Dreamscape Frank De Canio I’ve taken my mother to the airport. God only knows how. I don’t own a car, and if I did, I wouldn’t know how to drive it. Anyway, I’m there, reading The New York Times. She tells me I’m tired. Of course I’m tired. 7 am is not a good hour for night birds to begin a journey. The scene metamorphoses. Wrapped in a cocoon, I’m lying in a hospital ward with a bevy of nurses cradling babies in their arms, as if they’d charm them out of Eden. It doesn’t matter. The road back is blocked by white-frocked seraphim brandishing hypodermic needles. The babies are being processed like slabs of meat for the world’s consumption. They do this with the kindly air of ministrants for the dispossessed. Soon the children will be suckled at the breast of lesser angels, on the first leg of their fruitless journey. It’s the last succor they’ll get before plummeting to earth, where there’ll be no survivors. I’m feeling sorry for them as I pull myself out of the sweating wreckage of night’s suffocating sleep, bracing for catastrophe. Previously Published in Stray Branch Spring 2010

brief Frank De Canio bio “I was born & bred in New Jersey, work in New York. I love music of all kinds, from Bach to Dory Previn, Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, World Music, Latin, opera. Shakespeare is my consolation, writing my hobby. I like Dylan Thomas, Keats, Wallace Stevens, Frost , Ginsburg, and Sylvia Plath as poets.”

Why Gum Kevin Heaton Uncle Herman broke Johnny’s back with a two-by-four for not finishing the chores fast enough. Johnny was always so quiet and gentle. If Aunt Alice ever spoke out- of-turn, or was late with supper; he would beat her and snatch fists full of hair from her head. Sometimes when he beat her, she would run away; then, he’d beg, and she’d go back. In 1963, she came to visit Grandma and bought me a quarter pack of Black Cats. I could always see her scalp. His face was prune pit-picked and covered in twenty-year old blackheads; long past ripe. He farmed lush, fertile acres of Kansas wheatland, but their shack had wood floors. Each field sprouted oil jacks; pumping day and night, but that miser counted every penny. At reunions, he’d follow me out to the porch swing and roll cigarettes while telling me stories. Each story ended with the words: “why gum”. All I could think about was that two-by-four.

The Long Walk Roger Cowin One day a man decides to take the long way home around the world. Arriving several decades late for dinner. his wife demands to know where he’s been. He explains he had been a lovely night and needed to break in his new shoes so he decided to walk home. But he walked so far he had to buy another pair and break them in and so on and so on till it became somewhat of a Homeric journey. His wife tells him his dinner is in the oven, but it isn’t very good after twenty years. They go upstairs and make love, which isn’t very good either. Her once young, firm body has grown worn and loose as an old shoe. It’s like making love to a baseball mitt. Later, he awakens to the moon streaming its chatoyant light across the room and his wife’s pale, haggard face, sunken in sleep. In the closet he discovers a pair of shoes, never worn, still in their box. He sits on the side of the bed and slips them on, wriggling his toes around for fit, takes a few cautious steps, decides to go for a walk...

Effigy Kaye Branch     “No one would guess,” Pearl said, in front of red light, holding down the brake while poised to wreck havoc on society at large. “That we’re just a group of suburban teenagers.”     Except that they weren’t. Or they weren’t anymore. Three of them were college graduates and the one who was yet to start college was eliciting sighs all over their shared hometown. People were sure they’d misjudged Viola’s potential when she was a high school honors students.     Viola still had the same amount of potential, Nerissa was sure, she just refused to put it to use under any name besides “V_Slayer”. “V_Slayer” was listed prominently on the Top Ten list of every arcade game in every movie theater within a reasonable distance. Nerissa was sometimes jealous of Viola, whose parents just let her be and never saw her wasted potential. Nerissa always reminded herself that she shouldn’t be. While she was poised to set the world on fire, Viola had nothing besides the two-dimensional women she studied on her television screen.     “This will help her,” Pearl said to Rose and Viola after she announced her plan. “Help her a lot.”     Nerissa wasn’t sure if she agreed. Their plan involved crime, new territory for Nerissa. Nerissa preferred complex plans and theirs was simple: break into a suburban home belonging to strangers and stay as long as they could, living off the things they found in the house. They’d leave only when they were forced to leave. Pearl predicted the family would give up on their house and leave them. And then they’d show them- the world- by creating an insular, self-sustained community within a prestigious seemingly sterile suburb.     Pearl had selected the house because the owners left their key on the doorstep in a gaudy plastic contraption that was supposed to look like a rock but obviously wasn’t. To Pearl, the fake rock was permission to squat. Nerissa wasn’t sure from the get-go if she agreed.     Pearl didn’t show them the house beforehand. She just picked them up, like they were headed to the movies as they had done so many times before. Nerissa felt safe in the familiar backseat of Pearl’s car even when the scenery was completely unfamiliar. The gravity of the situation started to sink in when Pearl pulled into the driveway of a seemingly random house. Driveways were private. Anyone could walk up to a doorstep, as Pearl had done already, but you had to have permission to park in even a vacant driveway.     Nerissa didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She’d already agreed and wanted to be the type of woman who kept her word. She followed her three friends into the house and watched as Pearl pulled the key out of the fake rock and opened the door. Once inside, Viola left the three other girls to watch television. The remaining three discussed the neighborhood in the living room and then split up to survey the house.     Nerissa was the first to find Viola. She’d found a television in the master bedroom and fell into her default position on the bed: on her stomach with her hands cupped in her chin, eyes fixed obediently on the television screen.     “We’re trying to get away from this shit,” Nerissa said. “You’re just going back to it.”     Then Pearl walked in.     “She’s just watching television,” Nerissa said. “Just like those yuppies we’re trying to punish.”     “It’s different,” Pearl said. “The yuppies spend lots of time working then come home to watch television to see what they’ve gotta buy to keep up. Viola’s watching more television than they ever do and she can’t buy anything advertised because she refuses to leave. It’s a powerful statement.”     “We should set ground rules for while we’re here.”     “We shouldn’t. We all know how we want to live on some level but we’ve never had this type of freedom. We should all stay silent so we can each figure it out on our own.”     “Then why are we together?”     “So that we have support.”     “How?”     Viola’s two friends walked out of the master bedroom together, discussing their plan and ignoring Viola. Viola was hoping for a break from their lack of acknowledgement. For the past three summers, they had left Viola. They never seemed to notice that she never contributed a word to their discussions. They also assumed she knew nothing about college and therefore nothing she had to say was of any real consequence.     Viola did know things. Outside of television shows and video games.     She knew the layouts of the websites of each of her friend’s colleges. She spent the most time on each site reading the list of majors and minors. Some looked dry but others intrigued her. She sometimes wanted to ask them questions about their respective colleges, but she never did. If she asked, they might think she actually wanted to go. She didn’t.     Viola knew, of course, that a college degree was vital in the process of making something out of herself. Her anxiety was what held her back. Her parents couldn’t pay for all of it. She’d have to take out a loan and after graduation, she’d have to get a job to pay them back. A job she’d probably hate.     So Viola hid behind screens, hoping that things would sort themselves out. **     Rose, Pearl and Nerissa barricaded all the doors and windows, using a set of chairs they found in the basement.     “I bet they call the police,” Rose said. “The instant they get back.”     “Saturday’s shopping day,” Nerissa said. “They’ll come home mid-afternoon with more bags than they can carry full of shit they don’t need. They’ll call the police frantically because they need somewhere to unload.”     “That’s law enforcement at work,” Pearl said. “I bet there’s a woman nearby getting beaten and their priority is helping a family unload after a day at the mall.”     “They’ll think that men broke in,” Rose said. “Only men break in.”     “We’re women who think like men. No fixed gender. We’re getting so much power.”     Nerissa silently disagreed. Women broke in. They were female squatters and nothing more. They had no power. **     Pearl lit a cigarette in the living room.     “You shouldn’t do that period,” Rose said. “But it’s worse because     this is a stranger’s house.”     “We’re not here to impress.”     Pearl went on smoking.     Nerissa tried to remember when she’d realized that Pearl smoked.     Sometime in high school, after Pearl learned she could experiment, provided she was under Rose’s supervision. After she graduated, Pearl got timid proving that she needed them, all three of them, for the slightest change. No one else seemed to pick up on that.     “Really,” Rose said. “It’s seven minutes off your life.”     “Not necessarily. My mom’s been smoking for thirty years. She’s fine.”     Nerissa rolled her eyes. Their arguments never went anywhere.     Neither girl noticed her discomfort.     “So, Rose,” Nerissa said. “You agreed to this so she’d stop smoking?”     Rose looked annoyed. And Rose almost never looked annoyed.     “I’m doing this to create a better world,” Rose said softly.     “A better world where people smoke,” Rose said.     “Shut up both of you,” Pearl commanded.     Nerissa felt her lips seal tight. Nerissa promised herself she’d break free of Pearl’s power when she got accepted to graduate school. Education implied superiority and Pearl had no money for or inclination towards grad school. But they were back to their old games.     “Sooner or later,” Pearl said. “My cigarettes will run out. Until then, I’ll satisfy the cravings.”     “Maybe these people smoke,” Rose suggested.     “They don’t. I checked. Everywhere.”     Nerissa rolled her eyes again and hoped they’d fail soon. **     The police came around four. The first officer simply knocked at the door.     They ignored him.     For a brief time, there was silence.     Nerissa was disappointed.

Death of a Spy Michael de Mare     I was working on a military-funded project in the computer science department at Clarkson University. The pay wasn᾿t great but I was in it for the PhD I would get when I finished my thesis. People said that there are only two seasons there, winter and the Fourth of July, but last year it snowed on the Fourth of July. It was almost the end of the spring semester when I got an unexpected phone call from the FBI.     “Hello, this is Special Agent Smith with the FBI. Do you know Kevin Jones?” It was a woman᾿s voice.     “Yeah, we worked together in Russia. Is he in some kind of trouble?”     “Yeah, he found trouble. He᾿s dead. Someone hit him on the head with a baseball bat.”     “Where? Who?”     “It happened in Santa Clara, California. He was in the parking lot of a nightclub and someone ambushed him. We don᾿t know who. Have you got any ideas?”     “Not yet, but I will soon. I have to finish up the semester here and then I will meet you in Santa Clara,” I said.     “Did you do anything I should know about in Russia?”     “We stole some pretty big secrets. Beyond that, just the usual.”     “Whatever the usual is for spooks.”     I knocked on the door of my adviser᾿s office. “Yes?” she said.     “I won᾿t be needing the summer funding. I got an internship out in California,” I said.     “I see. Who is this internship with?”     “It᾿s military stuff. I can᾿t really talk about it.”     “Okay. I think that you would finish your degree faster if you stayed here this summer, but that is up to you.”     I couldn᾿t leave for a couple of weeks, so I started looking into who the suspects were. One was a militia group he had been attending. They were called the Santa Clara County Liberty Brigade. This was the second incarnation of the group. The original group was in prison for attempted murder of a cop using the same trick. The other was a hacker gang that he was giving some technical advice to. As far as we knew, he was on good terms with both.     I booked a flight from the nearest airport, Syracuse, to San Jose for the day after the spring semester ended. I would have to change planes three times, but that is par for the course when flying out of a provincial airport like Syracuse.     I had loose ends at the university to tie up, starting with my status report for the semester. It was due on Friday and had to be approved by my adviser. I thought about what I had accomplished that semester. I had written a research paper that was rejected by a prestigious conference, given some talks at the university, and worked on my thesis. It seemed like a good semester. I wrote it up in latex and sent it to my adviser for approval.     Around mid afternoon, I walked home to my apartment in downtown Potsdam. My roommate, a Chinese electrical engineering student we called Bruce, was already home.     “I am going away for the summer,” I said in Chinese. “I will be back in the fall.”     “What about the rent?”     “I will pay my half of the rent, don᾿t worry.” The monthly rent for the apartment was $600. It wouldn᾿t be hard to cover my half.     “Okay. Let me know when you are leaving.”     “End of the semester. You᾿ll see me go.”     During the time remaining before my trip, I acquainted myself with the transcripts of Kevin᾿s meetings with the militia group and the hacker gang.     Agent Smith met me at the airport. “Thank you for taking over Kevin᾿s undercover assignments. That is the only way to crack this case.”     “Kevin and I were tight. Russia is a tough place.” I said.     “We have a car for you to use. Who do you want to check out first?”     “The militiaheads. Where do I find them?” I said.     “The leader goes to a shooting range by highway 101 every afternoon at 5:45.”     “That is where I will start.” I said.     “Good choice. The leader, Pat Duncy, was inside at the bar when it happened. The rest of the group have alibis that check out, too. Still, it seems too coincidental.”     I rented a 9mm at the shooting range. Carrying a gun can be too hard to explain. I was shooting at a silhouette target and getting some pretty good groupings when the militia leader, Pat, started shooting at the target next to mine. Pat was about twenty-five with short hair and a square jaw. There was nothing about his appearance that would suggest that he would say the crazy things that I read in the transcripts.     “Nice shooting,” he said.     “Thanks. I want to be ready when the shit hits the fan,” I said.     “I know what you are talking about.”     “When Obama cancels the election, it is all going to hell,” I said.     “I know what you᾿re saying,” he replied.     “They will probably round all of us dissidents up and put us in secret FEMA camps,” I said. Conspiracy theories are easy for someone who lived in Russia as everyone there is a conspiracy theorist. It had to do with the tightly controlled press and the Russian culture.     “You live around here?” he asked.     “I᾿m new in town. As near as I can tell, this whole valley is full of com-libs.”     “Why don᾿t you come to our group. We are getting ready to resist federal tyranny.”     “Sounds interesting. Where do I go? When?” I was in.     “Be careful. The government killed one of our members and they are trying to pin it on us.”     “The government, huh? Why would they do that?”     “Kevin knew stuff. He wouldn᾿t tell it to us, but we knew that he knew stuff. Be careful.”     I arrived at Pat᾿s apartment on time for the eight o᾿clock meeting. When I got there, he answered the door with a 9mm handgun on his belt. I went in and there were a dozen people sitting on chairs and the couch.     “Attention everybody! We have a new member,” Pat announced. “This is John Shmee. I met him on the shooting range yesterday.”     I waved to everybody. Then Pat passed out an attendance sheet. When it came around to me, I put in the requested information which was name and email address, and I signed it.     “Okay, let᾿s get started,” Pat said. “Does the committee investigating Kevin᾿s murder have anything to report?”     A man with grizzled hair down to the small of his back stood up. “We found out that he was hanging out with computer hackers before he died. So maybe it was the NSA trying to cover up their ECHELON project. ECHELON intercepts all the Internet traffic and analyzes it.”     “Okay, keep studying it guys. Whoever did it was definitely trying to set us up. Right down to the way they staged it just like the old group hit that cop. Does anyone else have any ideas or information?”     There was a long silence. “Okay, we will move on. There is a law in California that allows people to carry handguns as long as they are not concealed. We call that open carry. I propose that we all carry our handguns openly to protest the concealed carry laws.”     There was a lot of nodding of heads and murmur of assent. I nodded my head too, as my head swam with all the crazy things that they said.     Pat pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Here is some interesting stuff that I got in an email from another group. I will read you the highlights. ιThe FSB obtained a secret document showing plans to round up American dissidents—-᾿”. That was all I heard as the letters FSB filled my head with thoughts. The FSB was the successor to the KGB: feared secret police in Russia and dangerous spies in the rest of the world. Obviously they were feeding conspiracy theories to the militia movement. This was an important piece of intelligence. I was sure that the analysts who would be listening to the recording that I was making would consider it a big deal, even if Agent Smith, who was listening live in the parking lot, didn᾿t.     After the meeting, I asked Pat where I might find a karaoke bar.     “The Acapulco, I hang out there Saturday nights,” he said.     “Maybe I will see you there, then.” I replied.     I went to the club early Saturday night because I wanted to see what would happen when he walked in with that gun hanging off of his belt. I was disappointed, though, as everybody figured he was a cop, or it wasn᾿t a real gun, or that it was just someone else᾿s problem and ignored it.     At eight o᾿clock the karaoke started. The MC passed out song books and scraps of paper and instructed us on how to sign up to sing a song. I signed up for Lawyers, Guns and Money by Warren Zevon and turned my slip in.     A waitress came to take my order. “I᾿ll have an iced tea,” I said.     “A Long Island iced tea?” she asked.     “No, just an iced tea.” I said.     “You know that there is a two-drink minimum on Saturday nights.”     “Uh, what type of beer do you have?”     She ran down her list of beers and I ordered a local brew called Anchor Steam. She took orders from the other people at the table and moved on.     I figured that having a couple of beers in my system would make me feel better attempting to sing, as well. When my beer arrived, I paid cash for it and sipped on it. I noticed that a lot of people were drinking margaritas and other mixed drinks.     People started singing. Some of them were pretty good, others were painful to listen to. Some of the songs I hadn᾿t heard in ten or twenty years. After a while Pat was called up to sing My Way. I watched as he gave an emotional performance in the spotlight with that gun hanging off of his belt.     Then the MC called me up. I stood there stupidly holding the microphone, blinded by the spotlight, and the MC told me to look at the monitor for the lyrics. The music started and the lyrics started appearing. I sang the best I could, which is not well, but Warren Zevon isn᾿t exactly Frank Sinatra either. After I finished I got a round of applause, so I guessed that I did it right and took my seat.     Around eleven o᾿clock I decided that I had had enough. I got up and headed out the door. As I walked to the parking lot, I suddenly heard Pat yell, “JOHN!” Then there was a gunshot and behind me someone groaned and there was a thud. I turned around and Pat was on the stairs to the porch with his gun in his hand. Right behind me there was a man on the ground clutching a baseball bat. Pat came running to me and I said, “You saved my life.”     The sirens started almost right away, as Agent Smith came running from the parking lot. She felt for a pulse on the body᾿s neck and said, “I think he᾿s dead.” She pulled a passport out of the hip pocket and opened it up. “Friend of yours?” she asked handing me the passport.     It was a Russian passport. I opened it and examined it carefully. “I don᾿t know him, but he looks like a KGB thug.” I said.     As four police cars and an ambulance pulled into the parking lot she said, “I would start checking my tea for polonium if I were you.”

A Second Marriage Mike Berger, Ph.D. Living in a dying world; everything is gray. Washing on the line is speckled with ash. Soot clings to the floors impervious to the broom. Oatmeal in the morning is black, and milk and sugar are gray. Giant smokestacks belch billows of black. It never stops. Moving away would be the answer, but my husband has a second marriage to the steel plant. That black smoke can’t be good for anyone especially the kids. It is ugly stuff. Reconciled to the fact that my husband will die young like the rest of the steel workers, I cry myself to sleep. There is no bright light on the horizon. The company thugs beat the hell out of the guys who were trying to form a union. I wish I could crawl into bed, curl up in a ball and pulled the covers over my head.

Details on Mike Berger, Ph.D.     I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and was a practicing psychotherapist for 30 years. I am now fully retired. I have authored two books of short stories. I have published in numerous professional journals. I have freelanced for more than 20 years. My humor pieces Clyde and Goliath , Good Grief Columbus, and If Noah Built the Ark Today have won awards. I am now writing poetry full-time. I have many pursuits which include sculpting, painting, gardening and baking bread. My forcaccia is to die for.     EDUCATION: MFA; Ph.D. in Clinical and in Research psychology, Utah State University.     WORK HISTORY: Weber County Mental Health 1961 -- 1991. Senior therapist on the youth team. Specialized in attention deficit disorder in children. Certified in biofeedback. Conducted psychological research.     Private practice specializing in bio feedback for attention deficit disorder in children.     PUBLISHING HISTORY: Author of two books of short stories. Three humor pieces have won awards. Writing poetry for two years. Work has or will appear in forty-five journals. These include AIM, Still Crazy, First Edition, Stray Branch, and Mid West Quarterly, Evergreen and Krax. Published two chapbooks, Raw and Lighten Up published by CC&D Press. Winner of several poetry contests.     HOBBIES and INTERESTS: Active scouter for 47 years. Currently a zone commissioner and an 11-year-old scout leader. I paint and sculpt. Some of my sculpture has won prizes in local fairs. Writing for the last 25 years. I have published two books of short stories plus numerous articles. Deep interest in science. My science library is extensive. I am particularly enamored with cosmology. I also read a lot in the area of human consciousness. I garden and have a lovely Japanese garden in my backyard. I baked bread and my focaccia is to die for. I sing a little bass in the church choir, but age is taking a toll on my voice.     OTHER INFORMATION: I spend my time writing and sculpting. Married and have been for 48 years. Seven children and fifteen grand children. Of course they are all bright, articulate and good-looking.

Prize Head Nick Checker     Maxie Rodner loved the moose head that hung on the back wall of his bar. Where it had come from, he had no idea. It had been there when he’d first purchased Bottum’s Up Café four years ago. All he knew was that he enjoyed sitting and staring up at it – as though he had been the one who’d gone up into the wild north and bagged the beast. It never really mattered to him how the thing had got there in the first place.     For the third straight year, Rodner hosted the local Fourth of July road race – a grueling five-miler that started and finished in the parking lot of his café. All the local runners crammed the field because Maxie Rodner not only put together a crack race, he also threw one hell of a bash afterward. Beer and hot dogs and partying into the night always followed the post-race formalities. When it came to having a good time, Maxie was the best!     Standing now on the small stage directly under his prized moose head, he looked comically out of place passing out awards to the joyous runners who had just finished the annual five. Maxie had never been an athlete himself, but he admired those who possessed the Spartan discipline to whip themselves into shape.     When it came to his own fitness he was good for a short dash to the bar where he settled into the one exercise he knew best ... twisting caps off of cold beers.     “Ain’t no losers in this crowd!” Rodner crowed as he tossed up a wad of running caps, gaudy neckties and plastic kazoos as fair game for anyone who felt like scrambling after them. With a wave he stepped down from the stage and sidled on over to the bar. Perched on one of the stools, his short, plump body looked far more at home there than it had amongst the lean runners. Maxie signaled the bartender to bring him another tequila sunrise then leaned comfortably onto the bar and stared at the snarl of revelers gathered round the band stage.     Damn he envied them! Flat stomachs, nice firm muscle ... and every one of them bubbling with the energy of a friggin’ teenager, even the ones old enough to be on Social Security. Guess you gotta pay to look like that, he thought, patting his middle-aged belly. He took another sip of his tequila and closed his eyes for a second, trying to picture himself lean and taut, running freely out in some open field. A gust of laughter from the stage brought him back to reality.     A sensuous young thing all of twenty years old had embraced the massive snout of the huge moose head, then kissed it firmly with mock passion. Watching the skimpily clad girl, Maxie felt his loins stir. Kiss me like that anytime sweetheart, he thought. Mhh!     A tall fellow in a racing cap staggered over and wrapped a long, thin arm around the girl, then reached up and slipped one of Rodner’s giveaway caps atop the moose’s head between its broad, flat antlers. “Let’s dress ol’ Boris up!” someone chortled, draping a long, polka-dot tie over the moose’s snout.     “Boris,” Rodner half-chuckled, smiling crookedly and shaking his head. Who in the hell ever came up with such a screwball name for that moose? He was used to people getting a little goony over the head now and then, but so long as they didn’t damage it he didn’t really care. After all, the thing was dead.     Another rocky celebrant stumbled over and stuffed one of the plastic kazoos in the moose’s nose, then stood back to admire his work, giggling gleefully. “Crazy bastards,” Rodner laughed then drained his glass and signaled the bartender for another. He’d had plenty already and that last one hit him just hard enough to let him know he was best to stay right on his stool for a while. He blinked several times then looked up at the stage again. His eyes met the piercing dark orbs of the moose.     In all the time he had sat gazing up at the enormous head, Maxie had never given much notice to its baleful stare. He squinted his eyes and shook his head. Kevin the bartender pushed a tall tequila sunrise in front of him and Maxie eyed the drink suspiciously before glancing back up at the moose. The huge, dark eyes met the man’s again. Maxie nudged his drink away. Damn thing couldn’t be staring back at him?     The party roared on around him. The stage, barely fifteen-feet away, was crammed with people dancing and drinking. Maxie saw only the moose. The coal black eyes peered out mournfully from the majestic face decorated obscenely with the necktie and racing cap and the kazoo poking out from one nostril.     “Is this necessary?” the bestial head seemed to say. “Is it not enough that I am dead?”     Rodner tried to blink but could not. He licked his lips and, with one hand wiped at the sweat drizzling over his brow. He stared in cold awe at the enormous furry head that virtually eclipsed the back wall of the stage. The eyes of the beast stared back. Maxie did not look away. He fell into the ashy depths of the creature’s primal gaze. ***     Rodner raced across the frozen plain. The chill air whipped into his face as he sped freely and tirelessly over the snowy turf, the muscles in his legs strong and loose. His body fairly rippled with coiled fury. His large hooves punched through the ice hard snow, echoing loudly in the Canadian air as all four legs carried him in great bounds over the vast waste. His huge trunk-like head shook side-to-side, the massive antlers — jagged and flat — creaking like the timbers of a great ship as they swayed this way and that. Snorting with pleasure, Rodner reveled in the unleashed majesty of his run across the primordial tundra. A long, whining howl disrupted his bliss.     Wolves.     Forever the natural enemy of moose and elk and the rest of the deer brethren, the wolves were feared by all. Cunning and fierce, the fanged hunters roamed the snowy waste in great packs, seeking victims among the weak and the sick.     The large bull moose, though confident in his ability to outdistance the nearby pack (or outfight them if need be), felt the innate fear their dreary howl invoked in his kind. He snorted angrily, rankled by this disturbance of his haven and resentful of the silent fears that nipped away at him; he was incapable of comprehending that such fears were implanted in him long before he had first walked the Earth.     Rodner increased his gait, the huge dark eyes on either side of his head scouring the surrounding meadows and hillocks for telltale signs of the interlopers. Before long a cluster of specks appeared on the east horizon, increasing rapidly in size and shape. Rodner grunted and veered west, knowing already that the distance was too great for the wolves to overtake him. In great bounds he easily widened the gap. Despite the danger the speed and intensity of the chase filled his bestial senses with a euphoria that was both frightening and exhilarating. The pack fell farther back until fading into the specks he had first seen.     Ahead now was a grove of trees, a forest he had often romped looming on the rim of the plain. Rodner galloped on until finally he bounded into the thick of the woods, mindless of the peril that had stalked him earlier. He loved the scent of the pleasant evergreens and he enjoyed the chance to gallop along the narrow paths, ducking now and then under low-hanging branches and veering side-to-side with the many twists in the winding trails. The sound of his own hooves clacking over the hard turf gave him an added delight and his senses filled with the mysterious bliss that always overwhelmed him on such runs.     A sharp crack sounding like a large branch breaking off a tree rang out from somewhere. Rodner found it disquieting. Not in the way the distant wolf’s howl had checked him earlier, for that sound was common to the wild. This noise was alien. It held a queer sort of menace. The sound came again and this time fear gripped the moose. The noise was out of place in this domain. It contained an evil he had never before sensed. Rodner quickened his gait, wanting to depart from the woods which had grown abruptly hostile. Another loud crack and a fire exploded in his right flank!     Two more bounds and his right leg faltered pathetically under the searing pain that came from nowhere. Now there came another noise – sounds he recognized as those made by the two-legged creatures he had sometimes seen trekking the plains.     The odd creatures had never bothered Rodner, for they did nothing more than point and shout excitedly whenever he happened to wander into view. But the sounds they made now were harsh and unpleasantly triumphant. It frightened him.     Stifling the harsh pain in his right flank, Rodner urged his hind leg to perform as he struggled into a forced gallop. The voices of the yelping creatures fell farther back as he half-dragged his rear leg in a panicky flight. Finally he broke out of the forest and, still dragging his bleeding hindquarter, staggered out onto the frozen turf, dizzy and exhausted ... but safe.     A mournful howl in the distance broke his respite.     Rodner reeled painfully, his senses in disarray. To return to the forest would deliver him into the waiting grasp of an evil he had never faced; but to go limping out onto the plain and face the cunning wolves ...     Yet, the wolves he understood. The Evil in the Forest, linked in some way to the odd two-legged creatures, was unclean. He wanted to be away from it.     Rodner veered out toward the center of the plain, the crippled rear leg now a useless piece dragged along by the other three. Within moments the first specks appeared on the horizon. Drawing closer they took on shapes and Rodner felt a surge of terror the presence of wolves had never before invoked in him. In the depth of his primal mind the bull moose sensed a grim truth: he had joined the ranks of those defective beings nature had marked for execution. Now, Nature’s Chosen came to perform the task for which they were superbly groomed.     The first leaped in at him, tearing instinctively at the wounded flank. The moose wheeled and tried lashing out with one of his front hooves, but the wolf dodged easily.     Blurry eyed and fatigued, Rodner lacked the blinding speed and agility that would normally have left the wolf with a fractured skull. Another came hurtling in and caught the great bull just under the left foreleg. Rodner bellowed and tried to gore the wolf, but again was too slow. No sooner than he had turned, then another darted in and slashed at his underbelly.     Finally the entire hungry pack of ten was upon him, zipping in and out, some feigning attacks while others sailed in for a quick slash then darted back out of harm’s way before the weakened bull could counter. Before long they maneuvered him into deeper snow which rose halfway up his legs and further hampered his movements. He bellowed in rage at having been trapped so easily, his enfeebled efforts a parody of the mastery with which he had dominated such predators in the past..     A loud crack split the air! The same he had heard in the woods. The same that had sounded when the terrible pain had exploded in his flank. Another loud crack and the pack vanished.     Both hindquarters resting awkwardly in the bloodstained snow, the gasping moose peered out through clouded vision at the approaching men. He recognized their upright shapes and for a moment felt they might have driven the pack off to help him. Then he heard the same obscene noise he had heard in the woods – the triumphant yelping that had filled the air shortly after the pain had entered his rear leg.     Rodner tried vainly to rise but could not. He snorted a weak challenge at the advancing hunters, but his ailing body would not comply with his urgent commands to rise and do battle. The men yelled and several shots rang out! Rodner felt something hot and heavy enter his chest and all went black.     He ran through a world of utter darkness. It was peaceful and quiet. Though he saw nothing and could not feel his own body, the ethereal nature of his being was one of ... comfort. And then the tranquil world of darkness was gone.     Lights flared everywhere and he peered silently at a scene unlike any his eyes had ever beheld. Swarms of the two-legged creatures were everywhere, staggering and swaying about – some sitting, others standing – all making coarse, vulgar noises. Rodner saw them through a cold haze, their voices coming from some distant void ... He knew not where he was, nor if he were alive or dead. But he could neither shut his eyes nor gallop away. Something held him stock still. He felt empty and impotent. What had become of the peaceful dark he had known so briefly?     Banished into a horrid limbo where he held vigil over the treacherous creatures who had destroyed him, the spirit of the proud young bull fell into a mire of despair. Respite came only when the queer world was deserted and he stared sullenly into a dreary night. It went on: the lights ... the crowds ... the noise ... and the worst of times when the creatures even mocked him. Would it ever end ...? ***     “Max ... Hey ... Maxie! C’mon!”     Rodner sat bolt upright. He blinked. “Wha — ?”     “Hey man, you gonna stare at that head all night?”     Maxie Rodner blinked his eyes again and shook his head. He was facing Kevin his young bartender. The blonde youth smiled and shook his head back at his employer.     “What’s going on with you, Maxie?” said Kevin. “You been staring at ol’ Boris for damn near a half-hour now. You ain’t even touched that last drink I gave you.”     Maxie reached up and felt his face, then ran his hand over the top of his head, feeling the thinning brown hair. He looked down at his chubby form still resting on the stool. He tried to speak but made only a few incoherent sounds.     Kevin eyed him, puzzled. “Hey, uh, tell you what boss ... Why don’t you call it a night and let me finish up with all these clowns? You ain’t looking too good.”     Rodner nodded. He breathed a long sigh. “Yeah ... sure.” He cleared his eyes with his fingers. Kevin nodded to him then turned again to his duties.     “Uh ... Kev,” Rodner said suddenly. Kevin turned back to him. “Look ... tomorrow we’re gonna take down that head,” Rodner said, gesturing up at the wall without looking at it. “It ain’t right. Y’know? I mean the thing don’t really belong up there ...”     Kevin nodded at Rodner strangely then smiled, giving his boss another puzzled look.     “Sure Maxie. Whatever you say.” He paused. “But, uh, what do we do with it?”     Rodner drew a breath then finally gazed back up at the moose head, meeting its eyes only briefly, then turned back to face Kevin. “Bury it, man. It’s dead.”

A Clean White Shirt R. M. Kozan     From the moment I woke up behind my dumpster, I knew it was going to be a good day. It had rained during the night but the gentle volume of that wetting and the angle of the building protected my nocturnal redoubt behind the Loraas bin. Now the streets were damp but not wet, just fresh. The dust which normally would be clinging to me by mid-morning was hereby settled on command of the rain. Plans to cake me in grit had been scuttled for today only. Now the Sun was coming out and everyone looked happier than usual. The bird song surrounding me knew no complaint.     Last night had been a late one. An illegal after-hours punk club known as Below Grade operates half a drunken stagger down the alley from my boudoir. From about midnight until four in the gloaming, young people exit the inauspicious back alley entrance, laughing and discarding the stubs of their joints, casually seeding the ground with the financial instruments. It’s not really my thing but I understand an opportunity when I see it so every night, except Sunday and Mondays when the club does not seem to operate, I prospect the gravel and lumpen concrete, sifting through bottle caps and tobacco butts for the elusive ‘Oro Del Noche’, as my friend Speedy calls it. On a good night I can accumulate twenty or more secondhand spliffs in the dented chocolatier tin that acts as the strongbox for my savings.     There is no shortage of people near the Mission who will give me a nip from their liquid reserves for the chance to fish through my stinky ash collection, as I sometimes refer to it when the comic in me overwhelms the tragic.     Today is such a day. Today the weather cooperates, and the smell of good luck seems to hang over the whole city. As witless as this sounds, the promise so vaguely demonstrated soon produced tangible results. As I pause behind Marks and Spencer’s to jiggle my chocolatier tin and estimate my assets, a load of goodies are being egressed. Among the usual packing materials and unusable, broken plastic hangers, I catch a glimpse of something white and pure. As soon as the wardens of fashion retreat to their air conditioned dens, I move in to investigate.     My eyesight and intuition did not fail me. They have discarded a strikingly brilliant white shirt. It lies near the top of the pile of refuse, a classy collared model, beckoning me. It is new, but someone has half removed it from the plastic wrapping and managed to spill coffee along one edge. I pull it free of the wrapping. The tag says the shirt is made of 100% silk, hails from Bangladesh and is named Solitude. I nod my head in approval. Solitude speaks to me. The coffee stain is on the back, only a few inches long and very low. Everything else appears workable: all the buttons are intact and there is no sign of seam rippage. I move quickly. I remove my stained and distressed plaid shirt. Its days are passed and I looked far too pedestrian in it anyway. The new shirt feels soft and clean as I slip it on. I tuck it into my jeans and the coffee stain disappears. I am a new man.     When I reach the Mission, MJ is standing outside. Although the clock tower across the street indicates it is not yet eight in the morning, she appears angry. She is a participant in a special program which provides maintenance for alcoholics; if she agrees not to binge drink, she is fed one ounce of alcohol each hour of the day by the secular Samaritan bartenders of the street as I call them. She is angry because she was caught with a smell of booze on her breath that did not match the rations of the Samaritans. Now she is cut off. MJ is prone to screaming fits, but the sight of my white shirt seems to calm her. I feel refreshed, born anew almost. I tell her she will only have to wait a day and take some care her breath is clear of alcohol fumes before she again approaches the Samaritans. They will take her back. It is their nature.     She looks like she is going to bawl for a second but then she laughs and agrees with me. She must have had a sizable portion last night because she does not shout as she tends to do when angry in the morning. Her humour is good. It can’t all be my new shirt remodeling her optimism but it has some effect certainly. She actually says ‘Nice shirt’ before she trundles off towards Market Street for a little early panhandling.     Mario is also there and he buys a clump from my tin for a dollar seventy five. His friend Spaghetti is arguing with two crackhead teens who are new to the Mission. Spaghetti has somehow managed to hoard several ounces of rum in a bottle from last night. He is skinny, so skinny I think he can fit into places other people dare not go. Perhaps that is where he hides his overnight supplies. He is a unique and mostly agreeable guy, not prone to fighting, but now these two newbies are hassling him.     It was two against two when Mario joined the discussion and the teens were not backing down, thinking their youth and health tilted the numbers to their advantage. I step up and say in a firm voice “You’re going to have to leave the Mission area if you continue to raise your voices”.     They don’t know me from Adam, but they also don’t know who works at the Mission. With the authority of my pristine white shirt confronting them, and the adjustment of the fight calculation from two on two to three on two, they are convinced to abandon their aggression. They move down the street, not saying anything but looking back at us angrily over their shoulders occasionally as they slowly recede. They want to look tough but they are not.     I conjure the notion that some more clients may be congregating in the park. I unconsciously touch the replenished chocolatier tin in my front pants pocket. It is full and I am needed elsewhere.     The sidewalk is more crowded now. A gorgeous young woman dressed in a very short skirt has pulled a cellphone from her purse and started to babble into it. A small package of tissues now lies on the ground behind her, accidentally jettisoned when she extracted her cell phone. I scoop up the worthless package and present it to her. I think I called her “Ma’am”.     She rewards me with a brilliant smile. She does not cringe. She does not avert her face. She looks into my eyes with gratitude. She says thank you and something about my kindness. I smile and continue to smile long after she has turned and strode away on her journey. She did not know I was homeless. She thought I was one of the hurrying mass, someone with a well paying job and loved ones to shuttle between.     I watch her move away. Her body is powerful like a cheetah, coiled yet flowing and potentially explosive, a liquid dynamite. I would like to masturbate.     Now it is almost nine. I am slightly late for the park. As I turn the corner and pass the front of Mark’s and Spencer I see my shirt in the window. It is on sale. The tag indicates it has been marked down seventy percent. Some people don’t know when they’ve got it good.

The Death of Rita Ryan Priest     When I was younger I spent my days asleep and my nights surrounded by other ne’er-do-wells at the local Denny’s. We came in every night, each with the singular order of coffee. At first it had cost seventy-nine cents but as the penny dropped and the market grew it became one-fifteen for a cup of java. We paid two dollars a piece no matter what.     We were young, late teens and a few in the early twenties. We didn’t understand about economy or business. All we knew was when the price of a cup raised we were suddenly the bad guys. To us, they were the bad guys. The managers and wait staff. We never saw the owner, ever, so our aggression at the hike was directed towards the nearest person in uniform. Debby, Donna, Mable, Edna and Rita. The names on the aprons that poured our black brew. We didn’t mean harm or disrespect but as matters were, we still left the customary two dollars. Few of us had jobs and those that did didn’t make enough to splurge. Times were tough all around. The waitresses found us more and more cumbersome as the weeks, months and subsequent years passed.     We were horrible to any of the substitute waitresses. Ones not from our pack. We treated them like teachers, each in our post school haze believing that all adults had sworn some oath decrying that they’d help and serve the young. We were the young. Don’t blame us for this. My generation and those that followed grew up under the assumption that grown-ups served the teens. It was our time and the world knew it.     It didn’t help that we were situated in the richest and most affluent section of the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. We were the rich of the prosperous, at least our parents were, assuring us that we’d never wait tables, live on tips or face hunger. These things had also been promised.     As the current narrator I feel no shame in admitting this. I once had these illusions. I’m sure I have others that have yet to show themselves to me in their entirety. As is, I feel only abstract sorrow and loss as I tell this tale. Please follow with me without curse or judgment upon my character. I was a child then and in some ways even now as I bring all this back to the surface.     I was in my nineteenth year. My follower, stooge, sidekick was in his eighteenth. We both knew that our elders were stupid, without mind. Anyone with a mind would obviously not end up a waitress. My sidekick’s name was Andrew Johns but his chosen name was Tine, Chinay, as pronunciation has it. It is Gaelic for fire.     Tine and I were a daily fixture at Denny’s. Others came and went but the two of us had staked our claim years before. Confident that no one else would amass as much time at the restaurant we consumed coffee by the gallon seldom ever buying actual food. We always left our two dollars a piece.     Fill our coffee, take our order, make us feel important and all for two dollars grossing in an eighty-five cent tip. We were young. This is no excuse, despite what you think. He who assumes the mantle of authority, any authority, denounces any further cries of innocence. Even if it’s just the arbitrary customer is always right authority.     Rita was our most frequent and hardest working waitress. They called themselves servers. I’ve lied about many an occupation to feel a little better about myself. I’ve been a customer service rep instead of a cashier. I’d been a quality care specialist rather than a debt collector. I hold it against no one if they do the same. Rita was our favorite and Dizzy our second. Being that neither of them ever let our cups go dry.     When the night was deep and the darkness outside as black as pitch can be, we’d often engage our server in conversation. Dizzy had no children and had been married three times. When this story takes place she had just left her third husband for an inmate at Huntsville state prison. True, the two had never met in person but she believed there was something there. Esoteric as it may be I read her tarot cards for her whenever she asked. They said unanimously that this inmate, whose name I forget, was her destiny. Her raison d’être du jour. I never argued with the cards. In my experience then and up to this day, they are more telling than my personal intuition will ever be.     Dizzy didn’t ask for tips and seldom charged us for our coffee. That is with Tine and myself on those nights where we read her cards. It had made me feel good to make her happy, even though doom loomed always on the horizon. I consoled myself by saying ‘You told her all that you could. Her choices are hers and hers alone. By giving a heads up you’ve done all that you could.’ With such being decided I felt free to sip my free coffee and eat my free fries. I’d traded a service. The art of the gypsy is a long and storied tradition.     The night of this story Dizzy had been our waitress. Tine and I had shown up at our usual late night, darkened sky time. We’d ordered our coffees. Tine took one and a half creamer but I drank black. What struck us most was that it was in fact Dizzy as our server and not Rita.     Rita was the bull. She served whichever tables she liked five nights a week. The nights Dizzy was there she got the overflow as the younger, though thirty-six year old, server. Dizzy never seemed to question her placement or argue. Later on in life I too learned the pecking order that exists in any paid position of servitude.     “Where’s Rita?” Tine had asked noticing the break in the pattern. The night was Tuesday and we were accustomed to Rita’s hand filling our empty mugs.     “You didn’t hear?” Dizzy said sitting down next to me pressing her hip to mine. They always chose my seat to occupy. Tine had a good hundred pounds on me and took up the entire booth to himself. I felt Dizzy’s warmth next to me. I knew that behind her shirt there rested two bra’d breasts and behind her navy blue pants there sat a haired, blonde or brown pinkness. I was young and didn’t look at physical beauty. Her presence aroused me. In my later years I’d understand this as a mere biological happenstance but at the time I only knew the close proximity to a woman, any woman, struck a spur in my loins.     “What?” I asked hoping deep in the back of my mind that the older Dizzy would somehow recognize my burning desire and take me back into the manager’s camera-less office to do something about it.     “Rita died last night.”     “What?” Tine said in good form neglecting any sign of emotion.     “What?” I repeated firmer but at the same time feeling the suffocating weight of desire giving way to a fear. The fear of change that eventually strips everyone of his or her youth.     “Last night she had a heart attack.”     “She worked last night.” I said remembering my full coffee cup and the dry but humorous sarcasm that accompanied each of Rita’s nights. She had been full of life and sass the night before. How could she have succumbed to something as trivial as death?     “I know. Late last night I wasn’t working. Were y’all here?” The ‘y’all’ reminded me of her poor upbringing and circumstances. As a youth I never saw it as anything more than accessibility. Poor chicks knew how to put out.     “We left around two.” Tine put in. I wasn’t concentrating on the conversation. Something about the word ‘died’ had sent me into recoil. Now I had resigned to staring at her breasts. It was cold and I could see two tents of nipple sprouting under the light blue work shirt. I knew pink existed behind and no matter the wear and tear I longed to at least feel the texture.     “Well around four, about an hour before shift change Rita fell down.”     “Fell down?” Tine repeated.     “Yeah. When she got up she was out of it.”     “Did the fall hurt her?” I asked in a voice that almost rang of a British accent, a habit I had into my early twenties thinking it made me sound more intellectual. For Dizzy’s benefit I wanted to seem compassionate.     Dizzy turned to me to respond and I felt all the blood leave my skull as her deep blue eyes met my black ones. Her skin was white, not snow white, just clear with varicose veins jumping out from every angle. I felt a deeper passion towards her in this moment. Here was the archetypal female. Age in the thirties, skin without health, beaten down by life but still pink and nubile in the right places. I could appreciate such a work of art. The convicts couldn’t. I could admittedly only offer one night at the most. Being that my age precluded me from any long term commitment. But I assured with my eyes that that one night would yield more passion, acceptance and pleasure than she had ever before seen.     “She just got lightheaded and fell on the tile. I wasn’t here either. But afterwards she got this real big pain in her chest.” Dizzy said looking me in the eye. Eye contact has never been my strong suit. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable. I believed the eyes to be the mirrors of the soul and I feared if anyone ever looked into my soul that they’d forever abhor me for my devious thoughts.     “Jesus.” I said looking away from Dizzy, for the first time considering Rita’s struggle.     “Yeah, she said her chest hurt and she needed to go to hospital but Dave wouldn’t let her go.     “What?” I asked in the closest I come to a yell. Dave was the assistant manager and the bane of all our friends. His job, as we saw it, was to protect the older customers from our vulgarity, jokes and appearance which seemed to strike fear and loathing in anyone over forty. We hated him as much as he hated us. This was one of the reasons the waitresses loved us. We would go off on their boss if given enough stimuli.     “Yeah, she couldn’t even stand. So Chuck finally said he’d take her to the hospital.”     “Chuck?” Tine asked in amazement. Chuck was in his late thirties, or forties or fifties it was all old to me. We, that being my crew and myself, never spoke to him. The elders of us would smile from time to time as he was also a regular. But he kept to himself and we kept to our own age bracket. The thought of Chuck being the only one to help Rita astounded us. We knew him as the old guy who worked at Wal-Mart night stocking. A grown-up loser who, judging by his station in life, was without intelligence, cunning or virtue. The thought that he might possess some character scared us. Character was all we relied on to separate us from the masses.     “He took her to the hospital and waited but they said she had a heart attack and died on the table.” Dizzy said and her pinkened blue eyes, surrounded by the violet-black hue of sleeplessness began to tear. Tine and I, as a rule, never cried nor did we show any emotion in the least bit. It was why we were better than them.     “They should sue Denny’s and Dave.” Tine said with a nod. He understood the situation. Sue the bad guy, get some money and everything would be okay.     “I’ll miss her.” I said into Dizzy’s eyes. She hadn’t broken her gaze from me since our eyes met. Hidden in my words was a deeper meaning. One that suggested we both knew pain and that somehow, our coupling would alleviate it. These words I could and would never speak but I hid them behind my returned stare.     “I will too.” Dizzy said breaking gaze to look down at the table.     She and Rita had been best friends. We all knew that. On their shared days off they’d hit the bars together. We, as the young, were subjected to their tales of debasement and debauchery whenever they came back.     “To Rita.” Tine lifted his cup and I too obligatorily. We drank, him from the brown creamed cup and I from my own blackened addiction. This was all we had. We were without any real money or the experience to help Dizzy emotionally.     “You know when services will be held?” I asked thinking of the sight of twenty or thirty black clad youths gathering at the wake of an old woman. No matter what they thought they’d know she had meant something to someone. I was sure that death offered no other reward than a gigantic gathering of mourning.     “Her family is having her body shipped back to Michigan.”     “Her son?” I asked recalling everything Rita had ever told me. She had no husband, no daughters, only a son whose picture she carried in her wallet even though he never called.     “Yeah.”     Her son didn’t love her. At least not enough to take care of her or listen to her day to day sorrows. We did, the loyalists of Denny’s. We were our own family comprised of the regulars, the wait staff and even Dave in his own little way. Now one of us was gone and things would never be the same.     “I have to see if those guys want anything.” Dizzy said wiping her face and standing to present the respectable image for a table of yuppie drunks who the night had swept in.     “You know what we have to do.” Tine asked me in his stable monotone. For that I still have undying respect. No matter what Tine kept his composure. He followed all of the rules that I merely professed.     “Go to the forest.” I said with my own heartless grin. The forest was our holy place. We would mourn there alone amongst the trees. The bark never tells secrets and even in our ignorant youth we knew this.     We each downed our remaining coffee with a gulp and got up to leave. When Tine wasn’t looking I felt the spot where Dizzy had been sitting. It was warm. Somewhere deep inside our feelings were mutual. Something beyond logic and beyond reason attracted us to one another. It would turn out to be an attraction outside of reality. She would get transferred and I’d leave Denny’s for my own hermitage.     Tine, to this day, still shows up every night for his obligatory cup of coffee, now at one seventy-nine. He still leaves only two dollars.     Something had changed when Rita died and the three of us had all taken it differently. Dizzy and I had left but Tine, resigned to his apathetic ambivalence, had stayed.     Someday Dizzy will die. A heart attack at some other Denny’s or I-hop while serving her last cup of coffee. Tine will probably die drinking his. I, well mortality has never played a big part in my life, but I assume my death will come someday while I am alone without anyone to gossip, gab or feel the need to compose for. I like it this way. Knowing that when or if my time ever comes that I’ll ruin no one’s night but my own.

Loosing For Love Valerie Goodwine     Judy leaned over and carefully stepped into the black swimsuit, Plus Size 28. Grabbing the swimsuit on each side with an iron grip she started working it up her body. Once she eased it over her butt, half the battle was over. With a little more effort, she stretched the suit up over her stomach and got her breasts into the cups.     “I probably lost five pounds just getting this suit on,” Judy sighed.     Gazing at her lumpy body in the dressing room mirror, Judy cringed. “Oh no, I look like a beached whale.” She couldn’t help but feel a wave of self-pity.     The store clerk knocked on the door, “Everything OK in there?”     “Oh, just fine. I’ll be right out.” Wiping a tear off her face, Judy quickly changed back into her own clothes, relieved to feel comfortable again in her oversized sweatshirt and black stretch pants.     Judy decided to go ahead and buy the black swimsuit. It had the best chance to make her look. She was determined to go to the beach this year on vacation.     At work the next day, Judy complained to her friend Sara, “These pounds stick like super glue.”     “If I don’t loose weight now, when am I?” asked Judy. “I have tried diets and nothing works. I am just too scared to have any kind of surgery. I don’t know what else to do.”     “If you are serious about this I know a hypnotist that helped my mom loose 50 pounds in only 3 months,” said Sara.     “How much would something like that cost?” asked Judy.     “It’s two hundred dollars a session, but it’s only once a week,” answered Sara.     “Oh gosh, I can’t afford that!”     “Well maybe you could go once and see if you like it, just to get you started,” suggested Sara. “I’ll get you Dr. Kroger’s number.”     Josh strolled by saying, “Hey girls, how’s things?”     Josh was a truly nice guy and good looking too. With caramel eyes and a lazy grin, Josh was well liked by everyone. Judy had a huge crush on him and fantasized that if she could loose enough weight he would ask her out.     As soon as Josh was out of sight, Judy grabbed Sara’s arm, “Give me Dr. Kroger’s number. This is what credit cards were made for.”     Judy’s first visit with Dr. Kroger went well. She slipped easily into a hypnotic trance under the spell of Dr. Kroger’s soothing voice. She felt herself relax completely and even though she had skipped breakfast and lunch, she didn’t feel any hunger pains. She just felt sleepy and peaceful.     Inside Judy’s purse, her digital recorder registered every precious word of Dr. Kroger’s.     Judy continued her sessions of hypnosis alone at home, using the recording of Dr. Kroger’s session. Each time she went into a trance she felt so good afterwards. She was relaxed and in control of her eating habits. Judy lost 10 pounds the first week with no effort at all.     Judy decided to take her two weeks of vacation right away and use it to slim down before summer. She told everyone at work she was going away to visit her aunt in Maine so she wouldn’t be interrupted in her mission. She wanted her weight loss to be a surprise to everyone. Judy imagined the look on Josh’s face when he saw her slimmer body. She visualized him asking her out to the movies and how she would say yes, softly and sweetly.     Two weeks of vacation passed and when Judy did not return to work, her boss alerted authorities. The police found her dead in her apartment, peacefully lying on the sofa. No signs of violence were apparent. It was as if she had drifted off to sleep and never woken up, said the Detective Lopez. The detective found a digital recorder on the end table but when he turned it on, nothing happened.     “Bag this and get this to the lab. Let’s see what’s on it,” said Detective Lopez.     Several days later, Detective Lopez was surprised to get the lab report. The recorder contained only a weight loss hypnosis session that was stopped halfway through. The battery on the recorder was dead. He surmised that Judy had used the recorder to hypnotize herself but when the battery wore out, Judy had not received the command to wake up. She had laid in a trance on the couch and starved to death.     Detective Lopez murmured to himself, “This is one weight loss gimmick that cost way too much.”     Judy’s funeral had a huge turnout. Friends, family and coworkers cried as they said their good-byes. Bouquets of flowers surrounded the coffin with color and scent. Judy looked beautiful and everyone remarked how slim she looked.     Spying Josh, Sara wandered over to him. “Judy liked you Josh,” said Sara. “You were always kind to her and she appreciated that.”     “You know something?” said Josh. “I always had a thing for Judy. I’m crazy about big girls. She was a whole lot of woman, but just too shy to talk to me. I wish I had known her better.”

Down the Road Bela Feketekuty I saw her on a Saturday morning The IT class was full but she talked and found the right words Next Saturday morning she asked me about a class assignment And before we knew it we talked about our biotech jobs and our children Homework and E-mails Phone calls and lunches We played tennis like beginners but had lots of fun She had great legs We walked in the park hand in hand Still I could not break my bonds of many years Maybe there was something there that I did not know about Or It was our children talking Or My fear of guilt and change I tried to forget her but failed Her eyes Her words Her impulse I sent her E-mails But nothing came back I tried to go back the way it was But the mirror was broken Only our children kept us going But they had their own paths and problems Work and money Money and work Maybe something will change down the road

Bela Feketekuty Bio Information     I am a computer software developer. I use my creative mind to write poems, short stories and create new computer software. I graduated from George Washington University (Night School) with a MS. Writer’s Bloc (Texas A&M University-Kingsville) published my poem, “Work and Money” in their Autumn 2008 issue.

New Town Natalie Nigro     There is a new bitch in town. Her last straw of patience took a hitchhike to hell; her smile shadows the burden of others. She takes delight in writing hate letters to orphans, in doing her laundry in the church’s holy water and sliding “Burning Calories for Dummies” under the girl dance team’s locker room. She silently judges the world that burned her, the friends that exiled her, the people that criticized her, and the future that laughs at her. The town can bring out their torches and pitchforks; she will stand strong by Boo Radley, wear the scarlet letter and flirt with Daisy Miller. Goodbye sweetness, bitterness tastes better with a tequila shot of redemption. Wanting nothing more than to make judgmental observations, she sits back while they all assault her dignity, choke her efforts and gut her brain like it was a dead fish. The mind inside her is alive, intoxicated with lying salvation and deceitful truth. Sanctuary hides behind the corrupted helping hand. She looks up at the sky. The rainbow between the clouds blushes in a shameful frame and infuses into an abysmal red. The monstrous rainbow slashes the heavens dragging each cloud off their high throne down through the nine gates that always stay open, but only a one way movement. Her right hand grips the pharmaceutical pen, the one she stole from the nursing home; she writes, The ways we suffer and the suffering we give are seldom weighed on the same scale. The ammunition is loaded in her wrist. Watching the people make a spider web of blame to catch her in so they can liquefy her unwelcomed habits, she rolls her eyes, pulling the trigger and watching the bullets punch the page. She may not write in their favor, but they will listen to every preached and pained word she writes. If there is a battle of change versus acceptance, watch out, this bitch ain’t going anywhere.

Natalie Nigro is an English major at Concordia University St. Paul.

Thin Walls Kristi Loobeek?     “You know you don’t love her.” That sultry accusing voice slid through the bathroom tiles and echoed off both the sink and my brain.     Click, click, click, click- that skank’s stilettos vibrated through the floor and hummed on my feet. I could just see her as she made her way to his desk, leaning with both hands on the edge as to expose her Victoria’s Secret created cleavage and giving him that pretend sour, “oh how I hate you,” look I had come to expect as a greeting.     “You know you don’t. I know you like your girls knowable, uh knowledgeable, but come on, she’s not even that pretty. You need a woman that can really handle a man, show him a thing or two.”     Her wicked little British accent set my teeth on edge and like always reminded me to Google that town she said she came from to make sure it was legitimate place on Earth and not just a state of delusion. But, what a shameless attempt, honestly shameless. Brad had been so honest, admitting to my suspicions right away. She was nothing more than a desperate legal assistant, convinced that the best way for her to move up would be through seducing the lawyers. Poor Brad, he would have to crush this little viper’s enormous ego. I was going to enjoy this.     “And I suppose you think that should be you.” His voice, once my temple of safety, shattered my confidence like a good slash to the wrists.     “I think you already know how good I am at handling men, you didn’t seem to think my skills were inadequate at the company party.” WHORE!     Realization sunk deep into my chest like a bottle of Draino right down my throat; skipping lunch suddenly became the best move I had made all day. Wounded, I slid down the wall to my knees and pressed my forehead onto the cold tile, feeling its grooves press my skin into shapes it never should try to be. All the words of comfort, denial and explanation he had fed me flashed through my thoughts like a strobe light, every flash carving deeper into my heart.     The sound of his voice brought me back to the consciousness, my eyes stayed closed but my ears were unwilling to stop listening.     “Well I don’t know... your demonstration was so short, with such little factual data I’m afraid I can’t make a commitment... unless that is, you have more examples your willing to bring to the table.”     “Maybe not to the table, but I can give you one great example, right here, on this desk.”     The click of the lock and rummaging turned into the only audible sounds. I could feel my heart, every beat it made, every thump, every rush of blood through my temples creating a searing pain. A dry heave broke my stupor and convinced me I had heard enough, forever. Grasping the sink I hoisted myself to my feet once again and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Five minutes and my world had turned around.     It had been such a beautiful day, so beautiful. I had parked on the street, fed the meter a dollar in quarters simply for fifteen minutes. It was one thirty when I left the car, right when I knew he would be taking his lunch- perfect timing, perfect day. I locked the car and walked up the stairs to the firm, pausing once to admire the sweet smelling flowers planted outside, basking in the spring sunlight. It was right here, right on these steps where we had met one year, seven months, four days and eight hours ago; I was walking by, he was walking out, I dropped my bag and he picked it up for me, it every girls dream, an instant connection...pity. I suppose it was only fitting that it would end here as well.     Up the stairs I entered the firm and was immediately greeted by the secretary, Cindy, a sweet elderly lady with a passion for pink clothes. Today she wore a pink paisley headband with a matching and equally fabulous pink belt. After a few civilities and a mutual agreement that the weather outside was indeed beautiful, we decided that she would not phone Brad to tell him I was here, I was going to surprise him. And so I made my little strut down the hallway to his office with the small green cursive writing on the door: Bradley J. Miller. Outside his door I held up my hand to knock, but paused. Directly across the hall were the restrooms, I slowly lowered my hand and decided to make some final primps.     And now, five minutes later, here I was, in the same damn bathroom, broken. My reflection fascinated me in its hypocrisy. The new dress I had put on to surprise him at work, my hair I had taken forty five minutes to curl to perfection, my carefully applied makeup, all still intact except for one streak from my eye down my cheek: all these things stared back at me, like an alien, how could I look like this when inside I had been mutilated?     Wiping the smear from my cheek I reached into my purse and grabbed a scrap piece of paper. How theatrical it could be for me to wait just a few minutes and then go barging in, guns blazing. But no, in the end that is one picture that I would never be able to erase, never forget, and so I would write instead. Insult after vicious insult ran through my mind but after some consideration I decided on the following.     Bradleykins,     Sorry I missed you today,     Maybe I can make it up to you tonight,     Perhaps I can teach you something...     Can’t wait, Love, Marissa     Oh I would teach him something alright. Hell knows no rage like a woman scorned, and let me tell you, hell couldn’t keep a bitch like me down. Once I was done I again searched through my purse, this time locating a pack of gum. Taking one piece out, I quickly chewed it and stuck it to the back of the note, what a gorgeous addition this would be to both his door and reputation. As I headed towards the bathroom door I felt a curious turn in my emotions. Oh I was still burning with anger, but I also couldn’t help but feel an excitement run through my veins. The thrill of a good fight, of smashing his flat screen and of course the thrill of being independent once again.     “Yes, hello Cindy, please hold all my calls and appointments, Louise and I are on the verge of a breakthrough for the Thurson case... Yes, yes, it’s very exciting, yes I’m sure, no no, no buts, nope, gotta go, bye.”

Kristi Loobeek short bio (11/03/10)     Kristi Loobeek is a second year student at Concordia University St. Paul enrolled in a creative writing course planning to major in communications and minor in writing and environmental science. She has been published into the Danse Macabre Journal.

Razorburn Andrew Olson     Justene searched the bus for her best friend Abby. She saw Abby waving to her, and quickly slid into the seat as the bus jerked forward.     “You like my nails?” Abby asked, showcasing them to Justene. They were painted a dark shade of blue, but sparkled. They matched her blue, star-shaped earrings and blue socks. Justene’s Mom wouldn’t let her pierce her ears or paint her nails until next year, when she would be in sixth grade. Abby painted her nails a different color every week. Sometimes on the weekends Justene would help Abby paint her nails.     “Do you think Bobby will like them?” Abby asked. Of course he will, Justene thought, all the boys had crushes on Abby, even the ones who came to school with manure on their boots and unwashed hair.     “I don’t know. Maybe.”     “Well, Bobby told me that his favorite color was blue last Friday in the tires.” Justene’s face flushed as she looked out the frosted window. The tires were a bunch of old tractor tires stacked up behind the recreation building. Some of the girls in sixth grade said the boys sometimes went pee in the tires when they didn’t want to go back inside during recess. Justene had also heard from Sarah that Abby had kissed Bobby in the tires. She thought about Bobby peeing in the tires and her cheeks warmed again.     “Abby...” Abby looked at Justene and a small smile appeared on her face. Justene leaned in and cupped her hand over Abby’s ear, her bottom lip brushing against the blue earring as she whispered, “did you kiss Bobby in the tires?” Justene could feel Abby giggling they were sitting so close. Abby quickly cupped her own hand over Justene’s ear.     “Yeah, me and Bobby are dating.” Abby flicked one of her long bangs back, just like her mother. Justene wished she could be more like Abby–more grown up, that’s what all the boys liked, and it seemed like so much fun, putting on nail polish and makeup, matching clothes and earrings. The bus pulled up to school and girls walked to their homeroom.     Their homeroom was bustling as Mrs. Zimmer was sick and Principal Reed was going to substitute for the first half of the day.     “Please, please, everyone get situated and get in your seats.” Abby looked at Justene and they both giggled. Some of the sixth grade girls had said Principal Reed would give girls quarters to rub his shoulders. When he walked down the hallways, the coins would jingle in his pocket. Abby flung off her boots and went to show Bobby her nails in stocking feet. Justene couldn’t slip her boot off and sat down to pry it off. As she rolled up her jeans to get the boot off, Principal Reed walked over. Justene pulled the boot off.     “I like a girl with hairy legs.” Principal Reed said as he gently touched Justene’s shin. Justene quickly covered her leg and quietly sat down in her seat. She looked at Abby who sat a few desks in front of her. Justene knew that under those blue socks, Abby had smooth skin. Rubbing her foot over her leg, Justene felt warm and ashamed. She stayed on the swings for recess, and let Abby talk about Bobby the whole ride home. When she finally got to her house, Justene ran inside and locked herself in her parents’ bathroom. She ran the bathtub and took out her mother’s razor and cream. Justene began shaving her legs, small droplets of blood swirling in the bathwater.

Andrew Olson Bio     Andrew J. Olson is an MFA candidate in fiction at Minnesota State University, Moorhead.

The Thrill of the Hunt A.J. Longabaugh     While sitting she looks recognizably different. She smiles in my direction and makes a moment out of eye contact. She looks like an Allison but I can tell her name is Catelynn; Catelynn with a “C” and not with a “K,” guarantee it. The way she blinks gives it away. Every time her eyes close for that brief moment for condensation to gloss them, she is in full control. The timing from when the top lid reaches the bottom lid is choreographed perfectly to the pace of her breathing.     She makes another moment, this time with an obvious curiosity as she adjusts the volume on her iTunes to a more inviting level of noise. They say that the kill is never greater than the thrill of the hunt. This is the third opportunity in the past week I’ve had the chance to recognize beauty out loud.

A.J. Longabaugh bio (2010)     A.J. Longabaugh is a theatre arts and creative writing student at Concordia University St. Paul, MN. He will be featured in the upcoming January 2011 issue of the Red River Review.

John Yotko reading the A. J. Longabaugh poem The Thrill of the Hunt from the February 2011 issue (v091) of the lit mag Down in the Dirt magazine (which is also available as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book the Line to Power

Watch this YouTube video read live 02/08/11, live at the Café in Chicago 02/08/11

Abused Mel Waldman Abused, Traumatized, I’ll kill you tonight.

Janet Kuypers reading the Mel Waldman poem Abused from the February 2011 issue (v091) of the lit mag Down in the Dirt magazine (which is also available as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book the Line to Power

Watch this YouTube video read live 02/08/11, live at the Café in Chicago 02/08/11

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