down in the dirt
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Janet K., Editor
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In This Issue... Fritz Hamilton John Ragusa Frank De Canio Mike Berger, Ph.D. Bela Feketekuty Robert James Russell Ronald Brunsky Mel Waldman Norm Hendricks Bogdan Tiganov Ben Macnair Jennifer Geist Andy Heath Heather Burke John Sheirer Edward Wells II T.G. Schoenberg Tanuj Solanki Emma Eden Ramos K.R. Helms Paul Galarraga Chris Dietzel Charlie Wirth

Note that any artwork that appears in Down in the Dirt will appear in black and white in the print edition of Down in the Dirt magazine.

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Looking down at Jesoo crushed in the gutter Fritz Hamilton Looking down at Jesoo crushed in the gutter by the corporate truck of Halliburton, BP, Bethel, & the rest of the Good Old Boys, the wheel of money on Jesoo’s impoverished face/ his blood gushing out his crumbled bones to run down the gutter into the sewer to be lost with the rats & gators/ Jesoo still whimpering for his Daddy sleeping it off in the hallowed bedroom with giggly naked angels crawling all over Him, too satisfied & content to appreciate that His son lies beneath a wheel of the corporate truck/ Jesoo wishing he was still on the cross instead of suffering quite this much/ a merciful angel sucks the juice from his bellybutton, but the juice has dried, & cord & button rot stuck befouled in his teeth making him sicker/ the truck won’t drive off him until he gives it his riches, but Jesoo’s as poor as the souls to which he ministers, & who cares if you crush the poor?/ Sarah Palin has her Tea Party in the truck/ of course, Jesoo’s not invited/ her daughter’s there dancing with the stars & exposing the Tea Party as clumsy & foolish/ Dick Cheney’s there with his pockets stuffed with the nation’s trillions, pushing George W in a baby buggy/ the party rages all night until Jesoo & the street are one/ he’s filled one pothole with his forsaken soul, enabling the truck a smooth RIDE to holy PERDITION ... !

When they find caterpillars in my bottled water Fritz Hamilton When they find caterpillars in my bottled water, I suspect it’s better to drink from the LA River, which I do & catch a tire in my throat/ thank the Lord it’s eaten by a crocodile, with the pope’s penis in him/ over one billion Catholics in the world, & the pope’s fucked them all; so now he’s into crocodiles like most of his priests/ I go back to my bottled water to be purified & drink down a dead sparrow who’s eaten the caterpillars & get his feathers in my teeth/ I brush them with a steel brush & my gums fall out leaving a row of tortured dentures, which run off in horror to another mouth with tuberculosis in the gums, by gum, & cavities filled with syphilis from sucking off the pope/ all that joy that kills both girl & boy, but Pope Penis is indestructible spreading the spirit to over one billion deaths & setting off another Christian crusade as the Taliban led by St Joan of Bark sets the dogs on Pope Penis, & they have a ball eating Peter who sends them all from the General Gates who loses the holy war in Afghanistan as Jesoo runs back to his Daddy, saying “No mas!” at mass & takes off his gloves till next time ... !

The Temptation of Clark Forrester, John Ragusa     Why did he do it?     Perhaps it was because he was tired of being poor. Or maybe he just wanted better things for his wife and child.     At any rate, Clark Forrester did not make a deal with a demon because he was evil.     This is a shame, for when a good man is tempted, his punishment is all the more tragic. * * *     “May I have a bicycle for my birthday, Daddy?” Marina asked her father, Clark.     “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “I really can’t afford it. Perhaps a book would be okay?”     “I think Marina wants something more enjoyable than a book,” his wife Elaine said. “I could buy the bike for her with some of my money.”     “Why should you do that?” Clark said. “You work hard for your pay.”     “It won’t cost that much.”     “How will we pay the mortgage? Who will buy the groceries? I don’t have a money tree.”     “Oh Daddy, please let me have the bicycle,” Marina pleaded.     “I’ll think it over.”     She ran to Clark and kissed him. “Thank you!”     “No promises.”     “I understand.”     “Now go to your room while we finish our dinner.”     “Yes, sir.”     After Marina went upstairs, Clark said, “I don’t know how we’ll manage the finances. It’ll be hard.”     “We’ll pull through,” Elaine said. “You wait and see.”     He sighed. “I hope so.” * * *     Mr. Brennan, Clark’s boss at the bank, called him into his office the next day.     “What do you want to see me about?” Clark said.     “I’ve been going over your records,” Brennan said.     “Is there anything wrong with them?”     “Yes, there is. Several accounts have sloppy errors in deposits and withdrawals. Can you explain this?”     “I saw no inaccuracies when I last checked them.”     “The mistakes are definitely there, Clark. I looked over them several times.”     “I’m sorry, sir.”     “Apologies won’t mean a thing if we lose important clients. I’m afraid I’ll have to fire you.”     Clark was devastated. Without a job, he would have no means of support. * * *     He dreaded breaking the news to Elaine. He decided to have a few drinks at a bar to steady his nerves.     He went to Jerry’s Lounge and drank a Vodka. Soon he was approached by a young man in a black suit.     “Is this seat taken?” he asked.     “No, it’s not,” Clark replied.     “May I sit here?”     “Go ahead.”     The man sat down. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” he told the bartender.     After pouring the drink, the bartender laid it in front of the young man.     Sipping his drink, he turned to Clark. “A penny for your thoughts.”     “I was wondering how I can tell my wife that I lost my job.”     “Wow! That’s tough.”     “You know it. We need all the money we can get, too.”     “What a shame.” He leaned closer. “Say, I have a solution for you.”     “What is it?”     “First let me introduce myself. My name is Olivier.”     “I’m Clark Forrester. Now what’s this solution you mentioned?”     “I’m offering you wealth in return for your soul.”     Clark smiled. “Surely you’re not serious.”     “This is not a joke.”     “I’m a religious man. I wouldn’t hand over my soul to you.”     “But if you do, you’ll become filthy rich! It would certainly be worth it.”     Clark finished his drink. “Let me think it over.”     “Okay,” Olivier said. “I’ll see you in a few days to hear your decision.” * * *     One afternoon, Clark was in the den, reading a book. Elaine and Marina had gone shopping. Suddenly, Olivier was standing in front of him.     “Well, Mr. Forrester, have you decided yet?” he asked.     “I don’t know. I have my doubts. I wouldn’t want to go to hell when I die. That’s what will happen if I sign your contract, isn’t it?”     “To be honest, yes. But how do you know you won’t go to hell, anyway?”     “That can’t possibly happen!”     “Yes, it can. I am a demon who’s in charge of cruelty to the poor. Many demons are accorded nemesis-angels in heaven. My divine opponent’s name is Lawrence.”     “What does this have to do with my deal?”     “If you don’t believe me when I say you’ll end up in hell no matter what you do, just listen to Lawrence. He’ll prove it to you.”     A young man in white robes appeared in the den. “Hello, Clark,” he said. “I am Lawrence, an angel from heaven.”     “Olivier said I’ll go to hell even if I don’t agree to his deal. Is that true?”     “Well, why don’t we look at the Future Predictor and find out?”     Lawrence snapped his fingers and a TV set appeared in the den.     “This is the Future Predictor,” he said. “Watch.” He turned it on.     Clark saw himself standing in some shrubbery on the TV screen.     “What is that vegetation?” he asked.     “It’s poison ivy,” Lawrence said.     Clark was horrified. “Then Olivier was right! I’ll go to hell even if I don’t sell my soul!”     “I’m afraid so.”     “But what mortal sin did I ever commit?”     “Do you remember the day you broke old man Brackett’s window with a slingshot when you were a boy? Well, the noise caused him to have a fatal heart attack. You killed him.”     Clark made his decision. “If I’m to go to hell even if I don’t make the deal, then I might as well agree to it and enjoy some wealth while I’m alive.”     “Now you’re making sense,” Olivier said.     “Don’t do it, Clark,” Lawrence said. “You’ll be sorry if you do.”     “Don’t listen to that idiot,” Olivier said. “Sign this contract.” He held out a paper and a pen.     Without hesitation, Clark signed the contract.     Suddenly, Olivier and Lawrence burst into laughter.     “You’re screwed, sucker,” Lawrence said, shaking hands with Olivier.     “Wait a minute,” Clark said. “You guys are supposed to be enemies!”     “This fellow is not really Lawrence,” Olivier said. “I lied to you about that. He is Beelzebub, another demon from hell.”     “What I showed you on the Future Predictor was a hoax,” Beelzebub said. “If you had not made the deal, you really would have gone to heaven, because Brackett’s death was an accident. But it’s too late for you to go to heaven now.”     “You both tricked me!” Clark said.     Olivier smiled wickedly. “Isn’t that what demons always do?”

Going Home Frank De Canio Your car’s constructed for the engine, not the engine for the car. Of course, it needs solid bodywork, a good set of tires, and a driver with some sense of direction. Upholstered seats make the journey comfortable, if not less monotonous, as you putter (which will sometimes be the case) along the backroads of your destination. You may even want to fuss over its simonized sheen or spiffy interior, as though they were parts of yourself. But the car’s purpose is functional. And if there’s room for more than a passenger or two, so much the better. Just don’t forget where you’re going - what with the diverse attractions along the way to stop and marvel at. Not to mention the music coming from the radio. And what gorgeous music! Full-throated songs that burnish jaded landscapes with green velvet mountains, lakes of emerald and flowers jeweled with glistening dewdrops. But the windshield’s frosted over. And that squashed armadillo at the side of the road jolts you from otherworldly musings. If it doesn’t, the truck collision should, a little further down, around the bend. You’ll find there’s not much left to see beyond the smoldering wreckage. And the next time your car stalls, or you get lost in the boondocks and have to walk the rest of the way, remember this: Long after your clunker’s stripped beyond recognition and is recycled from the junk-heap, its essence stays the same through countless permutations, though nothing else remains.

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.”

Fool Hardy Mike Berger, Ph.D. I did a somersault in midair as our raft flipped over. The shock of hitting the water stole my breath. I did another somersault deep in the water. At last my head popped up and I grabbed a breath. This was a terrible place to be; out of the raft in Warm Springs Rapids. The murky river was flowing red mud. We wanted some extra excitement so we maneuvered our raft into the wildest part. A giant hole gobble us up and flip us over. You can’t fight the tumultuous waves. The natural tendency is to try to swim but that only makes it worse. Relax and let the current have its way. All of the training you’ve had about being in the water flies out the window. Gasping and sputtering, I sought breath but only came away with water. Smacked by a huge wave I was sucked under. I rolled over and over. Struggling towards the light the water held me captive. Suddenly, I shot to the top. There, ten yards ahead was the raft but I didn’t have enough strength to swim for it. The rapids smoothed as the river slowed and made a gentle turn. I washed up on a sand bar. I was nauseous from being pounded and swallowing water. I puked. A million thoughts filled my mind as I lay in the sand. An old cliché echoed in my ears, “Don’t fool with mother nature.” I and my partner were rescued by another raft.

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.

My Luck Changed Bela Feketekuty She was hot A smart engineer during the day A sex kitten at night She was on fire She said that she loved me She said that I was her man We met at the IT seminar I asked her about lunch and she said no But my luck changed We laughed and talked when we missed our planes E-mails and phone calls Dinners and movies She liked my off beat humor She accepted my diamond ring I was singing in the clouds There was no sign no warning Just a phone call She told me not to call her She met another man I ripped her red blouse into small pieces But I still remembered that we used to dance late into the night She was lots of fun But now she has fun with another man Is he strong? Is he rich? Is he a jerk? I don’t want to know Work and money Money and work Nothing else left

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.

Pulp Robert James Russell     He’s screaming beneath the strip of duct tape in hoarse and muted yelps as I walk back into the living room with the plastic drug store bag in-hand, the TV blaring some infomercial about a new blender mostly drowning him out. When he sees me he begins to fight the restraints again, his eyes wide and pleading as the crunching of the plastic tarp gets louder the closer I get to him. He kicks his legs and arms wildly but the cords hold tight on his wrists and ankles and, finally, he stops, out of breath and totally dejected. I can see little specks of blood along his abdominals from earlier, then, like a proud parent might, I study the strips of flesh removed along his right thigh, the little squares of pink that stand out like trophies. I set the keys on the bureau in the corner, along with my purse, and I walk over to him, to his naked body splayed along the living room floor, and just stand there, above him, smiling.     “See? I told you I’d be right back,” I say and kneel next to him, stroking his cheek. He squirms again which nearly knocks me back, out of pure surprise. I compose myself and sigh. “I told you to stop that. Now, I’m going to take the duct tape off your mouth, because I want to ask you something and give you a chance to respond, but you have to promise that you won’t scream. I don’t need to remind you that when you did that last time, I had to punish you.”     As I say the words I reach down the length of his body and finger one of the pink patches of muscle showing on his thigh. He screams out in pain, tears in his eyes, then settles and looks back at me, nodding his head in quick bursts.     “Alright,” I say. “But I’m serious. Don’t try anything.”     I put the full weight of my tiny frame behind me and rip the tape off his mouth, allowing him to finally let out a solid howl. His lips are chapped and scabbed and he looks at me, realizing he did in fact let out a noise.     “I’m sorry,” he says. “It was an accident. It just...hurt, is all.”     “It’s fine. I’ll give you that,” I say. “A freebie, huh?”     “Now,” I say, putting the plastic bag in front of me, resting it on my lap. “I absolutely believe that you should be made aware of what I’m going to do to you, as I do it, so there are no surprises. Some people say that, when faced with stressful or traumatic situations, like this, I suppose, knowing what’s coming can actually soothe you during the actual events, cause your body to release even more adrenaline, so you won’t feel the pain as much.”     “Why are you doing this?” he says.     “Please stop asking me that.”     “But...I love you, you know I do. So we had a rough patch...so what?”     “If you don’t stop talking about us, I will slice off your nipples, one at a time, then slice up one of those Greek citrons I bought at the farmer’s market last weekend and rub it over the wounds. Alright?”     He stops talking, but I feel like he hasn’t really received the message that I’m in charge, that, even though I showed him what I was capable of last night, he still doesn’t get it.     “You know what? I’ll be right back,” I say, walking to the kitchen. He begins calling after me, telling me how much he loves me, droning on like there’s a script in front of him. Meanwhile, I open the utensil drawer and my fingers hover over the various flatware all mixed together, the twenty-piece set with the shiny hammered stems, the silver-plated set with the stainless steel heads that really should be separated from the rest, and three antique silver forks courtesy of his grandmother which I wasn’t sure what to do with, so I bundled them with the rest. I look at the butter knives sitting in there, then, in a moment of clarity, shut the drawer and open the one directly next to it, where we keep the various knives, spatulas, and other miscellaneous cooking tools purchased almost entirely from Williams-Sonoma, gather a few pieces that stand out, and head back to the living room. He hears me coming, having stopped his soliloquy at some point when I was in the kitchen, and starts up again from where he left off.     “Remember you said you wanted to go to Maine? You wanted to get some of that lobster, right? We could do that, baby. We could go...soon. Or...go to Europe! I know you said you wanted that too, right?” He’s panting now, desperate.     “Thanks,” I say kneeling between his shoulder and head, “but that’s okay. Now, I don’t really think you appreciate the severity of this situation.”     “I really do,” he says and flashes me a desperate smile.     “See? That, right there. That smile. I have each of your limbs tied down with paracord running to tent stakes I managed to get into the flooring. I mean, you know how hard that was, getting those hammered in? Not to mention the emotional toll it took on me to destroy our beautiful cherry wood floors? You know how much I love our floors. Anyway, I have to show you, that this is a serious matter, that...you need to listen to me. So I’m going to make a deal with you,” I say, stopping, laying out what I took from the kitchen: a Kasumi V-Gold No. 10 three inch paring knife, with the Damascus Pattern; a Shun Classic nine inch Offset Bread Knife with a PakkaWood handle; and a stainless steel three-pronged grilling fork. He can’t see any of these, but hears the noise they make as I lay them out and begins violently turning his head, trying to locate the source of the noise.     “What...what is that?” he says.     “Please don’t interrupt. I say, I’m going to make a deal with you. I’m going to show you just how serious I am, and I need you to not cry out at all. That is the only stipulation. You don’t cry out, I won’t make this even more painful for you, okay? And trust me, I have a host of ideas on how to make this even worse.”     He stops shaking his head and looks at me, tears welling. I look back at his cracked lips, a trail of dried blood smeared from his nose along his cheek. “I understand,” he says.     “Good,” I say almost giddy. I start by making long thin incisions in his shoulder with the paring knife, finding it difficult to cut through the muscle, thinking it might have to do with the angle I’m positioned at, all while he makes little mouse sounds, being a good boy about not screaming. I grow bored so take the small bread knife and repeatedly stab it directly into the shoulder, sinking the blade about halfway in, the serrated edge pulling out with it chunks of flesh and thick clots of blood. He’s now making a low guttural noise that irritates me more than any of his other noises so I take my index and middle fingers and pinch his nipple elevating it from the rest of him, and saw off the entire dark piece from his chest with surprising ease, the skin pulling back from the wound and curling around the edges revealing a deep red area set with stripes of white and even deeper red, forming a brilliant little pattern I feel like I should photograph. I hold the nipple up to him and he’s writhing now, hardly able to stay still, and I say to him, “I don’t like that noise you were just making. It bothers me. So please, just stop.”     I stand and let him stew a moment, stretching my shoulders and hamstrings. He’s biting his lip so hard it’s bleeding, and for a moment I think about helping him clean it, then chastise myself for thinking such a thing, for relinquishing control like that. Irritated at my own willingness to give in to him, again, I kneel and open the plastic bag from the drug store. I pull out a package of gel toe spacers, used for pedicures to keep the toes apart, making sure to show them to him.     “If you want,” I say, cutting the package open with the paring knife, bits of blood and flesh sticking to the plastic, “you can scream a little bit before this next part. You know, sort of let it all out. But once I start again, I need you to keep it in check, okay?”     I wait for him to belch out anything, strings of expletives or pleas for his life, but he does nothing, just keeps biting his lip, the red staining his chin now, his eyes wide and bulging, not giving me the satisfaction.     “Fair enough.”     I fan his fingers apart and insert the gel toe spacers between them, then, smiling, I slick his hair back which is wet with sweat, nervous stinking sweat, and say, “If we’re being totally honest, this next part is probably going to hurt a lot,” and he looks genuinely terrified, as if he’s finally understood what’s going to happen, which moves me, his opening up like this in a way he hasn’t done in years, really showing me what he’s feeling, and he starts sobbing, genuinely sobbing, then I add, as I stand, “just relax, honey.”     I walk over to the apothecary-style walnut coffee table (an anniversary gift from his parents three years ago), which I moved to the far end of the room behind the comfortable whiskey leather studio sofa that I moved when I was making space earlier and look down at the tools laid out across the surface over a piece of brown parchment paper, all of which I plucked from a rarely used tool box tucked up on a wooden shelf in the garage: ten inch hacksaw in pristine condition, two sets of pliers (locknut, tongue and groove), a lever-action mini bolt cutter, brick hammer, pile of 2-1/2" galvanized nails, and a DEWALT 1/2" (13mm) 28-volt cordless drill. I gingerly wipe my fingers across all the tools, finding the contrast of the almost beige-looking parchment paper against the weathered worn walnut of the coffee table titillating for some reason. The neck of the hammer between the head and the grip feels cold to my touch, and I look back at him for a moment, his head propped up as best he can, trying to gauge what it is I’m doing back here, the poor soul. I finally grab the hammer and some nails and the bolt cutter and return to my position between his right arm and his head. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, and I stroke his hair again as I set the tools down just out of his sightline. He struggles a bit in his restrains, which seem to be holding fine, but, just for good measure, I stand and systematically check all four stakes I have planted in the corners of the living room floor, making sure that everything is tight in place so that, when things really begin to get heavy, there’s no way he’ll break free. Everything’s fine so I take my place again kneeling next to his head and shoulder. I think all the walking back and forth on the plastic is disorienting him, because the crunching as I get settled seems to drive him to look away from me, his face going pale.     “Are you going to be sick?” I say wiping his forehead clean of sweat. “Please make sure you’re turned away from me if you are, okay? I won’t judge you.”     He manages to swallow everything down and just as I pick up the hammer and a nail, I hear him say, “She didn’t mean...anything. You have to understand...there has to be some other way!”     “Shh,” I say. “It’s just...pathetic, especially at this point. And, anyway, I thought I told you to quit talking about her. This, all of this, is about you and me.”     I sit up on my knees and hold the nail in place between the center two knuckles of his index finger, then, without so much as a word, I lift the hammer up and swing it down, careful not to hit myself. I can feel that, at first, there’s a little give as the steel breaks through the thick outer layers of skin, finally settling about a quarter of the way in. He screams, of course, then resorts to biting his lip once the adrenaline kicks in, trying to show how tough he really is. There’s some blood, but not a lot, so I smile and wind up again and hit the nail head once more with all I can, driving the nail deeper into the flesh of his finger, watching as it sinks almost all the way in, hitting the bone which makes it go in crooked, coming out the side a bit. Blood is pouring out now, the steel of the nail surrounded by a puddle of the stuff, but it isn’t shooting up like I thought it might, just leaking down his hand and onto the tarp below, collecting in little pools.     He’s looking the other way now, avoiding any eye contact with me, and I half-expect him to beg some more, as I’m sure most would, but he doesn’t. He just makes these little mousy sounds every so often, little whimpers, I guess, but never looks at me.     “Well, look at you,” I say picking up another nail from the pile. “Mister Tough Guy showed up to play, huh?”     I hammer nails into all the remaining fingers on this hand, making sure they get driven all the way through (although, not to the floor beneath), him screaming as they first go in, then, if by habit, biting his lip until it finally is too much and he has no choice but to show me how much it hurts. So by the time I hammer the last one into this thumb, he’s sobbing, just crying in place and writhing back and forth.     “Good boy,” I say. “Not too bad, huh?”     He mumbles something, and, worried he might pass out, I walk back over to the coffee table and pick up a small brown lunch bag. I unwrap it and pull out a small box that almost looks like a pack of gum, filled with tiny paper lozenges, ammonia inhalants, or, smelling salts. I grab two and walk back to him and, ripping the first open, almost in half, force it in his left nostril, leaving it there as he comes to, saying over and over “I’m awake, I’m awake! Take it out!”     “Take what out? The smelling salts, or the nails?” I say, being purposely coy, some might even say downright villainous.     “Yes, it burns my nose! Take it out!”     “But, what if you fall asleep?” I say straddling his head, wondering how wickedly hot it would be if I was wearing a skirt and no panties right now so he could see everything from where he’s at. But he doesn’t deserve that. Not at all.     “I won’t, I won’t. I’m up!” he says, exhausted and pleading.     I reach down and take the salts from his nose and pocket it. He’s breathing heavy and snorting leftover bits from his nose, and I feel like the mood is a bit too somber now, so I go over to the main unit of the entertainment system resting on the second shelf of the TV stand next to the Direct TV box, a Bose Lifestyle V25 with built-in iPod dock, and, turning it on, scroll through the artists and songs, finally finding the perfect one. I hit play on the iPod and fiddle with the volume controls, turn it up as high as it will go, then, waiting for it, hear the delicious melody of Irene Cara’s “What a Feeling” start up.     “Remember this?” I say, my eyes closed, swaying in place as she sings “First, when there’s nothing but a slow glowing dream / That your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind.” “Our honeymoon in Jamaica...at the Sandals Resort.”     “You...itch...” I hear him mutter.     “Sorry? I couldn’t hear you,” I say, stopping my dance and looking at him. He looks different now, changed even, perhaps due to the song, maybe my dancing. He struggles to lift his head up to face me, but when he does a ferocious sneer splashes across his face that, admittedly, shakes me to my core.     “I...said...you’re a fucking bitch! A...cunt!”     The song is still playing as I approach him, becoming background muzak to the symphony of his groans and cursing. I stand far enough way, out of habit, even though he can’t get at me, just watching him. I study his wounds, wonder how much blood he’s lost, then, finally, meet his gaze.     “I thought I told you—”     “Shut the fuck up,” he says, blood and spit dripping down his chin as if he’s in some sort of rabid frenzy. “I...I’ve had enough of this. If you’re going to fucking kill me, just do it.”     “I never said I was going to kill you,” I say, kneeling in place.     “Just fucking do it! I fucking...hate you!”     “No, you don’t. In fact, just a bit ago you were begging me to—”     “I’ve never loved you,” he says smugly, letting his head fall back to the ground. His eyes are wide, crazy-like, and his mouth twists and sneers into a wicked grin. “I fucked your college roommate one weekend when you were home. We fucked in your bed.”     “Darcy?”     “One of the best fucks I ever had, too.” He’s laughing now. “And that bitch you caught me with? Best lay I’ve had my entire adult life.”     “Stop talking,” I say, standing.     “Aw, can’t handle the truth? You’re just a fucking...slippery cunt. You’ve got nothing, no job, no ambition. You’re a fucking...cliché...a joke. You think she was the first?”     “Stop.”     “Fuck you. I fucked that bitch’s pussy right on our bed. She was so tight. And her body...fuck me. Something you’ve never had, believe me.”     “Stop...” I say, my hands on my temples, trying hard not to picture it. “Just...please...”     “You are such a fucking joke,” he says. “Oh, and by the way, I fucked the front desk receptionist on our honeymoon, this little nigger girl who couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. Then I came back to our room and fucked you without even cleaning up.”     He’s laughing again, trying to say more hurtful things, going on and on and years of verbal abuse come roaring back, years of neglect, of putting up with his “late nights” and his dismissive attitude, his inability to appreciate me and love me, his complete and utter lack of respect for me as a woman, his wife, and, crying, I run to the kitchen and grab the Ginsu Freedom Cordless Carving Knife (which I hoped I wouldn’t have to use) and fly back into the living room and when he sees it, he stops his little tirade and starts professing his love again telling me how much he loves me and needs me how he was joking he was trying to make me hurt like he was and I tell him “You’ll never know how much you hurt me” and he’s pleading crying like a baby and I start cutting into his scrotum just below his penis, the soft skin tearing open from the serrated blades, blood seeping out first then pouring out in torrents, and he’s screaming loud and I’m laughing, blood on my cheeks and chin, splashed across my breasts me singing along with Irene Cara “What a feeling, you can really have it all” and he’s flailing around like a fish a fucking fish and I cut deeper into him and I hit tendons and some fibrous tissue and what I can only assume are his vas deferens and it’s almost completely sawed in half now ligaments and fibers hanging there a bloody fucking stump of what was once there a gaping hole into his insides and he’s shaking now convulsing and I stop and take a cut into his thigh and he comes to from the new pain and starts screaming again and I’m saying “I love you!” and he’s screaming and trying to pull up his restraints and with my free hand I grab a hold of his scrotum and begin pulling it down while I finish slicing through it and it finally comes off cut clean from him and I hold it up it’s almost completely stained red and I put the carving knife down and he’s crying shaking and blood everywhere bits of him everywhere and I reach inside the sack in my hands and remove the two testicles and I crawl up over him toward his head and slap him awake and I show him his balls, his prize, I show him what I’ve done all proud and he starts throwing up all over himself and I’m laughing laughing laughing HA HA HA HA HA HA     Later, I’m lying on the couch, replaying the events, cleaning my face off with a wet dishrag. He’s lying there, still breathing, barely conscious, and I look at where his scrotum used to be and admire my cauterizing work with the butane torch I found in the garage—the sickening smell of singed hair and skin and blood still fresh in the air—and it looks like some sort of black gelatinous blob of scorched and almost-reptilian-looking skin with an icepack propped against it. Part of me feels bad, letting myself go like that, but then I remind myself of what he said, how it was, I’m sure, true, and that he really did deserve this. I smile and walk over to him. He cowers as I approach and I kneel by his head, wiping his cheeks clean from cold sweat.     “Don’t worry, we’re done for now,” I say. “Anyway, I want to make you dinner, something really special, so I’m going to head in the kitchen for a while, okay? Let me know if you need any more of the smelling salts and I’ll be in as quick as I can.”     I pat his head as I stand and take the TV remote, turning up the volume to some courtroom procedural drama, one of his favorite shows, but I can’t remember the name at the moment. I make my way into the kitchen, humming Irene Cara, and on the counter, soaking in a saltwater bath in an eight-quart stainless steel mixing bowl are the two testicles, completely clean now, a beautiful pinkish-white color. I handle them in the water, and they feel softer now, not as firm, so I assume they’re ready. I remove them from the saltwater and lay them on the Chilean Cherry Hardwood Cutting Board I got for my birthday from Amanda last year (a must-have for any gourmand, she assured me), and start by splitting the tough skin-like muscle that surrounds each testicle, careful not to puncture the meat itself. I rinse them thoroughly in a steel bowl until they are completely clean. I grab the largest knife in the block, because I’m worried of them being too tough, and slice the testicles into approximately quarter inch-thick ovals. I blot them dry with paper towel then dredge the slices in egg then flour and place them gently in the twelve-inch non-stick stainless-steel frying pan I have heating on the stove (containing oil that’s been heated to 350°). The sizzle is familiar and makes me smile, and the smell, especially as I add the chopped onion and garlic, creates a rush of sensations in me. I can’t help it but I move to the entryway and look out into the living room and I think he’s crying to himself, but I say anyway, “I hope you can smell this, my love. It smells delicious, and I think, think, it’s going to taste absolutely divine.”     Back at the stove I’m careful that I brown both sides of the testicles evenly, adding a few tablespoons of water, black ground pepper, chili powder, and finally white wine (a Riesling from a vineyard in northern California I’ve had the pleasure of cooking with previously which has a wonderful balance of sugar and acidity). Once the wine reduces some, I add thyme, salt, crushed red pepper, and a tablespoon of flour, and stir every few minutes until the wine has completely evaporated and the sauce itself has thickened. I then add a tablespoon of honey to sweeten it up, and, making sure the testicle slices are golden brown on both sides, remove the pan from heat so it can sit for a few minutes longer.     I go to plate the food and I’m angry because I can’t find any of the Toscana ivory dinner plates from Pier 1 given to us as a housewarming gift by Chris (one of his many business partners) and his wife, Theresa (plates that, for some reason, I have an odd attraction to and fascination with), so I settle with two putty-colored stoneware dinner plates from Pottery Barn that I believe, while not my first choice, will still compliment the striking scarlet color of the final dish. I spoon helpings of the testicles on the plates, making sure the sauce settles evenly in a concentric circle around the portion, paying close attention to the aesthetic of the final product as I wipe the lip of the plates clean. I finish up by adding sprigs of fresh mint along the tops of the dishes then step back and admire the final product.     Out in the living room he looks as if he’s nearly passed out. I set the plates down on the nearby bureau and gently touch his forehead: clammy, pale. I pull out the smelling salts and shove them up his nostrils, one by one, alternating until he comes to, screaming, eyes wide, cursing a mile a minute.     “Calm down,” I say. “I’ve brought dinner. Let me check your bleeding first, okay?”     He begins to kick, weakly, as I make my way scoot down to his crotch. I lift up the towel which is now soaked a deep maroon color from the blood. The cauterized wound seems to have quit bleeding as much now, which is good, but I can still smell the burnt skin and hair smell from the blowtorch mixed with the scent of piss and shit, which makes me feel nauseated, so I replace the towel and go pick up the plates again.     “I’ll have to change that towel soon,” I say sitting cross-legged next to him, resting his plate on the floor between us, my own on my lap. “And I really want to do something about that smell. Just horrible, isn’t it?”     “What...” he starts to say, lifting his head up, then drops back down, his eyes spinning wildly in all directions.     “Shh, honey,” I say. “Save all that energy. Look! I made you dinner. Now, it’s probably going to be a bit gamey, since, you know, I haven’t had proper time to soak them and get your taste off of them, but I really do think, beyond that, this is going to be a delicious meal. I hope you’re hungry!”     I take a forkful of the testicle and sauce and smell it, holding it close to my nose, then, deciding it really does smell fantastic, I eat it all. The testicle itself is somewhere between tender and chewy, again, I think, because I haven’t had a chance to properly soak and prepare it, but the seasoning is fantastic and the mint adds an extra layer of sophistication to the dish that I think it might have otherwise lacked. I take another forkful and, with my other hand, force his mouth open. When he realizes what I’m doing, he begins to fight back, his head moving side to side as violently as he can afford, but, I wait a few moments and he’s tired, not able to fight back any more, just like a child. I pinch his cheeks which opens his mouth just enough and I shovel the food in, careful he doesn’t bite down too hard on the fork.     “Do you want help chewing it?” I say.     “Fuck...you!” he says, spitting the food out, dribbling it over his chin and neck, some of it landing on me.     “Damnit, honey,” I say, standing. I go to the kitchen and grab a wet hand towel and blot myself clean, then return to my position. “I made this especially for you...for us. We’re going to try again, okay?”     I take another heaping bunch from the plate and put it in his mouth, forcing it through his lips and teeth, and, learning from last time, I hold his jaw shut until he starts to chew. I smile, and after a few moments, remove my hand but as I do he spits it up again, even more landing on me. I wipe myself clean and, composed, smiling, radiant, say, “You really should eat up. You’re going to need your strength.”

Robert James Russell bio     Robert James Russell co-founded the indie comic book publisher Saint James Comics in 2009. He is a member of Year Zero Writers, and has had work featured by Like Birds Lit, Greatest Lakes Review, The Legendary, and is currently working on his debut novel, excerpts of which appear on his website www.robertjamesrussell.com. He recently edited his first anthology, entitled Sex Scene: An Anthology, which is available as a free download. Robert lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Dead Reckoning Ronald Brunsky     Looking at the obituaries was the first thing Luke did every morning. One in particular, grabbed his attention.     “Kenneth Byrd ... hmm, I wonder ... any relation to Lois.”     He read further. “Gee, it’s her husband. I haven’t seen her since I left Tompkins Inc — what memories. Guess I should probably go pay my respects.”     It was dusk, when Luke arrived at the Boswell and Sons Funeral Home.     He signed in and went straight over to Lois.     He hugged her, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”     “It’s nice of you to come.”     He was so young — had he been sick?”     “No, it was an automobile accident.”     “You must feel terrible?”     “I have mixed emotions; we were getting divorced. He’d been cheating on me.”     People were waiting to see Lois. “Please excuse me Luke.”     Luke looked into the casket and was amazed how well her husband looked. He had always hated that remark. “How stupid, their dead.”     Luke decided to wait for awhile. Some former co-workers might show up. Finding a chair in the back, he watched the people file past the coffin paying their last respects. Some would kneel and give the sign of the cross, while others would just stop momentarily and bow their heads.     The way the living coped with death had always fascinated Luke. Why people would come to a wake, though seldom visiting the deceased in life. People who on the surface were “God Fearing”, church going souls with a ticket in hand to heaven, but whose private thoughts on the afterlife were filled with anxiety. The long sleep would always be man’s greatest enigma.     Luke’s mind continued to churn over the mysteries of death, when suddenly something caught his eye.     “What was that?” he thought.     There it was again — was he imagining? No, he wasn’t; the coffin was rocking. Then a hand appeared from inside the casket and grabbed the side of the vessel. The corpse was pulling itself into a sitting position.     Luke started to point, but noticed that nobody else was paying any attention. The line of people continued to flow past the coffin, consoling the widow, totally oblivious to the events Luke was observing. What was going on? No one else saw the deceased then gingerly climb out of the sarcophagus. Luke was in shock. Was he dreaming? He nudged a man and pointed, but he only looked back, queerly.     The recently deceased husband of Lois Byrd stood their looking around the room, obviously trying to locate someone. When his gaze fixed on Luke, he smiled and began to slowly walk in his direction. Luke could do nothing but stand there, as the late Mr. Byrd approached him.     “Hi Luke, I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m Lois’s husband, Ken.”     Luke had no response.     Mr. Byrd continued. “You know, there’s one good thing about being in this condition. All the secrets of the past and future are unveiled to you. For instance, you see that elderly man in the gray suit standing next to Lois.”     A dazed Luke just nodded.     “Well, next Wednesday about four am he’ll have a massive coronary. That’s right in a couple days, he’s worm food. And that attractive woman over there by the roses, she will meet her end six months from now ... cancer. She doesn’t even know it yet.”      Luke looked around, but still, no one was paying the slightest bit of attention to his pulse less conversation mate.     “How come nobody else sees you?”     “Because you’re the one I came back to see. Though, it would be nice if everyone could, then I could give my own eulogy, ha, ha.      You see Luke, everyone who dies has the opportunity to come back if they are willing to give up enough.”     “You’re dead, what have you got to give up?”     “You’d be surprised. The quality of your existence in the afterlife is always negotiable.”     “You actually mean the dead can return?”     “Yes, frequently, but they don’t stay long. Just long enough to accomplish their mission.”     “And what would that be?”     “Maybe to settle an old score?”     “With me?     Ken smiled.     “What did I ever do to you?”     “I told you; the deceased know all the secrets of the past. Like what was going on between Lois and you.”     “What do you mean?”     “Oh, come on Luke, you were boffing my wife.”     “That’s not true.”     “Why don’t you just admit it? Do you want me to name the dates and places? Three years ago — October 9th at the Metrose Inn,... ahhh then October 19th at the ... ”     “Alright ... so we had a little fling — besides, Lois just told me that you had been fooling around too.”     “No, actually I wasn’t. But now, I sure wish I had.”     “You can’t do anything to me — you’re dead.”     “You are correct sir! But you forget ... I know the future as well as the past.”     “My future?” Luke replied.     “Every last detail.”     “What’s so bad about knowing your future? It will make my retirement plans easier.”     “That’s true.”     “So Ken, you’re going to tell me that some disease will kill me in about forty years ... right?”     “Not quite.”     Luke was getting agitated, “What is it then?”     “So soon? I was just starting to enjoy the banter.”     “You know this is all nonsense. This must be some kind of whacky dream. You’re not real.”     “Now, I know I’ve got your attention, are you ready to hear about your future? You know it’s not all bad.”     “OK, I’ll listen. I guess you’re not going away until you’ve finished.”     “So true — well here it goes. In a couple of weeks you and my grieving widow will start dating again. You’ll get serious and eventually plan a wedding. Not bad, so far ... huh? And just when you think life couldn’t get any better, a wondrous event happens. You’re going to be on cloud nine. No more financial worries for you.”     “Ken, you can stop right there.”     “Oh, but Luke, were just getting to the best part. You wouldn’t deny your closest cadaver a little enjoyment, would you?”     “OK, OK, FINISH WHAT YOU’VE GOT TO SAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!”     “Jeez Luke, Why so testy, I thought we were becoming buddies. Where were we now ... oh yeah, you were happy. Well, that’s going to change ... big time.     It seems one night, not long after your fortuitous day, you are paid a visit by a rather large fellow. It seems, I’m not the only husband whose wife you’ve been banging.     He’s a little sadistic too. Bad trait, don’t you think. Anyway, he catches you off guard, overpowers you, ties you up and ... I’m sorry, bear with me ... here’s where it starts to get a tad gruesome.     See, he has this rather large knife — one of those hunting types. You know, I loved to sing that ad... ‘Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie’ — always liked that jingle.     As the event became more and more realistic, fear like he had never known started pulsing through Luke’s veins.     Kenneth continued, “You know Luke sometimes a guy is just too good looking for his own good. You can make some people awful jealous, especially if you’ve been porking their old lady ... you know what I mean?     Where was I ... oh yeah, he takes that knife and makes a few cuts, here and there. To sort of even the playing field — so you’re not quite so pretty anymore.     He starts to leave, but then he stops and pulls this old wrinkled note — a love note, you once gave his wife, out of his pocket. Tears run down his cheeks, as he reads it, and darned if he doesn’t turn around. You see, he couldn’t help but picture the two of you doing the dirty deed, and that’s when he got really mad. Did I mention he was a bit sadistic? Yeah, I’m sure I did.     He takes that knife and removes ... nicer word that cuts don’t you think?”     “This is sick,” says Luke as he pinched and slapped himself in an effort to wake from this nightmare.     He pushed his open hand against Ken’s chest. He felt the muscle less, soft flesh that offered no resistance. As Ken rocked back and forth, Luke heard the sickening sound of embalming fluid sloshing around ...     “Hey careful,” said Ken, “this body’s got to last a little while yet.”     Luke, pulled his hand back. “You can’t really exist?”     “Oh, but I do. You can bet your life on it — to sort of speak.”     Ken then fixed his gaze firmly on Luke. His eyes were pitch black and his face was locked in a sneering smile. “Now as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted ... he takes that knife and ... let’s just say he eliminates a certain part of your anatomy.”     “What part?”     “Come on Luke, you know ... captain winkie ... your trouser snake, Johnson ... ... what’s another name, oh yeah ...” as he got right in Luke’s face, “YOUR COCK!!”     The words propelled by spittle and the most putrid breath Luke had ever smelled.     “And then,” Ken continued, “he stuffs it down your throat. Wow! I guess he was making a point.”     Luke was beyond pale. He looked more like the corpse than Ken did. He shook uncontrollably and started to scream.      “This isn’t happening. It’s just a dream, it must be a dream.”      “Luke don’t go to pieces on me. Story’s almost done. If you don’t let me finish, we’ll be here all night.      Now, you were probably concerned that you would be left there to bleed to death. The good news is you won’t have to worry about that.”     “And the bad news?”     “Getting back to that love note,” Ken goes on. “You see, when you wrote that you’d gladly give her your heart ... well.”     “What kind of insanity is this?” Luke said.     Ken moved closer, his cold, dark eyes widening, and his smile replaced with a contemptuous scowl, and said, “What kind? I’ll tell you what kind — the kind that is meant especially for you.”      Ken started walking back to the coffin. He turned and said. “Good bye Luke, our little chat was most refreshing — be seeing you.” ######      “Wake up, wake up,” Lois was shaking him. “You must of dozed off. Boy, talk about being disrespectful.”     Rubbing his eyes and stretching, Luke finally convinced himself that he had been asleep. Relieved that it had all been a dream, he got up and apologized.     “Can you forgive me? I’m so embarrassed.”     “Only if you give me a call soon, and take me out to dinner.”     “You’re on.”     Dinner dates became more frequent, and although something told Luke he should stay away from her, he couldn’t help himself.     Within a couple of months Luke had moved in with Lois, and they were setting a date. He had almost forgotten about the experience in the funeral home and was completely in love.     One night after eating out, they came home to a message on their machine.     “Luke, Nathan from work. I’ve got some good news — are you sitting down. Our lottery pool hit the big one. Party time over at the Pub, see you there.”     Lois was jumping up and down. “Wow! Your getting married to a beautiful woman — if I do say so myself, and you’ve just hit the lottery, I guess your dream has finally come true.”     Luke was trembling, as he muttered, “Not quite.”

Killer Inside Mel Waldman Serial killer loose. Killer inside grins.

Janet Kuypers reading the Mel Waldman poem Killer Inside from the March 2011 issue (v092) of the lit mag Down in the Dirt magazine (which is also available as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book Down In It

Watch this YouTube video read live 03/15/11, live at the Café in Chicago 03/15/11

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.

Bluetooth Norm Hendricks     Riding the downtown bus back home from the library caused Dan more discomfort than usual. The diesel smell aligned his stomach up for the potholes to punt. He nestled in the back on a single bench; doubling as a cover for the engine and transmitting heat insistent enough to defeat the weak air conditioning. And, the shine on the shoe kicking Dan’s butt was the guy Dan had settled next to. This man talked to himself, the volume of which encroached on the understood space accompanying Dan’s ass scoop.     “No, he’s not one,” the man said, thick finger flicks punctuating. The third guy filling up the back took up two spots—reclined and unconscious. Dan had to snuggle up tight to the monologuer. “I’m telling you, I know one when I see one, and he’s not it!”     “Shut up,” the snoozer muttered from under an arm he had folded over his eyes.     “The kind you’re talking about get on later.” Ghost talker regaled the center aisle with his appraisal, ignoring the recliner. He was large, but he looked like he had once been much larger. Limpid rolls of flesh collected at the crotch of his pleated slacks under his broad-striped shirt as though he had lost a great amount of weight.     Dan was annoyed but of course he knew what occurred. The man communed with the spirits of technological intrusiveness.     “Bluetooth,” the man said, noting Dan’s attention. He tapped the far side of his global skull, confirming Dan’s aggravated assessment.     Dan nodded grimly, hopelessly barricading himself behind waves of social exclusion. But Bluetooth conjurers obeyed no such human delineations.     “You’re quite correct,” Bluetooth man went on. “The ones we have to worry about don’t often where sweater vests under tweed jackets.”     Dan wore exactly what the man described.     “Hey,” Dan said.     Bluetooth held up a stop sign finger.     “His name is Dan,” he said to the air.     “What?” Dan straightened, glaring at the man’s free ear. “How did you—”     The bus engine gunned behind them and the wide man spoke over Dan.     “So right! So right!” He cried. “He is that important and I’ve been rude. Your suggestion toward introduction is well noted.”     “Listen—”     “Dan Palimano, my name is Harmon Sims.” A chubby hand extended over the loops of tummy flesh.     “Who the hell are you talking to?” Dan asked. “How did he know my name?”     “Dan Palimano? Are you kidding?” Sims said. “The Palimano’s are from the Trieste region of Italy, right?”     “How...this is crazy,” Dan reached to ring the stop bell but one of Sim’s stout paws stopped him with a light touch.     “Did you know the little town your family is from just outside of Trieste was never touched by the black plague?”     “What does that have to do with anything?” Dan turned back and rang for a stop.     “Why, everything!” Sims said. “And your mother’s family came from the Cobh region of Ireland. What’s special about Cobh? Significant levels of cadmium in the soil, measured just below carcinogenetic levels, a good mineral antibiotic that gets in the bones. You see?”     Sims maneuvered the empty ear toward Dan as he spoke. The bus swerved to the curb, a good twenty blocks from his stop but Dan didn’t care.     “I see my way out,” he said.     “But Dan, your genetic history makes you highly favorable.” Sims grabbed Dan’s arm harshly through the tweed. “You’ll receive one of your own!”     “What a Bluetooth? I win a Bluetooth? Just like yours?” Dan pulled his arm free but paused for Sims to clarify.     The pneumatic hiss of the doors told Dan he was free. He could escape Sims anytime.     “That’s right, Dan,” Sims said. “Just like mine.”     He turned then so Dan could see. A dark, solid object clung to the eclipsed ear but quickly Dan saw the similarity to a phone ended there. The thing perched on Sim’s right ear, digging a serpent’s tail into the eardrum for security. It bobbed its head rapidly like a telegraph striker making contact with a copper plate. Tap-tap-tap, a creature the size of a field mouse banged away at Sim’s skull, repeatedly plugging into shiny gray tissue beyond the hair, scalp, and skull it had already worn through. The little reptilian creature with a tuft of orange hair at its crown, banged away with a single, oversized tooth at Sim’s exposed brain. And the tooth was blue.

Author Bio     Norm Hendricks wrote since he figured out how to work a typewriter. The first short story he wrote; Descent, about a young woman who falls out of a damaged airplane 3,000 feet in the air, was published soon after.  Hendricks finished his first novel; Forever Indian Summer in 1996.  He has since written a second novel; The Forgotten Sleeper and a short story collection titled Monstrous. He is finishing up his third novel Kid Mysterious and recording audio versions of his works.  Norman Hendricks works as a high school English teacher in Kingston, New York where he teaches a senior elective in science fiction.  He holds a Master of English Literature degree from SUNY New Paltz where he studied under one of the world’s top Hemingway scholars. Taking time to raise young children, Hendricks had taken a break from marketing his short fiction.  Recently, Hendricks has resumed sending out his work to various short story markets and within two weeks of beginning this process, has had his short story Logging accepted by the publication 69 Flavors of Paranoia.

Excerpt from The Wooden Tongue Speaks, by Bogdan Tiganov, to be published Winter 2010 by Honest Publishing. An Interview Bogdan Tiganov     She called me on my mobile while I was at work. I answered, hoping.     “Come at six, Darina,” she said, “and wait outside. There’ll be others too.”     A whole bunch of people were there. All women. Nobody talked and there was no sense of organisation. I was worried somebody else who’d come after me would go in first and everyone shared my worry.     We waited outside a polished metal door near a dirty, unkempt, staircase and other people, people who probably lived close by, would pass and I tried not to look at them. I don’t mind standing, though, especially when it’s standing for what I want.     I looked at the other girls. Some looked a bit too old but no matter. Some were incredibly pretty and natural and some were overdressed and over-ready, perfumed, with coiffures, one of them had deep blue eye shadow as if to hypnotise. She’ll do well.     The longer I waited the more concerned I became. I had come straight from work and I was starting to feel tired. Waiting. I was thinking that it’s only Wednesday and I had to get through to the end of the week. And I also felt unprofessional and ridiculous. What was I doing there at close to seven in the evening outside a stranger’s door? I felt small in my suit. The girls who went in seemed to spend a great deal of time in there. They were retelling their life stories in great detail.     “Yes, of course,” one of them would say, “I’ve had private English lessons from Mr X.”     And the girl with the eye shadow would smile for the first time, her smile timed to perfection, showing her pearly whites.     I was definitely tired, leaning against the wall and hoping it would embrace me and protect me from the uncertainty in my mind. On the phone, she had the voice of a strong woman. She had a to-the-point voice, someone who knew what she wanted and how to get it. From what I knew, the agency was run by a husband and wife, the wife with considerable experience, and it sounded like she was in charge of communications. She got things moving. And when she opened the door to call me in I immediately saw that she looked the same way she talked. She had curly hair, from a perm no doubt, and a light shirt with a jacket on top which made her appear professional. But as I walked inside, and she shut the door behind me, I was not really taken aback by the place. I had expected something a bit, well, richer! I hadn’t expected an everyday place, with pictures of boats in the corridor and a shoe-rack! And her husband, or the man waiting in the living room, sitting at a small table, had no smile for me.     “Take your shoes off, Darina, and sit down,” she said, right behind me, slightly abrupt and I was starting to worry.     I slipped them off and sat in front of him while she came up in front and sat down opposite. He started it all off.     “I’m going to ask you a few questions in English. They will ask you something similar at the Embassy.”     The Embassy was this frightening place and the officers in there would mercilessly question me, trying to find out if I was worthy of entering their country, working there and taking care of their children.     “That’s fine,” I said, feeling anxious about my standard of English, although I had practiced at home.     “Why do you want to work with children?”     It took a minute for my mind to adjust to the sound of English coming from his mouth.     “I love children. You can learn so much from them. Their behaviour. I have also learnt a lot about them at university.”     “Good. Good.” His English was probably limited to the questions or saying yes, no or good.     “What experience have you got?”     “I have worked in voluntary organisations looking after disabled or disadvantaged children.” I had rehearsed this line and I was very happy to use it.     “Good.”     “What guarantee do we have that you will come back?”     “I want to come back and start a Masters and learning English will help me do that. I also have no family there,” and a Romanian without family is like a fish without water.     “Are you planning to get married there?”     I started laughing in a stupid, almost uncontrolled manner. “No!”     He raised his eyebrows as if telling me ‘Don’t do that at the Embassy.’     “Are you going there for money?”     “No.” This was probably the most ridiculous question. Everybody goes abroad for money and everybody knows.     “Good,” and again he had no smile for me, nothing to tell me whether I’d done well or whether I had failed completely.     “Now, what do you know about working as an au pair?”     “You help out the family with their children.”     “Yes, but it’s an easy job. Very easy. All you do is help out the mother, like you do at home I hope, you do a bit of cooking and cleaning and guess how long you work for?”     “Hmm?”     “About twenty-five hours a week! Can you believe that? Where would you find such an easy job here?”     “I’m more set on America-”     “America! Look, America is overrated. You don’t want to go there. The English pound is twice as powerful as the dollar. They have no holidays there and work like slaves. Be smart. Go to England.”     “I don’t know...two friends of mine went to America and, from what I’ve heard, they’re doing very well there.” They’ve moved on from being au pairs to working in their domains. In fact they’re doing so well they haven’t bothered to come back home.     “You need to be smart. Think. The pound is twice as powerful. Twice! Look it up in the exchange rates.” The man didn’t even bother to sound enthusiastic. He’d probably said the same thing a hundred times already. A thousand times.     “And in England if you work more you get more. Look...” and she bent over and as well as showing me half her tits she also showed me a gold chain.     “You see this chain?”     “Yes.”     “This eighteen carat gold chain was given to me as a present when I worked as an au pair in England.”     “Really?”     “Have a look at it. Eighteen carat gold. Beautiful!” She let me touch it and although it looked like any other gold chain seeing her smiley face somehow made it special.     “That’s very nice,” I said, smiling in response to it all.     “This is a great opportunity for you,” said her rather bored husband.     “You will never have an opportunity like this.”     “Yes.”     “You don’t know when the next opportunity will be.”     “I know. That’s why I’m here.”     “Right, and let me tell you, you won’t find an easier, better paid job than this one. We guarantee you three hundred English pounds a week! How does that sound? Fantastic, no? And you’ve never been to England but to me it was a wonderful experience. Everything’s clockwork there. Everybody’s polite, helpful, decent and people always have so much in the house you’ll never go hungry. Do you understand me? You can’t because you’ve never seen anything like it. A fridge, ceiling high, bursting full of anything you’ve ever dreamt of. You like ice cream? They’ve got every type imaginable and any time you want something you just go and help yourself. You don’t even have to ask them. Their home will be your home. And they take you on holiday with them. I went everywhere. Greece, Italy, New York. You will be like them and they will treat you like a member of their family. You probably won’t even miss your family will you?” she asked, that near-psychotic grin on her face.     “No, I probably won’t.”     “And, if you want more money, I mean how much money are you looking to earn anyway, you can easily put an advert in a local shop window and get easy babysitter or cleaning jobs in the evening. So easy you won’t believe they’re actually paying you, what ten, twelve pounds an hour for it. All you do is watch the child and make sure they don’t do anything stupid. That’s it. Or clean the kitchen table, like you do at home. That’s it.” I see her now, how she must’ve been licking her lips.     “You said you want to learn English. You can learn English there for free,” said the man.     “Your family will tell you what to do. You go to the nearest college and sign up. They’re very welcoming.” She was completing his words. His words and hers were automated responses. A persuasive jazz.     “You’ll love England. It’s perfect for you.” I didn’t believe the man. Not at all, but all this while I was thinking no matter what the truth is, no matter what happens, I need to do it, I need a proper paid job, I want to come back and buy a house, I need to learn English, it has to be done. I’d sold my car already.     “What if I don’t like it? What if something goes wrong?” Oh, what if? What if the world will end?     “Nothing can go wrong. Your English family have strong links with the agency in England. We are only a small representative branch. As you know, the large agency is based in London. You will have their phone number and address. If things don’t go to plan, touch wood, phone them and they’ll give you another family straight away.” Where are they? Where are you?     “Darina, don’t think too much. Go for it. You can’t lose. You will never have a chance like this one.”     “I know. Yes, I know.” And I did know. But I also knew that I was thirsty and sweaty and couldn’t make my thoughts connect.     “Have a look,” he said, pushing a paper in my direction. The paper had on it pretty much the same stuff they had told me. The opportunities. The reassurance that I wouldn’t be stuck with my family forever.     “Read it and sign. We’ve got a lot more to see today.” The lot were outside their door, waiting to sign like I had been. I turned the paper over. There was the usual on there, name, address, references, but apparently I was to sign for fifty pounds a week! I pointed this out to them.     “That’s for the Embassy. If they knew you were going for three hundred they wouldn’t let you go.”     “Don’t worry so much.” How could I not worry?     “Ok, I get it.” Using the pen that was conveniently placed near me, I began filling out the form.     “By the way,” she said while I was bent over tying my shoelaces, “it’s a good idea to buy your family traditional presents. They love hand-made traditional stuff. Dolls. Embroidery. Anything traditional. Maybe even musical...you know?”     “Oh, yeah,” I said, almost stumbling over, hot and realising that I’d given everything and had signed away my future. I had also given them half my money, what I’d worked for, what my brand new car had been worth. I only had enough money for a plane ticket back. And I couldn’t really see anything as I left, not even the girl who was putting on fresh lipstick as I walked towards the stairs.

Out in the Rain Ben Macnair I left my Old Red Wheelbarrow out in the Rain, William Carlos Williams wrote a poem about it, He gets Famous, I just got bitter, and a rusty Wheelbarrow.

Janet Kuypers reading the Ben Macnair poem Out in the Rain from the March 2011 issue (v092) of the lit mag Down in the Dirt magazine (which is also available as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book Down In It

Watch this YouTube video read live 03/15/11, live at the Café in Chicago 03/15/11

Dual Disillusionment Jennifer Geist     The priest glanced out the window again and sighed. The snow, which he usually cherished for its crystalline pureness, thickly coated the entire tarmac. Father Daniel Zelig was well aware, without looking up at the endless rows of “Delayed” signs, that he was spending his night in the airport. He didn’t have extra money to spend on a hotel as well as the flight. He wished he hadn’t agreed to go to a conference in Maine in the middle of winter; he could be at home reading Kant’s Metaphysics of Morals. He reminded himself that wishing wasn’t going to change anything, and shifted slightly in his seat. The red plastic clung to his legs, forcing himself to readjust every few minutes. The back of the seat was at an awkward angle which didn’t allow him to lean back to catch even a few minutes of sleep.     Father Daniel must have dozed off anyway, for he suddenly started noticing someone had occupied the seat next to him. He wondered why anyone, in a terminal full of chairs, would have chosen one directly next to him. Though it went against Daniel’s better nature, he was first tempted with the desire to ignore this stranger. The stranger, however, would not allow such a thing to happen. Father Daniel’s eyes were forced back open each time the man shook out his newspaper. It happened so often that Daniel was sure he could not be reading it, and was doing it just to spite him. He was almost ashamed for ignoring this unknown man, but Daniel was running on very little sleep and could feel his eyes becoming bloodshot. The newspaper shaking ceased for the time being; Daniel was drifting back towards an uncomfortable sleep, his foot propped up on the chair and his head resting on his knee. The stranger beside him began hacking, almost quietly at first, but growing in intensity, so much so that Daniel wondered if he should give him the Heimlich.     For the first time, Daniel raised his gaze to the stranger. His coughing immediately stopped; he turned toward Daniel and gave a small smirk. “Oh, you finally noticed me, did you, Father?” sneered the man. He had ragged, unkempt hair, brown, sunken-in eyes, an asymmetrical nose, and thin pink lips. He wore a thin brown corduroy coat and jeans, but he was barefoot. Barefoot, in the middle of the airport. Daniel almost shook his head.     He then realized what the man had just said. Daniel was not wearing his collar, nor was he wearing anything else that might lead the stranger to believe he was a priest. Even his small cross was tucked inside his steel-gray sweater.     “I’m sorry?” Daniel said. “Do I know you?”     “You claim to,” stated the stranger simply. “Some might even say you worship me.”     Daniel didn’t know what to think of this man. “What would make me worship you?”     “It’s funny that you don’t recognize what you’ve spent your whole life preaching about. I am God.”     The nonchalant manner in which he said this frightened Daniel. He did not know how to appease the insane. He thought that if perhaps he ignored the stranger’s claim, then he’d go away, or, at the very least, give up his ruse. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled.     “I know you can’t possibly believe me,” said the man who claimed to be God. “But I can prove it. I know every little detail about you. I know you were born January 6, that you had your first kiss at 17 with the pretty Grace Miller, that you decided to become a priest at age 19, though you didn’t enter seminary until you were 23.” He paused for a second, then added, “More importantly, I know you decided to become a priest after you met Salvatore and his mother.”     Daniel sputtered, flabbergasted. “What—I mean, who are you?” he finally choked out. He’d never told a single soul about Salvatore, but this man, this being, did not fit the idea that he’d had in mind for the God he’d been worshiping for most of his life.     God cackled. “I’ve already told you, now haven’t I? What you really want to know is how, or rather why, I am here, talking to a lowly priest like yourself, correct?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “At first, I was pleased with myself. I praised myself for making an intelligent being, one that could think for itself, one that could worship me—that’s all I ever really wanted, in the beginning. Affirmation. I’m like humans in that regard. Soon, I realized this experiment was a failure. Man, I see now, is inherently evil. You quickly became my least favorite creation—I liked roaches more than you!”     He paused for a moment, like he was trying to regain his composure. His face had gone a little red. Father Daniel, still speechless, waited for him to continue. “I became very disenchanted with the human race. I tried to wipe you out a few times, but you always managed to hold on. Stubborn bastards.” He gave an abrupt, humorless laugh. “After several centuries, I got tired of watching you fall from so far away. During the Dark Ages, I decided I wanted to see your misery first hand; I wanted to watch the human race kill itself off. I figured I wouldn’t have to wait too terribly long, with the way things were going. Burning people alive? How messed up are you? But you proved me wrong; you procreated faster than you died. I’ve lived on Earth since then, masquerading as a human, causing chaos and watching you fall further than even Lucifer himself. He tried to fight for humanity, you know. I would not have dissent in my ranks; he had to be removed.”     “I don’t quite understand,” said Daniel. “Why would you want to tell me about all this, if you really are God?”     A short laugh erupted from God’s thin lips. “And still you don’t believe me. No matter, you will. As for the reason why? Maybe I want to help the downfall of man. Enough prods in the right direction, maybe I can have this place cleared off in a few centuries. Maybe I’ll make a planet inhabited only by dolphins. They’re such happy creatures when not surrounded by humans.”     Daniel was quickly becoming angry at this man—at God himself! He’d devoted so many years of his life to preach that God was a kind, loving being, and welcoming souls to heaven, and he now seemed to be the exact opposite. For his senior trip, he went to Mexico. He could still remember it vividly. He was walking down the street to his hotel. A small child, face gaunt, hands dirty, darted out of an alleyway, away from his mother. “Por favor, puedo tener un poco de comida?” Daniel didn’t know much Spanish, but the child’s stomach growled just then, emphasizing his words. The child’s mother grabbed his wrist and dragged him back into the alleyway, scolding him for asking for help. “Salvatore, no necesitamos su ayuda,” she kept repeating, nervously glancing at Daniel. It was obvious they were living in that skinny stretch of alleyway. A dirty cardboard box and a ragged blanket seemed to form their bed. He knew that he couldn’t allow such poverty, such misery to go on. Daniel gave that mother all the money he had on him.     He went back to his hotel room and thought about what he could do to help people like Salvatore and his mother. He remembered attending a Catholic elementary school and learning about the priests. They took a vow of poverty and devoted much of their time preaching about living simply and giving to others. Daniel had been young at the time and had not really paid attention to the priests, but after seeing Salvatore, he wanted to become a priest too. Any of his money which he did not absolutely need would be given to the unfortunate, and he’d spend his time preaching and helping others. It seemed strange that a small boy in Mexico would become his savior, but he did not question it. His parents didn’t approve of his choice and urged him to consider a career in social work if nothing else, but now he felt a close connection to God. He understood what it was like to see misery and feel helpless to stop it. A few years later, he joined a seminary in hopes of learning all he could about God, and consequently, humanity.     “Man is not the cause of evil,” Daniel began, “you are.” God nodded as if instructing him to continue. “You allow evil to exist. You are the evil one, causing natural disasters simply because you are displeased with what you have created. You’re like a small child, frustrated with what you can no longer control, so you try to destroy it. In Isaiah you admit that you are the creator of evil: ‘I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things,’” he said, quoting a piece of Scripture that often gave him pause. Before, he had just tried to ignore God’s claim that he created evil, as it did not fit with his idea of what God should be.     “Ah yes. You priests like to use that one. That’s the result of a bad translation. It’s supposed to read, ‘I make peace, and create calamity.’ But how am I the evil one, when humans are the ones slaughtering each other? How am I evil, I ask, if you can’t even take care of your own kind?”     “What did you want us to do? What would have pleased you, oh almighty creator?” he scathed.     “You completely missed the point of life. You’ve built up entire systems based on money and material values. I didn’t mean for people to live in poverty because they don’t own magical pieces of paper saying they’re worth something,” said God.     Daniel argued back, “How can I believe in you anymore? How can I believe in a being that blames us for an error that was present when you created us?”     God smiled knowingly. “Don’t believe in me. The only hope mankind has for itself is to believe in each other.”     He rose and padded his bare feet back across the empty terminal, disappearing out of Daniel’s sight before he even turned the corner. He wasn’t sure what to do anymore, as no one in his church would believe he had met God, nor would they allow him to preach about what God truly is—an insolent child. Daniel looked out the window. The snow, once so beautiful, was now tainted and dirty.

Bio     Jennifer Geist is a creative writing major at Southeast Missouri State University. Her second love is photography, but her passion for writing is as fiery red as her hair.

In Prison Andy Heath     The hospitalization had been unbearable. For months I had languished under the care of doctors and nurses trying to save me from myself. I don’t know if they felt they succeeded, but after three months, they finally released me. On my last day there, my psychiatrist said to me, “One day you’re going to regret your sick behavior.” Even with his twisted criticism, he had tried to teach me that people loved me, but I never believed him. He had also taught me techniques I could use to avoid the thoughts that he said would lead to my downfall.     He was a moron. I never understood how a doctor could pass judgment on his patient. To think he had the audacity to accuse me of trying to destroy others and myself! My God, I was only 15. How terrible a person could I be? Maybe he didn’t like me because of my frequent encounters with the police. Maybe he just didn’t like me because I was gay. But I was living a life that I knew was right for me, a life that made sense to me even if it didn’t make sense to the medical community. I was living a life that gave me freedom. Why would they wish to deny me freedom?     A few days after my release, I found myself attending a new high school. I was glad that no one at this school knew me and figured they would just leave me alone. I finally decided that I just wanted to put my past behind me. I had never done anything to anyone. And even if I had, it’s not like anyone ever cared about me.     My psychiatrist had told me that my mother needed to discipline me, though she never did. Although she screamed at me all the time, she hadn’t even spanked me since my dad left us when I was seven. But even she had offered her bitter comments on all the “sick things” that I did. At first those comments had bothered me, but eventually I got beyond them. I was able to stop caring about those remarks or anything else. Regardless, I was going to give up the behavior that others had said was so destructive. I was going to be good.     Yet I couldn’t help but notice all the cute guys that attended my school, and I knew it would be easy to seduce any of them. Even many of the straight ones would succumb to my advances with the right amount of alcohol and sweet talking. There was nothing like fucking a virgin straight boy, but I knew that would not be enough. I wanted the high that I had had before, and these boys would not give me that. I wanted a worthy conquest.     But I was determined to fight that urge. I didn’t know how I could change, but I would try to be good for once. Maybe.     As the weeks passed, though, I noticed Mr. Wilk, my geometry teacher. His movements were soft and fluid; they mesmerized me. He was beautiful, a handsome man in his early 50’s with silver hair. And he was married, which made the challenge even more appealing.     I studied Mr. Wilk. I carefully listened to every word he said. Because I had decided to be good, I would do nothing more than plan this conquest. Perhaps if I played this familiar game in the realms of my mind, I would be satisfied enough. I would go over every detail as I had done before, only this time I would not carry out the plan.     One interesting observation I made about Mr. Wilk was that his wife frequently came to visit his classes. Sometimes she brought his lunch to him. The two were obviously in love, and I watched him talk to her near the door of the classroom when I was supposed to be studying some concept of geometry. Yet I could not help but notice how his hand brushed against hers whenever he sat at his desk and she stood over him. Yes, their hands always touched.     “Oh my husband is so sweet!” she said to us one day. “Even though he’s obsessed with geometry, he still writes me love letters. Can you imagine that after all these years? Love letters are so much more interesting than math!” Yes, Mr. Wilk was clearly a loving man; so loving, in fact, that I felt he might have enough love to give more than one person – physically, that is. And so my mind games continued.     The fantasies danced on the surface of my brain as I considered that perhaps Mr. Wilk lusted after me too. After all, I had noticed him staring at me in class. Every day Mr. Wilk’s eyes met mine, and we shared a connection, a spiritual bond that he didn’t share with anyone else in the class. I trembled thinking about him, nightly masturbating as I pictured him taking my body and owning it.     I passed the next several weeks without any spectacular interaction with Mr. Wilk, though my fantasies had begun to overwhelm me. I fought the urge to carry out my plan as I had done so many times in the past, but I remembered that my conquest would be nothing more than a fantasy this time.     Still, I fought my thoughts night and day. I racked my brain over the ways that I could deny myself this intense pleasure and spare Mr. Wilk and myself the misery of another of my twisted affairs. I could tell once again that my fantasies were getting out of control and that I had to take drastic measures to stop myself from the activities that I had enjoyed so much. After all, I still fed off the previous affairs I had engaged in, and perhaps those past affairs would be enough to get me through the rest of my life.     So I clung to the obvious concept that the purpose of a geometry class was to learn geometry. Therefore, I devoted myself to the study of geometry while in Mr. Wilk’s class, and I would give no further thought to this man outside the capacity of an instructor.     The next day I walked into his class, and his eyes met mine. Immediately I looked away and found my seat. Then I opened my book and poured myself into the study of circles, those shapes that go round and round, those shapes that have no end. As Mr. Wilk lectured to the class, I continued staring at my book. I looked at pictures of circles and read many dull details about them. In that class, I practiced the formulas for finding the circumference and the area. And I wondered, after pouring myself into the study of circles, if I could ever really understand them or even care about them.     Then the bell rang, and I stood with my classmates to collect my things. After the other students had left, I decided to be responsible in my pursuit of knowledge. I realized that I hadn’t understood anything I had read during that class and that I needed clarity. So I stopped by Mr. Wilk’s desk on my way out.     “Sir, can you explain this formula to me?” I asked. Mr. Wilk peered at me for a moment and then held out his hand to take my book. Positioning his glasses on his face, he studied what I had been reading. “We haven’t even covered this yet,” he said. “You must really like geometry.” He looked at me and smiled. His face glowed. It radiated with beauty.     “Yes Sir,” I said. “I’ve always liked it.”     “Come here,” he said, “and let me show you how this works.” I walked over to him and listened, but I don’t remember anything he said to me as he explained this complicated formula to arrive at a conclusion that I couldn’t imagine would ever matter. But as I stood there with my hands on his desk, he looked at me, and his hand brushed against mine. I gasped.     “Does that answer your question?” he asked.     “Yes Sir,” I replied as I grabbed the book and ran out of the room. It was at that moment that I realized fantasy would be insufficient.     After that encounter, I stayed after class every day for a few minutes with Mr. Wilk and listened to him explain the complex concepts of geometry. I don’t remember a single thing from those discussions except for the passion he showed not only for the subject matter but also for its explanation. He loved geometry, and he loved teaching. It was those passions that captivated me.     “I have some yard work that I need done since the weather’s been warming up,” he said to me. “I don’t want to do it this weekend because my wife is out of town and I can actually enjoy being inside for a change.” He laughed. “If you’d like to earn some extra money,” he continued, “you’re welcome to come do the work for me.”     “Yes Sir,” I said immediately. “I’ll be there this weekend.” When I went home that evening and told my mother that I planned to do some yard work for Mr. Wilk, she said, “This is crazy! You need to stop!” Yes, I needed to stop, and I would try. But it seemed there was no way to keep myself from these conquests. They fed me and consumed me at the same time. The following Saturday morning I got dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and made my way to Mr. Wilk’s house. It was small but clean, and from the looks of the place I figured all he would need me to do was mow the lawn. How long could that possibly take? Perhaps I could just mow the lawn and be on my way. After knocking on the door, Mr. Wilk invited me in.     “The lawn mower is in the garage. Do you need anything to drink before you get started?” he asked.     “Yes please.”     He prepared a small glass of ice water for me, and I gulped it down as I viewed my surroundings. While the outside of the house had been neat, the inside was cluttered with papers throughout.     “The place is a bit of a mess,” he said.  “I do a lot of writing, as you can see.” He walked over to a stack of papers and held them up. He stared at me intently. “These are very special. Perhaps I’ll show them to you some day.” The last thing I need to see is some treatise on geometry or pedagogy, I thought to myself. So I went outside and started the mower. As I pushed the thing over the tall grass, I quickly broke a sweat. From time to time, I looked back at the house and noticed Mr. Wilk staring out the window at me, and since it was very hot, I took off my shirt. I pressed on with my work, my body glistening with sweat. I frequently wiped my brow, and I wished I had drunk more water. Perhaps I could get some more. After all, he surely knew how hot I was, as he continued staring at me from the window. I’m not going to do this, I said to myself. I swear to God I’m not going to do this. I’m just getting some water. I walked back to the house, and Mr. Wilk was waiting for me.     “Awfully hot out there,” he said with a warm smile.     “Yeah.” “More water?”     “Please.”     He got another glass of water and handed it to me. As he did so, his hand brushed against mine. I looked up at him, and he stared deep into my eyes. My God, why had his strong, beautiful hand brushed against mine? “Shall I show you the house?” he asked.     “Sure.”     I followed him through and listened to him banter about pieces of art or sculpture that he had collected over the years. He was clearly proud of his collection, but I don’t remember anything much about it really. When we got to the bedroom, he stood in front of me and put his hands on my shoulders. “No one is ever interested in geometry. You’re very special,” he told me. Again, we stared for what seemed like years. I felt his hot hands on my shoulders, and my breath became short and quick.     I can’t do this, I thought. I’ve been taught not to. “Are you okay? You look tired,” he said.     “Yeah, I guess I’m just a little dizzy. Let’s go in your bedroom, and maybe it will be more comfortable in there.”     “Yes, I think it will,” he said. I started to follow him, and then I stopped. I had to think of some way to stop myself, but at that point I didn’t know if I could.     “I need to make a quick call,” I said. “Do you mind? It’ll only be a minute.” “Of course you can,” Mr. Wilk replied. “Just go back downstairs into the kitchen, and you can use the phone there undisturbed.”     “Thank you Sir,” I replied turning and walking away from him. How could I have done this yet again? Now there was no turning back. I walked into the kitchen and stood staring at the phone. For several minutes I considered simply walking back upstairs and doing what I knew Mr. Wilk expected of me, what so many others had expected of me before. I picked up the receiver and dialed. Then I hung up and went back upstairs.     Mr. Wilk was lying on the bed staring at me like a ravenous demon. I started to unbutton my shorts, and a moment later I stood naked before him. He stood up in front of me and helped me onto the bed.     “You just don’t know how special you are,” he said, his hot breath on my neck.     He grabbed me and pushed me further onto the bed, exciting me just as my fantasies had foretold. The sex didn’t last very long. Perhaps Mr. Wilk was too excited by the beauty of my youth, but I didn’t mind. I was content at having conquered yet another man. And it would only be a short time to my victory.     “You have no idea what you’ve done for me,” he said as I stared back at him with big, innocent eyes. Perhaps we would have time for another go before he had to leave. I didn’t know how long that would be. But I didn’t have to wait too long. A loud and powerful knock came at the door.     “What was that?” he said as he quickly threw on some clothes. “Wait right here,” he said before running downstairs. I listened from the bedroom as I lay naked on the bed. Not even a minute had passed before the officers walked into the room and found me. Soon, they slapped a pair of handcuffs on Mr. Wilk and led him away. But before they did, he had one solitary moment to look back at me, the betrayal burning in his eyes.     I smiled. My soul was cold.     The officers walked around for a moment and routinely looked through some of his things while others took my name and address. “He must have really liked you,” said an officer approaching me with the same pile of papers Mr. Wilk had promised to show me. “Looks like he wrote you a lot of love letters. Did he ever give you any of these?”     I gasped. “Love letters?” I asked.     “That’s right,” the officer said eying me with suspicion.     “No Sir,” I replied, a single tear forming in my eye. Love letters! How dare he! How dare he view me with affection rather than cruel animal lust! No one had ever done that. The men that were in prison because of me had never cared about me before.  Why did this one? Why in the name of God? Why?

Family Dinner Heather Burke Hunger sets in. A voice calls from the kitchen. Dog-tired footsteps drag across the soiled oak beams. The soft light flickers across the discolored paneling, a relic of better times. Greeted by four sets of eyes anxiously pleading. Faces etched with uncertainty. Cracked, dirty fingernails, dressed in magenta, flip wearily through an anthology of final notices. The tar-stained fingertips quickly brush over Evic - Eyes dart back to the empty table settings. Feet nervously swish back and forth, catching on a broken tile. She stands, magenta nails comb through bleached, frail hair. Dress straightens, her talents on display. Stick figures and ABCs fall to the floor as the refrigerator door swings open. Ketchup packets scatter across the faded yellow dinette. A bowl of noodles joins them, spinning and sputtering like a top. Their eyes meet, reassuringly. The oak frame shakes, bolted and secured. Footsteps fade down the cinderblock hall. Silence hangs in the air. By closing time the rent will be paid.

Six Questions John Sheirer January 7, 1971     “Am I going to have to pull this car over?”     The shiver Jack felt came half from the winter air rushing in through the car’s gaping rear window and half from the tone he recognized in his mother’s gravelly voice. Jack’s two older sister beside him in the back seat huddled deeper into her winter coat and stared at the front seat head rests a foot from their faces, familiar with this repeated drama since Jack had learned to talk a decade ago.     “I’d rather freeze than choke,” Jack said.     “Bob, please talk to him,” his mother implored.     Jack’s father turned from the driver’s seat to look at him. His father’s cigarette clung to his lower lip with dried spit glue, dangling and disregarding gravity.     “Can’t you just ignore it, Jack? It’s just a little smoke,” Jack’s father said, turning his gaze back to the highway as tiny bits of ash fell onto the shoulder of his thick canvas jacket. He brushed the ashes away, leaving a thin charcoal streak.     Everyone hunched into themselves for a few seconds before Jack’s mother broke the silence.     “I can’t even enjoy a simple cigarette without you making a big production out of things,” she said, crushing hers out in the ashtray. Jack’s father cracked his window and tossed his out.     “Are you happy now?” Jack’s sister asked through chattering teeth.     “Not really,” Jack answered as he rolled up his window. September 22, 1979     “Why not her?”     Gary pointed to a slender brunette three tables away in the crowed cafeteria. Even three tables away, Jack knew who he meant.     Her name was Heather. Jack only knew that because a guy named Jerry in Jack’s biology class told him her name and said that she told him she thought Jack was “cute.” Jerry and Heather went to the same high school.     Jack had only been in college for two weeks, and he hadn’t really met any girls yet. He hadn’t really been trying. After going to a tiny high school where he had been labeled “homely” since first grade, it was hard to get used to being at a college where girls might think he was “cute.”     Heather and some of her friends got up to leave. Jack liked the way they looked in their sorority sweat pants, a Greek letter stitched onto each half of their rear ends. Jack liked watching the Greek letters move when Heather walked toward the doors. But he didn’t like the ways she reached for the bulge in the side pocket of her sweat pants when she and her friends reached the cafeteria door. He didn’t like the way she drew a wrinkled, shiny package to her mouth.     “Why not?” Gary asked again.     “She’s a junior,” Jack replied. “She wouldn’t be interested in me.” June 18, 1989     “Is this your grandson?”     The nurse massaged her fingertips into the blooming bruises at the crook of Jack’s mother’s arm. “I’m sure we can find another vein here somewhere,” she said.     Jack leaned forward and kissed his mother’s cheek. She smiled and readjusted the silk scarf he had given her yesterday to cover her bald head. She didn’t like the wig that the hospital had supplied.     “My son,” Jack’s mother croaked. “My youngest. My baby.”     “Oh,” said the nurse.     Jack’s mother glanced up at the television suspended from the wall near the ceiling. The sound was turned off. A game show was in progress, and someone had just lost a large sum of money that was never really his anyway.     “Here we go,” the nurse said, sliding the new IV needle into Jack’s mother’s arm. February 14, 2000     “Smoking or non-smoking?”     The waitress looked familiar, but Jack couldn’t tell where he had seen her. She was smiling at him and completely ignoring Amy. Their third date happened to fall on Valentine’s Day. The sitter was with Amy’s daughter Linda at home, and they had the whole evening ahead of them.     Before Jack could speak, Amy waved the rose Jack had given earlier in the evening through the waitress’s line of vision. She blinked and turned her head.     “Smoking,” Amy said. June 4, 2003     “Does my mom smoke?”     Linda usually sounded confident, so Jack was surprised at how small her voice sounded in the front seat of his car. In the three years he had been dating Linda’s mother, she had never sounded so small. It was just the two of them, gliding along through the nighttime rain on the way home from her violin lesson. The wipers ticked three times before Jack could respond.     “What makes you ask that?” He glanced over and saw Linda looking directly at him. Even in the poor light, he could see the intensity in her gaze that he couldn’t hear in the voice.     “Well,” she said, not taking her eyes from his face, “I’ve been wondering for a long time. I keep finding used-up cigarettes in the toilet and the trash can. I’m not looking for them or anything, but they’re hard to miss. And sometimes her bedroom smells like ashes.”     Involuntarily, Jack took a sniff. Amy had borrowed his car last week while he took hers in to have the brakes serviced. Jack glanced at the ashtray and wondered what surprises it contained.     “Plus, my dad says she does lots of bad things,” Linda continued. “But I’m never sure if I should believe him.” June 8, 2003     “What did you tell her?”     Amy leaned forward from her hiding place behind Jack and peered over his shoulder toward the lake. Linda splashed with two of her friends in the shallows just beyond the edge of the beach. Suddenly the three of them sprinted out into the water until it reached their thighs. They dove and began swimming toward the dock with the diving board near the center of the lake. Linda was the best swimmer of the three.     Amy relaxed behind Jack and took a long draw on her cigarette, now that Linda could not possibly see her. He could hear the hot crackling and feel the ember’s heat near his bare shoulder as she inhaled. He leaned forward.     “I told her how much it bothered me that my parents smoked when I was a kid,” Jack said to Amy, not turning to look at her. “I told her that sometimes people have a very hard time quitting, even when they really want to.”     Amy ground her cigarette into the beach and covered the butt with a few handfuls of sand.     “You could have just told her that I didn’t smoke,” Amy said.     Linda was already on the diving board when her slower-swimming friends reached the dock and scampered up the ladder to join her.     “That wouldn’t have been true,” Jack said.     Linda ran down the diving board and let out a long squeal as she flung herself into a cannon-ball that showered her friends with lake water.     “I wish you had told her that ...” Amy started but didn’t finish her thought. “I wish I didn’t ...” she began again, and then she rose from the blanket and walked toward the car.

image by John Sheirer

[Untitled: nouns and unnouns] Edward Wells II     That bird that just jumped from the side of the building rising for a moment with a gentle arc like some fucked-up angel dust feign then beginning to move up and forward less and less then downward more and more, beginning to flap its wings, that angel dust feigns do not have, and flying away- What did it carry away?     You sway minutely with a breeze, gently shuffle just half a stride away from my side. “We used to have something.” you say, and I can’t quite grasp where this is going.     “Yes.” I speak the word quietly. “Did you see what that bird was carrying?” I half- point at the dark blot floating toward the rooftop of the old cinema on the next block that has been undergoing renovation.     “No.” you say back. “Now, we are constantly giving to each other.” You look at me, for a moment the wind blows your hair out over the edge of the roof, “We just give and give and it isn’t even to get what we want now.”     The wind has subsided and I pat the shoulder of your blue-jean jacket as I step past you toward the center of the roof and toward the chairs by the table. You turn, looking at me. The heel of your left shoe grits in the dust and debris covers the roof. You pull your closed hands up toward your sternum, the wind again. I sit down and consider smoking a small cigar that Juan gave to me on Thursday. You walk to the table then pick up your cigarettes. “Do you want a blow-job?” you hold the cigarette just in front of your lips picking up the lighter.     “No.” I look at your body and think of the warmth that is always found between your thighs. You light your cigarette, inhaling deeply. “I would like to go up to El Cerrito.” I cross my legs at the hips. It pushes my scrotum and penis over to the left. You spin looking in the direction of El Cerrito. “I don’t want to today.” You blow smoke out looking straight up into the sky. “Okay. I’ll wait until tomorrow, but I think I’ll go with or without you.” You continue to stand there and I take a sip of jugo. “Good. You should. I have some other things to do if I don’t want to go to El Cerrito.” “Okay.”     I wake up in the warmth of the small rooftop room. You are laying on my right arm and I choose not to move. The sunlight is only beginning to appear. It has not begun to warm the earth or the buildings. Your hair is draped over your shoulder, hanging in front of you. Your back is arched, pressing your buttocks against me firmly. I smile and kiss the bony wing of your shoulder-blade. I close my eyes and lay still.     “Do you still want to go to El Cerrito?” I open my eyes and You are standing outside, speaking to me through the open window. “Yes.” You grab the bars on the window, squeezing lightly. “Then you better get up. Because I’m leaving soon.” You turn, stepping away from the window. I sit up and smell your cigarette. I look at the place in bed where you had been and think of yesterday. Then I think of Juan.     I begin to dress. I turn my head toward the window and raise my voice, “Do you think Juan might want to come?” I continue to dress.     You approach the window, grasp the bars again with two empty hands. “Yes. But I don’t want to invite him.” I stop and look at you. Your hair has been tousled mostly to one side by the wind. My brow begins to move slightly. You smile thinly, broadly.     We enter the gate at El Cerrito, stand there listening. “You will become a monk.” I look at you. You begin walking again and I move alongside you. We reach the crest and look at the church, at the ruins of the pyramid. “Why did they do that?” I point to the cement that holds rocks together lining the tiers of the pyramid. “What were they thinking?” You begin to walk, “They weren’t thinking.” You move toward the church and I walk a step behind you. “It’s still a holy place though.” You look up at the tower of the church, stop walking, “They built a new kinda thing for a new kinda thing.” I stop to steps behind you and turn to look at El Cerrito.

Broads and Bullets T.G. Schoenberg     Stepping outside, Todd noticed that the rain had finally stopped. Everything was glossy now, from the grass and the tree leaves to the puddles in the street that mirrored the street lights looming above them. The theater was not a far walk from Mary’s apartment, so the two of them did not leave until fifteen minutes before the show. When they reached the sidewalk, Todd took hold of Mary’s hand. Her perfect mouth curled into a small smile.      “So... when do you think we’ll get married?”     “What?”     “Oh come on!” She gave him an exasperated look. “We’ve been dating for two and a half years, our families get along great, and with my brains and your good looks our kids would be exceptional!” Todd’s raised his eyebrows slowly. “How about the fact that we love each other, that might be a reason don’t you think?”     “Well of course, that too, but-”     “-And besides, if anything, I have the brains and the looks.”     She opened her mouth, feigning shock, and slugged him on the arm.     “So what does that leave me then?”     “Well...” he said looking her over, “you’re nice, I guess.”     Mary reared back for another swing but Todd caught her hand laughing and pulled her in for a hug.     “I’ll tell you what, I have one year left at Princeton, right? What if we tie the knot in the summer, after graduation?”     Her face lit up.     “We can use my father’s lake house and have the ceremony right on the lake!”     “Given this some thought, have you? Wait, which lake house?”     “The one in Vermont.”     “Okay, I like that one better, it’s a deal.”     The rest of the way the two were lost in their own thoughts about the future, until they reached the ticket booth at the nickelodeon. Tonight they were seeing The Jazz Singer. ***     The next day Todd went over to his best friend’s house. Saturdays with Pete were always the same: a few rounds of golf at his father’s country club, then dinner with Pete’s family at their house, followed by a night out on the town. On this particular Saturday, Pete’s parents were on vacation in Europe, so Todd and Pete had the entire estate to themselves.     They were sitting outside on the deck when their dinners were brought in by the help. Their trays had barely touched the table before Pete and Todd began to stab at their food hungrily. “So Mary was talking about marriage last night”, Todd began.     “What?” Pete looked up, cheeks filled like two balloons, with juice from his steak running slowly down his chin like a red waterfall.     “Marriage,” Todd repeated, “Mary wanted to know when I was going to marry her.” Pete snorted.     “Ha, Mary... marry. Get it?”     “I’m trying to have a conversation here.”     “Alright I’m sorry. Look, it’s summer, alright? No one should have to be thinking about stuff like this. Let’s just get it off of your mind. I’ll tell you what, let’s call Frankie and Jimmy and go downtown tonight.”     “I don’t know...”     “My treat?”     “Done.”     They smiled and clinked their glasses before finishing them off. ***     The taxi let them out at The Elephant. Walking in together, they pushed through the front door to find a dimly lit, but very inviting main room, filled with beautiful women, powerful men, and a live band. Walking up to the bar Todd slapped the counter with his palm. “Four whiskeys.”     “Twenty dollars”, the bartender said, producing four glasses from under the bar.     Todd slid a twenty across the counter coolly. “Twenty bucks?! Fuck Prohibition man!” Frankie shouted. “What do you care?” Pete asked, “It’s not your money.” “Excuse me, trust fund baby.” “Fuck you man.” The four circled up, raised their glasses, and downed them in a single swallow. ***     Stumbling out the door, Todd, Frankie, Jimmy, and Pete were laughing uncontrollably. All four of them had just been kicked out for starting a fight, despite the fact that none of them even threw a punch. Jimmy had been flirting with a blonde twenty-something who ended up being a Red Sox outfielder’s girlfriend. Words were exchanged and eventually her boyfriend threw a bottle at Jimmy, who promptly ducked out of the way. The bottle smashed into the back of the person’s head behind Jimmy, effectively splitting open his head and knocking him to the floor. “Apparently,” Jimmy slurred, “somebody’s in the wrong line of work!” A brawl ensued, but the four of them managed to leave The Elephant unscathed.     Being from a different town, Frankie and Jimmy said goodnight and parted ways in search of a ride home. Once they had left, Todd waved down a cab and helped Pete inside. Neither of them was even close to sober, but at least Todd still had his wits about him. Pete was in his usual form that night, struggling to keep his eyes open and stumbling everywhere. Once inside the cab, Todd gave the driver his address and they sped off into the night.     No more than a mile away, Pete, who was previously leaning against the window, sat up and tapped Todd on the shoulder. Mumbling incoherently, he slumped down in his seat some more. Todd shook him awake to try and get him to speak clearly. “What’d you say Pete?” Pete opened his mouth, but his body decided that showing Todd what he saying would be more effective. He leaned over and became a human fire hose, spewing bile all over the back of the taxi’s driver and passenger seats.     The cab came to a screeching halt. “GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY CAB!!” Laughing, Todd helped Pete out of the car. They were less than a mile from the bar, and they had a long walk home ahead of them. “Come on”, Todd said, holding Pete up as they walked, “I know a shortcut home.”     After a couple of blocks, however, they were lost. They walked past an alley and Todd thought he saw a street that he recognized at the other end of it. “Come on Pete,” he said, changing their course again. Pete could now stand on his own at least.     The alley was dark, and about a hundred yards long. Kicking through garbage as he walked, Todd noticed a pair of dumpsters that lined either side of the alley about halfway down. He turned to look at Pete, who had tripped, to make sure he was okay. Facing forward again, he stopped immediately.     Five feet in front of them was a homeless man, about forty, with shoulder length mangy hair, a five o’clock shadow, and a grey duster thrown over a skinny frame. He had no shoes and holes in his pants. He also had a gun. He was up to their shoulders, but he seemed much taller with the black revolver extended towards them. “Gimme your money!!” he yelled, “NOW!!”     Pete reached into his pocket and slowly walked towards the man. “Oookay now, just take it easy.” “Pete,” Todd warned, “come on man, don’t.” Before he could finish, Pete was wrestling for the gun, writhing back and forth with the bum until they both fell to the ground.     Todd stood there, frozen, as the gun’s blast echoed in his ears. The shock was short lived, however, and before he knew it he was on top of the bum, thrashing wildly and throwing his fists as hard as he could. Blinded by rage, he hit the man square in the face- again, and again, and again. He was beginning to tire, when he spotted the gun.     He rolled off the bum and snatched the revolver. “GET UP!!” His voice boomed. “GET THE FUCK UP YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!” The bum slowly got to his knees and sat up. His face looked like someone had thrown a bucket of ketchup on it. Blood seeped out of deep cuts under his eyes, on his lips, and out of his nose, which was clearly broken. “YOU WANNA LIVE??” The bum nodded whimpering. “WHAT’S THAT??” “Y-yes”, he stammered. “Well too bad.” The trigger gave way to Todd’s finger and the homeless man on his knees became the lifeless man on his back.     Todd ran over to Pete, whose eyes were closed. The rest of his face was gone. Todd could barely catch his breath and he began to cry as got to his feet. Hearing a rustle behind him, he saw a couple who had stopped and was peering into the alley. The looks on their faces told Todd that they knew what had just happened. He left Pete and sprinted out of the alley. ***     By the time he reached Mary’s door, Todd’s legs and lungs were completely numb. He knocked urgently on the door for three minutes, each knock sending sharp waves of pain through his bloody knuckles and down his arm. Finally, he saw through the window that Mary was coming down. She turned the knob and opened the door to her boyfriend drunk, bleeding, and crying. “Wha-“     “Pete’s dead.”     Mary nearly fainted right there. “What? What do you mean?”     “We were walking home and a bum came out, Pete wrestled with him, and the fucking low life shot him!”     “Where is Pete? You left him there?”     “Well yeah, I had to get out of there.”     Scared, Mary asked a question she hoped she wouldn’t get an answer to: “Why?”     “’Cause that piece of shit killed Pete... So I killed him.”     Reeling, Mary ran to the couch to sit down. Now she could barely breathe. “Somebody saw me Mary, somebody saw me do it.” She stared off at the floor in shock. “Are you hearing me? We have to get out of here, we have to go!”     “Go? Go where? What do you mean?”     “What do I mean?! I mean we gotta run for it, or my ass is going to jail!”     “W-Well where are we gonna go?”     “Mexico.”     “Mexico??”     “Yeah, I got it all figured out, we’ll take a train down to the border, where I can empty my trust fund, then we’ll take the money, cross the border, get married and live on the beach.”     “But... what about our friends, our family, Princeton?”     “Look Mary when life hands you lemons-“     “When life hands you lemons?? Are you fucking kidding me?? You were the one who went and killed a guy, and then-“     “Alright! Alright, I know, I fucked up, but look, we gotta go. Now.”     Mary looked worried. After a minute in silence, she looked up at Todd. “Okay.” ***     It was 6:30, Mary was ten minutes late. The plan was to get to the station at 6:20 and be on the way to Laredo by 6:45. Todd checked his watch again, and saw as a cab pulled up to the station. Relieved, he ran over to greet her. “There you are, I was getting worried. Are you okay?” Mary looked down. “Just feeling a little ill, that’s all.” Todd shrugged it off, paid the driver, and grabbed her bags.     Together, they walked to the ticket window. “Hang on,” Mary said, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” “Alright, but make it quick.” She nodded and made her way over to the women’s restroom, which stood about thirty yards from the window. Looking around, Todd scanned a nearly empty train station. A mother was waiting with her son, who was fast asleep in her lap. Her trunk rested under her chair. To his right, Todd saw a man in a suit reading the paper. At least it looked like he was reading the paper. To Todd, it seemed more like he was looking over the top of the paper, straight at him. He looked away and craned his neck out towards the tracks to see if the train was ready to take off. Looking back, he saw that the man was folding up his paper, looking directly at him. It was about this time that Todd realized that Mary had been gone a little long.     He turned his gaze to the bathroom and took one step towards it. In an instant, the man threw the paper down and rose to his feet. Todd whirled around. Fifteen police officers now had him surrounded, guns drawn. One of them yelled to get down and put his hands in the air. Todd thought about running. He thought about busting through the circle of badges and heading for freedom on foot. He knew they would gun him down in a second. Looking past the officer who had yelled, Todd saw Mary poke out of the bathroom, her cheeks wet and sticky with tears.     Waves of realization washed over Todd like lava and he fell to his knees involuntarily. She had turned him in. His best friend was dead, and now the woman he loved was turning him in for murder. Todd put his hands behind his head. The cold steel of the handcuffs cut deep into his wrists, but he didn’t feel a thing- he was completely numb.     As the officers led him to the car, Todd looked over his shoulder at Mary. She was being consoled by one of the officers. Todd ducked as the policeman helped him into the backseat of the car. He didn’t even struggle. Nothing mattered anymore. Even his father couldn’t bail him out of this one, Todd was going away for a long time. He leaned his head on the window as the car drove away, bawling his eyes out.

,mh2>The Sounds of Sushant Lok Tanuj Solanki     Immeasurable sounds, perhaps non-existent sounds, perhaps a delusion, perhaps a delusion magnified by the heat of the soporific afternoon, hit the Bangladeshi maid. This happened while she was walking to the house that lay right across the street to that of the couple’s. To her, the sounds belonged to a class of sexual ecstasy, an ecstasy that had visited her hut in Bangladesh but had yet not struck her thatch in India. As a first reaction, she found herself smiling. But her second thought, one that arose from an ineffable moralistic perspective, effaced the smile and filled her whole body with consternation. Inside her employer’s house, she jostled with herself for more than an hour before coming up with the exact expression to report what she had witnessed. It wasn’t easy: Hindi is foreign to an illiterate Bangladeshi, and she had never learnt the Hindi for such things. *     The neighborhood was a mesh of six meter broad streets with horribly built twin storey houses on either side, houses that were a blatant subversion of municipal norms as well as engineering and architectural common-sense. The inhabitant were worse, the kind that would tamper their meters while cursing the countryside farmers of looting electricity, or throw their garbage from first floor while blaming the rag-picker below of being lazy and untidy. There were fat housewives used to the leisure of leaving everything to the care of super-cheap maids, and there were maids completely taken by the bliss of daydreaming.     One month back, after four months of travel across the country, a young couple rented the ground floor of a shoddy house in this neighborhood. The couple was queer: the man Indian, the woman French. They had met in their last year of management education in Ahmedabad and dithered about each other initially, knowing well their rational life-streams that had no evident points of intersection. However, love grew recklessly, uncontrollably, and they decided, in a fugue, to shun their putative corporate paths and settle for a life scant in resources but bountiful in travel and love and love-making. Naturally, their excessive dream ran out of money. And after months of Diu, and Ujjain, and Khajuraho, and Orchcha, and Lucknow, and Nainital, and what not, they landed up in dusty Gurgaon in search of some vocation.  After a few days of unemployment, the woman got in touch with the handful of French expatriate families in South Delhi and grew comfortable in the role of a well-paid tutor. The man tried to do the same with Indian families but with little success on the well-paid part. Their love, intense and ever-growing, made this inequality meaningless. The man concentrated, instead, on improving his writing, a hobby that had turned into a passion during the travels. Each evening, after toiling with French kids for hours, the woman would find her inbox flooded with poems of all kinds, of all themes, of love, of lost love, of mythology, of desire, of humor, of sadness, of anything, of everything. They would read the poems together in the night and make passionate love after.     From the first day, the couple was an oddity to every house on the street. A white woman’s pairing with an Indian was driving everyone to a mild paranoia. The elderly were displeased with the perverse cultural impact this couple could have on the youth of the residency. Middle aged men were irritated upon sighting the beautiful woman because it often led to the discovery of a long-lost lust within their midriffs; the fat house-wives fumed with a silent apprehension of the same. Most young men were full of jealousy for the man; others were in a muted awe, discussing secretly the machinations of landing such a ‘catch’. The young women had more complex emotions running through them: they were perturbed by the freedom of the French woman— a freedom that let her kiss the man on the street, and a freedom that let her be so palpably in love—and chafed by the indifference of the man, by his total neglect of their existence. Even the children, used to playing their cricket and football on the street, would stop their fights, banter, or other usual frolic upon sighting the couple, as if something unjust had entered their dominion. *     The denizens of Sushant Lok, Phase 1, Gurgaon, hold a monthly meeting to discuss the status of cleanliness, discipline and general civility in the residency. In usual times, this meeting is a set-up for forty-something men and women to munch on some munchies and take a cup or two of tea. On that day, the meeting was belligerent. Firstly, the attendance was surprisingly high. The meeting was attended by not only the middle aged house owners but also the young sons and daughters and the old grandpas and grandmas. The hall brimmed with people, to an extent that a miasma of human breadth created a suffocating environment.     Secondly, the congregation was loud, almost competitive in its urge for sharing its plight with the decision-making authority. It began with the Bangladeshi maid (she was brought along by her employer) giving a shied-up description of things in her staccato Hindi. She was followed— or rather interrupted, once the content of her speech was evident— by residents from houses on the street behind. Other close neighbors also provided other stories. One lady, mother of a teenage son— growing hysterical with each breadth, as if she had come across a hideous abomination most recently— reported how the sounds almost always coincided with her son’s afternoon study time, making it extremely difficult for him to concentrate. That the couple’s house was almost 50 meters away from that of this lady, and that travel of sound through such distances was improbable, was whispered in some corners of the hall, but the whispers ended with the suggestion that this was nothing but a proof of the extremely loud nature the activity. The lady carried on, claiming that the sounds were a debilitating influence on her son, considering his tender age. And although she didn’t mention it, she seemed to emanate an unshakeable belief that the young couple had only one objective in doing whatever they were doing— to spoil her child’s academic record.     Thirdly, there were no snacks to munch on; so throughout the tenure of the meeting the harangues about the inappropriate behavior of the inter-racial couple persevered without any divertissement.     Finally, the decision-making authority, whoever it was, decided that delivering a mild rebuke to the young couple would not belie any tenets of jurisprudence. The responsibility for the cat-belling was awarded to the employers of the Bangladeshi maid, who were free to use her services in the act. It was also decided that the rebuke be handed over at the exact moment of the young couple making the disconcerting sounds, so that irrefutable evidence could be gathered and punishment meted out at the same time. When argued against, the decision-making authority defended its rather lenient treatment of the wrong-doings of the young couple by pointing out the alien-ness of the white girl and her understandable neglect of the codes of Indian society. Thereafter, the meeting became a parliament of discussions. Examples of the superiority of Indian culture over libidinous Western influence began to be exchanged obstreperously. The congregation grew totally immersed in the topic of the day. In the end, it took a decent exertion on the hosts’ part to make everyone understand that it was proper to leave the premises of the hall after the scheduled time had been extended by two hours. *     The maid’s monthly salary was increased by 200 rupees, with the addition of one extra responsibility. She had to look out for timing most appropriate for the delivery of the rebuke. In other words, she had to confirm the activity, convey it to her employer, accompany her in knocking on the criminals’ door and interfere in their process and convey the neighborhood’s mindshare on the nuisance that they had caused. She complained of the meager raise. But the employer’s retort was undeniable:     “You’ll have pleasure doing it. It’s like going on a pilgrimage”. *     They have gone into some sort of asceticism, the maid imagined. There were no sounds. There were noises, yes, but only ones that correspond to melancholic household activity, nothing exciting nothing profane. Two weeks passed in total lull, and it perturbed the maid that the young man and woman were not engaging. They had also become less outgoing, for she couldn’t remember a single instance of them stepping outside their house in these two weeks, certainly not during her duty hours in the opposite house. Sensing the matter to be something serious, she summoned the courage to visit the young couple, but for what exact purpose she was herself unaware. Perhaps she wanted to see if there was something grave within the household, some injury or illness that was making love-making unviable, or some malediction that had rendered it soundless, or some quarrel that had made it temporarily impossible. Or perhaps, as was more plausible, she just wanted to develop a clearer image of how the couple would look like in bed, making the myriad sounds and postures. Her own concoction of the scene was fading in her mind, due largely to the couple’s reduced appearance.     When the young man opened the door to her knock, the maid felt as if she had a lot to say, but found the words too puffy to come out of her throat. When he questioned her, she could only grin sheepishly, with a kind of grin she suspected didn’t look very nice because it had always irritated her husband. She glanced inside their living room, their only room, as much as she could from outside the door. She saw framed photographs hung on walls, chairs with cushions, a bed with a nice bed-sheet, a carpet-like thing made of cane, and other such minor trinkets that symbolize the beatitude of domestic life. She felt an inexplicable frisson rise within her. She wanted to bless the couple in Bangla, but didn’t do so. She just responded with an open ended question in Hindi, “Sab theek?” and went away, leaving without making any impact: neither on the mind of the young couple nor on her own theories regarding their life. She came back to her employer’s house with the intent of resuming her dull chores and as she carried on she rediscovered the burden of her unabated curiosities. She was tired now. She wanted the young couple to fornicate and she wanted them to do it loudly. She wanted to be the first one to hear it, to be an important person in the discovery of the sexual act. She wanted to tell the whole neighborhood about it; the police-like morality of it made her feel like a child again. Surely, she would have done it even if there was no raise in salary.     Then on one afternoon she heard something like foreplayish tittering while polishing the narrow metal gate of the opposing house. She couldn’t believe it. The moment she had been waiting for eagerly, impatiently, had finally arrived; her wish of being the first eardrums to oscillate with the love-making jingle had finally come true. Or had it not? Were she conjuring sounds? Were these not the sounds of the young couple having sex but a mere replay of what had been in Bangladesh? Her precipitation into past was prevented by her sensations of the present: faint murmurs, ignorable to everyone except a spy. But what am I if not a spy? She thought. She hurriedly reported the event to her employer. Within seconds the two of them were within one meter of the young couple’s door, whose bed was just next to the door. For a brief second employee and employer paused to provide more clarity to their ears. It was a pause that had no reasoning behind it. An absurd pause. A mysterious pause.

Tanuj Solanki Short Bio (2010)     Tanuj Solanki works in an insurance firm in Bombay. He is 24. His work has been published or is upcoming in journals such as Boston Literary Magazine, Calliope Nerve, Yes Poetry, Cartier Street Review, Tin Foil Dresses, Crisis Chronicles Library. He is currently completing a short story collection about fatalism in Indian cities, titled The Bom Bay of Life. He just can’t learn swimming.

The Last Castle Emma Eden Ramos     Sabrina watched the waves. Sheets on a bed, she thought. They rippled like those mom used to put on her Hello Kitty “big girl” bed. Not pink. Not blue either, actually, though everyone always said sea water was blue. It was more grayish. Grayish and angry when it stung the cuts on your toes and ankles.     “Ready, Bri?” Sabrina heard her father call out.     “No, I’m not!”     If he tried to force her as he always did, she’d start to cry. She might even fling herself towards the water.     “Five more minutes then, okay? Not one second longer.”     Plastic bucket and shovel in hand, Sabrina made her way to the nearest dry spot. She scooped and built, scooped and built. With each layer of water-thickened sand, Sabrina watched the familiar figure in front of her disappear from the feet upward. She thought about what her mom always called “lovely things”: speckled ponies, newborn kittens, yellow get-well roses; things that were supposed to bring happiness.     “Okay, kiddo,” the words were like traffic noise in Sabrina’s ears. “Time, she’s up.”     “Ahhh!” Sabrina shrieked, as her father came towards her. “You crushed it!”     “There’ll be plenty of other chances in the future,” Sabrina’s father said as they walked toward the parking area.     “That” Sabrina replied, drying her eyes, “was what you said the last time we visited mom in the hospital.”

Emma Eden Ramos Bio (2010)     Emma Eden Ramos is a writer and student at Marymount Manhattan College in New York City. Her fiction has appeared in BlazeVOX, The Legendary, and The StoryTeller Tymes. She also has a piece forthcoming in Yellow Mama.

Autumn Eve K.R. Helms Nothing lasts forever. Not love, not life, not faith; except the past, a wraith in wait. Eventually, all I have is lost. -Eulogies for the living     Such pain.     It ran in red rivers from his ragged fingers. But the blood that flowed so freely, that had rendered the steel strings of his guitar sticky to the touch, took nothing away from the mastery in which he played.     Intermingled in the cold Autumn evening was a dirge of grief and an aria of love as none had ever before witnessed .     He had always been a musician, at least from his sixth year. A child prodigy, renowned throughout the region, that had grown into an adult master. But he had never been able to compose a song that exactly matched his emotions to his art.     But tonight, this dismal evening he did. And his pain was beautiful.     The October wind moaned it’s accompaniment through the skeletal trees that framed the cemetery, the sound of his lover lulling him to her box shaped bed. It blew his long brown hair in flowing waves behind him. The wind in his hair, once, a primal pleasure, now a mockery from God. As a child he had loved the sound of the wind. Through the trees, and through the eaves of his parents house. A sound like gods whispering a lullaby secretly to him.     But in that same wind, all he could hear now was a tormented wail that mirrored the pain echoing through his empty soul.     Tears poured from his red rimmed eyes. Eyes that had witnessed a beauty, undiluted. The same eyes that had helplessly watched as that precious blossom was crushed to powder beneath the unrelenting steel boot heel of fate. Simple because God had decided that it was time.     Fate. She had once asked him if he had believed, once... so many years ago. She had asked with a certain urgency in her tone, and he had lied to her and said yes in fear of losing her interest. But now, he believed. He believed with all of his heart. If only it could bring her back to him and rescue him from his pain.     But his private despair did not diminish the mastery in which he played. Instead, it empowered him with the gift that only grief can give.     His anthem rang through the lonely midnight cemetery. He played for her. Autumn Eve. His one love. A love that had promised forever. But forever had turned out to be a very short time, indeed.     Words were not needed for this song. They would have only been lost amidst it’s power, or overshadowed in comparison to the longing, the love and the loss from it’s exquisite chords.     No birds sang on this night. They nested in leafless tree limbs and pine boughs listening in awe to the music that they could never mimic. Even the haunting coos of mourning doves were silent, in reverence to his requiem.     The moonlight seemed to make the marble and granite tombstones seem to glow in a ghastly blue, almost ethereal light. The same upon the pale flesh of his hands and face. His tears, highlighted by the moon, looked like quicksilver running down his cheeks.     He sat across from his love’s grave. A small unimpressive stone bearing only her sweet name and the cold calculation of numbers marking her time spent on this once beautiful Eden.     The stone upon which he sat was a grand work. A masterpiece. A large platform base of octagonal shape held a towering obelisk, adorned with Celtic knot work relief, signifying eternity. Perched atop this was a human sized angel. An angel, hauntingly beautiful, looking toward the heavens. Her flawless face masked in sad longing as her outstretched arms reached to embrace (God?) something beyond her grasp. Her wings draped down the sides of the obelisk. The craftsmanship was incomparable in it’s elegance. So fine the lines and intricate the form, that the tiny end feathers carved in her wings seemed to flutter ever so slightly in the chilling Fall breeze.     Strangely, there was no name or even a date to honor the dead that rotted beneath it; perhaps it was a cenotaph to the forgotten who no longer have a name.     It was reminiscent of countless other monuments in countless other cemeteries. Lined in immaculate rows, angels and obelisks standing silent in their sorrow.     But the man took no notice of the nameless grave or the beauty adorning it. He saw only the beautiful face of his Autumn Eve that was burning in his mind’s eye.     He paid no heed to the chill that enveloped him. He didn’t notice the blood forming a pool between his leather boots, drop by crimson drop, that stained the gray marble black.     That was not pain.     Pain was knowing he would never again see his own smile reflected in her shining brown eyes.     The man had loved her devoutly. He felt so alive, almost childlike, all his days with his precious Autumn Eve, He had never tasted a love so sweet. He had felt as if his heart would burst for all the love he held in it’s crimson cage.     Again, for the thousandth time since her death, he pictured the beauty of her dark face. It’s soft contours. Her eyes, that always made him feel like he was falling when he gazed into them, and of course, her smile. Ahhhh, her smile. So genuine, so alive, so pure. How her smile formed those tiny, perfect little lines at the corners of her eyes. And how her eyes sparkled, how her eyes, they sometimes danced with mischief when they were alone.     He could see her long brown body, naked beneath his. He remembered teasing her about being able to count all her ribs, so slender was she. He could see the small birthmark below her navel. A mark she considered a flaw, but to him it was the signature of God Himself upon his greatest work of art.     He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, forcing out the welled up tears and thought about the feline way she stretched when he would kiss the nape of her neck. How she moaned and quietly whispered his name. No one said his name quite like she did. It was as if the name itself was a taste that she savored as it rolled off her tongue.     He could see her black hair fanned out over her pillow as she smiled at him and gestured him closer to her with her fingers. How she would giggle and say something corny to make him feel a little less nervous. How sweet those kisses from her soft lips. She seemed to always have a certain scent of the earth to her, the earth before it’s fall, when it had but one season and thrived. She smelled like living. And in his bittersweet memories he saw how she used to lay on his chest, as light as angel’s sighs, feeling her heart thundering in unison to his own.     He saw how she used to curl her body around his side as she slept, clinging to him even in her somnolence. He had spent countless hours studying her still form as she slept, watching the steady rhythm of her breathing with that slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth that told him in it’s sweet silence that she was where she belonged. How he would stroke her silken hair, as he wondered if he held her in her dreams. How strong he felt with his arms wrapped around her fragile little body.     A strength that died with her.     He didn’t wonder what death was like. He knew all too well.     This was death. This miserable lonely existence.     His bed was vast in it’s emptiness. These past two months an eternity. The sleepless nights since, he imagined he held her still, with his arms clutching a cold lifeless pillow in quiet desperation.     But it was a joyless facsimile.     He had alienated himself from his friends and his family. They had tried valiantly to comfort him and to pull him from the labyrinth of his troubled mind. But it was all in vain.     They could not save him from himself. His waking moments were spent staring at her portrait that hung in the unkempt living room, reading and re-reading old love letters until they were too torn, tattered, and the ink too smeared from his tears to read anymore.     Sleep was rare. A Godsend to some, but hell for him. When it did occasionally overwhelm him, it was haunted by her face. Her voice beckoning him to join her.     To be with her again.     Like it had been before.     When they had walked hand in hand through the woods listening to the birds sing their Springtime sonnets. When they would lay on their backs side by side on a hilltop, looking up at the clouds, telling each other the shapes they saw in them and laughing like children.     His heart was so heavy, carrying the burden of her memory. Yes, it still beat, but it had no purpose. He felt as cold and lifeless as the stones that surrounded him. His pain was relentless and inescapable.     But still, he played, and he bled, for her.     Lost in his private symphony of grief, he was startled from his song by a faint feminine voice.     “Child.”     He whipped his head around to see the source, but he saw no one.     He shook his head and assured himself that it had been the wind playing tricks on him.     After a moment more of listening and hearing nothing out of the ordinary he began, once more, to strike the chords. As he did so, again came that hushed voice, almost a whisper, like the brown, dead leaves that danced in the breeze.     “Child.” it said again, this time slightly more audible.     Looking around him, squinting his eyes and peering into the moonlit night more closely, still he saw no one.     In that frustration and tempest of emotion, he flung his guitar to the ground. It landed with a hollow twang in the grass beside the grave of a six year old girl. He shot to his feet, balled his hands into white knuckled fists, raising them to the sky, his head tilted back and his eyes wide and angry.     “God! Why do you haunt me with these voices?” his voice echoed and cut through the silence     After the echoes of his scream had faded to silence, came the woman’s voice again.     “Do not flatter me with Divinity, child.” The sound of her voice came from above and behind him.     He whirled around and stared up at the angel that was looking down upon him from her lofty perch atop the towering obelisk.     Though startled at the phenomenon of a statue animating before his very eyes, there was no fear in his heart. He had immediately dismissed it as a hallucination drawn from his grief and lack of sleep.     The angel ruffed her wings and with two strong, graceful beats, she settled lightly on the ground beside him. With a sad smile she said. “You doubt my reality.”     At this he knew that this was no figment of his imagination. She was too vivid to not have substance. He felt his pulse racing and quickly assured himself that he had not gone mad. He could smell her breath, it smelled like spices and flora. The fragrance of a forgotten funeral, still lingering.     His expression softened. “Angel. Are you sent from God?” he asked.     The angel stretched her wings, then folded them behind her as she crouched, her gray gown billowing around her lithe form. Although her coloring was still camouflaged as stone, her movements were effortless and graceful. Her countenance as soft as a wedding night pillow.     “You called me, child. Not God.” she answered with a sadness in her voice that maybe wished He had.     “I called only for Autumn.” he corrected.     She nodded. “But so sorrowful was your song, that I was roused from my slumber.”     “Are you the only to awaken?” he asked anxiously, his hopes soaring with the faintest possibility of resurrection.     The angel diverted his question. “Why do you grieve so?” she asked in place of an answer.     “My grief is mine alone to bear. I will not share what is left of my woman with any soul. Not even an angel.”     She looked at her graceful gray hands then down to Autumn Eve’s marker in the ground and said “You have already shared your grief with me. Just not the story that spawned it.”     “Why would I tell anyone a story of my private despair?”     “Who would I tell?” she asked, her expression wounded “If you are worried about your secrecy, then who better to tell? I will not tell a soul. Your secret will be forever sealed, as tight as the sepulcher beneath us.” she said gesturing to the graves around her with her willowy arms.     He considered this, then sighed in resignation and reluctantly recounted his story to her. His voice choked with emotion. His fists balled so tightly that his fingernails dug small crescents into his palms. Fresh blood covered the blood that had dried already from his lacerated finger tips as the pain was re-lived.     He told the angel everything. Things that even his closest friends and family members hadn’t been told. Once he had begun to tell the story, all the things he had kept inside for so long seemed to flow faster than the blood from his hands.     When he was finished with his tale he wiped the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his leather jacket. “She was everything to me. Without her, I am nothing.” then rested his weary head in his bloody hands, exhausted and drained.     The angel waited patiently until after he had regained his composure, then she asked “Her death has been a muse to you, child. Is that nothing as well?”     “Her memory is my muse.” he said and looked at her bitterly. “My muse is not even tangible. Eventually that memory will be gone as it slowly fades in time.”     “We are all forgotten eventually. It is inevitable.” she said again gesturing toward the stones around them. “Just as most of these are forgotten already. Some have not been visited in over a century.”     “A beauty such as hers should never be forgotten. It would not be right.”     “Time is constant and cannot be stilled. So to is death. Your story is tragic, but it is not the first of it’s kind and will not be the last.” she replied in a solemn voice.     “How could a mere statue possibly understand the vastness of a loss such as mine?” he demanded.     She ignored his slander and focused upon the pain behind his anger.     “I have rested here for over three centuries. I was here when there were no stones, only mounds. I have heard a cacophony of cries, pleas and whimpers. I have seen a deluge of tears. I watched as the g raves have absorbed and accepted all of those small sacrifices. Mourning is the most beautiful gift a human can bestow upon another, because of it’s purity. Gifts given in secret, gifts given in private, these are not contrived. Yes. This cemetery has seen more sorrow than even you can imagine. Every stone has a story to tell and most of them have been long forgotten by man.     “But I have not forgotten, child. I am the keeper of their secrets as well. No one but I know if the names on the aged stones were eroded by time or by tears.”     “But stones do not feel! They do not bleed! They do not cry. I do not care about their tragic fairy tales, only for my Autumn Eve, who I can no longer touch or look upon or hold close to me. I would trade everything to be with her again.” he said, his voice rising to the last.     “You would give away your song?” she asked .     “Without hesitation, yes.”     “You would give away your life?”     “There is no life left to give.”     “You would give away your life?” she repeated patiently.     “Yes!” he answered equally as impatiently.     “And what if giving all would still not reunite you with her?”     “Then it changes nothing! All is lost to me already and I would rather lie in my own casket than to lie alone in our bed another damned night.”     “You are still young. Could you not find another to fill your bed?”     “My bed, yes. But not the empty chambers of my heart.”     “In time your heart will mend and you will love again.”     “If God cannot resurrect my woman, than He cannot breath new life into this heart. For both are equally as dead.”     “She is never truly gone as long as your song keeps her memory alive.”     “Memory? Ha! Can you touch a memory? Can you hold a memory? Can you talk to a memory?” he cracked his knuckles in brutal finality and glared accusingly at her. “Memories are for the old who have nothing left to look forward to but the anticipation of death to bestow her kiss upon them. I do not want to wait for that moment. As you said, I am young and that is a long wait that I do not want.”     “If you still did not feel her presence close to you then you would not have awakened me. I have never heard a more haunting chorus, child. It is a good tribute.”     “It is her lack of presence that is close to me, it is that...that nothingness, angel!” he voice lowered, sardonic in it’s tone, defeated. “As for the song, it is mere chords from a broken man. That is almost nothing in and of itself. She deserves more than a simple tune that will never be heard or appreciated as a tribute to her.” he said.     The angel sat silently, pondering his dilemma. Then she stood and looked at his face, as if studying his sincerity and said in her sweet, sad voice “There is a tribute you could pay her.” Hers was a tone of infinite regret.     “Anything, angel. Anything!”     “First, let me once more, hear your song.” she said in quiet reverence.     The man retrieved his guitar from where it lay in the grass and found that it was intact. He seemed to have regained some strength in that glimmer of hope within that shined like Fate had so many years before.     He picked the dead leaves from it’s clotted steel strings. He strummed the strings and heard that it was still in tune. And once more, he began to play his pain for his Autumn Eve.     Standing and looking down upon his beloved’s headstone, he loved her the only way he was able.     The notes soared to the heavens, swept upward by the wind, and slowly smothered in the dying distance.     He heard the angel sigh, a whisper in the wind. It sounded far away.     Then not another note was heard.     Only the wind moaning through the skeletal trees and the brown October leaves rustling against the stone monuments. The moon shining pale and blue, a ghastly blue upon the tombstones.     A blue that shone almost ethereal upon the angel and his now stone figure.     Forever a tribute. Looking upon the grave of his Autumn Eve.     Autumn Eve Christianson      Oct. 12, 1973 - Oct. 31, 1993

Judgement Paul Galarraga     The night was alight with bonfires. The long flames seemed to make the nearby willows glow.     In the little clearing in the bayou the men assembled, some sober, some indifferent. All were silent. They covered their faces with white hoods so that only their hate filled eyes showed in the fire light.     The fire cracked in the cool October night and the flickering shadows made the faces of the unmasked ones look like death’s heads. Many had just come home from the killing fields of Iwo Jima or Berlin. They were grim, bitter men and they were full of hate.     “Call out the accused.” The speaker wore the red hood of a grand wizard. He stood apart from the others and the tone of his voice showed a solemn reverence for the horrid ceremony.     A black man was led in. He walked by himself, his hands bound tightly behind his back. He had the air of a king or one who is used to command and respect. He stepped bravely to the grand wizard, showing no hesitation, as an equal.     The men who were leading him spoke. “Kneel before the Grand Wizard!”     He stood.     “C’mon nigger! Get on your knees.”     The black man refused.     “Beat him! Beat him!” Yelled the men. “Show the nigger who’s boss!”     The mob was working itself into a rage. Their hatred seethed in the cool night air. The Grand Wizard pointed in front of him and the men went into action.     The black man braced himself as they were on him in seconds, pummeling him, kicking him on the mouth and groin. One of the men cut a piece of green bamboo and began to cane him. The smell of sweat, blood and anger mixed as a flurry of bodies splayed out on the moist Louisiana grass.     The Grand Wizard put up his hands like some nightmare Moses and the mob parted. The men were now tightening the ropes on their black prisoner.     “Why are you here?” The Grand Wizard seemed to be looking through the black man as he spoke. The whole scene had a dreamy quality to it, as if the men were entranced by their hate. As if they might wake up at any moment and see themselves as monsters. But the crowd was transfixed, caught up in the moment, a slave to their own black emotions.     “I am a visitor,” the black man answered, “I am here on a mission of discovery.”     The mob looked on. They didn’t understand his answer. Their brains reeled with the ceremony, with the power.     Their leader spoke again. “Why are you in Five Corners?”     The Grand Wizard leaned towards the bound man, anger gleaming in his eyes. “Who sent you?”     “Friends,” said the black man.     “Friends?” The Grand Wizard stood back, “what are you talking about? Who the hell are you boy? FBI? Louisiana D.A.’s Office? Who?” The black man clearly unnerved the Grand Wizard.     “Who?” The Grand Wizard accented his final pleading question with a right hook to the bound man’s face. The mob was incensed anew. The shouting began. “Hang him!”     “Burn him!”     “Crucify him!”     The Grand Wizard ordered the cross laid out. The men became grim with their job. Not a sound could be heard as they bent to the task of unloading the cross. When it was laid out in the grass, some whistle Dixie as loud as they could to break the tension. Some just drank a lot of beer and tried as hard as they could not to think about what they were about to do. The cross was over twelve feet long and was wrapped in rags dipped in pig’s fat. It gave off a fetid odor like the smell of corruption.     “Bind him to the cross,” the Grand Wizard commanded.     The black man began to struggle violently. He managed to throw one of the men holding him over ten feet. His strength was incredible. It took nearly twenty men to hold him down, even with only one arm free. They finally tied him to the cross. Some poured kerosene on him, some of the others stuffed straw into his pants and the tattered remnants of his shirt.     “Raise him.”     The commands of the Grand Wizard could hardly be heard over the grunts and curses of the men.     The cross was raised and one of the hooded ones used a kitchen match to set the man on fire.     The mob stood back. Many having been shocked from their stupor began to blubber and wondered if they were damned.     The flames erupted and the black man who might have been a king opened his mouth to scream and breathed fire. His cries were never heard, they were consumed with his flesh.     The men stood in terrified awe. Many emptied their flasks and bottles of hooch as they stared in horror at what they had done.     The black man’s lips parted again, they were curling back as the skin on his face shrank and blackened to the color of coal tar. His teeth were the palest white they had ever seen, like fine bone china. His eyelids burned away to reveal blazing eyes that stared into the grim crowd. Many men began to vomit, others ran from the unholy scene, into the bayou, afraid for their souls.     The Grand Wizard was left alone with the corpse. He watched the fire lick the bones and blacken the skin like some angry demon lover. He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t move. His anger held him to the sight. Even in death the black man was defiant, regal and black.     The flames waned into embers and the body of the burned man settled into a glowing caricature of Christ, right down to the look of agony as the body looked to the heavens for salvation.     The Grand Wizard left to get stinking drunk. * * *     The diner was just up the road from where the black man lay burning, but no one in Claire’s Lunch Room had seen the flames yet. The air was full of smoke and the smell of sweat as the porters came in from the rail yards. These were hard men who worked for the railroad. They flooded in every night for their beer and talk before dinner. They lived the same lives as their fathers and were set in their ways. To them the diner was a holdout, a sanctuary of their disappearing town. The conversation was lively and some had already finished their beer when the little bell over the door rang.     A small asian man walked into the diner.     He sat down at the counter and ordered some hot tea. The silence in Claire’s could be felt, not just heard. The men stared in disbelief. The children stared, eyes wide.     Roy Felder lifted his bulk from the last counter stool, put down his can of Schlitz and walked up behind the asian.     The waitress saw and turned around and wrote on her order book pretending that she was very busy and wishing that she were somewhere else.     “Why are you here?” Roy Felder asked.     “I am here for some tea.” Said the asian with a friendly smile. He wore a conservative outfit of brown pants and a kaki shirt buttoned to the neck. He was not very old, but his hair was as white as cotton and he has just a trace of a mustache. He put out his hand in friendship. “My name is Wong and I am new here.”     Roy Felder looked at the man’s hand as if it had a dead fish in it. He began to turn red and the crowd in Claire’s could see that he was about to hit the little man.     “Can’t you see the WHITES ONLY sign on the door Mister?” Roy Felder said turning a brighter shade of cooked lobster red.     One of the young men from the last booth came over and touched Roy’s shoulder.     “It ain’t worth it. You know that ever since that little joke in the gas station, the Sheriff has just been looking for an excuse to throw you in the hole.”     The color returned to Roy Felder’s face. He continued to stare at Wong.     “Listen here Chinaman,” the young man spoke, “if I was you I’d leave.”     The young man’s words confused Wong somewhat, but a smile soon returned to his face.     “But you are not me.” Wong said with a friendly smile as if he had just been spoken to by a child.      A balding man in a nearby booth spoke up without looking up from his reuben sandwich. “He was trying to tell you to get the hell out of here.”     “We don’t want you around here,” someone said in another booth.     “Go home you Jap!” From another table.     Roy Felder’s fury was reaching a fever pitch.     “Go back to China you commie!” From the back.     “I still have not had my tea.” Said Wong turning his back on the hateful men.     This was the last straw for Roy.     He grabbed Wong by the seat of his pants and pulled him right off the barstool. When the stunned Asian hit the ground he was grabbed up from all sides by a group of angry men. They took his arms, legs and the seat of his pants and made for the door. The cook ran out from behind the counter and held the front door open while they tossed the man out.     Wong landed on the front steps unable to understand what was happening. He was looking into the faces of what appeared to be normal people, wondering how they could do this to another being.     Roy Felder stepped outside and gave Wong a terrible kick to the ribs that sent him sprawling right off the front steps and left him on the sidewalk. The crowd in the diner was cheering.     Wong lay in a puddle of water and blood. He was in pain and still confused about what had just happened to him. * * *     An old man ambled over from across the street. He had a hook nose and a white beard. He was dressed in black and wore the yarmulke of an orthodox Jew. He came to the Asian’s side and called to him. “Are you well?”     “Yes Samuel. There is no permanent damage.”     Samuel helped Wong to his feet and they walked off together.     “I take it you were not served,” Samuel said leading Wong down an alleyway. “You should have heeded the ‘whites only’ sign on the door. These people are very hateful.”     They came out the other side of the alleyway and walked down to a small motel.     “I know, but I had to be sure,” Wong said, “I do not share as negative an opinion of these people as you do and I want my vote to be accurate.”     “These thoughts will get you killed,” Samuel said, “you must take all threats seriously.”     They went into the ‘Hotel Parisian’ and climbed the shabby staircase. The motel was a showplace until the depression hit. Now it was just old.     “We must find Kurt and the Commander and file our report,” Samuel said knocking on the door, “time is of the essence.”.     “Who is it?” came a muffled voice from inside.     “It is us Kurt, Samuel and Wong.”     The door opened and Kurt rushed them in.     “Where you followed?” Kurt asked while carefully parting the curtains and peeking out.     “No, I was careful.” Samuel said.     “What are you two being so careful about?” Wong asked, still nursing his wounds. “The people in that diner were just reacting to one ignorant drunk.”     “Haven’t you noticed?” Samuel asked.     “Noticed what? That they don’t want asians in their restaurants?” Wong was sitting on the bed looking in his suitcase.     “What happened to you?” Kurt asked, noticing the bruise on Wong’s face.     “I was assaulted in a restaurant,” Wong said trying to be calm and not let the words take on any importance they did not deserve.     Kurt smoothed his blonde hair and again surreptitiously looked out the window. “The locals are hostile, that should be obvious to you since you were assaulted and while we are here, we are in danger.”     “Kurt you can’t be serious—”     “No? I was questioned in the church building about weather or not I was German. When I didn’t answer to their satisfaction I had to run for my life.”     Wong looked at the ground trying to think of something to say.     “We must find the Commander,” Samuel said standing up.     “Yes, you’re right,” Kurt said, “we should get him, file our report and get the hell out of here.”     Samuel opened his suitcase and removed a small blue box about the size of a cigarette pack.     Wong pulled a small green cone from his bag and held it next to his ribs. An eerie light emanated from it and Wong winced in pain as the beam repaired his ribs.     Samuel looked at the blue cube and then placed it in his pocket.     “I know where the commander is,” Samuel said, “and Kurt, don’t forget to bring it.”     “I wont.”     They headed out for the bayou. * * *     They arrived at the edge of a mossy swamp and Wong was the first to see.     “There he is.”     A blackened hand stuck out from the brackish water as if pleading to be found. The three men waded out and began to dig out the macabre figure. They used their hands to wipe away slime from the leering corpse.     “By the creator!” Wong said.     “He was killed by the locals,” Kurt said in a somber, defeated voice.     “Why do you say that?” Samuel asked while trying to control his abject revulsion.     Kurt held up the remnants of the rope that bound the black man to the cross.     “It seems he was attached to that wooden pole and set on fire.”     “Yes when the fire burned through the wood the whole sinister contraption collapsed into the bayou. Someone left him burning,” Samuel said, looking at the sky as if to ask for guidance.     “It’s a cross.” Kurt said.     “What is that? Wong asked.     “A religious symbol.” Kurt said holding the commander in his arms. “This killing was somehow a show of devotion to their god.” Kurt had no tear ducts, so he could not cry, but was showing his sorrow.     He began the death song.     They walked in procession to a clearing and Kurt put down the commander’s body with great respect. He ended the death song and drew a small red cylinder from his pocket. He pointed the cylinder at the sky and it began to glow. It projected a bright stream of light into the night sky.     After a few moments it was over. The cylinder was again stilled and the men waited. * * *     The night seemed to get darker and even in the bayou the insects kept their distance and the always noisy frogs were silent, as if waiting for something miraculous.     From the vault of the sky came a crisp blue light, touching down in front of them. The beam shone like a radiant sun and from the nebulous light stepped out an amazing being. He was dressed in bands of gold from head to foot and his skin was a shimmering surface, like looking at a diamond in the full moon. His eyes were large and so dark that they reflected light. Samuel stepped forward and was the first to speak.     “Praetor we are ready to report.”     The being stepped up to them and noticed the charred form of the commander. “What has happened to your leader?” His voice was like a symphony.     “He was killed...” Wong said, almost hesitating before speaking aloud his next words, “by the people of this planet.”     “Why? Did he seek a quarrel with them?” the Praetor’s voice was barely controlled in his perplexity.     “No sire. He was killed because the people of this world are ignorant,” Kurt said with no regrets, “they still wallow in the primitive emotions of racism, hate and fear of the unknown.”     The Praetor looked at the fire in Kurt’s eyes and then at the Commander’s horrid form. “Do you all agree to his assessment of this planets inhabitants?”     There was a brief pause as the travelers assessed the ways of this planet and the way they were treated as strangers.     “Yes Sire, we concur with the assessment.”     “Very well then, I shall pass judgement on this planet.”     The Praetor extended his arm and made a fist.     “On the judgement to trust the earth with the biological technology to destroy disease and prolong life for millennia,” his fist made a thumbs down gesture.     “On the judgement to allow the people of this planet to travel unmolested beyond their own satellite,” another thumbs down gesture.     “On the judgement to warn the people of this planet about the accumulation of toxins in their atmosphere that will eventually destroy their immune system and shorten their lifespan,” the last thumbs down gesture.     “So it has been said, so it will be said, so it will be done, by the order of the Praetors of the Cosmos.”     He raised his arms and an eerie blue glow enveloped the four other men. They now stood revealed as their true selves. Beings representatives of four different planetary races. The commander’s body was a light green color and his ten, spider-like limbs were placed on his chest as if in a gesture of sleeping. He was wrapped in the golden cloak of the Praetor and the one who used the name Samuel carried him on his tree-like shoulders.     “This day has been terrible indeed,” Kurt said.     “Yes,” Wong said, “but more so for the Earth. They know not what they have lost today; lost to hate.”     The strange beings followed the Praetor into the blue shimmering light as it vanished into the night sky, to disappear among the stars. To spread the word of the celestial quarantine. To warn all other civilized worlds of the evils of the third planet and of the madness of the earth men.

Sparkles and Lace Chris Dietzel     The first time I went to jail I was the one spending the night behind bars. The second time I was simply visiting a friend. While that first trip did a good job of making me act more like a grown-up, the second trip is the one that still keeps me awake at night, filled with the concerns of someone that is no longer a child.     I was 18 when I was arrested, a dumb, little kid eager to graduate from high school, not a worry in the world. My carefree nature vanished when the cops handcuffed me for spray-painting one of the walls at my high school. Suddenly I had become a dumb, little kid that was scared shitless. The guy in the cell next to me stunk like vomit and piss. Unable to sleep, I had the entire night alone in my cell to think about what I had done and if I wanted to come back again. I didn’t. The night, although uneventful in terms of prison tales, was traumatic enough to ensure I never had another run-in with the law.     I graduated from college, got a respectable job, and generally acted like a mature adult (I do still smile, however, when I see a nice piece of graffiti). I rented an apartment in the city and made new friends. A little while later I got a puppy, received a promotion, and started playing flag football on the weekends.     One of my new friends was a guy named Juan. After accidently colliding during a flag football game, we spent the night in the emergency room getting stitches and talking. When the night was over, and like best friends should, we had matching scars. Juan turned into one of the most dependable and considerate friends I have ever had. When my kitchen sink started leaking, he brought his tools over. When I got a new apartment, Juan showed up the morning of my move, without being asked to help, and spent the day carrying boxes. I tried to return the favor as much as possible. Every time he had too much to drink I drove him home and let him sleep on my couch. And because he never had much money, when I got a new car I offered him my old one for a hundred dollars instead of the thousand it was worth.     Whereas I had gone to college, Juan was content to get a job before graduating high school. While I worked in an office with other white-collar professionals, Juan was happy to do construction work, particularly roofing and drywall. And although it took Juan ten years to get his act straight instead of the one night it took me, he eventually settled down too.     When the new flag football season started, I made sure Juan was on my team. And any time I went out of town Juan took care of my dog. The half empty box of treats let me know how often he spoiled Hurricane. Then one day I had a message on my answering machine from a voice I didn’t recognize, Juan’s brother, saying my friend was in jail and in trouble. I called back but no one answered. A week went by so I figured Juan paid the fine for his public drunkenness or whatever he had done. A second phone call let me know that wasn’t the case. The voice, Juan’s brother again, said Juan was in a lot of trouble and needed help.     “Is he going to be okay?” I asked, still not understanding what, “a lot of trouble,” meant.     “No! He’s in jail for a long time,” his brother said with an accent. “Very serious.” His brother went on to say that Juan was arrested on drug charges, the most serious of which was distribution to a minor.     The minor ended up being the 15-year old daughter of Juan’s girlfriend. It would be a miracle if the daughter ever amounted to anything. She had already had two abortions, been arrested a hundred times for drug use, and run away from home just as many times. I wondered what it would take for her to get scared straight the same way a single night in jail scared me into being a better kid. Maybe nothing.     “It’s got to be a misunderstanding,” I told Juan’s brother—the famous last words of every friend to someone accused of a serious crime.     Each night, instead of sleeping, I found myself staring at my ceiling. The textured paint looked like fingerprints. The car horns outside my window sounded like cell doors slamming. When my eyes closed I imagined being surrounded by the faces of men I didn’t know or trust—the days of elementary school when everyone was bullied or doing the bullying, except with prison gangs and shanks. —     The facility was at the edge of the city. The building looked modern, even more so than the new baseball stadium, and I wondered if there really were that many prisoners in the world today, that many arrestable crimes and men willing to break them, that warranted a five-story expanse across four city blocks.     There were three sets of double doors along the front side of the building. A procession of men in orange jumpsuits approached me. The men carried shovels and rakes and were followed by two armed guards.     “Visitation is the left doors,” one of the inmates said.     “Thanks.” I smiled, feeling like I could be friends with them if given the chance. I had become friends with Juan in an emergency room, what was stopping me from making a new friend during my visit to the prison?     Then the same inmate said, “Have a good visit with your boyfriend,” and all of the other inmates laughed. Even the two security guards smirked. Betrayed, I put my head down and went toward the entrance.     The lobby had a collection of plastic chairs across from a fiberglass window separating visitors and staff. The visitors were a hodge-podge collection that any sociologist would love to see gathered in one place. A middle-aged white lady, covered from shoulder to wrist in tattoos, kept shifting her weight. An old black woman fiddled with a pair of thin silk gloves. Two Hispanic men leaned toward each other, talking in whispers so no one else could hear. All of the faces stared at me until I took a seat and became one of them.     The uniformed man on the other side of the glass raised both of his palms in the air as if I had said something about him. When I stayed in my seat he tapped on the microphone and said, “You have to sign in before you can visit someone.”     Everyone turned and stared at me. Even after I got up and approached the glass I felt their eyes on my back. “I have an appointment for a noon visit.”     “Name?”     “My name or the person I’m visiting?”     The man’s eyes narrowed. “Give me your driver’s license.”     I slid it under the small gap of glass. The guard held it to the light to make sure it wasn’t a fake. I couldn’t imagine the size of the balls someone would need to use a fake ID at a jail. After typing my information into the computer, he slid my license back. Nobody in the eclectic gang bothered staring at me as I took my seat amongst them again. A couple seats away from me a young Asian girl with a small tattoo on her hand, maybe a spider or a series of intersecting lines, texted on her cell phone. A white guy, my age and size, except with a black eye, busted lip, and a line shaved through one eyebrow, stared at everyone like each was conspiring against him.     A door on the far side of the room opened. One of the guards leaned his head out and announced, “Noon appointments only.” Everyone stood up except for an old woman in the corner. I waited until everyone else was going toward the door before following them so there was no chance I would do something else to show it was my first time. We walked through a series of twisting concrete corridors. There was only one open path to follow, but I only went that way because the tattooed neck in front of me was going that direction too. When it turned left, I turned left. When it turned right, I turned right. Then the corridor ended, opening into a big U-shaped room.     Everything was completely white and sterile. Plexiglas divided the room in half. A series of plastic chairs lined both sides of the windows. The people ahead of me took seats around the room. I lowered myself into the nearest chair. A click sounded, followed by a buzz, and then a door on the other side of the glass began to open. Men in yellow jump suits began filtering in.     There was a squeal and some clapping across the room. A little girl, accompanied by her mom, was cheering for the arrival of her father. I don’t know how I had missed them until then. The girl, maybe three or four years old, was wearing a powder blue dress covered in sparkles and lace. Every stitch was perfectly pressed. The dress glittered perfectly in the fluorescent light like water surrounding an island resort. The mother wore faded jeans littered with tiny holes. Her sweater had a stain that I could see all the way across the room.     Juan was the last person through the door. When he saw me he laughed and walked toward me as though the window didn’t exist and he was going to give me a hug. That was when I noticed his two front teeth were gone, along with two others on the lower right side. I didn’t want him to see me any other way than happy to see him, so I reformed my smile bigger than before.     “It’s really good to see you,” he said. “I didn’t know I was going to have a visitor until this morning.” I didn’t say anything, only smiled and nodded my head. He said, “My mom and brother came by to visit a couple weeks back. I guess once you’re in here it’s easy to be forgotten.”     “Is there anything I can do for you?”     “No.” He smiled. “It’s just good to see you.”     I hadn’t given any thought to what we would talk about. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and have him go back to his cell feeling like no one cared what happened to him. “Is everyone treating you okay? Are their fights?”     He chuckled at my silliness. Maybe he saw me eyeing his missing teeth. “Everyone is nice. I play cards with a couple guys all day. One guy tried to start with me, but I stood my ground and he backed off. He was just testing me.” His tongue poked the gap in his front teeth. “I had a couple cavities before I got here. Any time you go to the prison dentist and complain about teeth hurting he just yanks’em out so they don’t hurt anymore.”     “Tell me what I can do to get you out of here.”     “I’m not getting out for a long time.”     My eyebrows arched at how sure he seemed. “How do you know?”     “I pleaded guilty to everything. I go to sentencing in a week. My public defender says I’ll probably get ten to fifteen years.”     If the glass wasn’t separating us I would have knocked out more of his teeth. “Why would you do that?”     “I was guilty. I made a mistake, I have to pay for it.”     “You did what they said?”     He nodded his head. For the first time since seeing me he stopped smiling, his mouth curling into an apology. I sank in my chair, the wind knocked out of me the same way it would if I had been punched in the stomach.     “I messed up,” he said again. He told me how he went five years without doing drugs, especially nothing serious like the cocaine he was arrested for. But at the same time, there was almost never a day when his girlfriend’s daughter wasn’t getting stoned as soon as her mom left for work. Every time she loaded up she tried to convince Juan to get high too. Month after month he said no. Then one night, a couple beers already in his belly, he shrugged and accepted. He still didn’t know why he finally gave in. He was passed out on the living room floor, the daughter passed out on the sofa, when his girlfriend came home. Yelling and smacks across his face jarred him awake. The rest was history.     I asked why he hadn’t explained to the cops that the drugs were the girl’s, not his. He would still be arrested, but the charges would be less serious—he wouldn’t do as much time.     He shrugged. “I messed up. There’s no difference between being here for two years or fifteen. I won’t be able to get a job when I get out. I’m getting deported no matter what. It doesn’t matter.”     He went on to tell me about some of the other guys he was locked up with and how nice they were, but I found myself listening less to what he said and focusing more on the little girl in the blue dress on the other side of the room. Her mother was holding her up so she could touch the glass while her father did the same. I found myself wondering if that little girl would turn into another person like the girl Juan got arrested with, or if she would turn out okay.     The girl was giggling. It had to be the father’s or daughter’s birthday. The blue dress was too nice for any other occasion. I thought about how happy the little girl was to see her father, how happy he was to see his little girl, how that was enough for them and for the mother too. No matter what else was going on in their lives they were each, in that moment, completely content. I thought about what it must be like for all of them after the visit was over. The woman would go home and be faced with a job that didn’t pay well. Bills would collect on the table. Her daughter, back in regular clothes, would begin missing her father again. The man would go back to playing cards, all the while trying not to worry how his family was getting on without him, and hoping that his daughter didn’t change too much by the time he saw her again.     I thought about all of that while Juan laughed about some of the times we had shared. We talked a little bit longer, but the entire time I was thinking about the girl and her sparkling blue dress and how happy she seemed. The buzzer rang a second time. The inmates knew that was their signal to file out of the room.     “Thanks for visiting,” Juan said. “Next time you come I’ll tell you the crazy story that one of the guys in here told me.”     I said I couldn’t wait to hear it. —     When my friends asked how it went, I made sure to limit my story to the parts dealing with Juan and nothing else. I couldn’t bring myself to mention the little girl or her sparkly dress. That was why I never visited Juan again: I didn’t want to see that girl or anyone like her ever again. I don’t want Juan to think he was forgotten—he wasn’t—but I also can’t forget that girl.     Flag football wasn’t fun without Juan, so I didn’t sign up the following season. And my friends don’t see me at the bars anymore. I’m in line for another promotion at work, but I might not get it because I’m not staying as late as I used to. My girlfriend thought I was joking when I told her I wanted to start tutoring elementary school kids whose parents couldn’t pick them up on time after school. I wonder if any of the kids I help has a parent they never get to see anymore. Now, on the nights I can’t sleep, I don’t see fingerprints in the paint or hear sirens outside. The only thing I can see is a girl with a baby blue dress with perfectly pressed lace that only understands happiness for ten minutes at a time while she and her father try to touch hands, and that’s enough for her.

Pranksters Charlie Wirth     There were two neighborhood pranksters, always looking for a way to rustle each other’s feathers. One took a small fortune of fireworks, and set up camp right outside the other’s napping room. It was that time of day, and Bud had settled down for his siesta, only to have it blown to pieces by an explosion of screaming whistles and wall rumbling pops. Another battle in the neighbor’s war.     Bud took his lawn fertilizer, one of the old ones that could dump the white and blue pellets in one spot, instead of evenly spreading them amongst the blades of grass, and waited one day when no one was home, then went to town.     Weeks later, right in the middle, of the fire-cracking neighbor’s lawn, in a spectacular green hue, were the letters B-U-D for the rest of the summer.