down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623)
Janet K., Editor
http://scars.tv.dirt.htm
http://scars.tv - click on down in the dirt

In This Issue... Fritz Hamilton Liam Spencer Brian Looney Tom Ball Eleanor Leonne Bennett (art) Travis Green Sarah Lucille Marchant Kenneth DiMaggio Kerry Lown Whalen Ruth Juris Donald C. White Jr. Amanda Ronan Bob Strother Steven Pelcman Changming Yuan James Kowalczyk John Ragusa Rod Hamon Elena Botts Daniel J Roozen Janet Kuypers

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.

Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book:

The demons walk the streets. Fritz Hamilton The demons walk the streets. Citizens, documented, undocumented, demented. All who see the light live in darkness. Psychotics are welcome, murderers accepted, Republicans trying to tear us asunder. The demons walk the streets. Liberals are plowed under. The rich are never taxed. All who see the light live in darkness. For 99 percent of us to survive is a bitch. The deficit is our doom, says the GOP, but they won’t tax the wealthy to reduce it. Like a whore, it’s the only way to get it down. But they give the whorehouse to the corporation & relegate the poor to the bottom of the pit. Baudelaire’s solution is art for the people to rise up/ at age 46 he’s thrown into the death cart. His hated father Aupick gave him the pleasure of dying first, satisfying Baudelaire’s thirst, but his mother still denied him the love he needed. The greatest poet of France fits the American dance. He gets nothing, Gen Aupick gets it all, relegating the poor to the bottom of the pit. Aupick gets the accolades, Baudelaire gets shit, & America gets trampled into the 3rd World. A few get it all, the rest of us fall, & we won’t get it back, Mac! WE WON’T GET IT BACK ... !

Tired of running Fritz Hamilton Tired of running/ tired of trying to get there fast like a good American trying< to run myself to death/ tired of this petty pace to be ahead in this silly race/ tired< of trying to produce for the machine instead of letting the machine produce for me/ tired of working harder& longer for the corporation to< increase my production for no extra pay/ tired of having to work weekends to produce what I could care less about as if it&8217;s< more important thanmyself/ finally solving the problem by telling my boss to shove his corporation up his< dry dead ass because there are more important things than making cans at Canco where I can&8217;t even< go to the can when I have to for fear of slowing the wheels of the corporation that doesn&8217;t give a shit that I have to shit, &< go find a new outhouse if I don&8217;t like it, & I don&8217;t,& hang my new outhouse because I take a shit on the steps of Canco, &< they can give my job to some other shithead, for all I care,& they&8217;d better hire him quick because a new man is needed to< clean the shit off the Canco steps while I&8217;m off to see the sunrise over Lake Michigan & sing in the viaduct beneath the drive to< hear my song echo back to me, & if somebody doesn&8217;t like it, he can walk into the lake& be eaten my an Asian carp, &< the carp can shit him out right in the lake for all I care, because I&8217;m still singing a song, & if you don&8217;t want to hear it, go< shove yourself up Canco&8217;s ass, & if you&8217;re real unlucky, they&8217;ll hire you to kick the can at Canco while< I&8217;m still singing ...< !

The Last Time I Proposed Liam Spencer         It had been a rough and wild ride that had gone on for more than two years. In the beginning, it was truly wonderful, as many relationships are. She was thirty seven and had an upcoming divorce when we got together. She wanted good times and to be wanted. There had been other guys for eight months or so, and she had gone through rebounds already. Her dating adventures had been less than stellar. I had just cut lose after being a workaholic for many years. My divorce had been years prior. My dating adventures had been a bit better, but consisted of a few quick, cheap hookups that lacked romance or even much fun.     We hit it off pretty severely early on. We spent long nights talking, drinking, laughing, connecting, and having great sex. We looked forward to our Wednesday and Saturday nights, and savored our Sundays together. There were so many highlights and so much passion. The months rolled on all too fast in those days. All in all, it was nearly a year of such greatness. I was addicted.     The next year had been rough though. There was neglect and abuse, abandonment and cruel setups, lying and cheating. There were good times too, don’t get me wrong, but things were rough, and sometimes I didn’t find out how bad until much after things occurred. I found myself wondering if it might be better to just cut ties and move on, but always decided against it because of the great times we managed to have and the memories of when things were so good.     We had even discussed engagement here and there, and August was agreed upon. It would be two years since our first date, and months after her divorce was official.     So I found myself looking at dates to pop the question as August approached. Things had been going so well again that I was sure that’s where things were going. We spent nearly every night together, at least to sleep side by side. She had been trying to answer my concerns about other guys. We were rebuilding trust. We had some normalization, where it wasn’t always such a party. We went on vacation with her friends, as a couple. There were hints of us essentially living together, calling each of our places home. In short, everything was pointing at engagement.     August came, but things weren’t right. My Mom went in for serious surgery and had a lot of trouble recovering. Her parents came for a long visit. My back gave out, and there was thought of my needing surgery. On and on. September came, and we seemed even closer though. It felt as though she was anticipating, and hoping for, that ring.     On nights that I was to come over late, I would look at that ring. It was a white gold ring with a large ruby, just as she had hinted at. I just knew she’d love it. Sometimes I took it with me, in my pocket, to her place at night. When she’d leave for work before me in the morning, I would size it against rings in her jewelry box to ensure the size was right and compare it to her tastes. I imagined it on her finger, and how happy she’d be with it. The bad times were over.     Anyway, September was going fast. I chose a date. It would be a Saturday night, the 17th. I planned to set up a romantic dinner while she was still at work. She loves summer, and was sad to see it end, so I chose a summer theme. I bought decent wine. A romantic, summer dinner, good wine, sweet jazz.. I would sweep her off her feet, and the night would be memorable forever.     I raced home after work, hoping to get an early start. I calculated the time needed. She’d be home around eight. I’d thaw chicken and marinate in bbq sauce before going the half block to her place. I’d set everything up in the kitchen while waiting for the bbq to be ready. I’d bring gin, tonic, lime, and wine, and sit glasses in the freezer for mixed drinks, should she chose that over wine after dinner. It was planned and timed. Even if her sister/roommate were there early, I wouldn’t need to be up there until around seven.     As I pulled onto the street we both lived on, I saw that her sister was there. It’s ok, I thought, there’s still time. I have to marinate frozen chicken anyway. I took to cleaning my apartment, which we called the cottage. Their apartment was the palace. I cleaned and cleaned, then checked to see if her sister was still there. She was. Damn, it was five thirty. Still time though.     I poured a gin and tonic, and relaxed by looking at college football scores. The drink landed so well and calmed my nerves. I poured another and went to smoke. While outside, I checked to see if her sister’s car was still there. It was. Damn! Six thirty and no hope of setting it all up as it needs to be. I poured another drink and tried to think of what I wanted to say. It crossed my mind that this was a bad omen, that I should call it off. I decided to struggle through, and decided to bake the chicken part way, so as to expedite the cooking and get right to romance.     Shortly after seven I got a text from her. She was wondering about the evening and dinner. I replied that I had chicken marinating, and thought we’d have a summer theme, even as it was chilly and raining off and on. It’d be kind of a defiance of fall kind of thing. She was game. It might be a save after all.     Her sister left right after she arrived home, and I was soon to arrive. I brought the food and booze, and was dressed quite well. We embraced long and sweet. She always dresses well, as she owns a woman’s clothing store. She looked sweet and beautiful. What a great woman I have!     It turned out that the reason her sister was there so long was because they decided to bring the stray outside cat inside to live with them. Her sister had taken the cat to the vet, and spent a fortune on medications, food, and toys. She had been settling the cat indoors all day. Now the cat demanded attention, but rejected it shortly after receiving it. She was settling in too.     I saw the symbolism of domestication. I had been a stray too, after all. So was my girlfriend, for that matter. There we were, three strays making a home together. I thought it was a sign of things to come.     We settled to just bake the chicken rather than toy with charcoal. We danced, drank, and romanced while our food cooked. I nervously felt the ring in my pocket when I stood out to smoke. I planned and plotted to hint at what was coming. She saw it as romance. We ate well, and were back at it. We drank and talked, laughed and danced and kissed. The night was getting even better.     I considered just letting the night play out and retrying the next day. I was enjoying our night. I stepped out to smoke just to give yet another moment to think it through. We continued talking and laughing through the open patio door. Things were going so well that I decided to go for it.     She was sitting at the table. I was standing beside her. I cannot remember now what it was I said to warm up and set the stage. It’s kind of a blur. I set it up though, sweetening her, romancing up to the moment. I put my right arm around her. With my left, I pulled out the ring, opened the box. I brought the ring to her sight just in time.     “Zantha, I love you. Will you marry me?”     She did not look up. She took the box from my hand, slid the ring on her finger, and looked at it in silence. It was as if an atomic bomb of icy water had hit the apartment. I back peddled as I felt the blood rush to my face. She still sat in silence. Her expression was of confusion, panic, and rage. It was as if some great injustice had been perpetrated against her. As if the worst scorn had been thrust at her. It was my fault, my doing. There was boiling in her. It made me want to run. I didn’t know what to do.     “Umm. I see you have some thinking to do, and you might wanna be alone to think for a minute, so I’ll go have a smoke.”     “Ok.”     I just needed to have some space to breath. This was not the reaction I anticipated, to say the least. I was in deep shit. Very deep. There was no way out of this either. Surely she’ll be nice about it, though. Thoughts raced to where they were incomprehensible. I inhaled deeply and drank heavily. I smoked another, and peaked inside to see if there was any sign of hope. Her expression had lightened. There was a sense of sweetness and even a sentimentality about her now. I wondered if she might be turning. I hurredly finished my smoke and went in, walking softly.     I went over and hugged her. She barely budged, like a block of ice. She was somewhere else, another compartment. She began softly.     “Umm. I just feel like I jumped from one relationship to another. I don’t know that I am done, I mean, I want to date for a while. And you say that if I do that, I have to forget about you.”     Death filled the room. My chest tightened. I stayed silent. She continued.     “You know how you say it feels so right to hold me? It doesn’t feel that way to me. It just doesn’t. It feels good, but not right.”     She still looked at the ring on her finger. It glistened. It looked great, right, and natural.     “It’s such a nice ring though.”     Seeing that ring on her finger, and how she seemed to love it had me confused and panicked. She hadn’t said yes, obviously. In fact, she was saying the opposite and beyond. Not only was the answer no, but that she wanted out of the entire relationship! She wanted to sleep around! She wanted to get rid of me!     In hindsight, I made a huge mistake in what I did next.     “I can see you didn’t say yes, so would you mind taking that ring off?”     Her expression was of devastation. Something really valued was being taken from her. She slid the ring off and handed it to me somewhat angrily. If I hadn’t done that, she may have said yes, eventually. I only did it because I feared that a yes answer might be because of persuation or pressure. Not reasons for engagement.     If her answer had been along the lines of not being ready for such a huge step, I could have handled it with some disappointment. We could have danced and romanced the night away, and made for a memorable time together. However, she wanted to leave me in the wreckage of her past, and move on to the usual path of sleeping around until she tired of the scene and then find a nice guy to take care of her.     It would get ugly. I began, trying to diffuse by explaining.     “I really thought everything had been going great between us.”     She nodded.     “We did agree that August would be the time, but things didn’t work. This is September. I mean, you saw the ring box in the glove compartment during our trip. I thought you knew. You saw I had been looking online.”     “I just. I need to date for a while. It doesn’t feel right between us. I’m just not there. I need to get around for a while. And you deserve someone who is ready, someone who will go there with you. You deserve that.”     I stayed quiet, trying to hide anger. She had done it again. She does it from time to time, only to back track and become closer. Finally I spoke.     “So, you really want to break up? Things were going so well until an hour or so ago, now it’s over?!”     “Yes! I need to date for a while! You deserve someone who will go there with you!”     I took a moment to gather myself. This will be temporary. I give it a night. Time to be strategic.     “Ok. If you really want out, let’s just have one more day together, for old time’s sake.”     “What difference does one day make?! It’s still over! We’re not going anywhere!”     I was shocked at her anger. This could be it! I was in shock. She brought me out of it;     “and I cheated! You can’t trust me. I’ll do it again!”     One below the belt. We had been working on rebuilding trust after her affair was brought to light six months prior. This was nuclear war, destroying all we had built. Things had gone from a wonderful, loving relationship to shit in ten minutes. I drank very heavily. So did she. It would be drunken madness.     “So, you want to throw away a great relationship to go be a worthless slut.”     She sat stunned. I regretted it as soon as I said it.     And so it began. We took turns hurting each other and breaking up. Back forth, each mean and ugly, then reuniting, then mean again. Drinks poured and downed, only to be poured again. It was something out of a Bukowski novel. Somehow neither could see it actually end, but that didn’t stop the breakups.     Drunk and stupid ruled the night. Even when we went for a walk, the tide of drink stayed in us. It was after four in the morning. Still we fought and made up, only to fight again. Toward the middle of our walk, we were broken up. I nearly cried, but caught myself. We exchanged “I’ll miss you’s,” but went back to fighting.     She still wanted to hold each other, savor for the last. I distanced myself. That always made her mad. I just couldn’t be close to her then. I was too upset. It had happened before. She would get upset that I rejected being close with her. She was red hot toward the end of the walk.     We went back to the cottage to get her things. I asked for her password to get her username off my laptop. She was explosive! She slammed the password into the keyboard, then yelled, “There! Now you have my password!” She angrily grabbed boxes out of my closet and ran them up to the palace while I attempted to get her off the computer. She was fast! I tried to slow her down, lessen the damage.     “Hey! It’s over! Damn you, it’s over!”     I backed off. I’ve never seen her like this, I thought. Maybe it is over. Before long, she had the boxes gone. She demanded my keys to the palace. I gave them to her. She slammed my keys down and left. She was to be gone.     I stood there trying to deal with the computer. I drank gin and smoked. I cried a bit. A half hour later, I decided to go see if I could get into the palace. I knew she’d be ok when she calmed down, but I had better be there or she might think I wanted it to be over. She’s like that.     The door was open slightly. She hadn’t locked it. I quietly walked in. it still felt like my place too. Just a few short hours ago, we were love birds in that kitchen.     I snuck back the hall to our room and slowly opened the door. Her angry voice pierced the silenced.     “Hey? Is that you?!”     “Yeah.”     “You broke in to my apartment! I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave!”     “Ok.”     I walked out, but used my old trick of taping a coin in the slot to keep a door from latching. As I left, I said “Lock the door!”     I went home and had another drink. I waited for a half hour. I knew she’d be sleeping. I went back to the palace. The trick worked. The door was open. I snuck in, quietly made my way to our room, and crawled in bed beside her. We were both snoozing in seconds.     I came to the next morning, in bed, alone. I wasn’t sure what the damage had been done. Thoughts raced. Was I there alone? Would I be arrested? Would things be alright? Was this the end?     First things first, I had to piss, bad. Not a sound came through the apartment. Next I needed coffee. I noticed my hangover wasn’t bad, but was enough. I hobbled down the hall. I smelled coffee. As I reached the kitchen, I heard her voice. It was cheery!;     “Hiya Babe!”     “Hi Beautiful.”     I poured coffee and drank. She looked at me cheerfully, but cautiously. I managed a weak smile, unsure of what was to happen. Was all forgotten?     I stumbled out to smoke with my coffee and nearly gagged on the smoke. I felt like death after all. She sat there, seemingly unsure of how I’d react when fully awake. We had been here before, but not to this level. I had more coffee and more smoke, then more coffee. She sat cheerfully. When I reached the forth cup, she saw I was awake and not furious. We stood outside and made small talk. It was like nothing happened.     “How did you get in the second time? I know I locked the door.”     “It was open. You may have locked it half way.”     “I want to have a look.”     Uh oh. The only thing she is concerned with is how I got in. this isn’t good. We looked at the door. She didn’t believe me. She knew there was something.     Nonetheless, there were my keys out on the table. I quietly grabbed them, and stuffed them into my pocket. She’d have stashed them if I wasn’t to have them. Before long, I went to get smokes. She asked me to grab avocado from the cottage for breakfast she offered to make. I stumbled down to the store and grabbed both a bottle of wine and smokes. I grabbed her key to the cottage while I was there. I came back and put it on top of her keys.     We ate together. There was some tension. We made small talk. It was a mystery as to where we were heading. Neither knew. What I figured was any argument could end us at that point. Small talk it was, for then.     We gave the cat her meds. It was like the exorcist. We cared for the cat. Talked of the cat. Sent messages to each other through the cat. It was like parents do with kids. Domestication of strays.     She went to the bathroom. Once she was inside, I snuck back to our bedroom, which was right across from the bathroom, and took my clothes off. When she came out, I walked to her. She smiled slightly and undressed. I took her from behind. We had two rounds. It was sweet.     We got ready to leave for our day together. I couldn’t be sure if it was our last day, as per my request. We walked hand in hand down the street.     “I sure am glad we got back together.” I began, searching for hints.     All I got was an enhanced sigh and a squeeze of the hand. We walked on, making small talk. We went to the waterfront. She told stories of her time with her parents. It was humorous. We laughed. We walked on.     The rain began, and we decided on a short cut home. She said she wanted to go to a show. We headed back to the palace. She took longer to get ready. I drank a bit more. She drank too. We left for the show.     It was a good show, interesting for the most part. Artists trying to make it. An aquaintence of her’s, a belly dancer, was performing. She was good. The vibe was good. The times were good. However, we were broke. Further, seeing that no fighting was in the picture, we needed time to heal together. We left the show and went to the cottage for a drink, intending to return.     Drinks poured, we chatted while I got caught up on smoking. Then we held each other on the couch. She then leaned down and put her head on my chest. I stroked her hair.     “You know, you’re right. It’s natural, after all this time, that you’d ask the question. We should be there. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just not there.”     I sat quiet for a minute, then decided to lighten the mood.     Eventually, the mood lightened, and we laughed, giggled, and made eyes at each other. Soon, we made out on the couch. Soon after, I began trying to peel her clothes off. She playfully made it slow. It was hot, simmering to a boil.     “This is like we’re having an early date.” She giggled.     “ummph..mmm.” my mouth was full of her boob.     She was on top. On top of me and her prowess. She beemed sexuality and freedom. She sat proud like an ancient Greek Goddess, admired and drooled over, the very spirit of wonderous lust and love. The stuff that’d kill a mere mortal. Not many men could handle such powerful goddess. She moved perfectly, devouring what she brought out of me, savoring it to the last drop. Her smile beamed satisfaction and pleasure.     We had another intense round, nearly breaking the free, beaten up coach I recently got. The nearly empty apartment echoed the sounds of intensity that had addicted us both. Afterward, relaxed slumber gripped her first. I held off, not wanting the night to end. Was it the last? It was no use, I fell victim to the harshity of sleep as well. It just felt so right.     Four hours later, we awoke when she got up to piss. She settled back in. I raised the issue of feeding the cat. We made our way the whole half block half asleep. I fed the cat. We crawled in bed and were snoring in moments.     It’s like nothing happened. I hope.

Grab My Blackened Hand Brian Looney     You don’t want these ink-stained hands on you. You don’t want them to descend, to smear darkness across your body. You’re a pure creature, an angel of the light, basking in its halo, the holy spectrum, the fury of the summer.     I wish you would disagree instead of standing there, mute. I wish you would argue your point, press it against my heart until the blood spurts. It’s so walled in that any sensation would be a pleasure. That is my status, now cut the right ventricle.     I wish you wouldn’t look away like that. Your indecision is agony. Well I’m not gonna stand here and watch your wheels turn. Only a wicked woman would weigh her options now, when she knows what’s really at stake.     Make a decision.     Grab my blackened hand, or leave us both suspended.

Jaime Walton reads the Brian Looney My 2012 Down in the Dirt poem Grab my Blackened Hand with live piano music by Gary straight from the June 2012 issue, live 6/9/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery in Chicago

Brian Looney Bio     Brian Looney was born 12/2/85 and is from Albuquerque, NM. He likes it when Lady Poetry kicks him in the head. The harder the better. Check out his website at Reclusewritings.com.

A Man of Good Cheer Tom Ball     The man of good cheer said, “Don’t give up on your dreams no matter what.”     These were dark economic days. There were many poor.     The man of good cheer got elected as mayor and one of the first things he did was to have people wear their dreams on their chests. Anyone could download their dreams from their chests.     The new mayor insisted on a totally socialist state. “It was no place for greedy people.” He said. As a result about half the people left for other worlds.     He said, “He wanted brotherly love and communal living.” Some said, “It was communism,” but he said, “Great brains are free to rise up to positions of power in our society”     And he said, “We were a race of dreamers with wine.”     People had children here which was unusual in the universe. We wanted a high birth rate. But we could not compete with clone production elsewhere. We were destined to be in the small minority.     People told the mayor, “He was too late to change human destiny and that androids and clones were taking over.” Super minds. “Our dreams were empty by comparison,” we told him.     But the man of good cheer said, “He championed the ordinary, normal humans.”     He said, “He wanted a world in which everyone got what they deserved.”     I said, “The world will never be perfect-quite the opposite. That is just how it is.”     People here tried to be perfect at one thing; their job. But were woefully inadequate at living life. A lot of people were “sunset painters.” They painted different landscapes with exotic looking people. And there was a sense of doom amongst the people. People lived for the day and partied hard wondering when the show would be over and we would be eliminated.     Many of us didn’t want to work but the man of good cheer said, “People need to keep busy. If you sit around and think all day you will ’do the devil’s work.”’     I asked, “What do you mean?”     But the man of good cheer had no response.

Feather on Bone, art by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

4 September 2008 Sarah Lucille Marchant stupid heart, fumbling binocular eyes wincing zoomed in, staked out, fire burning clinging to the most unreasonable hope; tell it to stop jumping up my throat

Sarah Lucille Marchant Bio     Sarah Lucille Marchant is a Missouri resident and university student, studying literature and journalism. Her writing has appeared in publications such as Line Zero, Every Day Fiction, A Cappella Zoo, and Straylight.

Between the Barbed Wire and the Still-to-be-Discovered ‘God Particle’ Remains an Unfinished Line of American Poetry (#3). Kenneth DiMaggio Putting on Christmas tree lights helps but still makes it look like an interrogation center but it will soon be forgotten when you grab some bargain- priced World War Two or True Crime books at the closing of the last Border’s bookstore and the next day at work everybody’s cubicle will have a brand new paper- back written by SEAL snipers in Afghanistan or Iraq or pages about a suburban murder so gruesome and recent you can still remember the commercials shown before & after its 30-second- local evening news clip But if the new Chevrolets have digital seatback televisions while a mega-pharmaceutical company guarantees to make your erection last longer what is the name of the family that was only three houses down from yours before it became another half read and soon forgotten book?

Lady Killer Donald C. White Jr.     The first thing he noticed was her neck. It was the first thing Rick Smith ever saw. Her name was Lisa Montgomery and she was the next victim. He scowled, because the sweater she wore partly obscured the object of his attention. So, he contented himself with observing the underside of her chin, and how it proceeded down to her throat. “Hello, Lisa.”     She stood up from the booth as he approached. “Good evening, Rick.” She was of a slight build and moderate height. Her skin was fair, with the appearance of smoothness. Her breasts were concealed by her form-fitting sweater and the blouse underneath. A flowing skirt reached down to the knee, with stockings beneath to cover her legs. He sighed within. It was cold outside, and he would have to wait to open his present.     Rick bowed low, offering her a rose, “For a lovely lady on a frigid night.”     She giggled. “Thank you.” Lisa stretched forth her pretty fingers and snatched the prize from his grasp. She sniffed the soft petals, and then smiled at him.     He had met her at a party just a few days ago: a mild little dinner festivity, in which the music had hardly a tempo. But it was in a relaxed setting that he did his best work. His trained eye could pick them out... the single girls... from those fresh out of high school to the young businesswomen.     Yes, there were rival suitors, but he rarely had difficulty gaining the attention of a fair damsel. He was a tall and handsome man, with dark hair and shiny white teeth. His eyes had the power to mesmerize. Rick would introduce himself politely, making contact only to kiss a hand. There was one goal in mind... a date. He would restrain his impulses for that one night. She had to be at ease. She must be separated from the others. And he needed some privacy.     The authorities had never caught him. This is because he never stayed to face the consequences for his actions. One thing was necessary: do not remain in the same area. Once they find a body, an investigation ensues. He had to leave town before people started asking questions. Rick Smith was a phantom of sorts, and of course, the name was one of many. He would remain concealed for a while, establishing himself in a different place, among other people, with a new name. Friendships were fleeting, and he rarely maintained contact for any length of time. There was one goal, one prize, and one obsession.     He lived by his investments, usually able to read the market and which direction it was headed. Rick was fully aware that these finances were a means to track him. But first, they needed to link him to the murders. He employed disguises sometimes. Mostly, he practiced the art of evasion.     And there were other methods to attract victims. From the dating services to clubs, to picking women up on the side of the road, there was always a means to get them alone. But Rick targeted a certain type of female... those with class. Ah, yes. He especially liked young businesswomen, those who would make for interesting conversation before the inevitable. These were hard to find, but worth the wait.     And now here they were, at her last supper. He chuckled within. “Have you ordered already?”     “I ordered the wine. And here it is!”     A waitress came up with a tray and set a few full glasses in front of them.     Rick took a sip. “Ah: a fine vintage. You have good taste, my dear.”     She beamed. “You are too kind.” She paused, staring at him. “Rick, your features are familiar. Have we met before?”     The man pretended to ponder. “Maybe we went to school together.”     She studied him carefully. “I do not recall.”     He leaned closer. “You could be confusing me with someone else. I think I would remember a face as pretty as yours.”     Lisa smirked. “Of course... Rick, you said you were in town on business. What company do you work for?”     “The only one I can trust, my dear. Myself.”     She studied him for a moment. “How interesting...”     Rick explained, “I am heavily invested in numerous companies. So, in essence, they work for me.” He grinned.     She gave a look of quiet amusement. “You must be quite the investor.”     He took a sip of wine. “I know a few things.”     She stared at him. “Mr. Smith, do tell.”     He held up a hand. “I wouldn’t want to bore you. Instead, why don’t you tell me what it is like to be an attorney?”     She rolled her eyes. “It can be rather dull at times. It consists of long hours working on cases, adversarial judges, and pleading with a jury to see things my way. But it can be lucrative.”     He smiled. “You are a powerful woman.”     She glanced over at him, “So good of you to notice.”     A waiter approached and they ordered dinner.     While they awaited their food, Rick started to chuckle.     She peered questioningly over at him. “What amuses you?”     “You do, my dear: a powerful woman ordering a salad?”     She pursed her lips. “Mr. Smith, I shall not make excuses for the extent of my appetite. Suffice it to say, that I ordered that which I will consume. And what of your order: can you really ingest filet mignon, with two different vegetables, bread and a bowl of soup?”     “I guess I have a bigger appetite than you do this evening.”     She smiled, “Perhaps.”     He held up his glass, “A toast, to powerful women: may their other appetites be far greater than the physical ones.”     Lisa lifted her own, “And to charming men: may their other appetites live up to the physical ones.”     Rick grinned, thinking. “My dear, you have no idea.”     He was driving now, along the city streets. Lisa sat on the passenger side, staring out into the night. The man got an even better look at her neck this time. How the underside of her chin curved downward to her throat. Neither her coat nor her sweater could fully conceal the tender flesh underneath. He imagined the blood now pumping through her arteries, capillaries and veins. Her heart beating incessantly within her chest... Soon the great pumping would cease. The vessels would grow empty. All of the body’s work would come to a grinding halt. He could feel a tightening in his loins. The man was becoming aroused. The time was drawing nigh.     “Rick?”     “Yes, Lisa.”     “Where are we going?”     “To a special place, my dear: a quiet, little hill where we can be alone.”     She gave a look of annoyance. “Why do you not take me to a hotel?”     He glanced over at her. “Would you rather spend the night in a stuffy hotel room, or up on a hill underneath the stars?”     Lisa gave a sigh. “I certainly hope you do not expect to lay me on the ground on such a chilly night as this. I’ll catch my death!”     He stifled a grin, “No, my dear. We will stay warm inside my car. But the hillside view is not to be missed.”     She pondered for a moment. “Someone might see us.”     He snickered within. “Don’t be afraid. I will protect you.”     Lisa grew indignant. “I said nothing about being afraid. But I would be embarrassed if someone were to be watching us.”     Rick thought for a moment. “How do you know the hotel staff doesn’t have hidden cameras in the rooms, to watch their guests?”     Lisa stared at him. “They cannot. Such unwarranted surveillance is illegal.”     “Yes my dear, but what does it matter as long as you don’t get caught? Then, the law is powerless.”     She frowned at him, and then her expression softened. “Of course, you are right. Even if they were caught, their manager could hire a good lawyer and save them from prison. Still, they would lose their jobs for such shenanigans.”     “Again my dear, only if they get caught.”     She gave a look of sullen resignation, “Very well. We shall see if this hillside view is worth the drive. But if I remain unimpressed, then you will take me to a hotel and we shall sleep properly.”     At first, he was irritated, thinking, “Does she actually think she has a say in the matter?!” But Rick knew he must remain calm. The time was approaching, and he did not wish to do anything that might alert his victim to her fate. Finally, he replied, “Very well. Your wish is my command. If you don’t like the view, then I’ll take you to a hotel. Hopefully, no one is manning the cameras tonight.”     Lisa bore an expression of smug satisfaction.     Rick’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel and he uttered within, “Soon my dear, very soon.”     Shortly, the car came to a stop at the top of a hill. A beauteous expanse spread out before them, with evergreens filling the horizon. The moon was a mere sliver. The sky was dotted with stars, which forced their way into view. It seemed so tranquil, and yet so lonely. As if the heavens were struggling for attention.     Rick turned to Lisa. “Here we are.”     She peered out through the windshield, saying nothing. Lisa merely studied her surroundings inasmuch as the scant light would allow. “Quite an interesting place Rick, quiet and secluded... Perhaps, I was too quick to dismiss it.”     He smiled. “I’m glad you like it. I found this location recently. It is a good place to sit and think.”     Lisa rolled her eyes. “I hope you did not bring me here to ponder.”     “No,” he reassured, “I did not. I wanted us to have some privacy.”     She nodded slowly, just staring out into the night. “It is quite an alluring scene, very nostalgic.”     He looked over at her. “Have you been here before?”     Lisa gave him an irritated glance. “I mean that it reminds me of other places and other times.”     Rick chuckled, “As long as you’re not thinking of someone else.”     She smirked. “Right now, you have my attention.”     He nodded. “Good. Then, maybe you could help me.”     Lisa stared at him.     He said, “My lips are chapped. Do you know a way to moisten them?”     She leaned towards him, her lips hovering in front of his face for a moment. “Perhaps I do.” And then, she started licking around his mouth. She brought her lips in contact with his, and then her tongue shot between his teeth seeking out his taste organ.     He jolted from her sudden actions, thinking, “She sure doesn’t waste time.” Then, he grew troubled, wondering if she really was thinking of someone else. But the woman seemed to be lavishing all her attentions on him. Their tongues joined, and a strange dance ensued, with one following the motions of the other. He had yet to undo his seatbelt, while she was free, her body moving closer. The man could feel the pressure in his loins. He clicked the button, and the seatbelt slid away from between them. Rick was glad for the cold; it meant that he could be wearing his gloves already.     Lisa writhed upon him, applying suction to the lip-lock. She was pressing against him, her pert breasts rubbing against her brassiere. Her hands gripped his shoulders and then the nimble fingers began to pull at his shirt.     His mind was flooded with sensation. How far should he let it go? “It has to stop, before it is too late... Just a little longer. Please?” He grabbed at her sweater.     She leaned back, and pulled it up and off, revealing her thin blouse. She must have removed her coat while they had been talking. Now, she just stared at him, undoing the buttons one by one. She hesitated, shivering despite the warmth of the car’s interior.     He could see her trembling, and was aroused all the more. “Yes. She is not so sure. Her confidence has melted like candle wax. We are alone, and she is vulnerable.” He could not suppress a vicious grin.     Then, she pulled the blouse away from her, and let it fall. She bowed her head, undoing the brassiere.     Rick’s eyes lit up, as her twin orbs bounced ever so slightly into view. This was it. The time had come. Any farther, and he could be compromised. The evidence would be unmistakable. But she was so beautiful, and helpless. He must force himself to act. Now, before it is too late. He pulled her into a deep kiss, feeling her bare breasts against his chest. The man longed to be free of his hindering garments. For a moment, he regretted what he must do and merely basked in her warmth. And then, the moment passed.     His hands had been caressing her shoulders. Now, they worked their way inward. And finally, his gloved hands surrounded her throat!     She choked, startled from her lovemaking. She was being pushed backward, and she could not breathe! Her hands went instinctively to his wrists, struggling to release the crushing grip. Lisa grew dizzy, her movements becoming unfocused and spasmodic.     He forced her backward against the side door, staring at her but not at the eyes. His gaze was on his hands around her neck. He stopped applying pressure when he realized that he had cut her air completely off. Now, he just needed to hang on. Too much force would cause damage. Rick wanted her intact.     In a desperate motion, she began to claw at his gloved hands. She did not have the energy to swipe at his face. The burning sensation was growing within her chest. As she grew weaker, her movements grew that much more ineffectual.     Soon, the woman fell limp. But Rick had been deceived before. So, he held on for a few more moments. She was not moving. Her gaze was vacant. But still, he held on. Her lifeless fingers lost their purchase and one arm slipped down to the floor.     Finally, he let go, trembling in spite of himself. He felt euphoria and disgust. It was always like this. Why couldn’t he just enjoy this one thing? Why all of the drama? Everybody dies. Why should those deaths be in vain? Sure, he had all his excuses. But none reassured him.     The man sat there for a moment, just staring at what he had done: the beautiful young woman, reduced to a corpse. They had been talking only a short while ago. And now, she was gone. And he was alone.     He did not dare look into the eyes, but had ceased to feel anything from them. He placed his ear against her chest. The beating of the heart was not there. The machine had stopped.     Rick hurriedly inspected his leather gloves. Her fingernails had stretched the material but had not damaged them. But then, he saw a dot of red, and grew concerned. Swiftly, he grabbed her lifeless hand and saw where the nail had been pulled up slightly. And there was blood! Some of it was on the floor mat. A few drops were on her chest.     “No!” He became angry. Blood was never good. They can track it. They can find me! He struggled to remain calm. “Burn the gloves. Burn the floor mat. Dump the body. They’ll never know.”     He reached under his seat and found a plastic bag of sufficient size. “Everything is fine. I can fix this. No problem.” He shoved his gloves into the bag and tossed it on the floor.     Then, he stared out the rear window. No movement back on the road. He studied his surroundings. Nobody was around to see him, he hoped. But then, Rick was always struggling with these fears. Should he put her in the trunk, or just drive? Take her to the river? Yeah, the river... It is not yet cold enough to freeze. Besides that, it is moving water. The current will take her... like it took the others.     Not all of them. But rivers had more than once served his purposes. Digging holes was harder work, and there was always the chance that he would be seen. Sometimes he left the bodies at his lodgings. But only when he was confident the proprietors would not recognize him. Only a few paid attention. And he had good instincts.     But this time, it would be the river. Rick knew where it was. He had studied the location. There was very little traffic this time of night. Drop her off and then get moving. Just disappear, like he always did.     He studied the body, noting the twisted, unnatural pose. Should he put her in the trunk? Or just leave her there. The man noticed one of her legs was pressed against him.     With a look of annoyance, he gripped the limb and forced it over onto the passenger side. Suddenly, another wave of anxiety struck. He searched the floor for her brassiere and sweater. The former was hanging off the seat, and the latter had managed to fall where the blood drops had not. He took a deep breath, “Lucky me. Very well, time to drop her off.”     He reached the bridge. There was no traffic on the road, and at this time of year, it was unlikely anyone would be fishing. He pulled off to the side, extinguishing all lights, and just watched.     The moonlight seemed to set the bridge aglow. He stared over at the dead body in the passenger seat. “If I heave her over the side, my silhouette will be easy to spot.” Rick strained to see the shadowy banks. Maybe he should move over there, and carry her down to the water. “No, the current might not catch her. She could wash up on the bank, too soon. And the sooner they find her, the fresher my trail.”     Compromising, he moved closer to one end of the bridge. The light did not seem so bright there. He stared off down the road, realizing that he would see any headlights, before they were upon him. If discovered, he would drive away as quickly as possible. Rick gritted his teeth. “The longer I sit here with the corpse, the more danger I am in. It’s time to move. Get out. Toss her over the side. Then, leave.” He repeated the instructions, as if this were a sacred mission. But he must succeed. Failure was not an option. A few brief moments were all it would take to lift her up and out and over.     Rick Smith opened the door and stepped out into the night. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, to conceal them from the cold. The man stared around anxiously, keyed to any movement, the faintest glimmer of a light or any sign that he was being watched. He scowled up at the crescent moon, cursing it for its brightness. And then, he was standing by the passenger door. Taking a deep breath, he started to open it. Suddenly, there was weight pushing against him! His eyes grew wide and he braced himself, peering through the window. Rick gave an exasperated groan. The corpse had been leaning against the door, so when he opened it...     He cursed himself for a fool, and then carefully opened the car door enough that he could grab hold of the body. Pushing the door outward, he managed to cradle Lisa’s form and lift her out into the night. She twisted!     Rick struggled to remain calm. “It was a convulsion. You’ve seen it before. Even when they’re dead, the body goes through its own shutting down process. Come on, man. Pull yourself together. How many times have you done this?” He sighed, exhaling a puff of steam into the frigid air.     Draping the body over his shoulders, he carried her over to the side of the bridge. And this time, he heard something behind him! Ducking low, he placed the corpse on the concrete. Lying down on top of it, he tried to make the most of the car’s shadow. Feeling her beneath him, he once more felt the longing that had possessed him earlier. He did not look at her face, but could see the marks on her neck. They were very slight, but he could see them. Rick lay there for a moment, listening.     He heard water flowing below. There was a slight breeze moving through the trees. But these were not the sounds he was awaiting. The man was listening for movement... or searching for lights. Or something!     The waiting was unbearable. Any moment, someone would peek around the car at him. Or a flashlight would shine into his face. Or a hand would grab hold of him; or maybe just headlights approaching on the road... But there was nothing but the waiting. It seemed as if the moon was smiling down on him, in its own lop-sided fashion. Would the great shining mouth begin to laugh, showing its celestial teeth? It was mocking him, and he did not like it. “Damn you,” he hissed. “If I could tear you from the sky, I would.”     Finally, he could wait no longer. Crawling off the body, while hiding behind the car, he crept closer to see around it. There was the night, the bridge with hazy shadows at either end. No movement there, no lights, nothing.     Behind him, Lisa sat up.     Rick was preoccupied and did not notice her shivering against the cold. Nor did he see her holding onto her sore finger. His eyes frantically searched the night. He knew he had heard something. It could not have been his imagination. It was distinct. It was certain. It was real.     And then, he did hear something... next to his ear. It was a rasping whisper, but he heard it. “Riiiccckkk.”     And before he could react, he felt teeth against his neck! Something was biting him. He could barely make out the feminine shape behind him... but he knew who it was!     Rick struggled to move, but a pair of arms had wrapped themselves around him. How could her grip have become this strong?! The man twisted and writhed, as something warm dripped down his neck. She was not just biting, he realized. She was feeding!     And Lisa was not being gentle. The teeth were gnawing and tearing at him. Rick tried to power his way out of her grasp. But was swiftly growing weaker. “No,” he mumbled. But his strength was gone. She had him. For the first time, a woman held him helpless.     She wrapped her legs around him, biting and sucking, drinking his life as if he were a bottle of wine. And she was thirsty... very thirsty.     Rick fought to remain conscious. He struggled to keep his eyelids from falling, plunging him into darkness. He was light-headed and exhausted. Every breath became a labor.     And then, she was speaking to him, in a rough and raspy tone. “I have been waiting for you, Rick. All these years, I searched for someone like you. And I found so many. Predators, not knowing they are prey. So very like the creature that took Elizabeth Montgomery from the world of the living. He was the first. But I swore that day he would not be the last.”     Rick softly replied, “How?”     There was a titter. “I have been dead so long it has become an easy thing for me. I am a hunter, like you. I seek out my prey, much like you. I give them the chance to show what they are. And then, I can feed in peace... without remorse. Those whom I have misjudged may have me at their pleasure. But they never see me again. They are not my prey. They are free to live.”     The man gurgled out a plea.     She snickered. “Perhaps I shall grant you the mercy shown to me.” She sunk her teeth into him once again.     Rick could not move. His limbs were useless fixtures. But the pain on his face was evident. Soon, he had the vague sensation of being hoisted up in the air.     She stared into his fading eyes. And then she rasped, “You will be pleased to know you have sated my appetite, Rick. It is time to leave. But first...” And then, he was falling. So far down, it seemed. He numbly felt the cold water, realizing what she had done. The man took one more gasping breath, as the water poured in all around, engulfing him. Soon, he could feel a slight burning in his lungs. The light dimmed, and he drifted into darkness.

For the Kids Amanda E. Ronan     It started with a photograph- 2 men, 1 woman, 2 children, both girls - arranged tall in back, short in front. The older of the children, a surly looking teenager, can barely contain her contempt- of life, of family, of putting on a show. The younger child grins widely, missing a tooth or two. The woman, early 40s-ish, smiles uncomfortably. The two men, one early 40s-ish, one early 30s-ish, beam happily, without notice- of life, of family, of contempt.     It started with the surly teenage looking at this photograph a few years after it was taken; a few years further into life, a few years past the anger, a few years out of teen angst, a few years into a stable relationship. A few years free of burdensome family secrets. With new eyes, fresh eyes, loving eyes she looked at the photo- perhaps in the process of organizing a photo album, maintaining keepsakes, filing memories. The photo was just one in a stack accumulated over many years, saved in the process of many moves. The five faces peered out at her, unmoving, yet telling. Telling a story of a family, a family that changed and evolved over time as its members have grown.     It really started 10 years before that photo resurfaced. A stickywarm August afternoon in New England. A girl and her young sister are outside playing, laughing. They hear the call for dinner and traipse noisily up the porch steps. Their parents are not, as expected, in the kitchen. Instead they are in the living room, the family room. Mom on the couch, Dad in his brown recliner. The girls sit, one on the floor with legs criss-crossed; the other on the couch. The mom, the dad, they break the news. They’re not in love anymore. It’s over. Both daughters assume responsibility- “we weren’t good enough!” one cried. “We’ll behave!” one promises. They look for any small iota of reason- anyway to fix the problem. The parents love their daughters and assure them that the separation has nothing to do with their behavior. The parents love their daughters and explain that sometimes people just fall out of love. The parents love their daughters and so they lie- just a little.     A few months later, it starts to unravel. Piece by piece the older daughter starts to pick up on hints that all is not what it appears. Dad moves out. Dad moves into an apartment with a roommate- a one room apartment, a male roommate. Can it be? How does the young girl approach this? There are accusations in her mind. She finally asks her mother. “Yes, he is,” the mother replies. The girl goes blank- inhales sharply. Her father is not who she thought. They lied.     The conversations start with the dad; he wants to talk. “I’ve always felt different,” he explains. He supposes he’s always known. He did love her mother- he still does- just not like the way a husband loves a wife. Now he loves his roommate the way he thought, the way everyone says, he was supposed to love his ex-wife. And his roommate loves him. They are togethertogether- partners. The girl tries to process what she hears. It moves through synapses; it morphs, evolves. It simmers angrily. “He used her,” she thinks. “He was using her, when they made us. We are mistakes. He was wrong about what he wanted- a wife and kids. He lied to her, he used her- they made us. We are lies.” She grows distant from her father. She is not uncomfortable with the newlove; she is uncomfortable feeling like a careless afterthought.     The girl starts to grow, get older. As a teenager she can’t understand how her mother can be so forgiving. For years now, the parents raise the children separately- mostly the mother, but occasionally the father. However, holidays, important events, birthdays include everyone. There are not separate Christmases, Easters, 16th birthday parties, high school graduations. There is one- with a mother, a sister, a father, and a partner. The parents love their daughters and will not fight or argue around them. The parents love their daughter and don’t want them to be upset. The parents love their daughters and want them to grow up to be true to themselves. This is hard for the daughter, since it is a secret.     No one can know- what if people find out?     No one can know- imagine what would happen to your father; he’s a respected member of this community.     No one can know- you’re expected to accept your father, but also accept that others may not.     No one can know- this sort of thing just isn’t discussed; isn’t welcomed in this town.     Some years pass and now people can know. The father retires from his respected position. The girls are growing up and not around so much. He moves out-of-state- to the city- to a neighborhood with rainbow flags in store windows and men holding hands with other men on the street. Now people know and it’s not such a big deal. The girl’s friends know. The girl’s boyfriend knows. Without the bottleneck pressure of secret-keeping, the girl cares less about how she used to interpret her father’s words. She knows her parents love her and have spent the years trying to show her what family is. She knows her parents love her and continued to be friends because they care about what family is. She knows her parents love her and are showing her what love is.     Eventually it ends. It becomes- just life, just family. The older child turned into a not-so-angry adult. She began to realize what her parents did for her, what they each sacrificed to maintain their family. Her mother forgave so easily. She did not want her daughters to be angry, to look back and remember bad times. She was strong for her girls, despite what she grappled with, agonized over, struggled to understand as a woman whose husband came out of the closet after 13 years of marriage. Her father risked losing his family, his friends, his community in order to find himself. He dealt with the anger, mistrust, and misunderstandings coming from the people he loved. He accepted himself and was able to guide a family through processing what it had become.     And so it ends, as the adult child moves into her own home and unpacks her belongings. She smiles at a family photograph, knowing that the sacrifice, heartache, and challenges that got them to this point is the true, undeterred meaning of love. In the photo she is wearing white. The man she loves is wearing black. Around them are a woman- radiant, smiling, two men- happy, true, and a beautiful 20 year-old sister-with a full set of teeth.

Crossroads Kerry Lown Whalen     Snow gunned the Triumph 900 and merged with the traffic in Darlinghurst Road. He gulped in a lungful of early morning air, his head bursting with options for his future. For years he’d led a carefree existence, choosing to work at night and surf all day. Then he met Shelly. Gorgeous, easygoing, successful and ambitious, Shelly was the best thing that had happened to him and he would do anything to keep her.     The eastern horizon glowed gold as he approached the red and blue flashing lights of a Random Breath Testing unit.     Idiots. The cops were so predictable. He’d been flagged down at the same spot twice in the past month. He slowed, pulled into the gutter beside the cop and slipped off his helmet.     “Been drinking, mate?”     “No. Working.”     “Where?”     “At Kings Cross. Hot Spot Niteclub.”     The cop prepared the breathalyzer. “Know the drill?”     “Yep. Blow until you say stop.”     “Blow.” The cop tapped his foot. “Stop.” He checked the result. “Looks fine. Off you go.”     With a wave, Snow eased into Oxford Street. Burning outwards from the horizon, streaks of crimson and yellow flared, a sure sign there’d be crowds on the beach and a zoo out the back. #     He heard Shelly’s hair dryer blasting from the bathroom signaling she’d soon be heading off to work. Dammit. He’d wanted to cook Eggs Benedict, spoil her a little before she left home. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his shirt and pants and headed for the balcony. His favorite board shorts hung there, damp and sandy. He banged them against the bricks, tugged them on and wandered inside.     In a cloud of steam, Shelly emerged from the bathroom draped in a towel.     “How was work?”     He hugged her, inhaled her fragrance, stroked her silky hair. “A madhouse. And I got pulled over – RBT.”     “Again.”     “Same time, same place. Those cops have no imagination.”     She chuckled. “One day they’ll catch you. And not for drunk driving either.”     He sighed as he watched her body disappear beneath clothes designed to sell real estate. “You look great babe. Pity you’re going to work.”     She chucked him under the chin. “Conrad fancies me. Follows me around.”     His stomach lurched. “Want me to sort him out?”     “No – he’s just a sleaze.” #     He tipped muesli into a bowl and drowned it in apple juice. On an empty stomach, he couldn’t face milk. Perhaps it was the pills. He wandered out to the balcony, squinted at the surf and spooned muesli into his mouth, ideas swirling around his head. He’d never considered a career before; never had reason to. Until Shelly came into his life, it had suited him to work nights. And his sideline was lucrative too. But Shelly earned big bucks and he wanted her respect. Should he go into real estate? He didn’t have a clue. And thinking about it was doing his head in.     Waves steepled and broke a long way out, only to re-form in the white water closer to shore. He couldn’t wait to grab his board and get amongst it. From the bedroom came the insistent ring of his mobile. Cursing, he dashed inside before it went to message bank.     “Hi Trig.”     “Want some E’s?”     “How many?”     “Two hundred.”     “How much?”     “The usual.”     He hesitated. “What’s the go?”     “Found a new dealer.”     “Reliable?”     “Greedy. He put Bazza out of business.”     Snow paused. “I’ll take the lot. Put your skates on. The surf’s pumping and I want to get out there.”     “Ten minutes.” #     Snow rocked up early that night and spread the word around the club he had good gear for sale. His job as a glassie gave him access to the back where customers lit up, the smoke so potent it made his head spin. He collected glasses in the bar area, nodded to Danny and Mal, and stacked the dishwasher. If luck was on his side, he’d make a shed-load tonight.     He headed outside. One of his regulars, Nick, waited at the usual spot.     “Good batch, Snow?”     “Yep. New dealer.”     “Could be risky.” He leaned close. “Any freebies?”     “Nah. Tried one myself.” He chuckled. “Blew my head off.”     “Can I have one? Pay you tomorrow?”     He paused, saw the need in Nick’s eyes. “Fifty bucks.”     “Sweet.”     Snow prowled the paved area, looking behind crates and planter boxes for glasses. The wankers liked hiding them, making his job difficult. Crowds clustered in the warm night air, smoking, drinking, their shouted conversations and bursts of laughter competing with the doof-doof music. It was a mug’s game being a glassie. He was ready for something better.     Inside the club the DJ played Lady GaGa while Snow gathered up glasses from the tables and window ledges, clubbers swaying to the beat on the dance floor. Ultra-violet light probed the darkness, making apparitions of white clothing. When the music mellowed later he’d be searching for glasses under chairs and tables.     During his break Snow drifted out the back and leaned against the rough brick wall. He spotted a couple of dorks hanging around, trying to act cool.     The rangy one approached. “Got an E mate?”     Snow stood tall, met his eyes. “Why ask me?”     “Mal said you had some.”     Snow looked over his shoulder at the dork’s mate. “You sharing with him?”     “Yep.”     He winked. “It’ll be some trip.” #     The next day Snow lazed with Shelly on the balcony, drinking coffee and watching board riders bobbing off the point. An offshore breeze flattened the swell, a smattering of white caps ruffling its surface. The shrieks of children paddling at the water’s edge split the air.     Snow gazed at Shelly reclining on the banana lounge. Her sun-flecked hair lifted in the breeze, her tanned skin glistened.     “You’re such a babe. Too good for me.” He perched beside her.     “You act like a cool dude but you’re really a softie.” She squeezed his bicep.     He grinned. “We’re good together. I want it to last.”     “Why wouldn’t it?”     “My job sucks. It’s not a career.”     She nodded. “You should aim higher.”     “I’m thinking about it. How’s the real estate game?”     “Great. Except for Conrad.”     “What’s the problem?”     She shuddered. “He’s creepy. Leers at me.”     “Bummer.” He ran his fingers through her hair, a muscle twitching near his eye. “I’d like to strangle him – slowly.”     She smiled, cheeks dimpled. “Me too.”     “Why not leave?”     She shook her head. “The money’s great. I can handle Conrad.”     He lifted her chin, looked into her eyes. “Tell me if he crosses the line.”     “It won’t happen.” She roused herself from the banana lounge and collected the cups. “Want to come shopping?”     “Sure.”     Snow’s mobile rang as they left the apartment. He checked the caller and let it go to message bank. Trigger could wait. #     On his way to work he called at Trigger’s flat. He rapped twice on the door before it opened.     “G’day Trig. What’ve you got?”     “Two hundred.”     “I’ll come in.” He shouldered his way through the doorway and down the dim hall. The place had never been painted, the hallway remaining its original muddy brown, the worn carpet an even darker shade. “Same price as last time?”     “Yep.”     “What’s the new supplier like?”     “Shifty. A conman.”     Snow frowned. “Can’t you find someone else?”     Trig shrugged. “It’s time I got out of the game.”     “How many E’s do you drop?”     “Heaps. You?”     “A few a week.”     “A drop in the ocean.”     Snow cuffed his shoulder. “Get your act together, Trig. You need a clear head for business.” #     Shelly drove through heavy morning traffic to the office and parked her SUV around the corner. She planned to follow up some prospects from an open-house, then inspect a property in Dickson Street at eleven.     On her way in she smiled at the receptionist. “Morning Patti.”     “Like some coffee?”     “Just had a cup, thanks.” She switched on her computer and checked her emails. Nothing urgent showed on the screen. She’d get stuck into those phone calls immediately.     Conrad’s voice boomed from the adjoining office. “Got a minute Shelly?” She cursed under her breath. If she’d noticed his Beamer parked on the street, she wouldn’t have come in.     “Sure.” She sucked in a deep breath and sat in a chair opposite him, her eyes drawn to the calendar above his head featuring a beach babe in a bikini.      Conrad’s wide smile revealed unnaturally white teeth against swarthy skin. “How did the open-house go?”     “Nine groups in all. There’s some interest, despite the price.”     He nodded, leaned back, his shirt buttons straining across his gut. “How about lunch today?”     She wanted to slap his pudgy face. “Sorry. I’ve got an inspection at eleven. Then I’m meeting Snow.”     He twirled his wedding ring. “I don’t know what you see in that guy. He’s a loser.”     She stood and glared. He had a nerve commenting on her private life. “I have calls to make.”     He scrambled out of his chair and grabbed her around the waist. His slobbery lips puckered as he leaned close.     She pushed him away. “Cut it out.”     Red-faced, he blustered. “For Christ’s sake, lighten up. What’s a kiss between friends?”     Fists clenched, she strode from his office. #     Snow surfed all day, paddling out to the point where the swells peaked. From out the back he carved some long rides all the way to the beach. As the sun crept across the sky the waves got messier and he copped a hammering. He jogged home, hosed off his board and eased his aching muscles under a stinging shower. He didn’t have to work tonight and planned to cook a special meal for Shelly.     He padded to the kitchen and chopped chicken, onions, celery, and carrots. A vapor of steam erupted when he tossed them in a wok, the ingredients sizzling as he stirred them with a wooden spoon. Perhaps he’d buy a cafe one day, cook Asian meals and boss everyone around. He’d never thought of cooking as a career before, but it could happen if he was smart.     “I’m home.” When the door closed behind Shelly, he added chicken stock, noodles, fish sauce and coriander. “Smells like Thai.” She pecked his cheek.     “Yep. Stir fry.”     “I’m starving.”     He laid raffia mats, serviettes and chopsticks on the table. At its centre, a lighted candle cast a warm glow around the room. He returned to the kitchen, spooned the food into bowls and carried them inside.     “Wine?” He held up a bottle of Riesling.     “Sure.”     He poured two glasses, clinked his against hers. “Here’s to us.”     She looked at him, head tilted. “Who’d have thought we’d still be together after a year.”     He nodded. “Opposites attract.”     “Yep. I’m clever and you’re not.”     He grinned. “I’m an ace surfer. An amazing cook. And I’ll own a restaurant one day.”     “Is that what you want?”     He met her eyes. “Yep. I want you. And a restaurant.”     She laughed. “Suits me.” She patted his hand. “You have the potential to succeed, Snow.”     “Thanks. I’d like to surprise you one day.”     “Let’s drink to that.” They clinked glasses and sipped to the sounds of waves whooshing shoreward and lapping the sand. “Something happened at work today.”     “What?”     “Conrad made a move on me.”     His jaw tightened. “What did you do?”     “Pushed him away.”     Snow banged the table. “I’d like to re-arrange his face.”     “Don’t cross him, Snow. He’s dangerous. Has connections.” #     Rain drummed on the roof all night, water from the gutters sloshing down the pipes and gurgling into the drain. While Snow tossed about in bed making plans, the storm moved out to sea, taking with it lightning jags and thunderclaps.     After breakfast Snow lingered with Shelly over coffee at the kitchen bench. “What’s on today, Shell?”     “Three property inspections at nine, ten and eleven. What about you?”     “The surf’s up but I’m giving it a miss. How about lunch at Le Rendezvous?”     Her eyes sparkled. “Yes please.”     “Meet you there at noon.”     With the plan clear in his mind, Snow pulled on jeans and a black T-shirt. He gazed at his reflection, flexed his muscles, satisfied he’d get respect today. He ambled downstairs to the Triumph, started the engine and rumbled along the slick streets to Shelly’s office. Parked out front Conrad’s Beamer gleamed under a watery sun. Snow removed his helmet and gloves, his heart pounding.     He nodded to Patti at the reception desk, strode into Conrad’s office and slammed the door.     Conrad’s eyes bulged as Snow loomed over him. “What are you doing here?”     “Shelly’s resigned. You won’t be seeing her again.”     His face reddened. “I’d like to hear that from her.”     Snow stepped around the desk, gripped Conrad’s shirt front and twisted it. “You’re hearing it from me. I want the money she’s earned in her account today.”     Cords stood out on Conrad’s neck, his face purpling. “That’s Patti’s job.”     Snow released his grip, opened the door and beckoned to Patti. Conrad straightened his shirt and tie while she stood in the doorway.     “Shelly’s resigned. Transfer what she’s owed.”     Patti looked from Conrad to Snow. “Okay. But there are commissions pending.”     Snow nodded. “Transfer them later.”     Patti glanced at Conrad. “Do as he says.” She nodded and left.     Arms crossed, Snow glared at Conrad. “You’re a sleaze. Can’t keep your hands to yourself.”     Sweat trickled from Conrad’s face. He mopped at it with a white linen handkerchief. “Nothing happened Snow. I respect Shelly. She’s my top agent.”     “You should’ve thought of that before.”     From the outer office came the tap-tap of Patti’s keyboard, the printer whirring and spewing out paper. She appeared at the door and handed the printout to Snow.     “The funds are in Shelly’s account.”     “Thanks. She’ll expect the commissions later.”     Patti nodded and left.     Snow leaned against the door frame. “It’s over, Conrad. Any trouble and I’ll be back.”     He shrugged. “Sure. No hard feelings.”     Snow walked out. #     At Le Rendezvous, red-and-white checked cloths covered the tables and waiters glided around them carrying plates fragrant with food. Snow and Shelly sat at a quiet table for two overlooking the bougainvillea-shaded courtyard. He stared across the table at her, admiring her poise. This was Shelly’s kind of restaurant.     He ordered champagne. “We’re celebrating, Shell.”     “What’s the occasion?”     He grinned. “I paid Conrad a visit. Told him you wouldn’t be back.”     She gasped. “You what?”     “I told him you’d resigned.”     “Why?”     “He’s a slime-ball. Unprofessional. You can’t work for a boss like that.”     “Tell me what happened.” As Snow described the scenario, she chuckled. “I wish I’d been there. I’ll bet he was sweating.”     “He wasn’t the only one.”     She sipped her champagne. “I worked there too long.”     “Well, you’ve seen Conrad for the last time.”     She squeezed his hand. “Thanks for sorting him out.”     “Anytime.” He handed her the printout. “You’ve got money in the bank.”     She whistled at the figure. “Patti’s done me a favor. It’s more than I expected.”     “There’s more coming.”     She nodded. “I’ll find another job. But I’ll take a break first.” #     At the back of the club Snow worked like a machine to get his regulars sorted. Then Trigger rang.     “I’m off to New Zealand.”     “When?”     “Tomorrow.”     “Why?”     “Have to get away.”     “Coming back?”     “Don’t know.”     “I’ll call in. Have a beer after work.” #     Snow rapped twice on Trigger’s door and followed him down the dark hallway to the kitchen where plates, mugs, pans and cutlery cluttered the sink.     Trigger opened the fridge, grabbed two stubbies and handed him one.     “How come you’re leaving?” Snow popped the lid and swigged a mouthful.     “No choice.”     “Why?”     “My dealer’s squeezing me.”     “You said he was greedy.” Snow wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s tough, Trig, but a chance to get clean.”     “I’ll give it my best shot.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ve reached the crossroads.”     Snow nodded. “Me too.” He drained his stubbie, tossed it in the bin. “I need your dealer’s number.”     Trigger shook his head. “Steer clear mate. You can’t trust him.”     “I don’t trust anyone.”     Trigger shrugged and brought up the number. Snow tapped it into his phone. He recognized the name – Conrad. #     The following night Snow cruised down to the beach on the Triumph. A few money-making ideas floated around his head, but he dismissed them. He needed quick money – and a career. Strung like Christmas lights along the esplanade, restaurants did a thumping trade with diners lining up for tables along the footpath. An Asian eatery at Bondi would be a goldmine and he’d enjoy cooking for the hordes. Shelly might want to be involved too. He turned his eyes seawards and watched arc after arc of white water rush to shore and collide with the sand. The rhythm calmed him, helped him make a decision. There was only one thing to do. He made the call.     Shelly didn’t stir when he slipped into bed and snuggled up against her warm body. In the morning they’d have a heart-to-heart. #     As the sun crested the horizon, fiery beams struck the bedroom wall. Snow flung an arm over his eyes and reached for Shelly.     “You’re awake early.” She turned her sleepy face his way.     He leaned over and kissed her. “Feel like talking?”     She lay on her back. “Is it serious?”     “Very. It’s about us.”     “What brought this on?”     “You’ve lost your job. Mine isn’t worth having. And if Trigger can change his life, so can I.”     “What’s the go?”     “I want to buy a restaurant.”     She looked into his eyes. “Got the money?”     “That’s the easy part.”     “How come?”     He raised an eyebrow. “Heard about Conrad?”     She frowned, dragged herself up, plumped the pillows behind her. “No. What about him?”     “He was arrested. For dealing.” Snow sat up, his back against the headboard.     She gasped. “Who dobbed him in?”     “I did.”     Understanding dawned on her face. “So Conrad’s a drug lord.” She smiled. “That explains why he has a Maserati. And a Beamer.”     Snow nodded. “I’ve planned everything.” He pulled her close. “Once I’ve taken over his territory, the money will roll in.” He chuckled. “I’ll start with one restaurant and end up with a chain.”

Kerry Lown Whalen biography     Kerry Lown Whalen lives with her husband on the Gold Coast of Australia. She has won prizes in literary competitions and had short stories published by Stringybark Publications, Bright Light Multimedia, Pure Slush and Down in the Dirt magazine.

It’s Called Sitting (Buddhist Meditation) Ruth Juris Suspended in time and place on that small circumferential mat The air is infinite And beyond the mat there is absolutely nothing Do not forget to breathe in a measured way The breath is the doorway to the progression of immediate time in segmental increment Stop the mind, curb the monkey chatter If the Buddha is near you will not see him You WILL understand the fleeting nature of the wind and feel totally akin.

Warm Bob Strother     Lucas Granger pulled the thin cotton blanket tighter around his shoulders and peered over the back seat. The car, a twelve-year-old ’70 Dodge sedan, sat nosed-in to a row of bushy, red-berried hollies bordering the Walmart parking lot. He shivered despite the blanket and two layers of clothing covering his skinny body.     For the last three weeks, since they’d been evicted from their tiny apartment, his mom, with Lucas in tow, had applied for work at every business within walking distance of the car—all to no avail. No wonder, he thought. Even at age nine, Lucas knew they looked like what they were—homeless, washing in department store restrooms, sleeping in the car. The little money they’d had was gone within days. Since then, he and his mom made the rounds of the soup kitchens during the day, huddled on benches at the mall between meals, and retreated to the car at night. They’d run the heater off and on until the last of the gasoline played out and the engine coughed, sputtered, and died. That was two days ago.     “It’s going to be all right,” his mom had told him earlier that evening as he sat with his teeth chattering from the cold. “I’ll find a job soon. In the meantime, I’m going to get us another blanket.”     “But, Mom—”     She placed a slender finger to his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.” Then she left the car, walked the hundred or so yards to the entrance of Walmart, and disappeared inside.     That had been over half an hour ago, and Lucas was worried. He folded the blanket, opened the car door, and stepped out into the parking lot. The wind caused his eyes to tear as he crossed the asphalt, buffeting his small body while he threaded his way among the rows of parked vehicles to the store’s entrance. Once inside, he smelled the aromas from the café located to the right of the doorway: frying hamburgers and fresh ground coffee—a beverage he’d never tried but which now seemed very appealing.     Ignoring his rumbling stomach and the saliva building in his mouth, Lucas looked first at the line of checkout stations on his left and then down the long row straight ahead. He opted to walk the aisles from right to left, vowing to search the whole store if he had to. His mom had to be there somewhere. After a while, he found himself in the “Home” section, eyeing the selection of blankets and comforters, noting the prices, and wondering how they could possibly afford one.     It took almost fifteen minutes to search the store, but he saw no sign of his mom. Lucas even checked the restrooms at the rear of the store. He knocked on the ladies’ room door and called out softly, “Mom? Are you in there?” Then, a bit louder, “Mom, it’s me, Lucas. Are you in there?” When he received no response, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and started back up the long aisle toward the cashiers. Disappointed and a little frightened, he decided to stop at the customer service desk. He’d heard the in-store announcements before, like when a kid got separated from his parents. He’d ask them to page his mom.     He’d covered less than half the distance when he glimpsed a woman who looked like his mom whisked toward the front of the store by a man dressed in blue. It was only for a second, his view cut off by the tall rows of products on either side of the aisle. Still, he recognized the auburn hair and the gray coat. It must be her! “Mom!” he cried. But she was gone. He began to run—twisting and weaving among the shoppers, nearly falling once when he tripped on the wheel of a shopping cart. He slid to a stop at the end of the aisle, his eyes darting in a dozen directions at once. She must be going back to the car. He hurried to the exit just in time to see his mom placed into a police car. No, he thought, this can’t be happening.     Lucas pounded on the doors—they were supposed to open automatically—and finally realized he was at the entrance rather than the exit, and lunged to his right. The doors eased open, but too slowly. By the time he squeezed through, the police car was halfway across the parking lot. Lucas raced across the blacktop and almost fell again when a car screeched to a halt just inches from him, its horn blaring. He continued on, half-blind with tears, craning to see over the parked cars and trucks. He saw the police car stop beside the old Dodge, saw the officer get out and look inside, then return to his vehicle and pull away.     Lucas stopped, his breath coming hard, heart fluttering like a caged bird. He stood in the parking lot for what seemed hours but was only minutes, wondering what to do. Somehow, some way, he had to get to his mom. Finally, he returned to the store. In the entranceway, between the two sets of doors, he spotted a wall-mounted pay telephone and, beneath it a ragged copy of the directory. Using his finger to scroll down through the listings, he found the one for the police department. After looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he tore the page free and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.     Lucas thought about asking one of the shoppers for a quarter so he could call the police, but his mother’s words echoed in his mind: We’ll never ask for money, Lucas. We’re down on our luck, that’s all. We may have to eat at the missions, but we’re not beggars.     He stepped back inside the store and sat down in the café, his mind a jumble. He waited for over an hour, feeling small and scared and hoping his mother might return. He thought maybe he could ask one of the employees there if he could use their phone. But when he looked, the line of shoppers waiting for customer service stretched almost to the rows of product shelves. Lucas glanced at the clock over the desk—almost closing time. He’d probably never make it. Besides, he’d torn the page out of the telephone directory. They’d see it if he used the phone, and maybe have him arrested, too.     He would spend the night in the car, he thought, just like he’d been doing. And then, in the morning, he’d get directions to the police station, walk all day if he had to, but he’d get there. And he’d be with his mom again.     As soon as he left the store, Lucas saw the flashing lights at the far corner of the parking lot. For a second, he thought the police had returned to take him to his mother. Then he realized the lights were not like the ones he’d seen on police vehicles; they were yellow—the flashing lights of a tow truck—and they were hauling the old Dodge away. He ran once more across the lot, yelling at the top of his lungs for the truck to stop, but the wind swallowed his shouts. The truck turned out of the lot and onto the road. He’d missed it.     What Lucas didn’t know—couldn’t have known as he stood forlornly in the middle of the parking lot—was that he’d also missed the arrival of a child welfare worker dispatched to collect him. The call went out over the store’s public address system moments before closing and seconds after he walked outside: “Lucas Granger, if you are in the store, please come to the customer service desk. We have information about your mother.” .....     Lucas couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet. The wind, now full of snow, howled around him, burning his ears and adding to the tears he cried in frustration. He’d walked in what he figured was the general direction of downtown, searching the streaming traffic for a police car. If he could spot one and flag it down, they’d take him to his mother. But the task had proven futile.     After a while, his whole body trembling with cold, he spied a large single-story building set back from the roadside. The sign, mounted on a tall metal pole read “Comfort Inn” and promised single rooms for only fifty-nine-ninety-five a night. With that much money, Lucas thought, we could have bought lots of gas for the car, maybe have gone for weeks running the engine on and off like we did. Oh, how he missed the old Dodge now, his thin cotton blanket, and the smell and feel of his mother’s warm body next to his.     Inside the building, behind the big plate glass window, a man sat at a counter, drinking from a white cup. Lucas remembered how the coffee had smelled back at the Walmart, imagined how the liquid would feel warming his belly. He might let me have a cup if I ask nicely. Maybe he would even let me sit for a few minutes in the lobby, just long enough to stop shivering.     Lucas wove his way through a bed of small junipers, stepped out onto the motel’s paved parking area, and was heading toward the front door when he noticed a shadowy figure stumble around the far corner of the building. The man had wild eyes and carried something by his side—something that glinted in the light, sharp and dangerous-looking. A knife! Lucas thought.     He ran as fast as he could and spun around the corner of the building farthest from the man, his eyes searching frantically for a place to hide. He spotted a small alcove between the office building and nearest motel room, ducked into the darkened recess, and sat down in the corner, curling his body into a tight ball. It was quiet, protected from the blowing wind and snow. Lucas breathed shallowly, trembling now from fear as well as cold. A few seconds later, a figure appeared at the mouth of the alcove, silhouetted against the wan light creeping in from the parking lot. Lucas drew himself up even tighter, closed his eyes, and waited. .....     Hoyt Williams chewed and swallowed the last bite of his Cantonese chicken, pushed back from the motel room desk he’d used as a dining table, and carefully folded down the cardboard flaps of the grease-stained take-out containers. The fast food Chinese restaurant wasn’t exactly gourmet, but it was cheap and within walking distance. He dropped the remnants of his dinner into the wastebasket and tied the edges of the thin plastic basket liner into a tight knot. Didn’t need a smelly reminder of dinner plaguing him through the night; the acid reflux he suffered on the road would be quite enough.     He went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and thought about calling his wife, but it was already close to eleven, Chicago time. In Atlanta, it was almost midnight. The kids were long asleep, and Dianne wouldn’t be happy if the phone woke them on a school night. He sighed. Three client calls in the morning, then a late afternoon flight from O’Hare to Hartsfield International would get him home by nine o’clock if he was lucky. A hurried weekend—soccer and karate with the kids on Saturday, a family dinner and TV that evening—and then back to the grind with a flight out to St. Louis on Sunday afternoon. Not exactly the life he’d dreamed about as a young man, but it paid the bills.     Hoyt removed his shoes, shirt, and trousers and placed them in the closet. He was peeling back the bedcovers when he heard a knock on the motel room door. That’s odd, he thought, wondering why anyone would knock at this time of night. He stepped to the door, squinted through the peephole, and saw a man standing on the concrete walkway fronting the row of rooms. Hoyt thought of cracking the door—the chain lock was engaged, and the man didn’t immediately appear threatening. But he changed his mind and, instead, pulled aside the drape from the window near the door.     The shaft of light from Hoyt’s room bathed the man’s grizzled face in a harsh yellow glow. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair stringy and disheveled, and the wind lashed his tattered coat like the banners flying over Soldier Field. The man held the top of a broken whiskey bottle in his hand, one shard protruding from the bottle’s neck like the glistening shaft of a dagger.     “What do you want?” Hoyt shouted through the glass.     The man staggered backward, as if caught off guard by Hoyt’s voice, and it was then that Hoyt noticed the stranger’s feet were bare. No shoes? It must be fifteen degrees out there!     Then the man lurched toward the window, steadied himself with a hand on the glass, and locked his vacant eyes on Hoyt’s. “Do you believe in heaven?” he asked.     Hoyt stared at the man and finally said, “What?”     The man stared back. “Do you believe in heaven?”     Obviously, Hoyt thought, the guy’s drunk. He wondered if he should call the motel manager—get the police to come pick him up. But the guy’s eyes weren’t that of a drunk’s. What Hoyt had imagined as alcohol-induced redness now seemed like something far more complicated: lost, soulless, damned. “Sure, I guess so. Why?”     The man nodded, torrents of tears flowing down his stubbly cheeks. “Do you think kids go to heaven? All kids?”     A picture of Hoyt’s own children flashed through his brain, snuggled safely in their beds, dreaming maybe. He wanted more than anything else to be home with them, to pull the bedcovers up around their shoulders and give them a goodnight kiss. “Yeah, yeah, I do. I believe all kids go to heaven.”     The man nodded again and backed away from Hoyt’s window. He turned, stumbled, and caught the portico railing to steady himself. Then he trudged into the parking lot.     Hoyt let the drape slip back into place and stood there for a full minute before sitting down on the side of the bed. He couldn’t get those eyes out of his head. And his feet—no shoes in this weather! Pushing himself off the bed, Hoyt went to the suitcase sitting on the foldout luggage rack. He dug around until he found a pair of sneakers—the ones he kept for the rare occasions when he mustered enough energy to use a motel exercise room. He slipped into his slacks and shirt, shrugged into his overcoat, and opened the door to his room. He was probably crazy, but damned if he’d let the guy walk away without something to put on his feet.     Flashing red, white, and blue lights painted the row of motel rooms like a 1970s disco. The patrol car sat in front of the office, exhaust fumes whipping into the air and then disappearing into the maelstrom of driving wind and snow. Hoyt pulled the coat tighter around his neck and made his way toward the lobby. As he passed, he saw the shoeless man in the back of the cruiser. The guy stared straight ahead, like he was somewhere else, his cheeks still glistening with tears.     Inside, the manager leaned on the counter, talking quietly with one of the two police officers. Hoyt waited until they were through and the officer stepped outside to use his radio. “I brought some shoes for that guy. He knocked on my door. I saw he was barefoot.”     “Well,” the manager said, “yours wasn’t the only door he knocked on, and somebody wasn’t nearly as compassionate. They called the cops.” The manager sidled closer to Hoyt and lowered his voice. “I feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch. Seems his trailer burned to the ground early this morning while he was at work—faulty kerosene heater, or something. Anyway, his two kids were inside. They didn’t make it out.”     Hoyt thought again about his own kids, thought he’d call his wife after all, regardless of the hour. He set the pair of sneakers on the counter. “See that the cops give him these, will you?”     The manager nodded his agreement, and Hoyt stepped outside into the near blizzard. As he rounded the corner of the lobby, he glanced into the alcove, walked on a few more feet, then paused and came back. He leaned in for a closer look. At first it looked like a pile of rags, but in the scant light, he saw the curvature of a pale forehead. He moved all the way inside and sank to his knees next to the figure. Hoyt brushed a stray lock of hair from the boy’s forehead and touched his cheek. It was cold, freezing cold. He felt for a pulse at the boy’s throat. Was it there? Did he feel something? He couldn’t tell. Hoyt swallowed hard as he hefted the frail bundle and struggled back to the lobby.     The two patrolmen were just getting into their car when Hoyt rounded the corner.     “I need help,” Hoyt yelled and pushed through the double entrance doors with the officers trailing behind him.     “What happened?” asked the first officer through the door.     “I don’t know. I just found him.” Hoyt lowered the boy to a lobby sofa, slipped off his overcoat, and tucked it around the boy’s narrow shoulders.     The second officer, the older of the two, frowned. “Is he alive?”     Hoyt knelt and put his hand on the boy’s chest. He noted the lack of color in the boy’s face and the thin blue lines forming his lips. He looked up at the cop and shook his head. “I don’t know.” .....     Lucas kept waiting, expecting at any moment to hear the footsteps of the man who had sent him running for the alcove. But when he dared to open his eyes, the man was gone. After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal. The wind raged outside his dank refuge, snow swirling like a swarm of mad moths. Lucas tucked his hands under his armpits. He wanted—no, desperately needed—to get up and find his way back to the motel office. But what if the guy’s waiting just outside the alcove, ready to grab me? No, it was safer there, in the dark. He closed his eyes again.     At some point, he felt a hand on his forehead—not the gnarled, calloused, claw-like hand he imagined his pursuer would have—but soft, like his mom’s. He opened his eyes and she knelt beside him. Mom! I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me.     It’s all right, Lucas. I’m here now. We’ll be fine.     She lifted him and nestled him in her arms. Together, they emerged from the alcove and made their way out into the gale. Despite the cold, the wind, and the frenzied snow, Lucas smiled. He looked into his mother’s face and saw that she was smiling, too, the kind of smile a mother reserves only for a beloved son.     And, for the first time in what seemed like ages, Lucas was warm.

FAMILY DIARY Steven Pelcman THE FARM 1919 Part 1 Sunday night March 9 The low light makes it hard To write these words And the swell of wind Across the prairie keeps thumping Against the windows That I can hardly think But I can hear him Beneath me as Poppa shuffles From room to room so That I can almost hum A song to his rhythm And picture his swollen hands Those same hands That had just gently Prepared sandwiches and hot tea With whiskey for Momma As she sat on her chair Rocking herself to sleep Beside the fire. And I would watch him Take his night stiffness And cover Momma with a blanket Blowing out kitchen candles Leaving the last part of him On frozen windows. I hear the shuffling in my sleep And hum tunes into my pillow To the spinning Of rusted wagon wheel spokes. Poppa would be forever Mending crooked nails In dry wood and buildings Leaning as trees into wind That carries my grandfather’s laughter, My little sister’s Jen’s high voice, The howling of wolves. Part 2 Tuesday night March 25 The tall grass and wild flowers Whisper at night And the quiet purr of windswept Minnesota with rain Shines in the moonlight Competing with Grandfather’s warm knees Little Jen sit on Learning to count By buttoning and unbuttoning His shirt And Momma’s quiet gestures Along Jens hair Where sadness takes hold In the bristles of a brush And with each stroke The blinding white light On nearby headstones Against our windows Becomes stars in a black sky. Part 3 Thursday morning April 17 The cold sun dances On the ground And I hear grunts And know it is Father Who does not just work the land, He loves the land Bleeds in sweat and dirt In the rows of wheat, corn In the cold, the heat In the stench of animal manure And vomit from hunger and worry And only stops to drink water Or tell us stories Of when he was a child And Grandfather fought prairie fires Hail, drought and grasshoppers Clouds upon clouds of fluttering wings Turning the earth dark Leaving a forest of yellow stalks That in their nakedness, Made Grandfather feel naked too. And then the struggling of plough and horse Cutting through, turning over And lifting the dirt As my father leaves me standing With the wind behind my back Moving farther away To where the hard prairie Remains untouched. Part 4 Sunday morning May 4 My sister skips through A field of flowers Near a stream That snakes its way across our farm And she finds herself in the middle Of a swarm of bees disturbed And hungry for her To stop screaming But she runs until Grandfather Covers her with a blanket And then with vinegar To ease the pain And sits up all night To see if she will die. She lives But Grandfather is stung too And days later Thin and unable to speak, He walks into the woods Slowly with bucket in hand Pretending to pick berries Instead, searching for the right spot To die. Part 5 Monday morning May 5 We find Grandfather Sprawled among dead leaves And fallen tree limbs His bucket still in hand And bring him To the family cemetery Next to Grandma As Jen plants flowers And Momma watches from the window Perhaps knowing that only days later, She will join Grandfather On the day Father will cry Staining the wooden casket He sands down with oil That Mother will lie in, And baby Jen Will sit on the rocking chair Alone beside the fire Humming herself to sleep. FAMILY DIARY THE FARM <>I1931 Part 1 Saturday evening June 13 I have always wondered And dreamed of cities Not far from Death’s short walk Where perhaps life Was more than too little Or too much rain, But as a young man Where my manhood was measured Against the height of corn, The light of day, The unspoken word, In the fields With horse and plough Buckets of water Every hundred yards Feeling the horse-rein-leather Age in my hands, I saw my father trying to outrun The dust bowl clouds That lifted his shadow Against the dry earth Until he decided to lay Beside my mother and grandfather In the quiet of family gatherings. Part 2 Sunday morning July 4 On Sunday morning Kneeling against tombstones Jen and I pull weeds From among the rocks Where Mother and Father And Grandfather lie Among the lined shadows Feathered by butterfly dust And spiders. I watch Jen Lose color in her cheeks From the long days and nights Sitting on Mother’s rocking chair With Mother’s blanket in one hand Tea and whiskey in the other Humming to the movement of dust The summer swirls of sand And her baby’s play with mice And rag dolls made of wood and cotton. FAMILY DIARY THE FARM <>I1932 Part 1 Tuesday September 20 The house smells Of lamp oil and wild roses that Grow beside weathered wood And I hear my father’s Dirt-dried voice And smell tobacco On the pages of the same books That he read to me I now read to my son Sitting on my lap, Stories of farms, corn Grasshoppers, the wild prairie And with each turn Of the page I see my father’s pipe sliding From corner to corner And feel his touch, Taste the earth, Breathe in leather and lamp oil And the sweet lilac smells Of mother’s hair and the oven bread Aroma on her cheeks in the morning. FAMILY DIARY THE FARM 1939 Part 1 Friday night December 22 When I close my eyes And think of home I hear the prairie sing And pull me To the howling of wolves, Baby Jen’s cry In the middle of the night, The dust clouds And the earth Wet with only My father’s sweat And my mother’s sweet humming In a rocking chair Now kept safe Among the ruins. They are all gone now: Father, Mother, Grandfather And baby Jen. I feel them within me, always, As my shovel turns the earth Their hands on mine In the gentle swaying of Rocking-chair wind Against my face. If you were to dig deep Into my pockets, I wish you could pull out The sweet smell of home. If only in my head Stars did not burn With the light of tombstones, And the prairie Refused to whisper at night.

Steven Pelcman Bio     Steven Pelcman is a writer of poetry and short stories who has spent the past few years completing the novels titled RIVERBED and SPENDING TIME and books of poems titled, WHERE THE LEAVES DARKEN and LIKE WATER TO STONE. He has been published in a number of magazines including: The Windsor Review, Paris/Atlantic, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, Voxhumana magazine, Nomad’s Choir, Fourth River magazine, Salzburg Poetry Review, River Oak Review, www.enskyment.org and many others. He has been nominated for the 2011 Pushcart prize. Steven resides in Germany where he teaches in academia and as a business language trainer and consultant.

On the Recycling Day: Washington DC Changming Yuan One neighbor took out a blue box Full of cat skulls and dog legs Rather than glass or plastic bottles Another carries out a yellow bag Containing human bones, mostly children’s Instead of magazines or paper products A third pushed out a green bin Filled with failed evils and devils Where there should be leaves and twigs Behind every house in a neighboring back alley The garbage truck is placing a big time bomb

Janet Kuypers reads the Changming Yuan May 2012 Down in the Dirt poem On the Recycling Day. Washington D.C. with live piano music by Gary

Watch the YouTube video of a reading of the poem straight from the June 2012 issue, live 6/9/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery in Chicago (w/ live piano from Gary)

Changming Yuan bio     Changming Yuan, author of Chansons of a Chinaman and 4-time Pushcart nominee, grew up in rural China and published several monographs before moving to Canada. With a PhD in English, Yuan teaches independently in Vancouver and has poetry appear in nearly 470 literary publications across 19 countries, including Asia Literary Review, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Exquisite Corpse, London Magazine, Poetry Kanto, Poetry Salzburg, SAND and Taj Mahal Review.

Let’s All Relax Here James Kowalczyk     After the towers fell, anti-Muslim sentiment, despite Mayor Guiliani’s efforts to curb it, still permeated the city—like the stench of stale urine creeping through a subway station—invisible yet potent. Some New Yorkers didn’t understand that not every Muslim is a holy warrior waging holy war.     I had been living on the Lower East Side for five years. My band rehearsed in Brooklyn, which meant 3:00 a.m. return trips home every Friday. I would stop at Ahmed’s, my local 24/7 “bodega”, for essentials like ramen noodles or stationery. He and I would talk music, politics, language and especially family (his favorite subject now that he was a father) sometimes until dawn. He was personable and foreign, a refreshing change from my routine encounters.     His store was a potpourri of dried goods, homemade food, and typical junk food. It was so crammed that one had to walk sideways if there were more than two customers. The entrance was uneven, like a cave entrance. Inside, there was always the faint aroma of tamarind root, roasted almonds, and honey. Behind the counter, Ahmed was surrounded by cigarettes, candy containers, the lottery machine, and a plethora of cards, calendars, and black and white photos of Yemen on the wall, all arranged above, behind, and around him     After 9/11, Ahmed and I hadn’t changed. He knew I wasn’t an asshole, unlike these guys on this one particular Friday at 3 a.m.     As I walked into Ahmed’s store, I noticed that the lilting steel clarinets over disco rhythms that Ahmed always had playing were not on. I could hear talking in low hushed tones that suddenly stopped when the bell on the door rang as it closed behind me. I glanced at Ahmed. He glanced back, frowning and shooting a glance toward the back of the store where the voices had been coming from. The toilet paper was located in the back corner on a makeshift shelf above the soda and beer refrigerators. I grabbed as many rolls as I could carry. The two men pointed to six-packs of beer, as if deciding what brand to buy. The hum of the refrigerators grew louder. As I fumbled with the rolls of toilet paper, the newspaper fell. One of the guys held it up and read the headline aloud in a booming voice: “War Declared on Mujahadeen.” His friend approached the counter, hand behind back, and glared at Ahmed. “Let’s all relax here,” I blurted out. Both men looked at me, then at Ahmed. He had a curved machete in his hand and was pointing to a picture of his son. “I am not mujahedeen! This is my fucking jihad!” he shouted with fire in his eyes. The two men looked at each other, shrugged, and left the store. As I gave him a five dollar bill, I sighed and said to Ahmed: “Only in New York, man...only in New York.” He just smiled as he gave me my change.

James Kowalczyk short bio     James Kowalczyk was born and raised in Brooklyn but now lives in Northern California with his wife and two daughters. His work has appeared in both print and online publications.

The History Teacher John Ragusa     I enjoy my work as a college professor at night school. Teaching has always been a pleasure for me, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything. I wouldn’t have any other job. It’s a joy to give information to my students; I’m never happier than when I’m behind the podium, giving a lecture on American History.     I know a lot about America, dating back to when the nation got started. I can describe its historical events in minute detail; I’m very thorough when I lecture. I’m just as comfortable discussing the Revolutionary War as talking about the Iraqi War. I know the entire period in America’s existence; there’s no telling how far I’d go if I had attended college myself. Reading gave me a lot of the data needed to teach history. Over the years, my history books have kept me well-informed. They’re worth every cent I paid for them.     I tell my pupils the small details as well as the whole story; this has proven to be the best way to teach.     I’m equally competent at informing people of the personal lives of legendary Americans; this is even more fascinating than the public facts about them. When I talk about an important person, my students get to learn about the private life of the man or woman. No one is better at knowing these things as I am.     I might even write a textbook on American History one day, and this would be fun and profitable. No one would be as qualified as me to do this.     I don’t think I’ll ever retire; I want to go on teaching forever. I will never stop doing it. It’s tremendously rewarding for me. I would teach even if I weren’t paid to do it.     It pleases me to know that all the folks I educate get good grades in my course. It means I’m doing my job well. This gives me a terrific sense of achievement.     By lecturing on the things that helped shape our country, I am helping my students shape their lives. By giving them ideas about America, I am preparing them to make political decisions, as when they vote for and elect a public official. When they know about this nation, they understand how politicians act.     I allow them to ask as many questions as they want. This is good, because it means they are interested in my class. I try to answer their questions to the best of my ability.     I can be grateful for my photographic memory, because there would be no way I could remember things without it. It is a gift and a blessing.     I attempt to make my lectures engaging so that my students don’t get bored. Once I lose their attention, I’m dead in the water.     I’m not skilled to teach anything but American History. It is the subject I was born to teach.     I don’t ever even ask for a raise, because teaching is a reward in itself. I honestly think I’d do it for free, if I had to.     I don’t have to worry about my pupils cheating on exams; they learn and understand their subject so well, they don’t have to cheat. I can leave the classroom when they’re taking tests, because I can trust them not to cheat.     They’ll retain what they learn, too; what I teach stays in the memory. They will never forget what I lecture about.     Being a college teacher is better than high school teaching because I can trust the students to behave and pay attention. There aren’t any problems with decorum.     I have never had an affair with any of my female students, either. I am very cautious when it comes to that.     No pupil of mine has ever dropped my course. It’s a testament to my teaching ability that no one has ever done this.     Many of my students have had great careers after graduating from my college. That might be the most rewarding thing about my job.     I wish I could teach all day long, instead of just having my only class.     I’m very lenient when it comes to giving homework. I believe that less of it is more. I don’t give a lot of it.     My teaching career must be successful, since I’ve been doing it for decades now. The decision to teach was a wise choice for me to make.     The reason why I can describe American History in such a vivid way is that I’ve lived through all of it; for you see, I am a vampire.     Yes, as long as I can continue to drink fresh blood, I will keep on educating students about this wonderful land of ours.

Mario Polzetti Rod Hamon “Just ‘cause you’re part of the family, you think you can cross me?”     “You got it all wrong, boss. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”     “Get outa my sight!”     “But, boss, I’m innocent. I swear on my kid’s grave!”     “Get out!” Mario Polzetti screamed as his brother-in-law Giovanni headed for the door, certain to be hunted down.     “Now get out of my sight you smooth-talking low life. No one crosses me and lives. Just crawl right back into that rat hole you came out of and disappear. Got it?”     As the door closed, Mario picked up the phone, dialed, and spat out instructions, “Got a job for you. It’s Giovanni. Do it.”     Mario Polzetti, in his early sixties, was short, stocky with an olive complexion, black swept-back hair and the boss of one of New York’s largest crime syndicates. ____     The winter sun shone weakly through the east-facing window of Detective Dabrowski’s office onto a desk piled high with papers. Behind it sat a man in his thirties with gangling legs that seemed to go on forever. His spiky hair and bewildered expression gave the impression he’d been electrocuted. But Leroy Dabrowski always looked that way.     The office door flew open and a disheveled junior detective called Sam almost fell in. “Been another murder, boss: Polzetti’s brother-in-law.”     Dabrowski looked troubled. “Polzetti‘s never far away when there’s something bad going down, but we can never get anything on him. He covers his tracks like a prairie dog.”     “It would be good to pin this one on him,” Sam replied.     “Get me the details. I’ll go check it out,” Dabrowski demanded.     The phone rang. He picked it up but before he could speak a voice on the other end demanded, “Get in here, now!”     Dabrowski rolled his eyes. “On my way, Chief.”      “The Chief ain’t happy?” the junior detective asked with a snigger.     “Sure he is. Just can’t resist my winning personality!”     The phone rang again. It was the sharp and incisive voice of the Chief. “You comin’ or what?”     Dabrowski headed out the door.     Behind a desk sat a man whose double chin seemed to engulf his entire face. The Chief leaned forward and pointed a finger, then changed his mind and instead banged his fist on the desk.     “Another murder – sure to be connected with that damn Polzetti – but still no arrest! What in hell’s name are you doing about it?”     “Well...”     “You any closer to nailing that sleazebag?” he shouted, beads of sweat running through his open collar and down his neck. “We’re looking like idiots. The Press’re crucifying us. People on the street are demanding answers and so am I!”     “I know but...”     “You’ve got twenty four hours, or I’ll have your badge. You catch my drift, Dabrowski?”     “Sure, boss.”     Becoming even redder in the face, the Chief shouted, “How d’you feel about traffic duty for the rest of your life?”     Dabrowski pulled a face. “Not the career path I had in mind, boss.”     “Twenty four hours, that’s what you’ve got. Now get outa here! ____     Dabrowski returned to the police precinct later that day to report his findings to the Chief.     “Not surprised the brother-in-law was bumped off. Word on the street is that he’d been making a play for control of Polzetti’s cartel. Seems that Giovanni was having dealings with another syndicate. Polzetti wasn’t happy.”     “You got anything that puts him in the frame?”     “Not yet, boss, but I’m working on it. Something of interest, though, is that people on the street say there was an argument between Polzetti and his wife at a restaurant. They say she got up and stormed out after an exchange of words. I’d say it was probably because he had her brother executed.”     The Chief rubbed his chin. “Better watch her then. She’s probably on Polzetti’s hit list and in line to be the morgue’s next guest.”     “Have I done well, boss? Does this mean I’ve got a reprieve from traffic duty?”     “Go on. Get out of my sight.” ____     At eleven fifteen p.m. three days later, the emergency services receive a call from Mario Polzetti. “It’s my wife. I’ve just come home. She’s been shot. I don’t know what happened. I need an ambulance – quick!”     “Calm yourself, sir. Is she still breathing?”     “I think so.”     “Okay, sir. Just give me your address. We’ll dispatch an ambulance immediately. Just keep calm.”     “Keep calm? How can I with my wife lying here in a pool of blood?”     “I understand, sir. But the ambulance will be there in a few minutes.”     The ambulance and a police car with Detective Dabrowski at the wheel arrived a short time later. Polzetti’s wife, Gilda was taken away by ambulance. Her husband stood in the open door and watched as it drove away. “I ought to be with her,” he muttered wistfully.     “It’s better you stay here, sir,” Dabrowski said. “We need to find who did this terrible thing to your wife.”     Polzetti nodded.     “When did you find her?”     “I came home about eleven fifteen and found her on the kitchen floor and called for an ambulance.”     “Did you see anyone in the house or in the street?”     “No one.”     “Where were you this evening?”     “I’ve been at a business dinner from eight to eleven at a restaurant not far from here. If your next question is, ‘Can you prove it?’ yes, there were at least forty guests at that dinner that know me.”     “Thank you, sir.”     “I need to get to the hospital now. Can we talk later?”     “Sure, I’ll have forensics examine the house while you’re away,” Dabrowski replied. ____     Mario Polzetti arrived at the hospital and demanded to speak with the attending doctor.     “How serious is she, doc? Will she pull through?”     The grim-faced doctor gestured for Mario to sit down. “The situation is very serious, Mr Polzetti.” He paused for a moment. “X-rays reveal that a bullet is lodged in her brain and it’s far too risky to attempt to remove it. The slightest movement could result in her death.”     “Is there anything that can be done?” Mario asked.      “She is likely to remain in a coma – probably indefinitely. I’m sorry, Mr Polzetti, but you must accept the fact that you may never see her conscious again. On the positive side, while she is on life support in hospital, she may keep living for a long time.”     Mario stared at the floor and said nothing.     “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr Polzetti. I realize that seeing your wife in this vegetative state is not at all comforting for you. Of course, if she doesn’t recover you may decide, after a while, to request that the life support be turned off. That is your choice.”     “Thanks, doc.” ____     Unconvinced of Polzetti’s innocence, Dabrowski checked out Mario’s alibi and confirmed that he was at dinner with business associates at the time of the murder, although most of those at the dinner were known criminals.     Interviews with neighbors revealed that two people in the street where Polzetti lived had heard a single revolver shot at about ten that evening.     Disgruntled, Dabrowski returned to his office. Sam the junior detective looked up as he entered. “Any progress?”     “Water-tight alibi again, damn it!” he moaned angrily. “I know he did it, but can’t prove it.”     Sam scratched the back of his neck and said, “With his sort of cash, he could buy any alibi he liked.”     Dabrowski nodded. “There’s a lot of money in that white powder.”     Sam nodded and said. “Forgot to tell you, I’ve checked and found that Polzetti is the registered owner of a revolver.”     Dabrowski looked up. “That’s interesting; I’ll check that out.” ____     Next day, Dabrowski drove to Polzetti’s house. He strutted down the path leading to the entrance door, his long arms swinging from side to side. He knocked loudly. The door opened.     “I need to ask you some more questions; may I come in?”     “How long will this take?” He grunted looking at his watch.      Dabrowski stepped inside. “I need to ask if there were any valuables stolen.”     Polzetti shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, jewelry, money but nothing that can’t be replaced. Looks to me like a robbery gone wrong.”     Dismissing this theory, Dabrowski asked, “Our records show that you have a revolver registered in your name. Still got it?”     “Yeah, bought it years ago. Never had the need to use it, though. Not even sure where it is. Want me to look for it?” Mario asked.     “That would be nice,” Dabrowski replied.     Ten minutes later, Mario returned. “Found it in the garage. Doubt if it works, though. Covered in grim and dust. Let me get you a rag.”      “That’s okay. I’ll take it as it is.” ____     A forensic examination of the revolver revealed nothing; certainly no powder residue.     “You sure it hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned and then made to look discarded and dusty?” Dabrowski asked.     “It’s possible. I suppose anything’s possible,” the lab technician replied.     “Any evidence that this weapon was used in other crimes?”     “No, we can’t find any other matches.”     Dabrowski chewed his fingernails and sighed. “Didn’t think it would be that easy!”     “You look disappointed.”     “Damned right I am!” ____     Mario visited his wife, Gilda about once a week, but spent most of his time doing business on his cell phone. Sometimes he spoke to the doctor about his wife’s condition.     “I’m sorry, Mr Polzetti, but there are no signs of recovery so far. But she seems stable and there’s now no risk from the bullet as long as she remains quiet.”     “Thank you, doc.”     While he was speaking with the doctor, a young nurse entered to take Gilda’s temperature and blood pressure. She made notes then turned to leave, as she did so, she locked eyes with Polzetti. Outside the ward she spoke to another nurse. “That man gives me the creeps. He’s evil and you can see that he cares nothing about his wife.” ____     Mario was at his wife’s bedside reading a book one night a few weeks later when he heard a noise and looked up. She seemed to be making an effort to speak. Although her eyes remained closed she continued for some time trying to form words, but then stopped.     For just an instant Mario’s face lit up, but then just as quickly, changed to one of anxiety. Rubbing his chin in thought, he stared down at her with a look that was devoid of compassion; a look that only conspired to badness.     He stayed by his wife’s bed side for a few more hours but she remained quiet. After a while, he called the nurse in charge.     Burying his face in his hands, he said, “I think I’ve allowed my wife’s suffering to go on long enough, nurse.”      “I’m sure it’s the right thing to do, Mr Polzetti. I’ll arrange with the doctor to have the life-support turned off,” she said.     Almost inaudibly, he replied, “Thank you nurse, I think that’s best.”      The doctor appeared fifteen minutes later and putting a comforting hand on Mario’s shoulder, said, “I think this is the sensible step to take – we’ll take her off the life support immediately. First, come with me – there are some forms to sign.”     They entered the doctor’s office. Polzetti sat down.      The doctor took notes and asked some questions then turned to Polzetti and said, “Are you quite sure this is what you want to do?”     Polzetti nodded.     “Okay. You’ll need to arrange for your wife’s burial now, Mr Polzetti.”     “Cremation,” he replied.     The doctor peered over his glass. “Cremation, oh I see – just as you wish,” ____     Early next morning, there was a knock at Polzetti’s door. it was Detective Dabrowski with another policeman. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”     “My arrest! What for?” He asked mockingly.     “For the murder of your wife, Gilda Polzetti.”     “What’re you talking about?” he screamed.     “Mr Polzetti, while your wife was in a coma with the bullet wedged in her brain we could do nothing. But when you authorized the life support be turned off and she died, we were able to remove the bullet and compare it to markings on your revolver.”     Polzetti’s mouth dropped open.     Looking him straight in the eye Dabrowski said, “They match.”

her eyes, Elena Botts wreathed in shadow sit like cats in dark windows flicker, come awake in the night

Jenene Ravesloot reads the Elena Botts May 2012 Down in the Dirt poem Her Eyes with live piano music by Gary

Watch the YouTube video of a reading of the poem straight from the June 2012 issue, live 6/9/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery in Chicago

Elena Botts Bio     Elena grew up in Maryland, and currently lives in Northern Virginia. She is still attending school. She likes to run. And write.

Family and Duty Daniel J Roozen     Screams echoed inside her head. They frantically called out her name: “Ariel! Ariel!” The thought that there was something wrong flittered by on the edge of her consciousness. There must be a good reason why they were calling out to her, but she felt so drowsy. She fought to keep her eyelids open and breathe naturally; she couldn’t breathe. Something important must be going on, and she had an uncontrollable urge to laugh, but her mind could no longer make sense of it. As her eyelids dropped and she drifted off to sleep she wondered why her legs were above her head.     Ariel awoke with a start and immediately snapped into an upright position. Her mind was barraged by a flood of images. She was only 24, yet Captain of her own starship, a small smugglers’ frigate. She was on a scavenging operation with her team; it was them who called to her.     But now she was somewhere else entirely. She turned to let her feet dangle off the bench. Her hands were strapped together in electronic bracelets. She was a prisoner, but of whom? The room was very white, too white. Next to the bench sat a metallic table, bolted to the floor, she noticed. The table stretched across the short room to another bench along the opposite wall.     The events leading up to her capture were starting to come back to her.     “Ariel, get back to the ship immediately,” Harley’s voice came over the comms.     “Can it wait a minute, Harley?” she protested. “We’re almost in.” Ariel was on a damaged and abandoned starship. She had been hacking the combination to the derelict’s safe box.     “No. Now, Ariel,” Harley demanded. “Somehow they got through our radar grid. There’s no time.”     The door to her white room opened. She noted his uniform, a silver and black close-cut jump suit with a belt and angled shoulder pads, but it took a full five seconds before she registered his face.     “Uncle Marcus?” Her surprise, and more than a touch of disgust, was fairly evident in her voice.     “Good evening, Ariel.” He sat on the bench across from her and folded his hands.     “You were promoted to the Interplanetary Division?” He was only a local officer of the Coalition Guard back at the station before she escaped.     “I was promoted just after you—” He left it unsaid. “Apparently they don’t hold a man accountable for his family’s mistakes. Four years and I got my own command, this ship.” His voice was almost cheery. Uncle Marcus had a way about him; even when he was angry he sounded somewhat chipper.     “Congratulations,” she said dryly.     “What are you doing out here, Ariel?” he demanded, shifting to his fatherly demeanor, the way he would subconsciously hunch his shoulders to try to make up for his small stature. “I didn’t raise you to be a thief.”     Ariel dropped her computer tablet and ran for the breach in the ship’s hull, the quick exit back to her ship. ‘Running’ in her space suit meant putting one foot in front of the other in a slow walk, fighting against the magnetic constrictors in her boots which held her safely on the hull of the derelict, rather than risk floating in the vastness of cold space. With Harley screaming in her headset, she decided to forgo safety. She kicked hard as she turned off the magnetic constrictors in her boots.     Ariel shook the memory from her head, long auburn locks flipping in her face, determined to stay in the here and now with her Uncle. “You raised me to survive, Marcus. That’s what I was doing.”     Marcus sighed heavily and hung his head. “Did you do it, Ariel? Did you really kill those people?”     She narrowed her eyes, trying to judge her Uncle again. She hadn’t seen him for seven years. What would he do if she said yes? Family, or duty? Where was the line drawn? “I don’t remember,” she finally answered.     “Ariel,” he said in a breath.     “I couldn’t have,” she snapped quickly. “Don’t you think I’ve gone over that night a thousand times in my mind? There is no way I would have done that.” But she could still remember the bodies, their soulless eyes staring back up at her.     “Ariel, why were you in that room?” Marcus said again. “Traces of your DNA were found all over the gun; no one else touched it. What other explanation could there be?”     “I don’t remember,” she said again, even more forcefully.     “The ship just appeared out of nowhere,” Harley said. “We have to make a jump two minutes ago.”     “I’m coming as fast as I can,” Ariel said. She was floating towards the breach now; it still felt far too slow. She could see her ship between the jagged lines of the breach, blocking out the stars. “It’s too late. Go without me.”     “But Ariel—”     “Don’t argue, just go. I’ll meet up with you.”     “Take care, Ariel.” The comms clicked off when he finished. Her ship was gone.     She sobbed in front of her Uncle, muttering, “I don’t remember. I don’t remember.” Three faces stared back at her, their eyes completely dead. That’s what always haunted her: their eyes. It was her fault. She remembered the gun in her hand. But how could she have done it?     A thought came to her as Marcus sat there, watching her, judging her. ‘Did you really kill those people?’ She looked up at Marcus, forcing back the tears and examining his face with her own judging eyes. “Are you going to kill me now, Marcus?”     Marcus’ mouth dropped open, appalled, before he quickly forced it shut. “It saddens me that you would think I was capable of that,” he said, but that was the galaxy they lived in now. He thought she was capable of murder when the evidence hinted at it, so surely he was capable of fulfilling his duty as Captain in the Coalition Guard and executing a known felon. He thought, she thought. The Coalition was tearing them apart, or was it her fault? She cursed herself, wishing she could remember.     “No,” he said finally, answering her question. “That’s actually the part that confuses me. These orders don’t make any sense.”     Ariel furrowed her brow. “What are you going to do to me, Uncle Marcus?”     Marcus laughed, a crazy sort of laugh. “Nothing,” he said with a shrug. He motioned to an unseen observer with his eyes and the door to the white room slid open again. “You’re just going to go to sleep for a while.” A medic dressed all in white walked in carrying a short syringe. “I’m sorry, Ariel. I have orders.”     He also didn’t raise her to take this kind of thing lying down. Ariel hefted her feet underneath her and jumped up on the bench. Even as she stood, she twisted, catching the medic’s chest with her right foot. “Ariel,” Marcus cried out, but he didn’t have much time to react. As the medic fell back, he dropped the syringe on the table. She scooped it up with both hands and in the same motion flung it like a dart at Marcus. “Ariel,” he said again, then sighed as he fell asleep.     The medic held his hands up as if in defense. Ignoring him, Ariel stepped over the medic and into the hallway. She looked right, then left, frantically searching for a way out. She didn’t need an airlock or a ship. Her ship was out there somewhere. She just had to contact Harley.     Hearing voices from the right, Ariel ran left. This was a Coalition ship, probably a corvette or larger. She thought through the layout and picked up the pace. Just as she began hearing more voices from ahead she noticed a series of escape pods along the wall. She dove in and kicked the round red button next to the pod’s door.     The escape pod door slid down and a split second later she was hurtling away from the ship at the speed of sound, the pod’s internal pressure system compensating to keep her from harm at the sudden acceleration. She scanned the controls and, both hands still tied together, activated the pod’s communication. “Harley? Harley, are you out there?”     The response came quickly. “It’s so good to hear your voice. How did you escape so quickly? No matter. We’ve got your location now. We’ll pick you up and get out of here before they can slap a tracking beacon on us.”     Ariel’s leg caught on the edge of the hull as she floated out of the derelict. Her body was in a tumble as she drifted into open space. The Coalition Corvette slid by slowly, coming from the direction she considered ‘down’, long and imposing in its green and black hues. She made the right call, she soon realized, telling Harley and the crew to leave.     The faces stared at her. In her free fall through open space she was brought back to the moment that started it all. Three bodies, faces frozen in horror, with those dead eyes staring up at her. Her mind pushed back, searching to fill that empty space where she couldn’t recall, but there was nothing. She knew it was because of her, though, that they died.     She felt a small sting in her abdomen. The Corvette must have shot something at her. Harley’s voice came back in her head, screaming her name over and over. Ariel thought she should respond, but really couldn’t work up the motivation. She just wanted to fall asleep. And in the last moments before the darkness overwhelmed her she started to laugh.     When Marcus came to he found himself in the sickbay of his ship. His First Officer, Treven, was there waiting for him. Marcus didn’t even ask; he knew Ariel had escaped. “Did it work?”     Treven nodded. “We’re tracking her now. She reunited with her crew about ten minutes after she escaped. In under eight hours their ship’s engines should absorb the tracking solution and it will become permanent.”     “Good, good.”     “So what do we do, sir?”     Marcus drew in a breath. “We follow our orders. Head in the other direction and continue to track her.”     “Do you think she did it?”     Marcus shook his head. “I wish I knew. What would you do, if it was your daughter?”     “It’s a fine line you are walking, sir, between family and duty,” Treven said. “But family is the highest duty.”

Christmas at the old house Janet Kuypers (Spring 1991)     God, I remember the tree. Before my parents moved, when I was just a little kid, we used to have Christmas in the old house in Chicago. All of the brothers and sisters would come over, and on Christmas Eve we would sit around the tree in the front room. The tree looked so tall; it looked so powerful to me. It looked monstrous. Almost like an evergreen, it was green with a just a hint of blue to it -- and it seemed to glitter just standing there all by itself. We would put all sorts of lights on the tree and we had all of these old silk spun beaded ornaments that my sisters made when they were little decorating the tree. We put the tree right in front of a huge window in the front of the house. During Christmas we could always see the snow falling. And the presents were everywhere. We all bought gifts for each other -- and with five children, a brother in-law, a sister in-law, parents and grandparents, there always ended up being a ton of presents. I was the youngest, and the only one that was still really a child. I knew most of the gifts were for me.     As everyone would get up from dinner to open the presents, I would rush to the front room and slide until I fell on the beige carpeting. We never used the front room, so the carpeting always looked new. It even smelled new. I was always the first in the room and I could never understand what on earth took everyone else in my family so incredibly long to get to the Christmas tree.     Once my mother handed a present to me to open. I fiercely ripped open the packaging, and I found a hand held electronic math game. It said “Digits” across the front in strange orange and red colors, like a bad set of curtains from another decade. I didn’t know what to think. I had no idea what it was. I didn’t even know what the word “digits” meant. But it was electronic, and it was a present, so I was excited.     As all of this was registering in my head, someone asked me what I just opened. I told them I got a game. “Dig-its!!!” I exclaimed, making it sound like it was a game about shoveling the most dirt or something. Everyone started laughing. I had no idea what they were laughing about.

Driving To Champaign Janet Kuypers 1998     I’m in the car now, and Eugene is driving, and we’re going to Champaign. We stopped by Taco John’s for some burritos and Potato Olés, and now while Eugene is driving he’s also adding hot sauce to his burrito and eating and he’s steering with his knees and we’re on the highway doing 75 miles per hour and it’s got to be relatively unsafe to be in this car, I’m sure, so if I die in this car, I better write something down with some meaning.     So: if this is the last thing I ever write, what should it be?     Oh, they’re playing Depeche Mode on the radio, and it’s always nicer to hear a song you like on the radio instead of playing it on a tape or something, it’s like a present when you hear it on the radio, even the quality of the radio sounds better than a cassette, and you want to hear the whole song and cherish it because if you skip past it, like you would to the next song on a tape, you won’t have the chance to go back and hear it again. This is your chance to hear it, you’ve got nothing else. But now I’m typing through the song, and not really enjoying it anyway.     They said on the radio that they were going to play Depeche Mode, but apparently Eugene didn’t hear that, and so I said I wanted to hear Depeche Mode and he said that they wouldn’t play it. And when the radio did play it within five minutes of my asking Eugene was stunned. “They never play this!”     You know, I’ve done that to him a lot, and he never catches on.     Oh, wait, that wouldn’t be the last thing I wanted to say, you know, if I was going to die in this car. I forgot that’s what I was writing about. This is most definitely not what I would want my last words to be. I don’t know what my last words would be, though. Live every day like it is your last. Try to smile more. Try to think more. Value the people who choose to spend their time with you. Take a chance. Go different places. Don’t have regrets.     Now Eugene wants to hear my Depeche Mode tape and I can’t find it in the car. I’ve checked the space between the seats, I’ve checked the glove compartment, and he still won’t let it go. He keeps saying that the tape can’t have just disappeared, that it has to be here somewhere, that this really perplexes him.     Now he’s reaching around and under his seat behind him, and the car is not staying staying in the lane. In fact, he just grabbed some tapes to re-read the case to see if I just missed it, if I’m blind and can’t recognize my own tapes, and while he was at it he almost ran us into another car on the highway and I had to yell at him to make him look at the road again. Now he’s flipping through the stations, you know, because he can’t just listen to something, being as much of an ansy, impatient person as myself, so he’s scanning through the stations, and of all songs to stop on, he has to stop on “Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady.” So maybe I do want to die in this car.     And all I keep thinking is that we’re supposed to be meeting Sara and Scott at Garcia’s pizza in Champaign, even though we just stopped for Taco John’s, because Eugene just had to stop for tacos, and now we’re running late.     Okay, Now Eugene found another equally crappy song to play, I think it’s Eddie Money or something, and really, I think he’s doing this intentionally to drive me crazy. Okay, he’s clapping along now, like it’s the seventh grade cheerleader tryouts, and I now want to take the steering wheel from right out of his hands and run us right off the side of the road.     Oh, right, so I’m supposed to be writing what my last words would be, if I actually did die in this car. But it’s hard to do that when Eugene does that hacking sound that he does, I mean, has this man ever heard of a tissue.     Okay, if I died. I suppose I’d tell people to not dwell on those silly little details that will always get you down. You know, those details will always be there, there will always be something that can potentially bring you down, you can always find something to pick on. But the thing is, you should just let go of those things, that’s why they call them details anyway, so don’t let them bother you. Just try to love life a little more.     You know, I’ve gone through a lot of crap in my life. I had beers with a friend tonight before I got on the road to Champaign, you see, that’s why Eugene is driving and I’m sitting here typing about it. And as I said, I was having beers with a friend earlier, and we each got our own pitcher of beer, she got limes to add to her Miller Lite, and when the pitchers came, before we poured our first glasses, I told her we should toast and drink right out of the pitcher, I mean, why not, right? Well, I went out drinking with her because she was down, because it’s her wedding anniversary today. She’s not down about missing her husband that she left just a month ago, you see, she’s down because the concept of a wedding - her wedding - is now destroyed to her. She thought this marriage was going to be good, and what she went through was so bad that she had to pack up her things and leave. And I told her that I had a bad anniversary, too, and it makes me feel bad every year, and that you just have to go through it. That it’s okay to dwell on it today if you have to. But I also thought that she should keep in mind that she has 364 other days a year to revel in the fact that she now has control of her life and her happiness. That when she was in a bad situation she took her life into her own hands and now she’s free. That she should know that if something doesn’t kill her it will make her stronger and that she can say she’s a stronger woman for going through this and she has learned something from this. She likes herself now, and she wouldn’t be who she was if it wasn’t for what she went through.     You can decide to be a victim or you can decide to learn from life, make the most of it, and be happy. So love life a little more. Make yourself the best that you can be, and never look back.     Okay, Eugene changed the station when they said they were going to be playing Phil Collins next. Maybe things aren’t so bad.

Janet Kuypers Bio     Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.     She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.     She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.     Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).     In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, Prominent Tongue, Chaotic Elements, Fusion, her death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, and A Picture’s Worth 1,000 Words, (available a a color and as a b&w photography journalism and art book). Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).