typical and natural thing for a college age woman to carry. But I could not honestly tell you the last time I put lipstick on. Lipstick is very bad etiquette for pot smokers anyway. Nothing is more rude than leaving bright red schmutz all over someone’s beautifully executed jay. Speaking of beautiful, this pot was green and sticky and yummy yummy!     Goodness...who first? As if to validate this entire funny plan, the Football Jerk who made prank calls to me my freshman year walked right past the women’s dorm like cock of the walk. On his over muscled arm was a new sorority pledge he was no doubt trying to screw. She giggled and leaned against him as if he were the very personification of wit and charm.     I aimed and fired, surprised at how much the gun jerked backward in my hand. That guy from that party had been right all along; it was to big for a “little lady” like me. I’ve been fat my whole life, so it was natural to think that anyone calling me “little lady” was employing a biting sarcasm. When I’m done with this, I should probably apologize for being so rude to him...     The little Pledge Girl fell down and a morbid maroon rose budded and bloomed in the middle of her chest. A fantastic shot if I do say so...truly spectacular. More important than the aim though, I’d started what some people might say was a very serious thing. It wouldn’t be very long before someone would try to end it.     Even though I’d missed the Football Jerk, the amazing shot to the Pledge Girl bolstered my confidence. I fired three more times, this time holding the gun much tighter and keeping my arms much looser. I thought there was something to this, because it felt much more natural in my hands. I hit a tree, then a bench, then, finally that cock-sucking, prank-calling Football Jerk. I heard some screaming, then more, loud and nearly hysterical. People were starting to run around. It was a funny kind of running though, not toward the wounded girl, or for cover, or even away from the places where the bullets hit...just a frantic, random scurrying that seemed to lead them nowhere.     Finally, there were words shouted amongst all the screaming. Something that sounded like “Where is he?” or “Can anybody see the gunman?” Nobody had any idea who it was or where the party was coming from. I could probably just stop and leave and go back to my room. Nobody would even know so long as I didn’t leave prints on the gun or whatever. People got away with this sort of thing all the time.     I was just about to leave and have a nap when I saw the professor who accused me of copying out of a book. Can you imagine? Me! Just because I didn’t use any footnotes. Footnotes are stupid, and I shouldn’t have to prove that I actually read a book or didn’t copy out of it or anything. Don’t they trust us? If they don’t, this is probably not the right job for them. One shot takes him down perfectly, and I realize that I’m a much better shot when I let my hate do the aiming for me.     With that in mind, I only need one bullet to fell the casting director at the student theatre. She obviously has issues with fat people. She should’ve just admitted that instead of pretending I “didn’t have what it takes for such a demanding role.” She could have just admitted that she was under pressure to give those roles to theatre majors. She could have done a lot of things that didn’t involve destroying my confidence or making me look untalented or ugly. She had lots of choices; it didn’t have to be like this. I kept that thought firmly in mind as the Melodramatic Senior who played Duncan threw himself on her bloody body and cried. Always the performer, that one! I found myself unmoved by his portrayal of the-guy-who-gave-a fuck.     I suddenly remembered that the RA who got me busted for having weed in my room was out of town this weekend. As (her) luck would have it, she was spending time with her parents in Saginaw. Some people really must be surrounded by angels of good fortune. It wasn’t fair. Not at all.     “It’s her! She’s up there!!” I hear the screaming from below, and feel their accusing fingers jabbing me from two stories below. They shouldn’t be able to hurt me from down there—that was the whole point of this. But the sharp stabbing pains persist, and I sort of wish I’d smoked some more pot. I set the gun down because it feels very heavy. The bag is all the way on the other side of the roof, so I really have no choice but to load the gun again and walk over there. I probably could have planned this better, but oh well.     I waived in the direction of the accusing scream. It was an odd thing to say really, as if they all expected it was me or something. That couldn’t be the case; I’d done a really good job of keeping it a secret. I walked back to where I’d left the gun taking a few seconds to peer down over the edge of the building. There were a lot of people down there now; then times as many as when I fired the first shot. What the hell kind of people ran toward gunfire anyway? Seriously, these people deserved whatever they got.     I made sure they could see that I didn’t have the gun in my hand anymore. They needed to see that I was no kind of threat. I learned that by watching TV, and apparently it was very important in case I wanted to make sure they didn’t shoot me. I was fairly indifferent about it, honestly. My work here was pretty much done so far as I knew. The sun was bright and nice, but not too hot. My pipe still had a few hits in it, so I sat down on the ledge and smoked, dangling my legs over the side. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed. I should have come up to the roof a long time ago.     The screaming and running was still going on after what seemed like a very long time. Christ, what was the big fucking deal with these people? I didn’t hit anyone that was well-loved. Hell, most of these people weren’t even liked, but now everyone has to get all crazy and weepy and sad. Why can’t anyone just be fucking honest with themselves? She was. But now that she thought of it, it would probably be better if people in general didn’t start doing things like this. It could create any number of problems.     Now everyone would treat this like some grand human interest story. It’s just not that important. People died. So what? People die every day. When people are in torment, real pain I mean, nobody does anything about it. Nobody cares. Someone could have just as easily shot me on my way to class, but they didn’t. No one but ME had the guts to open serious fire on the coop full of idiots.     A couple of jerks on a tiny campus most people have never heard of go down—and people act like it’s the end of the fucking world. I wanted to tell them all that, but frankly I didn’t see the point. This sticky bud still tasted yummy yummy. I sat there smoking and swinging my feet, wondering what would happen next. In The Closet Wednesday Lee Friday     There is a monster in my front closet. And yes, I know how that sounds. But I was just waking up from a nice little nap on the sofa and I saw it. It was just a flash of something furry and dark creeping under the closet door. Moving out and then quickly back in as if it could tell I was looking at it. At first I thought it was the cat, but the cat died at the vet’s office weeks ago. It’s not like I forgot she died, I just forgot to remind every aspect of my life that we didn’t have a cat anymore. I still bought cat food at the store, still put fresh litter in the box...why do I even have that litterbox? It doesn’t make any sense.     I guess the question is: What do I do? I mean, I can’t very well call the police and tell them there’s a monster in my closet. They’d hang up. If I call 911 they might listen long enough to make me a reservation at the nut-house, excuse me...the mental hospital. But I’m never going back there again. I hate being away from my brother almost as much as I hate that horrible place. Everyone talks down to you and the food is terrible.     I look down at the book I’d been reading before my nap. A Separate Peace lay pressed open on the floor. Not a good way to leave a book, very bad for the binding. I love John Knowles, and his bright vivid portrayals of young men. But there’ll be no more reading for me tonight now that I have a monster to contend with. I put the bookmark back in and fiddle absently with the little tassel on the top. It could be any terrifying thing; and there’d be no one around to come help me. How horrible! An unnamable, moaning was coming from my coat closet. Just imagine what a beast like that might be doing to my coats! Or Jonas’s. Of course, Jonas wouldn’t care nearly as much about his coats...not a very complimentary thing to think about one’s only brother; but Jonas simply didn’t take good care of his things.     However, coats were not the issue, I’m alone in the apartment with the very real problem of how to deal with the moaning monster in the front closet. I want to wonder how it got there but can’t imagine how knowing such a thing could help. I suddenly wish I had Jonas’s brute strength. I am vaguely aware that my whole body is literally trembling with an awful sensation that must be fear. Dad was always disappointed that I wasn’t “tough” like Jonas; though at the time I couldn’t see what use physical toughness would be in real life. Now, alone and cowering from an unseen moaning thing in my own home, I have to wonder if Dad hadn’t been right all along. Maybe God does hate Faggots like me.     I look around the kitchen for something to hold the closet dweller off with—just until Jonas gets home. But wait—he’s out with that woman, that—Shelly or Misty or some stupid thing. Loopy blonde curls that looks straight from MTV and a skirt so short it looked like maybe she had just forgotten to wear pants. Who knew if Jonas would even be home tonight? She did not look like the type to send her date home early with a peck on the cheek and a cold shower.     Okay, Monster, I think stupidly, It’s you and me.     Right. Who the hell else would it be? I look frantically thru the kitchen for something to slow it down. As it was, it bumped feebly against the closet door. But that wouldn’t hold it forever. Oven cleaner. Oh man, I’d sprayed that on my legs once on accident. We were camping and I thought it was bug spray. Hurt like hell, and Dad was sure to tell everyone that I’d screamed like a woman. For as much shame as I brought him, he was always pretty keen to tell people about it.     I took the oven cleaner and read the instructions. Turn oven to cleaning cycle. Wait...I’m losing my mind here. All I have to do is point and shoot, right. But I can’t just open up the closet door. Who knows what the hell kind of thing is in there? It might be huge, it might go crazy, and it might—oh shit. I’ve really got to calm down.     Okay. Okay. I’m ready. I’m just going to spray some under the door, and if I hurt it, I’ll know. Then I’ll open the door and spray it some more. I don’t even have to look at it; I just have to spray and then slam it shut...okay calm down. Okay. Here I go.     I walk slowly to the door and just then I realize that I’m wearing sock feet on the slick tile. Dad always said to wear shoes in the house but I never did. Damn, why didn’t I ever listen? No matter, it was too late now.     I hold the can under the door and spray a few times. I hear louder moans inside the closet, and then a loud, high-pitched scream. This is it—go for it. I fling the door open with my eyes shut tight. I spray and spray while the thing screams and screams. I think I am screaming too...I’m not even sure. I slam the door shut again and lean against it for a second, then I jump away. What was I thinking—leaning against it? It could come busting through the thin paneling on the cheap apartment closet door.     I look around, wondering if it inflicted any damage on me. I suspect that it sprayed me with a warm kind of...oh, it seems that I have literally pissed myself from the terror. Suddenly my greatest fear is cleaning up this mess before Jonas gets home...he’d never let me hear the end of it—monster or no.     There’s still no clue what kind of thing it was inside. Some kind of animal judging by the sound. But almost human too. I hate that I’m not just a little braver, that I couldn’t have looked for just a single second. Dad was right...all along. I try to shake his image from my head and look around for something to do this creature in with. There must be something here; Jonas was a hunter for goodness sake! He hunted 3-4 nights a week these days. That’s why he needed that great, big trunk in his bedroom.     And then, in what seems like a great distance, I hear the phone ringing. I want to answer, but who knows who it is. The machine picks up and I hear Jonas’s voice, “Hello, this is Jonas, all you fine ladies leave a message and I’ll call you right back.” And then, sadly, mom’s voice: “That’s not funny you know; what will people think? You want them to come back around and...” On and on she talked as if anyone was listening. She’d be no help as usual. She was never any help to me at all.     I walk into Jonas’s room, past the big army trunk on the floor and see it peeking out from a pile of his rugged clothes on the floor. It’s so perfect it’s almost unbelievable. An Axe. A real, live axe like a lumberjack might carry in that Monty Python song. I pull it out and notice that it is already filthy with mud or something. Goodness, Jonas never did take very good care of his things.     And I, for once, am going to go take care of my problem. The beast almost sounded like it was weeping behind the thick closet door. I almost wanted to let it out so the swinging axe wouldn’t hurt my new winter coat; but I think (seeing Dad’s face in my mind) that’s what a Faggot would do! Keeping my eyes tightly closed I open the closet door and bring the axe down. Swing and Whoosh! It makes a huge sound, and then buries itself in something soft and yielding. It’s releases easily and I’m tempted to look, but I wait. I bring the axe up again and the thing makes a kind of high-pitched humming sound but stops abruptly when I bring the axe down the second time. I open my eyes at last.     I walk back toward Jonas’ room past the army trunk on the floor, and wondering why in the world I should want to open it and why I even have a key. It seems like this would be a good time to call the police; but I have no idea what to tell them. I think it would be best if I just wait for Jonas to get home.     Lying bloodied and well...dead in our coat closet is that woman...Misty or Sheila or something. She was supposed to be out with Jonas tonight. Why on earth would he leave her in the closet? Jonas never did take very good care of his things.

DANDELIONS & GRAFFITI Joshua Harriman Yeah, low self-esteem rules the street down to the corner and a couple blocks over to the liquor store. The yellow walls with a yellow chimney in a stained finger-tip afternoon. At high noon, if you don’t make it in time, to reach for the surface again, we’ll let them know down the street and around the corner. Yellow blocks, yellow corner, blue pavement-tarished gold melting down everyday till nothing makes sense on Hollywood star inscription. idol-worshipers coming to pay homage to their human gods implanted on plastic stars trying to outshine the sun. These idol-worshipers having all but forgotten of the old gods dwelling in fading constellations, receding off into space, relieving the missed attention, the missed support. the crystals sitting above Pluto and Neptune, shining on Earth from the other side of the universe, the way that human speech seeps through to the underwater city. The way that we sing songs around a fire, leaves us begging for novelty from the other shore. Begging for a new product to erase this malaise, begging for a distraction from this repeating error-message existence. In this way of life, our errors and mistakes are seen as a waste of time and we’re chided for committing them, but the music sounds better when there are glitches and mistakes. My legs were tired from running, running from the sandpaper scrape. It was getting dark enough now so that I could just barely make out the surrounding trees. The air smelt of sap and pine combs, and distracted me for a second from the terror of being lost. All I could do was lye down and wait for the sun, and hope I didn’t freeze, hope that the goblins didn’t come and find me. Their wrinkley green faces and small decrepite bodies, like little elves gone rotten. I thought about the sunrise, and how it would save me from my nightmares. I was living below the crystals of Pluto and Neptune where the sky glowed with purple and green hot coals, embers of the last survivors glowing on. Spending their final days in the residence of space light and see-through rainbows. Crystalline-stretching constellation webs forming through the haze.

polaris © devin wayne davis ‘07 from a nightshirt --the sun rises over meadowview-- this sheriff is checking ... if they have id; if they rode legally; if they have a problem with authority-- whether they have chips; perhaps, planting an informant in ranks; training poor kids to routinely submit; hunting guns, knives, the bomb, wmds, a look; blocking them, using his crossing guard forearm as a gate-- border patrol, extorting drug money.

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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