Down in the Dirt

welcome to volume 112 (November 2012) of

Down in the Dirt

down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623)

Janet K., Editor
http://scars.tv.dirt.htm
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In This Issue...

Liam Spencer
Fritz Hamilton
Eric Burbridge
Zach Murphy
John Ragusa
Mark Vogel
Don Thompson
Gary Lundy
Lasher Lane
Benjamin Card
Rex Bromfield
Marlon Jackson
Jack Hill
Janet Kuypers

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


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The Accord

Liam Spencer

    The alarm went off at five thirty in the evening. I hit the snooze button, stretched out, and lay there looking at the alarm clock. I tried to focus on the number to get the haze out of my eyes, and awaken my intellect. Why was the alarm set for five thirty? Gradually it came to me; my girlfriend had free tickets to a concert and invited me to go with her and a couple of her friends. I tried to remember what time I had to be ready. I knew it was earlier than normal, as per the concert. She was usually to my place around seven thirty on Saturday nights. Oh shit! Was I to be ready by six?!
    I jumped up in a panic. I just take short naps on Saturdays after my part time job, because the start time is much earlier than my full time job. I had to shower, shave, and be drunk enough to not spend too much at the Tacoma Dome! I grabbed what was left of the box wine and rushed into the bathroom. I took off my clothes and got into the shower with the box wine. I lifted the box up, put the nozzle to my mouth, and turned it. The wine trickled down my throat for thirty seconds straight. One more tilt for good measure. I grabbed a quick shower and hopped out. I quickly dried off, got dressed, and poured a glass of wine. Then I found my pack of smokes. There were just two left. Fuck! I’d have to get more before the concert.
    I texted Zantha to ask when they were picking me up. There was no response. I drank more wine and finished my smoke. Still no word. The window was open and she always parks right in front of my window. I could always tell when she arrived. I sat drinking the wine rapidly. I’d never been to a major concert before, and so I was excited. Around six thirty she texted that they were on the way. I responded about the smokes, that we needed to stop at the bottom of the hill. I refilled my glass and lit my last smoke. Twenty minutes later she texted back, saying I should walk down the hill and buy the smokes. They’d pick me up near the main road to the freeway.
    I poured my wine into a Styrofoam cup and headed down the hill. It was a bright and beautiful day, and plenty of attractive women were everywhere and wore revealing clothes. I walked quickly but carefully as I sipped my wine. In three minutes, I was at the store. I dropped the cup in the trash, rushed in, bought two packs of smokes, and rushed out. I quickly lit a smoke once outside, and rushed toward the main drag. A white Accord swerved in front of me, and I saw Zantha in the back. I rushed over to the other back door, dropping my smoke on the way.
    “Hi Beautiful!”
    “Hi!”
    I leaned over and kissed her. She tasted like vodka, a taste I am rather fond of. Her top was so very nice, as it revealed her great breasts and wonderous curves. Her skirt flowed beautifully, and suggested the prizes that were hidden underneath. Her long hair flowed magically, and accented an expression of fun and mischief. A devilish grin capped a perfect start to a great evening.
    In the passenger seat sat Dora, Zantha’s close friend. She was excited too, sitting there in more conservative clothes. She was all smiles and laughs, and conveyed a great evening that sat ahead. The driver was a friend of Zantha’s that I hadn’t met, Chad. His hair was very short. He appeared very straight laced, but drove aggressively and seemed to be trying very hard to seem like a happening dude. I faced the outside window to roll my eyes without being noticed.
    Zantha pulled out a bottle of lemon lime soda and took a big gulp, then passed it to me. It was mostly vodka. I took a big gulp. The vodka burned so very well. Then she handed it to Dora. After Dora took several gulps, it came back to Zantha. Chad didn’t drink. Ever. My old boss told me to never trust anyone who didn’t drink. I was about to find out why.
    Chad couldn’t drive. He veered in and out of lanes on the busy freeway and rode bumpers all the way south. If someone had treated me that way on the freeway, I’d have kicked their ass. He complained that we would miss the opening act, even as his ticket was free. I struggled to hear him, but every time I did, I wished I hadn’t.
    After a while, Zantha asked him about his going on E harmony to find himself a woman. He responded enthusiastically. Just to see what I was dealing with, I pointed out that e harmony was headed by a radical religious man who hated gays and tried to indoctrinate people. As I somehow knew he would, Chad asserted that all marriage is Christian. Sigh. I argued, he argued. The two women shut down the debate before it started. I chugged more vodka. We rolled on.
    As predicted, Chad got lost. We asked directions, and they helped. We arrived near the Dome, parked, and rushed to make a train to the Dome. The train came, we got on, and the packed train rolled to within blocks of the Dome. We rushed to the dome as I smoked. We got in quickly, tracked down our seats, and settled in, just in time for a few more sets before a break in the music.
    The Dome was huge! Mountains and valleys of people filled from end to end. There were older people, teenagers, and all in between. Many brought young children, which was appalling. There were many attractive women, but few to none had a body like Zantha. Her ass would make any guy drool!
    The stage seemed tiny from where we sat. I grew bored with the rap group that was on stage, so I offered to get Zantha and me a cup of wine. She nodded agreement, and I went out to the stand. The older plump woman behind the stand asserted that I could only buy one cup of wine at a time, so they could ensure that no one underage got alcohol. I bought one cup and returned to Zantha and her ass.
    We made short work of the cup. I would have gone back for more wine, but Zantha was dancing, and her hot ass was wriggling right in front of me. That was better than wine, so I sat there watching. The music ended a bit too early though, so we all piled out to get wine. Chad took off to scout chicks. Who knows, I thought, maybe he’ll meet someone as fake and stupid as he is. God knows there are plenty out there.
    The three of us stood in line. Dora asked Zantha were the hell she found that guy. Those were my sentiments exactly. Dora was doing my work. Zantha told a rather lame story, the issue died out a bit. Before long, we ordered wine and returned to our seats for the main act. I finished my wine and got another cup before the show began. Chad was nowhere to be found. Maybe someone else got annoyed by him and was less kind than I was. I smiled about the possibility until I realized there was no ride home if something did happen to him. The music started. It was pretty catchy, and I found myself dancing with Zantha instead of watching her hot ass. Around the fourth song, Chad showed up. Shit.
    I grabbed another cup of wine, then another. By then I was really into everything and having a great time, with one exception. I needed to smoke. I asked the old women at the wine stand where I could smoke. They began telling stories about when there were areas to smoke. That didn’t do me any good at all. I asked the young janitor. He advised me to smoke in the bathroom. I decided to hold it. Surely the concert can’t last that long.
    Twenty minutes later, I had to smoke. I told Zantha about the whole thing, and that I was gonna smoke in the bathroom. She nodded, and said to text if I got kicked out. I walked to the bathroom. There was no one in there. I lit up a smoke and inhaled. Ahhhh! I smoked as fast as I could. The cigarette was almost done when a loud knock struck the stall door.
    “Come on out! Open up! Now!”
    I tossed the smoke in the toilet and flushed. I opened the door. There stood two fat security guards. They were pissed.
    “Why’d you do it?! Why you smoking in the bathroom? Where’s your ticket? Come on. Outside!”
    We walked out the door and stood in the hallway. There was a considerable crowd. The loudest security guard was the fattest. He held a full, but open bottle of beer, and waved it at me as he scolded.
    “Come on, tell me why you did it. You knew goddamned well you can’t smoke in the bathroom. Why’d you do it?”
    “There’s nowhere else to smoke. I looked everywhere.”
    “Ok, that’s it! Where’s your ticket?”
    “In my coat, on my seat, beside my girlfriend.” I interrupted.
    “Ok, motherfucker, let’s go get your coat and your ticket! You gonna be a tough smart ass, I’m throwing your ass out! Where’s your fucking ticket?!”
    As he yelled that, he waved the beer bottle at me a few times too many. I realized I could stun them by taking the beer. That thought was all I needed. I grabbed the beer from his hand and ran through the crowd. It was like defensive linemen chasing Barry Sanders. They were too fat to get through the crowd. My thin body went right through. In ten seconds, I lost them. When I reached another section, I went in, climbed thirty feet of stairs to the top. I took a moment to catch my breath, and then chugged the bottle. I sat the now empty bottle down and calmly weaved my way back to my seat.
    Zantha was still dancing. Sweat was rolling off her. I sat down for a while and watched that hot ass again. Then I got up and danced. I wanted another cup of wine, but was afraid of being kicked out, so I just danced. Before I knew it, the concert was over, and people were spilling out. I told Zantha what happened with security, but I doubt she believed me.
    Eventually we made it outside, and I lit a smoke. We hustled down the street, as Chad excitedly rambled about nothing to anyone who’d listen. It was actually a little entertaining at that point. Maybe I was wrong about him. After all, Zantha had seen something in him. What that might have been was anyone’s guess.
    When we had parked, I remembered it to have been north. I was sure of it. Chad insisted we board the south train. I questioned him.
    “Does it loop around, then? We are parked north. This train goes south.”
    “No. It doesn’t loop at all. It’s the right direction.” He scoffed.
    “But we are parked up there.”
    “It doesn’t loop. It’s the right train.”
    He walked away, scoffing like a ten year old.
    “Ok, Zantha. I don’t know this town that well. I hope he knows where he’s going.”
    I needed wine and more smokes. Ideally we could go to a decent restaurant for ok food and decent wine, and where I could smoke outside. The train arrived, heading south. We piled on the crowded craft, and went south. I watched intently. We travelled south four blocks, and LOOPED AROUND. We were heading north within minutes. I caught Zantha’s eye, and shook my head. I leaned down and whispered.
    “Can’t get a straight answer from that guy.”
    We arrived at our station, finally, and got off the train. Chad skipped ahead, prancing and singing. I calculated the time until we either arrived at my place or at a restaurant. I needed wine and smoke, and was getting hungry, not to mention annoyed at Chad. He was like an eight year old, and yet propped himself up as being charge. I was sickened, but tried to remain positive for fear of ruining the evening. Besides, in short order, Zantha would be at my place, drinking wine and laughing. It would all be alright.
    We piled in Chad’s Accord and took off. Immediately Chad put on bad rap music and energetically danced and sang. Then he cranked it up to ear piercing levels. The lyrics sucked. If I had a dime for every time they said “Ho,” “Whore,” or Bitch,” I’d have retired. Chad skipped songs, and pointed out all the ones he wanted us to think were his faves. He had a captive audience, and showed no mercy. He drove erratically and talked tough. I rolled my eyes as he show cased himself as the cock of the walk.
    Any other situation with anyone else, and I’d have either told him to shut up or actually smacked him, but this was Zantha’s friend. I calculated how long the torture would last. It was just too long. I turned my attention to Zantha, kissing and licking her shoulder. Chad angrily turned on the dome light, and my eyes felt punched.
    “I CAN’T STAND THE SOUND OF KISSING! STOP IT!”
    I faced away from Zantha to hide my expression of sheer hatred. My anger was boiling! It was alarmingly close to my punching Chad right where he sat. That piece of fucking shit pulls that?! It took everything I had to not hit the fucker right then and there. I resolved this only by promising myself that I would someday get to beat the shit out of him, when Zantha wouldn’t know about it.
    The torture continued. I kept quiet, for fear of showing my anger. Chad kept showcasing himself; what he liked, what he thought, the music that moved him, where he liked to eat, the time he dared to lick someone’s nipple in public (but it was dark, you see?). On and on and on. Dora and Zantha laughed at many things he said. I was ready to puke.
    Then they talked of going to a restaurant. FUCK! Don’t get me wrong, I was hungry too, but enough was enough. I mentioned to Zantha that we could go to my place, with the intention of the two of us going somewhere decent. She declined, stating that she was very hungry. I was stuck.
    Chad exited the freeway, and took the longest route possible to restaurants in the international district. HIS fave restaurants were there, he claimed. Finally he parked the car. We piled out and began searching for a place to eat. Chad was pointing to his “faves,” and relating stories to each place. None were believable. I could feel the scowl on my face, so I kept quiet.
    Finally they picked a Chinese place. We went in, and I could see it was a bad restaurant. Then again, I thought it was my mood, so I got up from my seat right away, and went to smoke and reset my mood. I walked outside and lit a cigarette. The area was a shithole, and angry homeless guys were everywhere. I knew them well, and knew better than to be in such an area. Nonetheless, they were better company than Chad.
    A guy came up and demanded a cigarette.
    “Sorry. Had to bum this one.”
    “Oh, I see. It’s because I’m black. You’d give one to a white guy..”
    “Don’t pull that with me. I had to bum this one. I don’t have any more.”
    He grabbed the cigarette and ran off. Fuck! Now I had to face Chad. Fuck! I walked in and went to the table. The three of them sat looking at menus. There was no menu for me. Great. I sat down and tried to reset my mood. I wondered if someone might notice I had no menu. No one did. I looked off Dora’s, reading upside down and making a point of it. The wait staff was too busy for me to get their attention. Anyway, cashew chicken is usually a good bet.
    The waiter came over and we ordered. I was amazed Chad allowed the ladies to order first. How noble. Immediately after the orders went in, Chad began yacking about himself. Ugh! As the other three of us grew silent, Chad made a plea;
    “You two have each other, and Dora has someone to go home to. I have no one. This is it for me.”
    If he were capable of conversing and not being an asshole, the plea would have worked. Then again, if that were the case, I wouldn’t have wanted to hit him as badly as I did. Who knows, it might have been a good time. However, there we were, a captive audience for the likes and character of Chad, endless, merciless. I regretted my own birth in those hours.
    The food arrived and it sucked, just as I knew it would. There went thirty five dollars that could have been used for food that didn’t taste like wet laundry. I shoveled the cashew chicken, so as to not notice the blandness and terrible texture. Dora stared at hers, as in holding a disbelief as to how bad it was. Zantha ate heavily, as hers was obviously ok. Chad slowly ate at a heaping pile, being sure to drag it out as long as was humanly possible. Fuck!
    I finished and went to smoke. By then I was so fucked off that I hoped the fucker that stole my cigarette came by looking for trouble. I was going to kick his ass. He didn’t though, and I finished that one without incident. After finishing the smoke, I stood outside for a while longer. There was no need to hurry back to listen to Chad showcase himself.
    When I did go back, he was still taking his time eating and running his mouth. I showed pure exacerbation. I couldn’t hold it back. Zantha saw it purely. Dora saw it too. I was pissed! When the waiter came over to try to sell dessert, etc., I interrupted and asked for the check. Chad had a mouthful, and so couldn’t object. The check arrived, and I plopped money on the tray for meals for me and Zantha. Dora had her card ready. Chad sat there eating and talking and talking and talking. If looks could kill, I’d be in prison for murder.
    Finally at long last, Chad finished eating! Yes! He plopped down cash. The waiter was fast, thank god, and we were cleared for takeoff. My spirits rose at the thought of the torture ending. I don’t live that far away, after all. The motley foursome finally left the restaurant and piled in the Accord. Immediately, the bad rap played, and Chad danced as he drove. At least the car was moving though.
    Then my hopes were slaughtered. I should have expected it though. Chad drove through the busiest, slowest sections of the city. It was near two, closing time, and traffic sucked. People who had been in pleasant company all evening were piling out of the bars. Chad pointed to all the bars and made up stories about each one, usually about hot chicks he met in the bar, and what they did. The Accord crawled among the traffic as he bragged about the chicks he did while the rap songs spoke of “Ho’s.”
    As nicely as I could muster, I spoke up;
    “It’s easiest to turn right on Broad.”
    Chad scowled in the rearview. He repeated his earlier plea;
    “You two have each other, Dora has someone at home. I have no one.”
    I bit my tongue to keep from saying “No wonder.” Chad didn’t miss a beat, going right back to reliving fantasies about chicks in those bars. When he passed Broad Street, I silently pointed. Zantha nicely pointed out that we missed Broad Street. Chad huffed;
    “Ugh! I am heading up Mercer! The way we came is fast too, and we get to see more bars.”
    Zantha slouched, I tried to bury my scowl, and took long deep breaths. I really wanted to beat the shit out of him! The Accord was quiet, except for Chad, of course. We made our way onto fifth eventually, and I sat up to give directions to my apartment. I spoke in direct, no bullshit tones, barely hiding my hatred of dork.
    “Straight up the hill. Keep straight.”
    “Turn right at the next light. Turn left at this street.”
    Finally, at long, long, long, long, long, long, long last, the Accord pulled into my parking lot and stopped. I jumped out and was to Zantha’s side in a fraction of a second. Zantha hugged Chad. It’s a good thing she did, as I had been seriously considering punching him.
    We made into my place. Zantha sat down. I began opening a bottle of wine. Neither said anything. I poured her a glass, then poured myself one. I drank the glass down in five seconds and refilled. She sat there half dazed.
    “THAT will never happen again.”
    Zantha look at me in a confused daze.
    “I will never be around that piece of shit ever again, Zantha. Sorry, but your friend is shit.”
    “I know he’s self absorbed, but I had no idea you hated him.”
    “Are you kidding? Who could stand him? How did you stand him?”
    “Well...”
    In falsetto, I replayed his words, “You two have each other and Dora had someone waiting at home. I have no one... Yeah, maybe if he could CONVERSE, but fuck!”
    She chuckled. I knew I had her there. I went on to make fun of him for an hour and a bottle of wine. Then we crawled into bed and had great sex before she fell asleep. I stayed up drinking for a while longer and wanted to kick Chad’s ass. I still do.








Now that old folks
are supposed to eat red meat

Fritz Hamilton

Now that old folks are supposed to eat red meat,
I start to eat my hand, but I have a rotten molar &
a chicken’s heart/ the blood pours from

my digit, & I start to fidget/ I
have PTSD, &
this doesn’t help/ it’ll be the

death of me, & I yelp/ a
pitbull comes to finish me off, &
my head I dolph/ he

takes one bite, & I’m headless/ I
gush blood & make a mess/ it’s
a relief, I must confess/ no more must I

live this life of constant
misery & strife/ I take my
butter knife & shove it in my flabby heart/ they

boil my heart & kidney/ it’s a
culinary art/ they boil my
liver too making a deplorable stew that

nobody cares to eat/ would you?/ they
cut out my stomach & now I
have no stomach for it/ they

eat my head as sweet bread/ all a
bit repulsive, so it’s said/ they
hang my ribs in a locker, but

when they see I’m rather short, they
remove them & eat shortribs/ soon
I’m totally consumed &

thoroughly doomed,
buried & exhumed &
exhibited with

distaste as
human
waste ...

!



I have murdered Nute Grinch

Fritz Hamilton

    “I have murdered Nute Grinch in the gutter.”
    “Why, Fred?” says Sedjwick the monk.
    “So he’ll never run again.”
    “Most dead men don’t.”
    “I mean for office.”
    “I didn’t know Nute had an office.”
    “I mean for public office, like president or street cleaner.”
    “Nute is too dirty to clean the street.”
    “But not too dirty to be president, Sedjwick.”
    “You aren’t very clean yourself, Fred.”
    A pteradactyl flies overhead & shits on Fred. Rainmaker Rufus clings to the pteradactyl’s tail & pours on Fred washing him clean. I thank Rufus because I am Fred. I am now wet & find the world cold & miserable, though I wish the pteradactyl would go extinct & shit in an earlear period.
    An allosaurus trots on by & bites off my head.
    Sedjwick says, “Wow, that was close!”
    “Close for you,” my head says rolling in the street, “but right on for me. The allosaurus bit off my head.”
    “That’s the way an allosaurus operates.”
    “Well, I wish he’d operate on someone else, Dr Kildare.”
    “Be patient, Fred.”
    “But not the allosaurus’ patient, thanks.”
    “You’ve lost your head, Fred.”
    “I’d still like to shoulder the burden.”
    “ But you’re still a pain in the neck.”
    A B-29 flies over us & bombs Sedjwick, nuclearizing him & blasting our friendship to smitheroonies. It gives me a headache, but my body runs away through monkeyshines. Next time I’ll run for president, if I have the head for it.








Faceless

Eric Burbridge

    Calvin Moreland peered up at the reddish yellow eyes of a face covered by a surgeon’s head wrap and mask. He didn’t remember how he got there. But, the technology that enabled him to watch the procedure in mid-air 3D and from the table fascinated him; like he floated in and out of his body. “It’s hot and it smells in here.” He was asleep, but he spoke. How?
    “Climate control, get use to it.” A wheezy rasping voice said, through the facial covering. The surgeon’s long pointed fingers twirled a scapel. “This will be painless, Calvin.” The instrument punctured Calvin’s flesh by his left temple. Blood pooled around the blade then trickled pass his hairline into silver strands of hair. Slowly, with precision the blade circled his skull and stopped on the opposite side. Calvin gripped the sides of the table and his eyes rolled in his head trying to folow his hand.His needle like finger tips pushed, then grabbed Calvin’s scalp and snatched it. Only part of it moved and that exposed yellow fatty pus. Blood dripped into a funnel that ran to a pan of bread like sponges The surgeon kicked the tray and flies scattered everywhere. He yanked it; it popped, but a portion still remained. He rubbed it mixing the fat and blood.
    “What’s wrong, doctor?”
    “Your scalp is stubborn, but I’ll get it.” The surgeon took a device that looked like a rolling pin with studs on it and placed it on the dangling hair and flesh. Snap...snap. “Your life of greed and selfishness are in your flesh, but I will be successful.” His head wrap was soaked with sweat. He pressed and rolled. Calvin’s scalp stuck and snapped with every turn. Now, Calvin saw the doctor standing over him. Amazing!
    The surgeon grabbed the scalp, balled it up where only Calvin’s hair showed and tossed it into the surrounding steamy crimson mist. “Doctor, will my new hair be the color I requested?” No answer. Calvin looked down on his exposed skull. Why so many flies? The surgeon slit his face on both sides. He’d miss his that face; it took a good tan, but the new one, the doctor promised, would be better. He adjusted Calvin’s head so both his hands could dig into the bloody incisions to get a good grip.
    Calvin blinked; the surgeon’s yellow eyes seemed to smile when his fingers pulled the flesh from under his chin. The skin crackled when it was stretched to its limit. Calvin’s eyes swam in his head as he watc hed his chin and lips being turned inside out.
    “Ouch!”
    “You feelno pain, Calvin,” The surgeon snapped. Calvin’s face was finally severed from the skull. The surgeon held it up and displayed it. Calvin heard faint cheers that came from the mist. The surgeon took a scooping tool and rakied it over the remaining fat. He flung it into the mist and a huge swarm of flies followed. Calvin felt they weren’t alone. Glaring eyes appeared set by set in the mist. “We’re almost finished, my subjects.”
    Calvin looked at the faceless skulls. “Who the hell are they?”
    “People like you,” the surgeon laughed. “People with low morals, did whatever they wanted. Disgusting creatures looking for redemption.” He waved the flies and stripped the gums from around Calvin’s teeth. “I’m finished.” Cheers erupted from the skinless skulls in the crowd.
    “When will I get my new face?”
    “Do you deserveone, with all your faults? You are a wretched individual.” The surgeon said, and shook his head in disgust.
    “I’ll change, I’ve done it before!”
    “Look around you.” The hideous apparitions stretched as far as the eye could see. “They are waiting for new ones too.”
    “How long will I have to figure things out?”
    The surgeon laughed. “Forever.”








My Suicide Attempt

Zach Murphy

    Sometime after watching the twin towers burn from the east corner of the Manhattan block I lived on, it became clear to me that I was afflicted with depression and OCD. I was miserable at work and at home, where my live-in girlfriend and I argued far too often in her tiny apartment. It got to the point where I ordered a book that I thought was a how-to-commit-suicide guide. I know I probably don’t need a book to show me how to kill myself. However, if I resolved to do it, two things were very important to me; I wanted to succeed and avoid as much pain as possible. That’s why I ordered and purchased the book.
    Suicide is a major world health problem. It is routinely one of the leading causes of death. The media loves to report violent premature human death; if it bleeds, it leads. However, unless it’s the suicide of a celebrity, or it’s a story that can’t be ignored, they probably won’t cover it. The Centers for Disease Control has asked the media to not publicize suicides, because suicide seems to be contagious. They tend to occur in clusters. People at the CDC believe that the more the media covers suicides, the more copycat suicides will occur as a result.
    Even though I’m quite familiar with not wanting to live, I doubt that hearing about someone killing themselves would cause me to commit suicide. It’s not such an easy decision for me. I have pondered suicide extensively, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s quite ugly. The way I see it, suicide is the murdering of the body by the mind. The mind wants to die, but it seems like the body is not always on the same page. For example, if one hangs oneself, their body will flop around like a fish out of water: trying to free itself from the noose. Similarly, if one attempts to drown oneself, their body will struggle mightily to survive. I take good care of my body. I eat well and I exercise regularly. I love my body, and I don’t want to destroy it. It’s the only thing I have that really belongs to me.
    Depression, for me, is misery. It’s feeling miserable, wishing I’d never been born, and not wanting to live. I’ve experienced much more pain, frustration, boredom, and sadness than happiness.
    One of my high school teachers reminisced about his days at university, which he considered to be “the best four years of my life.” A certain amount of time had passed since he fondly recalled his college years.
    As soon as he mentioned his college experience again, before he had to chance to say much about it, I blurted, “best four years of your life.” Some of my classmates had also remembered him saying that, perhaps that’s why they laughed. The teacher said nothing. He simply looked at me in a way that effectively communicated, “Just wait; you’ll see.” He was right (so far). While I was attending college, I was more interested in recreational drug use, billiards, and fun than studying.
    I became sure I’d had enough of arguing with my girlfriend on a regular basis. Moving is difficult and expensive, but I had saved up enough money, and my girlfriend was pushing me so hard and so often, that I was worried I was going to lose control and hit her. It was time. The apartment was too small to pack and leave the boxes on the floor, so I carried them, box by box, to a nearby storage facility. I also researched where I was going to move to; remaining in New York City was an unaffordable option. Since I’ve never made a lot of money, I considered cost of living to be the most important factor when looking for a new city to move to. I narrowed it down to two options: San Antonio, Texas and Rochester, NY. However, I had previously lived in Rochester, and I fled it, in part, because of its harsh winters. Since I had lived all my life within the state of New York, the prospect of warm winters appealed to me very much.
    My girlfriend thought that packing all my stuff into a rental car and driving to San Antonio with no home, or job, set up there wasn’t a great idea. It wasn’t ideal, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Before I left, she said to me, “We’re still a couple, right?” Who said there’s no such thing as a stupid question? Perhaps my answer was even less intelligent; I said yes. After all, she was my only friend. Besides, we could always break up at a later date. I rented a car that was large enough to contain all of my possessions. I emptied the storage unit into the car and headed south. The further I traveled, the more depressed I became. I hoped I wouldn’t become any more depressed after stopping for gas in West Virginia. However, the combination of nightfall, rainfall, and reaching Virginia all made that possible. I checked into a cheap, faceless motel. I called my girlfriend to tell her how depressed I was. She told me it would get better. I continued to bitch and moan until she told me I could come back if I wanted to. That’s what I wanted to hear. My spirits lifted immediately. The next day, I returned to Manhattan and unloaded the car.
    I didn’t unpack completely, because I knew I had to move. Even though I’m a loner who wasn’t communicating with anyone in my family at the time, Texas was too far away from anyone I knew. Besides, it’s scares me to know how easy it is for someone to acquire a handgun there, whether it results in someone shooting me or me shooting myself. I decided to move to Rochester for the second time. I rented another car, this time a Lincoln Continental, packed up my things again, and drove north. I snagged a crappy, but inexpensive, apartment. Then I landed a boring and low-paying job: just the sort I’m used to. For the most part though, I got along well with my coworkers, which helped make things more than tolerable. I also lived within walking distance of my workplace.
    I had worked there for nearly two and a half years when I walked to work on a cold February morning. Just before I punched in, my boss asked me to come into his office. He didn’t waste too much time getting to the point.
    “We can’t afford to have two full-time employees in shipping and receiving anymore, so we’re going to have to let you go,” he said casually.
    I’ve lost plenty of jobs, and I’ve seen the end coming before, but not this time. It felt like he pulled the rug out from underneath my feet. I told my girlfriend about it. Since I was unemployed, I was available for a visit, so she invited me to stay with her for a couple of weeks. Unfortunately, the same problems existed. She yelled and screamed at me for little or no reason, which forced me to cut the trip short by several days. I had reached a new low. The trip home occurred under a heavy fog of depression. I wanted to die. I made a list of all the things I wanted to do before killing myself. I purchased a coil of bright-white nylon rope, from The Home Depot, that seemed strong enough to help me hang myself.
    I also felt the need to create my last will and testament; I was 39 years old. Despite all the venom that my girlfriend and I have spewed at each other, she has been very generous toward me, so I wanted her to get all my money, and any of my possessions that she might want, in the event of my demise. After doing some research, I chose an online service, paid the fee, and received the document in the mail. There was a problem, and it was a big one. I needed two people to witness me signing my will, who then sign it themselves. If I didn’t get the two witness signatures, then, technically, the will wouldn’t be valid. My girlfriend couldn’t be one of the witnesses because she was the beneficiary. She was my only friend at the time. Even if I wasn’t out of touch with all of my family members, none of them lived very close to me anyway.
    I tried to get strangers to witness me signing my will. On a rainy day, I walked around Rochester with my will, which kept dry in 2 plastic shopping bags. I first went to the county clerk’s office: no. Then I walked to a police station: another no. I was quite discouraged by that point, but I gave a library a try: no. Strike three, I’m out. I pretty much gave up on getting it witnessed. However, I received an email from my cousin Mindy, who I hadn’t seen in about 15 years. She was going to be visiting her father, who, like me, lives in upstate New York. I returned her email, asking her if she and anyone else could witness me signing my will. She replied that she’d do it, and her father would probably do so as well. I asked her to please make sure. She confirmed that he’d do it. Since 2 people pledged to meet my conditions, I decided to make the hour-and-a-half drive to my uncle’s home. Ultimately, I had a pretty good time, and I accomplished my mission as well. I was ready to die.
    By chance, I discovered a book while browsing metal CDs at Amazon.com. It was a book about becoming depression-free without the aid of prescription antidepressants. It sounded interesting, so I checked the local library for it. They had it, so I borrowed it. I’d never read a self-help book before though, and I had never wanted to do so either. Consequently, the book collected some dust as I continued to plan for the end of my life. With nothing to lose, I spent well over $100 on lottery tickets over the course of one week. I’d never been rich before, so I was willing to give that a try. I hit no jackpots though. Still having nothing to lose, I read the book on becoming depression-free. The doctor who wrote it clearly thought that taking the right supplements was very important. I couldn’t do everything he was asking the reader to do, but I gave the supplements a try. Initially, I felt a noticeable euphoria shortly after beginning this new regimen. However, the euphoric feeling soon vanished, and it felt like I was back to where I had started.
    I plodded along. Once again, I chose to leave Rochester. Isolation wasn’t working out well for me. Not surprisingly, one of the things I learned from the book is that people who are depressed and isolated need social contact. My grandma, who lives in Queens, NY, was going to be spending the summer at my mother’s house. I asked her if she’d let me stay at her apartment while I looked for a job and a home of my own. She said yes. I schlepped most of my stuff into a New Jersey storage facility and the rest into her apartment. As far as landing a job and an apartment, I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind to do either of those things effectively. My highest priorities included exercising, watching cable television at my girlfriend’s apartment, and playing with her dog.
    Summer had ended, and my grandma would be returning to her apartment shortly. I didn’t really want to live with her, I didn’t have a job, and I didn’t have a home to move into. It seemed like my only real option was to return to Rochester. I didn’t want to do that, so I decided to kill myself instead. I quickly ruled the bathroom out. It wouldn’t be very considerate of me to leave my dead body there. My mother and grandma would need to use the bathroom eventually, and they shouldn’t have to navigate my corpse in order to relieve themselves of their waste products. I tied the end of my noose to the inside doorknob of a closet in my grandma’s bedroom (The other bedroom in my grandma’s apartment had two beds that her and my mother could use.) and tossed the noose over the top of the door. When I had thought about how I would physically hang myself, this is the method that came to mind. I looked it up in my how-to-commit-suicide book; the author confirmed that it was a popular effective technique. I adjusted the rope until the knot was at the top of the door and I tied everything tightly.
    It was time for a sort of dress rehearsal. I wasn’t going to do it yet; I was just going to practice for the following day. With the noose around my neck, my toes reached the floor; this would not do. I retied the end of the rope to the doorknob: raising the noose to the very top of the door.
    The day arrived. I wrote a note for my grandma and mother. It warned them that my dead body was in the bedroom, and if they didn’t want to see it, then they shouldn’t open the bedroom door before calling for help. I taped the note to the full-length mirror that one saw as soon as one opened the front door of the apartment. They couldn’t miss it, and if they did: surprise! I went into the bedroom and shut the door. I stood on a step ladder and put the noose around my neck. When I was ready, I stepped off it. It wasn’t a leap of faith; it was a leap of death. As I felt the rope dig into my neck, yesterday’s problem had reemerged. My toes were touching the floor. I wasn’t a happy camper. My toes were just barely touching the floor, so the vast majority of my weight was being supported by the rope. I was rather uncomfortable. I’d read about people hanging themselves, and I learned that fully suspended hanging suicides were somewhat rare. Usually, the corpse’s feet are touching the floor. I knew that all I needed to do was lift my feet up or bend my knees and the rope would take care of the rest. I didn’t though. Even though I was quite miserable, I had a chance to back out of it, and I did.
    I hadn’t hurt myself. After I took the noose off my neck, I looked at my reflection in a mirror. There was a red ring around my neck that would soon fade away. I had chosen death over returning to Rochester. Now that I had changed my mind about death, it was time to go to Rochester. I moved all my stuff into my car. There was plenty of it, and it took a lot of time and effort. I also removed the note from the mirror and took it with me. When I was ready, I drove to Rochester, which takes at least six hours to do from Queens. When I reached my destination, I checked into a motel and brought nearly everything, that wasn’t secured in the trunk, into my room. Tried to kill myself, moved a ton of stuff into my car, drove to Rochester, and moved a ton of stuff into a motel room: busy day.
    Things were far from hunky dory. I was very depressed. I called a doctor’s office where I once had been given a physical. I mentioned that I was very depressed. They transferred me to a social worker, who seemed quite concerned about me. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation. She pretty much threatened to have someone else call me. Someone else did call me, but I said I was okay. I finally called my mother after spending about two and a half weeks at the motel. She offered to let me stay at her place. I didn’t really want to be in Rochester, especially since winter was just around the corner. Therefore, I left the motel and drove to my mother’s Long Island house. Even though I stayed in an inexpensive motel, staying there for as long as I did burned up a solid chunk of my savings.
    Apparently males are less likely than females to seek help for mental health issues, but it was clear to me that that’s exactly what I needed. I researched Long Island psychiatrists, picked one, and made an appointment. I told her about my suicide attempt and other issues in my life. She prescribed Prozac. Even after waiting the appropriate amount of weeks for it to work its magic, it didn’t help. In fact, while I was taking Prozac, I began to experience shortness of breath, which is something I’d never had a problem with before. It scared the hell out of me. In retrospect, I was simultaneously taking supplements, for depression, that don’t interact well with Prozac. I began to read an anti-Prozac book. Additionally, listening to my girlfriend’s anti-antidepressant rants also helped convince me to stop taking Prozac. Letting the psychiatrist know about my decision wasn’t on the table because I lost my medical insurance shortly after the only mental health appointment I’d ever had.
    I wouldn’t call this an attempt; it was more like an incident. Once again, I was pretty sure I wanted to die. While my mother was out, I retrieved my noose from the trunk of my car. After examining the tree branches in my mother’s backyard, I chose one. It was high enough, and it seemed to be strong enough to hold my dead weight. I carried a ladder out of the basement and leaned it against the tree. I climbed the ladder and tied the noose to the branch I had selected. Then I put the noose around my neck and held on to the branch with both of my hands. The next step in my plan was to kick the ladder aside. Then, whether I chose to release my grip on the branch, or if I simply became too tired to grasp it anymore, my body would fall, and I would be suspended only by the rope. I couldn’t bring myself to kick that ladder aside though. I stood there for several minutes with the noose resting on my shoulders and my hands clamped onto that branch, but I just couldn’t do it.
    I eventually moved to Rochester for the third time. After settling in again, I began to experience pain in my abdomen after eating, which concerned me. I had no insurance, so I searched for a clinic that would treat people like me. I found one and made an appointment. It was located in a ghetto, and it didn’t look very impressive from the outside, but it looked like a regular doctor’s office on the inside. Not surprisingly, they wanted me to fill out some paperwork. I was asked to list any other issues I had besides the purpose of my visit. I wrote depression down. The pain in my abdomen turned out to be a hernia. The doctor, who examined me, seemed to be more concerned with my depression. He told me I should get it treated, and he handed me a sheet of paper that listed some options.
    My miserable life continued. In addition to being depressed, I’m also cheap. I might as well call these organizations to see if I can get some free counseling. The first one I called charged a reasonable amount of money for each and every appointment. I called the other one and found out that they charged nothing for the mental health treatment they offered. The price was right, so I began therapy. After a reasonable amount of time had passed, I was quite sure I didn’t like the therapist I’d been matched up with. I asked the director of the mental health center if there was another therapist I could see instead of her. If no replacement was available, then I would have stopped going to therapy at that center for sure. Fortunately, a replacement was available, and I found the sessions with him to be far more tolerable than the ones I’d experienced with the first therapist I saw.
     Unfortunately, the therapy didn’t seem to be working; I was still miserable. My therapist asked me to rate my days on a 1-10 scale. The lower the number, the worse my day was. Shortly after replying that every day in the previous week had been a 1, he suggested I meet with the center’s psychiatrist. I did so, and after listening to me talk about some of the problems in my life, she prescribed Prozac. This time, it worked. I felt its effects almost immediately. It initially felt very stimulating. It gave me much more energy than what I’d been used to. I told my therapist that it was a good thing I already had an exercise routine in place prior to feeling the effects of the Prozac, because I might have pushed my body too far otherwise. I’m not sure if the therapy has helped me beyond reducing my isolation for an hour each week, but since I began taking Prozac, my depression has lessened considerably. I’m very grateful to the mental health center that has given me free treatment without ever asking for anything in return. I have donated money to the center, and, unless I die before I have a chance to do so, I will certainly contribute more money to it. Considering that I had, once again, begun to plan for suicide just prior to being prescribed Prozac, the good people there may have saved my life.
    Thanks to Facebook, I also reconnected with an old college friend, who, to my surprise, was living in the Rochester area. We hadn’t seen each other in 18 years. I’ve been spending time with him and his friends, and this is a good thing for me.
     Even though things have improved greatly for me, all is not well. I still have bad days that make me feel like I’d be better off dead. I have to fight off suicidal feelings. I know that, because I’ve attempted suicide, the risk of me eventually completing the act is higher as a result. Also, I’m well aware of the mistake I made when trying to hang myself in my grandma’s apartment. All I need to do is make sure that the noose is as high as it needs to be. Although, I feel as though it’s entirely possible that I just don’t have the guts to kill myself. However, it’s both comforting and horrifying to know that suicide is always there for me. It’s like a soft, warm blanket that’s kept on a high shelf in a closet. It’s ready to be deployed whenever the world becomes too cold to bear.








the Creation of Earth

John Ragusa

Was God
Thinking of hell
When He created
This Earth?





Janet Kuypers reads the John Ragusa
November 2012 (v112) Down in the Dirt magazine poem

the Creation of Eartht
video videonot yet rated
See YouTube video
of Janet Kuypers reading this poem straight from the November 2012 issue (v111) of Down in the Dirt magazine, live 11/7/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s
the Café Gallery open mic in Chicago)







Sham El Dorado

Mark Vogel

Sixty years later, in a Carolina beach house,
scenes ooze from the book,
a groggy early morning dream—
ominous shadows on Warsaw ghetto walls,
brutal rules for survival, slow torturing edges,
a naked body hung from a light pole.
The horror escapes from this easy chair,
opposite comical gaudy gold-trimmed shell art
on the wall beside matching blue red
yellow tropic watercolors. Outside the sun
rises strong above the insistent ocean, and
already crowds collect, seeking pleasure,
paying to be bullied by traffic snarl.

Still, emaciated black and white faces linger
within the cocoon, forever bullied by language
so colorful many believed they were traveling
to Bavaria, even signing contracts for this honor.
Too late they discovered soiled propaganda
squeezed too close to breathe, and people
crammed like sardines until eyes turned
from the pale naked dead, the blood soiled
garbage strewn streets, numbing walls
holding tight the narrowest stripped story.

Even before stark evidence writing a thousand
movies, muted history managed a one day
showy dream, a scoured carcass-free depot
forgetting starvation, bodies aflame. A makeover
for outsiders, a Red Cross volunteer theater
masking Nazi horror, where language as surface
so easily pushed and shoved eager blinking
belief in justice. When the living, temporarily
protected from the killing strut, emerged
from recesses, for one day fed, the observers,
ready to go home, failed to see (again)
what was right there smelling.

Here in the land of sand and heat,
when boys stir, the smiling go cart/beach blanket/
fried fish vacation in false falseness will follow
the itinerary. Soon enough in this room
cheap enough since creation, new money-spilling
believers breathing satiated myth will appear,
but now stumbling victims still cluster in the shadows
in this pretend home bruised and bleached
by wind and sun. Brochures on the coffee table
promise sailboats, fishing, golf, though SS patrols
clearly wait outside. Once beyond the door
the bright glare masks gritty truth.





Mark Vogel bio

    Mark Vogel has published short stories in Cities and Roads, Knight Literary Journal, Whimperbang, SN Review, and Our Stories. Poetry has appeared in Poetry Midwest, English Journal, Cape Rock, Dark Sky, Cold Mountain Review, Broken Bridge Review and other journals. He is currently Professor of English at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina.








House Plant

Don Thompson

    A plant safely rooted in terra cotta isn’t confined, but free. Beyond the narrow-minded horizon of its window sill, the birds run amuck—grackles that never shut up, those jabbering lunatics; sparrows so insane they bathe in dust; distracted hummingbirds that jerk back from every sweet flower as if shocked. Their motto must be: We can rest when we’re dead.

    But a house plant wants peace and quiet. Like me, it thrives on a modicum of light, neither faint nor harsh with no clouded hints or that glaring honesty I can live without. And not dirt but soil, a nurturing mix of peat moss, perlite, and loam.

    Otherwise it needs only someone who cares enough to show up with a watering can now and then. Neither left alone to wither nor saturated with affection. Is that asking so much? Just to sit still, bothering no one, never complaining about the uproar outside, and let birds be birds?








you were always so casual
about your relationship.

Gary Lundy

i can’t tell if you love him or are just making do.
may i kiss you. i mean a real kiss.
you close your eyes.
it may thus begin this time.
to collect from experiences what remains unknown.
cardboard tree stands.
loaf springs toward other talk.
skin zero a moment. daily catch.








Remembering the Mick From Morrisania

Lasher Lane

    “They put that stone on top of you to make sure you stay down,” was what I always remember my grandfather Joe saying whenever the subject of headstones or cemeteries came up. The man, who had never seemed to mind the disparaging slang he directed towards himself whenever he’d greet acquaintances with a firm handshake and a genuine smile as “the Mick from Morrisania,” had finally surrendered after surviving sixty-nine years and thirteen heart attacks. Yes, thirteen. He was a medical marvel, and when it was asked of my grandmother that his heart be donated to science, she did so, although with some reservation.
    My mom yelled at us to keep quiet and stay still as we sat in the funeral home, my brother and I in our extremely uncomfortable suits and ties, and her green hair coincidentally complementing the large spray of green carnations by the casket, my grandfather’s favorite.
    Being so young and at my first wake, I found the whole process a little creepy when I learned the term “wake” was originally used to mean a waiting period in case the dead might wake up. If my brother Will and I had to leave the room for any reason like to use the funeral home’s restroom, find the water fountain or whatever, before we’d enter again, we’d be sure to check the morbid, perfectly angled, tiny mirrors, or “loved one locators,” that were set outside the doorway transom corners of each viewing room, framing only the facial area of the deceased, to see if my grandfather might have decided to open his eyes while we were gone. And if that wasn’t creepy enough, with the New York gravediggers’ strike that July, the funeral home had to hold him over longer than they had expected, and after a three day wake turned into four, according to the undertaker, my grandfather’s stitched lips were starting to separate, giving them no choice but to close the coffin lid. I took this man’s word for it without having to look. Surely I would miss my grandfather, we all would, but I didn’t want to remember him that way: dead and literally coming apart. I’d rather have remembered him the way he was when he was alive.
    Always a jokester, he swore he’d come back as a fly and “bug” us. I remember that summer he died, there was a certain fly that followed us from room to room, never leaving us alone, constantly in our face, never seeming to want to be released outside, so we all started calling it “Joe.” It wasn’t until late fall when the weather turned cold that it would finally disappear.
    Even though I was only seven when he passed away, how could I ever forget him when during those first years of my life he and my grandmother would leave the South Bronx every weekend to be with us in our small town across the river. In summer, he’d sit under the giant black ash in our front yard, escaping the heat, while I’d watch him exist on his sparse daily supply of whisky, cigars and nitroglycerin, popping the tabs as often, it seemed, as my younger brother, Will and I could pull our Candy Buttons off paper.
    He’d bring those “hand-rolled” cigars on weekends to share with my other grandfather who lived next door to us. Being the same age, they had a lot in common. For one, they were both in the Great War. As they sat together smoking and drinking in the yard, Will and I would listen to them as they recounted their experiences about a place they called No Mans-Land, a place full of suffocating mud and mustard gas. They also each had wives that were two decades younger than themselves, and they both loved boats, which worked out well since my other grandfather owned the marina across from our house. The two couples, my German grandparents and my Irish grandmother and Italian grandmother became fast friends, spending summer nights reminiscing by singing old songs like “Wait ‘til the Sun Shines Nellie” and “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.” They were songs that were strange to my ears, nothing like what Elvis or Buddy Holly were singing. The other three were tone-deaf, but my Irish grandfather had once been in a barbershop quartet. The birds would always become silent when the singing started. I don’t know if it was the singing that scared them, or the birds simply became silent because they were amazed at the lack of harmonies they were hearing.
    Eventually though, my grandparents would be forced to move into our furnished basement full-time when my retired grandfather, his heart damaged from diptheria he’d most likely gotten from sleeping with corpses when he was young and homeless, had become too ill and senile to be left alone in their Bronx apartment. My grandmother would keep her New York accounting job with the A & P, which she’d always much rather refer to as the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company. Even the move across the river didn’t stop her. She’d commute daily on buses and trains, while my mom would keep an eye on my grandfather during the day.
    It was 1957. Sputnik was launched and the Space Race began. Eisenhower was president, and American families were measuring themselves up against the Nelsons and the Cleavers. My mom had put on a lot of weight during that year, caring for my grandfather and also mebecause of my serious accident. She didn’t seem to want to bother getting dressed anymore, and spent morning, noon and night in what she called “dusters” with snaps for buttons. It was a Mother’s Day she’d never forget when I set off for my friend’s house just around the corner with my metal pail and shovel. I was forbidden to cross the street, and it wouldn’t have been necessary to do so in order to reach my friend’s house since he lived on the same side. I’d gone back and forth that way almost every day, but that day was different. A German Shepherd was coming towards me on that side of the street, the same dog who had bitten my friend badly on the neck just the week before when she’d attempted to deliver Girl Scout cookies. This dog had somehow gotten out of the yard. I dashed into the road and in front of a car that was going pretty fast. The driver, a district attorney, left me there and when confronted by police later would say he thought he’d hit an animal. A neighbor had witnessed the whole thing from her window. She’d seen the car, then saw me being thrown a half-block into the air, landing on my head and on the metal pail, which would slice almost completely through my six year-old thighbone. It was only when my dad saw Fritz, our dog, in a move most unusual for him, scale the front gate, and he found where the dog had ran off to that my parents would know what had happened. How else would they have known since there were no screeching brakes? The driver never stopped, never even slowed down. As Fritz sat faithfully by my side in the pool of blood that was leaking rapidly from my head, I remember being really relieved to hear the ambulance sirens but trying really hard to fight sleep, as the paramedics yelled at me all the way to the hospital to stay awake.
    My head injury was so severe that the doctor’s orders were I had to remain lying down for almost a full year, even while eating, then gradually getting to a sitting position and using a wheelchair because I wasn’t allowed to walk. My mother found that trying to keep a six year-old still was not an easy task, neither was the newly-added burden of attending to my grandfather’s needs who’d become like a child himself. All those months recovering, I’d watch from my vantage point on the couch, as she would go through her same daily routine of caring for me and him, which in the mornings included setting out his favorite cereal, Sugar Pops, while she’d turn the small black and white TV that she’d strategically placed above the refrigerator to hopefully hold his attention and prevent him from slipping out the front door while she wasn’t looking so she could also attend to me, help my brother Will get ready for school, and make sure the dog wasn’t eating any of our furniture. It eventually got so bad with my grandfather trying to escape at all hours, even during the middle of the night, that my father had to reverse all the doorknobs, and we had to use keys, locking ourselves in, that we kept hidden from him whenever we needed to go out. Then when he could no longer escape, he began getting into bed with my parents at night, saying that there was a short, fat guy in his bed who wouldn’t stop snoring. That short, fat guy was my grandmother. It had been many years since she’d resembled the flapper-dressing, Louise Brooks look-alike he’d married. Countless nights I’d hear my parents gently guiding him back to his own bed, my grandmother snoring loudly, oblivious to it all.
    Housebound, while my grandmother and father went off to work, the highlight of my mom’s day quickly became centered around when the dark, handsome young doctor, in an expensive-looking suit, carrying his giant black bag and wearing his stethoscope like an accessory, would make housecalls to check on my grandfather and me. After examining us both, he’d stand in the kitchen, striking a male model-like pose while he made small talk with my mother, smoked a cigarette, and drank coffee. She’d suddenly become all giddy. I’d never seen her act that way with my dad. And then there were the two bakery trucks that would deliver, one to the front door and one to the back. Friends would stop by for coffee and some of that cake, but mostly to check on all of us. And as soon as they’d leave, she’d clear the teacups and cake plates from the table, and then she’d cry quietly by the sink, trying to hide her misery from them, and she thought from me, but I knew she felt trapped with no car, little money and nothing to look forward to but caring for us. How could she not, after coming from such an active life in the city, working as a secretary, dining and dancing with friends at clubs like the Paramount and the Apollo to such a small, off-the-map town, its only social offerings being countless old man bars, card parties where hick wives sat with their pretentious cigarette holders, mimicking Hollywood actresses on TV in a world so far removed from their own, or talent shows at the American Legion put on by men dressing up as women, which she thought to herself that they seemed to enjoy a little too much. Even more reason to cry was that most American women were being led to believe that Gentlemen did really prefer blondes, and in her attempt to look like Marilyn, something went wrong with the dye process again and this time, instead of platinum, my mom’s hair had turned pink. If that wasn’t enough, the diet pills her friend gave her didn’t seem to be erasing the effects of all those countless bakery products the way she’d hoped.

***

    My mom actually knew the moment my grandfather had died. His last weeks were spent in a New York hospital, and while my grandmother and father had to be at work, my mom would take buses and trains every day to visit. In the end, he didn’t even recognize her or us and didn’t know who he was or where he was. He became violent and uncontrollable, having to be tied to the bed. One Sunday, my father suggested a much needed respite, so we went to the Jersey shore to spend a day on the boardwalk. Before we even got there, my mom told my dad that she had the feeling there was something wrong and to quickly find a payphone. She had the strongest urge that he died, and when she got my grandmother on the line, she found out she was right.
    Now with my grandfather gone and myself finally being able to return to school, my mom could return to some sort of life, hopefully one that didn’t include dusters and crying. But we soon found my grandmother would be the one crying. Every day when she’d come home from work, she’d ask to be left alone and then retreat to her basement apartment, put on her Perry Como and Frank Sinatra records, and start sobbing loudly and dramatically. I guess being a hundred percent Italian, she couldn’t help grieving like one, too. That was the difference between her and my mom; my mom was half-Irish, and that part of her, like most Irish who’d rather suffer in silence and not show their pain or grief, made her cry more quietly.
    “There she goes again!” my mom would say when we’d hear the wailing coming from below. One day, Will and I went downstairs to see if she was okay because we heard the music playing but no crying. We found her sitting on her bed methodically packing up my grandfather’s clothes and going through a pile of old photos he’d kept in a shoebox. She’d been holding onto his things for almost a year. As I sat down with Will squeezing between us, she put the shoebox on my lap, smiling as she wiped her eyes with a tissue.
    I untied the pile and started to go through them. The first one was of two little boys who stared out at me from the photo and looked about the same age as me but were disheveled, dirty and scared. I recognized the younger one as my grandfather. This wasn’t the grandfather I knew. Though easily excitable, he was always confident, well-dressed, and constantly obsessed with his appearance. He never went without a haircut and manicure, and he was always polishing his shoes. He had used wrinkle cream long before men considered beauty products. Some would even compare him to Diamond Jim Brady because he always dressed so well, although I’m sure my grandfather never owned a diamond-studded umbrella like Jim, but he’d forever jingle the little change he had in his pockets so at least people might think he was wealthy.
    My grandmother told Will and me that the photo was of him and his older brother James when they’d just come to America with their parents. He never mentioned he had a brother, or that Will and I had an uncle. They’d come from Waterford on a ship, barely surviving three months huddled in the filthy conditions of steerage. They settled in the splendid and awe-inspiring South Bronx section known as Morrisania, named for Gouveneur Morris and Lewis Morris, who had signed the Declaration of Independence. She went on to explain that even though she didn’t know him until they were both adults, they’d grown up in the same place, and they’d each witnessed the Bronx growing with them. First, its lush Bathgate Woods, rural farmlands and quaint cottages, one of which Edgar Allan Poe would take his TB-stricken wifeto breathe the clean “country air.” Then later on, the completion of the new subway connectingthe Bronx to Manhattan, the Grand Concourse modeled after the Champs-Elysses, the Hub withits vaudeville theaters, movie palaces and shops, Fordham Road’s tree-lined avenues where the largest collection of elaborately ornamental Art Deco and Moderne styles of architecture couldbe found in one place, and finally, the $ 4 million Loew’s Paradise, its dark blue ceilingembedded with lightbulbs, resembling a star-filled night sky, while a cloud machine pumped continous simulated clouds across it. Now I understood why he never referred to himself as the “Mick from Waterford.” He had tremendous pride in his little section of America. What New Yorker didn’t?
    He’d be constantly amazed at what that entertaining borough of the city had to offer but would soon learn that everything that glittered wasn’t gold, that this sentiment of generosity and manufactured amenities offered were not meant for the Irish, especially the Irish Catholic; a sentiment that seemed to be masked behind a veil of American patriotism, making the Irish immigrants the recipients of burned churches, tauntings, and prejudice equating them to animals with signs that read, “No dogs or Irish need apply.”
    When he learned the motto of the Bronx was “Ne cede malis,” or “Do not give in to evil,” my grandfather wondered what exactly was meant by that, considering the hatred and lack of respect Irish Catholics had been shown since they’d set foot in America. He was puzzled as he thought back to his first welcoming sight of the Statue of Liberty in the harbor. Even more puzzling were his own kind who spoke Gaelic: the “runners” who were nothing but con-artists and ran onto the ships as soon as they had docked at Ellis Island and grabbed the bags of the newcomers who were themselves too confused, sick and weak from their long journey to know they were being swindled. The runners would promise them shelter in filthy, crowded rooms for four times more than if they’d rented from a non-Irishman. My grandfather and his family were lucky to have been forewarned, though, and found their own tenement on the waterfront, and although it was crowded, it was close to the docks where Joe’s dad would find work.
    My grandmother said that Joe’s brother, James, was happy sitting in school all day and taking directions. He had dreams of growing up to be a New York City policeman. Joe didn’t like to take direction from anyone.Without his parent’s knowledge, he eventually stopped going to school, and the days when he should have been there, he wandered the neighborhood instead, ducking into alleys and stores whenever he’d see a policeman that might question why he wasn’t in class. He’d ride the street cars or go down to the bath houses and feed the goats, or to Indian Lake to climb the rocks. Sometimes he’d go down to the Bronx Iron Foundry and watch them fashion lions and dragons out of metal.
    My grandmother continued with her story, telling us that things were going pretty well with his father’s job and his mother’s paid sewing work at home when his father died suddenly in a dock accident, and within a month of this happening his mother died of pneumonia. Then things would get even worse for Joe when his older brother, James had fulfilled his dream, becoming a policeman for the city and informed my grandfather that he was getting married. Joe could no longer live with him and his new wife in the house that they once shared as a brothers. So at fifteen Joe became one of the many child vagrants roaming the city streets, sharing the contentsof trash cans with rats, and sleeping under stairwells, even in a hearse when allowed. I decided my uncle James was probably a person better not knowing. My grandmother went on to explain that my grandfather became a bootblack, another word for a shoeshiner, learning the trade from other Irish orphans, some much younger than himself. But the older ones taught him the art of pickpocketing, which on most days paid much better than shoeshining. While he shined other’s shoes, though, his own were stuffed with found pieces of paper to keep the rain and snow from seeping into the holes in the bottom. Getting caught pickpocketing was what had him placed in the Catholic Home for Boys, a menacing mansion with its secret miseries kept well-hidden in its endless maze of hallways and rooms. His gloomy new home quickly became one he shared with orphans, the poor, and juvenile criminals, the latter of which he would be considered.
    He’d always remind me and my brother that we didn’t know how easy we had it, and I was guessing he was comparing our childhood to his, and the years he spent with the Brothers at the Home, the same Irish Catholic Brothers that ran the Industrial schools in Ireland, where the parents had no idea the harm their children were enduring until decades later when reports of widespread physical and sexual abuse would finally surface. He’d elaborate about being spit on, punched or whipped on a regular basis or being forced to take very cold or very hot showers. He’d witness some younger boys being hung by their clothes from hooks while beaten. Not him, though; they’d know better than to hang him from any hook because he’d fight back, he’d tell us.
    But I always surmised something much worse must have happened, some unspeakable act, because I can remember one weekend when he and my grandmother were visiting us in our small town, attending Mass with us, and the priest was walking down the aisle, saw my grandfather coming in the opposite direction and pointed at him to genuflect. My grandfather stared at him, gritting his teeth with obvious contempt, while he said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I don’t get on my knees for anyone, let alone a priest” which made me wonder years later what could have caused such a blatant act of disgust and disrespect, especially in front of the entire small town’s congregation. Surprisingly, the priest had no answer for that, and to this day I can still see the priest’s face as I looked up at him in fear, waiting for him to yell, as I held on tight to my grandfather’s hand, myself frozen from fear in a half-genuflect, while he quickly brushed past my grandfather and me in silence, like a puppy with his tail between his legs.

***

    Holidays and his birthdays came and went, my grandmother told us, and his brother, James, and his wife hadn’t bothered to visit him even once in the entire three years he’d been in that hellhole. He knew of no other relatives that he could rely on who might live in the Bronx. He’d lost touch with some of the friends he’d made in the orphanage that were either sent to do agriculture work for the many farmers in the borough, or went to live with families who’d adopted them. In his last year at the home, because he’d been known to talk back and fight back, he’d been one of the unfortunate ones who’d been ordered to work on Hart Island. Thinking my grandmother meant “heart,” I thought to myself that an island with a name like that didn’t sound so bad until she said that it was a sad place, mostly a large cemetery for the poor and unclaimed.
    He’d work beside Riker’s inmates. His job was to dig graves for babies and children, but only Catholic ones since they had to be buried separately, away from the rest because in the eyes of God they were more special, one of many things he’d find irked him about the Catholic religion.
    When he was eighteen, he was finally old enough to leave the prison he’d known for a home and join the world again, but he’d never felt so alone. The first thing he did when he left was to go down to Third Avenue and watch the U.S. war planes drop pretend bombs that were really weighted Bronx newspapers. Besides the crowds of onlookers that day, there was a magician named The Great Dunninger that was one of the attractions. The magician’s job was to guess what was in a “mystery chest” from France that was locked and guarded by Navy men, and he also would tell the fortunes of anyone that was willing to hear their future told. My grandmother told us that even though Jean Harlow (an actress with light blonde hair just like Marilyn Monroe’s) was always one of our grandfather’s favorites, this magician had told him that many years from that day, after convincing himself that he’d die a lonely, old bachelor with no family, he’d meet and marry a dark-haired woman much younger than himself. Just when the story was getting interesting, my mom called down to the basement looking for us, reminding us that the Ed Sullivan show was starting, and after that we had to go right to bed since we both had school in the morning.
    That night I fell asleep and dreamed of my grandfather. I was beside him, but I couldn’t tell at first if we were in a war trench or a mass grave. Then he began passing me small pine boxes. The whole time he was passing me boxes, he was singing one of those old songs he used to sing; this time it was “My Wild Irish Rose.” The endless boxes kept coming, so many of them. My job was to stack them on top of each other carefully. I woke from the dream startled, and even though I was fully awake, I could still hear him singing as if he were right there in the room.








Wake Up!

Benjamin Card

 

FRANK

    “Mr. Harkins.”
    A steady pounding dribbles somewhere nearby.
    “Mr. Harkins!”
    And then I wake up.
    I swipe at the drool on my chin and rub it over the surface of my black pants. In a matter of seconds, I manage to compose myself, tucking the untucked part of my shirt.
    “Coming,” I say, opening the door.
    Darryl passes me, handing me a rather thick green folder.
    “Damn it, Franky. It’s twelve-twenty. How long do you think they’ll be willing to wait for you?”
    I wiggle my tie in place. “All day. All day if they have to.”
    “You’re wrong, Frank. Let’s get going, please.”
    We exit the room and turn into the conference room. A small crowd of strange faces stares me down. Among them is the company’s partner.
    We shake hands. “Frank.” Painful grip.
    “Kenny,” I say, smiling with force. “Sorry for the wait.”
    “Nonsense. Fellas, this is Mr. Harkins.” His associates nod and mumble words I can’t make out. We all sit in unison and a few of us shuffle through our files. Kenny Dodge speaks first. We discuss our stock and the decline of profit over the last six months. Our Sub-Saharan African laborers, Mr. Dodge explains, are the main cause of this. The medical attention they require far outweighs their productivity. In short, Dodge suggests we stop supporting them like mother geese and—he of course sugar-coats this—suck them dry for what they’re worth.
    I cringe in discomfort. Nobody seems to notice.
    Darryl looks at me for permission to speak. I shake my head, no.
    “Is this the only solution?” I ask.
    Kenny chuckles while lighting a cigarette. “You remind me of my boy Charlie. Always going against the grain.”
    In a minute, everyone has left. I go home that evening and kiss my wife, walk up the stairs of my luxurious home, and seclude myself in the master bedroom of my mansion. The canopy bed calls me as always, to silent reclusion. It seems to be smiling a grin of purpose and death. Showing its teeth in the craftsmanship of the bronze railing. I sigh and sag into the bed sheets, my soul slinking away.

 

MWAMUILA

    I awake, as always, in Africa. My dark skin is hardly visible in the windowless room. The only light I see is coming from some hole in the roof. My name is Mwamuila today. Tomorrow it will be Frank Harkins again. My life has been this way since I can remember. Frank’s father was a wealthy business owner from New York, and when his father died from cancer four years ago, Frank took his place in the company. I wasn’t so lucky. The only thing my Baba owned was the skin glued to his bones, and with that he did more good in a day than Frank’s father ever did in his lifetime. My Baba died of a disease I’ve never heard of. Maybe it was cancer as well. Who knows? And aside from Mama and me, who cares? People die here every day.
    I walk out into the flashing sunlight, shielding my eyes with frigid, crusty fingers. I see what I expect: feet shuffling across the poorly-paved ground, sandals making the sound of sandpaper on a chalkboard. Mama is catering to my baby sister at the nursery. I wave and smile in the sun.
    “Did you just wake up?” Mama says to me in Swahili, but for your sake, I translate it to English.
    “Yes, can you believe it?” I respond.
    She purses her lips to indicate that she can. My sister Adilah hides behind her leg with a thumb in her mouth. Mama slaps her shoulder like a paddle slaps water. Adilah doesn’t cry. She rarely does. Her thumb only slips like a wet cork from her mouth.
    Mama knows about my Frank Harkins dreams. She’s known since I was a small boy. I would often, practically daily, crawl into her cot and tell her about the boy who takes over my life every night. “He possesses me,” I would say, weeping. I would tell her about his white skin and the large home he lives in. In the beginning, she dismissed my stories as nightmares or cries of neglect. But as I got older I was able to describe to her things that even she had never known as a poor African—descriptions of a home that I couldn’t have invented in my mind, toys that I couldn’t have ever owned or even heard of, and when one morning I recited to her a speech in English that Frank had memorized earlier that week, I could see Mama’s jaw drop and eyes sink back in horror. For months, she invited spiritual leaders from our village to decipher what demon was holding my mind captive. They chanted prayers over my head and made vain attempts to cast out evil spirits. But I knew that this was my life from the beginning. I knew it wouldn’t work.

 

FRANK

    The next morning at the office, I call Darryl into the room. He comes brushing silently through the door and shuts it. I look up at him.
    “We can’t let them abuse those people anymore,” I say.
    Darryl coughs a laugh. “What can we do?”
    “I’m still working on that. I just need you to back me up.”
    I can already tell he isn’t pleased with my request.
    “Frank,” he starts. “Frank, this is a business. A failing one at that. You gotta let them do their job. You can dish out that it’s immoral, evil even, but nobody’s blaming you. No one is pointing fingers and saying it’s your fault.”
    I’d known he wouldn’t understand; I was prepared for his response. Not prepared with a comeback, but enough so that I don’t lash out in anger.
    “Just say you’ll support me.” My hands shake as I light a cigarette.
    He sighs and shrugs just enough to let me know that he’ll try. I nod and he leaves the room.

 

MWAMUILA

    When Baba died, I was forced to take up a job that could support Mama and Adilah. Frank had seen this in my heart and researched the nearest location where his company had low-paid laborers and I began my work there. It didn’t solve all of our problems, but like a Band-Aid on a bleeding war wound, it sufficed for the time being. One of the bigger problems was the distance. I had to walk six miles every day to work. The heat was impressive; it took its toll on me long ago, but though my mind had rebelled, my feet kept me going.
    Unsure of whether or not Frank could actually change his boss’s mind, I begin to worry. I don’t tell Mama because she is too old to spend her last years in constant strife for our future. If it gets bad, I will simply tell her that relocating is a good option. Finding another job will be close to impossible in this season of the year, where our people are all in great need of help. This season? Who am I kidding?
    The sun is going down. In our small, dirty room we are eating oatmeal in small bowls. We’ve split a single apple three-ways. Mama smiles at me and, after we pray, begins to eat the oatmeal feverishly. All the while, Adilah is looking at me with sad eyes. I smile at her and she turns away. A chill crawls up my shoulders and I take a bite from the apple slice.

 

FRANK

    I catch Mr. Dodge just as he’s packing up to leave. He smiles and tosses his leather messenger bag over his shoulder.
    “What can I do you for?” he exhales.
    “I wanted to speak with you about what you said earlier. About our African laborers.”
    He frowns, because this isn’t the first time I’ve brought it up.
    “It’s important.”
    He raises an eyebrow. “Is it now?”
    “Yes. Very.”
    “That doesn’t strike me as surprising. What I do fail to understand, however, is why the hell you care about our laborers in Africa so much. We give them work, isn’t that enough?”
    Dodge chuckles and goes on. “It damn well better be. It has to be. We’re not responsible for their health.”
    “They work overtime, Kenny. If they lived in America, their health would be our responsibility. Why should it make a difference?”
    “Dammit, Frank! I’m sick of this. It’s a no, got it? A fat En-Oh. Please just drop it before this gets out of hand.”
    I feel my heart pump faster and my cheeks get red hot.
    “I have family there,” I blurt out. It’s a mistake, but I am angry and I run with it.
    “Excuse me?”
    “That’s right.” I say, hoping to God he doesn’t catch my lie. His face pales behind growing eyes.
    “What the hell are you talking about?” he grunts. “Your parents were both from Jersey. And both were white.”
    I blink.
    “It’s hard to explain,” I mutter over the buzz of a copy machine behind me.
    He looks disappointed in me. I can feel it like a boy being sent to his room without supper. Only the consequences for my actions will be more severe.
    “There’s nothing I can do, Harkins,” he says finally. “Listen, I have a family to worry about too. My wife. My son, Charlie.” Kenny pulls out his wallet to show me a picture. A young, pimple-faced blonde boy smiles through the plastic insert.
    “Our business needs this,” Kenny says. “I can’t change my decision for your distant relatives.”
    He gives me a look of pity before walking away.

 

MWAMUILA

    Mama is dying. For months, her heart has been getting weaker at a noticeable rate. I don’t need doctors to tell me she doesn’t have long.
    I kneel beside her bed, refilling her cup of water and humming the melody of a song I learned when I was a boy. A song Frank taught me. Mama can’t hear me. Her eyes are fixed to a pivot point in the ceiling as her stomach swells with every inhale and exhale.
    “Drink,” I whisper.
    She does so after a few seconds; her shaky hands rising up to grab the cup like a frigid stem growing from the dirt.
    I love Mama. We don’t deserve this life. We deserve what Frank has. We deserve comfort and luxury. Why is this world backwards? Why are the good born poor, while the evil are born in a king’s arms? Some would argue that fortune turns a man evil, that the poor are good because they are humble. Only a rich man could come up with such a theory. The poor are too busy dying to consider those ethics.
    Adilah peeks into the room and I tell her to go back outside. When she goes, I follow her, slowly closing the door behind me.
    “Is she going to die?” Adilah says at me.
    “No,” I say.
    Adilah nods and looks at her fingers. “I had another vision.”
    Ever since Mama became ill, Adilah would sometimes get visions about Baba dying. In her dreams, an evil person was holding a rope and tugging it with dark power. He wore shadows for a face and his body was eating away all the light around him. Baba was holding the rope, his bare feet sinking deeper into the dirt with each forceful pull. Behind him was Mama, chucking up sand with her feet as she tried to find stability. They didn’t have the power to pull back, only to hold on for their lives. The evil man would laugh, she said, harder when Mama would trip and stumble to the ground, until Baba screamed for his life and was absorbed into the darkness of the evil man’s body. Mama was only a few feet behind.
    “What was the vision this time?” I ask Adilah, fearing the answer I somehow know.
    She begins to cry in dreadful sobs, shielding her face with her hands. I can see her fingers slip over her wet face.
    “You were behind her,” she says between sobs. “And I was behind you.”
    When I go back to the room to check on Mama that evening, she is dead.

 

FRANK

    I am sick of this. May God forgive me, but I am sick of it. What’s the use of being successful when you suffer the same fate as a poor man? My whole life has been this paradox: that no matter how rich or successful I became, my fortune would be like jewelry adorning a dead man. I am plagued by this curse and it’s making it impossible to enjoy the fruits of my real life.
    For the next couple weeks, I try to set up a plan where I can send money to Mwamuila and his family. The plan fails sooner than I expect. It will be impossible to send the money through a bank, and traveling to Africa with that amount of money won’t work, either. It would take too many trips to make it possible. Not worth my time.
    No, deep down it was never my plan to help Mwamuila and his family. His family was only the symptom of a disease. It wouldn’t be worth treating the symptom when the disease lived on. I’ve been waiting for this excuse my entire life. This life—Frank Harkins’s life—this was the life I really wanted. At least, this is what I tell myself.
    Mwamuila is just a thorn on my side.
    I had asked for a week of vacation time last Monday, knowing it would come to this. I pack my things, among them my .50 Caliber Desert Eagle, and purchase my ticket to Africa. The airport is crowded when I arrive. I board the plane. Breathing is an effort.
    God forgive me, but I am sick of it.

 

MWAMUILA

    I wake with a violent gasp and find Adilah already watching me. Frank must have fallen asleep on the plane. He will come for me soon.
    Last night Adilah and I buried Mama at the cemetery. It was nice to see some of her old friends show up. I know she was smiling down from heaven. Felt it in the way the stars shone that night.
    That peace is gone. I must stay awake long enough to hide myself and Adilah. But even if I do, won’t Frank just know where we are and come looking for me? Of course he will. Anyway, I must try. At least for Adilah’s sake. She can’t survive on her own. I know it.
    I come up with a plan as I am getting Adilah’s things in a bag to leave. Frank won’t know where we’re hiding because I myself won’t know. If I blindfold myself and let Adilah guide me, he won’t know which way she’s leading me. It would work!
    I tell Adilah and she nods bravely.
    “I’ll do as you say, Mwamuila,” she says.
    I smile at her and take her tiny hand. After I wrap a shirt over my face, I feel Adilah’s hand jerk mine slightly. The only giveaway that I’m outside is the sun heating my shoulders and the soles of my feet. I smile again in satisfaction. My plan is a good one.
    “Spin me,” I tell Adilah. “I know you’re going east. Remember to make sure you take me somewhere we’ve never been.”
    I begin to spin and she flaps her hands rapidly against my waist. I laugh aloud for the first time in weeks, and I can hear her high-pitched giggle circulate my ear drums. Even under the shade of the wrapped shirt, I can notice the light change from absolute black to bright black. When she stops me, I stumble before regaining my balance.
    “Okay,” I say exhausted. “Continue.”
    She leads me in a blind, winding path for about an hour. When I am too tired, we stop.
    “Ready,” I hear her say.
    “You sure?”
    She hesitates. Then, “Yes!”
    I undo the knot of my shirt and slip it over my thick hair. The light is blinding, and at first I can’t even make out Adilah’s sunny face. Her sweaty black skin against the sun makes her flesh look golden.
    She did a good job of hiding us; I have no idea where we are. I spin panoramically and see only wilderness. Trees surround us in every direction. Good.
    Scary, but good.
    Adilah and I set up camp until the sun hides under the earth’s shell. Frank must be on our trail by now. Once I’m asleep, I’ll know for sure.
    We cook and eat a dead bird we find; it was dead when we found it, but it looks fresh. As I’m finishing, I can feel my eyelids begin to sag, burning behind my softened eyes.
    Once the fire is out, I collapse heavily to the ground.

 

FRANK

    The plane has landed. It’s about damn time, too. I slept most of the way and still it was unbearable.
    I move to luggage claim and find my things. I don’t expect to be here long, but I brought some extra clothes to be certain.
    From years of living in Mwamuila’s reality, I already know exactly where to find his home. A small village near Kenya, in Somalia near the Indian Ocean. I arrange for a taxi to get me to the place, and when a white, jaded coupe rolls into the airport, I climb in. The seats feel like burnt slabs of meat, and the man behind the wheel knows little English. But he knows enough. At least enough to understand what left and right mean; or maybe he was only following my pointing finger.
    The muggy ride to Mwamuila’s town is bumpy and awkward. To my right, I finger the trigger of my gun. I’ve never shot a man before, but I won’t be shooting someone else, will I? No, I’ll be shooting myself. The “self” of me that is a cancer to my success and my happiness.
    Under the primitive circumstances, I survive the ride. I pay the man my fare and tip him fifty dollars. Till now, he hadn’t cracked a smile. Now he’s beaming hotter than the sun on my back. Money can’t buy happiness, my ass.
    When I reach the village—I know I’ve arrived because tin shack houses litter the sandy field and the air smells of festering skin—I try to remember what I can from my dreams. I find Adilah’s daycare soon enough; the poorly constructed house peeking over a brown hill. The sight brings an unexpected sense of nostalgia; I’m finally in that dream place... It feels like worlds colliding.
    I ignore my sentiment and focus on my mission. I can’t let emotions get in the way. This way of life has plagued me for too long.
    There it is.
    Of course it is. I can’t stifle the smile on my face. Is it any wonder? It’s the love and the hate of this place that contorts my ambitions. For a moment, I worry that if I kill Mwamulia, maybe I’d die as well. That somehow our life lines are linked. It wouldn’t be too outrageous a notion, considering the circumstances. But I remember in my youth when Mwamulia almost died of an immensely high fever, he was seven at the time, my own health wasn’t affected at all. Did that mean something? I’m not sure, but I won’t let that stop me. I can’t go on living with him.
    The hut is empty as I expected, but I look to the dirt and find what I hoped to find.
    Footprints.
    Those fools didn’t think to hide them. Caked in moist soil, two sets of bare feet mark a plastered trail that leads into the woods. I follow it. I lose the trail about halfway there and have to navigate by checking for twisted or crooked branches, hopefully fully snapped ones that give me some direction. I follow the trail for nearly an hour until I see something interesting.
    Yes.
    I find their old fire. They’re here somewhere. They’re—

 

MWAMUILA

    I awake to see Adilah crying, slouched by a tree. My heart quakes in fear when I see, like a doll lost in the dirt, Frank Harkins. Adilah is holding a large log and it drops to the ground. She cries harder.
    “What happened?” I say.
    “He was going to get you.”
    I look at the log. “And you...”
    Adilah nods.
    “You did the right thing,” I say.
    The sight of Frank on the ground makes me feel disoriented, like an out-of-body experience. There on the ground is half of my life. The half I wish I could experience with Adilah by my side.
    And then it hits me.
    I suddenly know why Frank has come here. I felt it in my heart when he arrived! Of course! Now that I know it... Now that I know, it makes perfect sense. To save Adilah. To save her from the shadow man in her dreams.
    To save our family.
    I approach Frank’s curled body with slowness, knowing what must be done. Adilah hides behind me, digging her wormy nails into my leg. I lean over and reach for Frank’s gun. It is black and heavy; it reminds me of the weight in Adilah’s old water gun when we would fill it up.
    I raise the gun to my temple. Adilah screams.
    You know, I’ve never felt it was fair for me to live this life. Maybe my people don’t understand my frustration because this is all they’ve ever known. I know what lies beyond. I’ve walked the bright streets of New York. I’ve dined well and spent thirty dollars on a slab of steak. Although I hate to say goodbye—not to my village, but to my own being—I know that when I awake as Frank Harkins again, I’ll be in paradise once again. This time, even in my sleep.
    This time with Adilah.
    I can finally rest.

 

FRANK

    The explosion of the gunshot correlates with my waking eyes. And Adilah’s shriek makes my heart scream almost as loud. I scamper to cover her mouth with my hand, her voice becoming a muted alarm beneath my cupped palm.
    “Quiet!” I whisper to her.
    Of course, she doesn’t understand me. I don’t speak Swahili, but apparently quiet means bite, because that’s what Adilah does. I pull my hand back with a yelp, perplexed to see a large portion of my palm flesh bitten off. Blood floods over my entire hand and I see through woozy eyes Adilah spitting bloody skin to the dirt.
    “Wewe aliuawa ndugu yangu!” she cries.
    “I don’t understand!”
    “Wewe aliuawa ndugu yangu!”
    I raise my hands and attempt to calm her down.
    “Please, Adilah. I’m here to take you home. It’s what Mwamuila wanted.”
    Her crying stops a little. It’s enough for me to relax, but I stiffen again when she lowers herself to Mwamuila’s body and picks up the Desert Eagle.
    Jesus, I think.
    “No, Adilah. Put that down,” I say. “That’s not a toy.”
    “Toy,” she repeats. Then she smiles and points the gun at me. “Toy?”
    “No!” I say. “Not toy. Give it to me.”
    Her little, wild grin sends chills crawling on my back. She’s going to kill me.
    “You kill my brother,” Adilah says.
    “How!” I shrill.
    How can she speak English? Mwamuila never taught her. Not that I can remember, at least. I must use this to my advantage if I want to live. I must reason with her. Christ, that smile. It’s wretched enough to drive a man insane. Her eyes, fixed on me like the barrel of that gun. What can I say to end this?
    “Please...” It’s a weak start, but it’s all my throat can utter. “I’m taking you back to New York with me. It’s what Mwamuila wanted.”
    “No,” Adilah says. “What you wanted.”
    She cocks the gun.
    “No,” I cry. “Jesus, no.”
    She smiles wider and takes a step back. Farther back.
    I wait for the gunshot, but it doesn’t come. She walks into the trees until she disappears completely. I don’t know why, but for some reason she has shown me mercy. I accept it, and I run.
    Boy, do I run.

 

SIX DAYS LATER

    I’ve been sleeping well for almost a week now. Really sleeping. The act will take some time getting used to, but right now I’m content just to know that there is rest available.
    Do I miss Africa? I’ve been asking myself that question daily, and my answer is yes. Though I feel relieved, nostalgia creeps its way in still. I suppose that’s expected.
    I brush my teeth and shower, looking forward to another full night of normal sleep. Black, unregistered bliss. I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed. The room is a dark purple haven, the window showcasing the moon’s ambient glow. My wife is at a dinner with her company and will be coming home late tonight. I usually wait up for her on these nights, but I still have the excitement of a child given a new toy. A new toy that—
    “Toy,” I hear a voice say in the darkness. It is a child’s voice.
    “Hello?” My heart begins to rampage inside my chest. “Who’s there?”
    Jesus, I think. Is it Adilah?
    Impossible.
    “Hello?” I say again.
    I see a small figure pressed against the wall of my room. I can’t make out the face, but it looks about Adilah’s height.
    She’s come for me. But how? How could she leave Africa? It was impossible.
    “Are you going to kill me?” I say.
    The figure’s head nods. I hear a gun click. It isn’t Adilah; I can see the hair end below the figure’s ears, while Adilah had long, nappy hair. This child isn’t black, either. The child is white. And I can see now that he’s a boy.
    The boy begins to emerge from the shadowy wall, and I can see the gun.
    “Why are you here?” I say.
    “To kill you.”
    I can’t breathe. “Why? Please, God, why?”
    “You killed Adilah’s brother.”
    Christ Almighty.
    “Who are you?” I say.
    The boy steps closer into the moonlight. I can see the boy’s hair is blonde now. And tiny pimples layer his pallid face. And that smile.
    I know that smile. Christ. I know this boy.
    The boy is Kenny Dodge’s son.
    “Charlie,” I whisper.
    “Yes.”
    “But why?” I begin to cry.
    “You killed Adilah’s brother.” His voice shows no particular emotion. Indifference, if any.
    “I don’t understand!”
    I am choking on my tears, almost amused at how broken and despicable my voice sounds. This boy means to kill you, my mind assures me. There’s nothing you can do.
    “For God-sake, I don’t understand!” I shout again.
    “I think you do,” little Charlie says, raising the gun at me. “I really think you do.”
    With a brief acknowledgement of the gunshot, I fade into blackness, this time having nowhere to wake up.








Bad News

Rex Bromfield

    The call came at 4:17 in the morning, and though she was due to get up at 5:00 anyway, Lisa knew immediately that something bad had happened. In the few seconds it took her to disentangle herself from the bed sheets and answer the phone, three thoughts raced through her mind followed by an adrenaline-condensed recap of the high points of her entire life.

Why is someone calling at this hour?

Something has happened to Randall!

It’s an accident, I know it!

    A strange emptiness opened. Her life dropped away and the long, lonely years before she met Randall welled up.
    At thirteen Lisa already knew she could only have the things she dreamed of if she remained insistently independent. Her father, a passive aggressive bully, thankfully, ignored her in favour of constantly berating her older brother for his innocent inadequacies. Her mother, daddy’s enabler, sat by, neutral, oblivious. Lisa had one girlfriend through high school who was now married and relocated far away to Marseilles France, of all places. She knew it was irrational at the time, and still, Lisa considered this a singular betrayal. She wanted to go to medical school but her father declared, in his weirdly calm and belligerent way, that women don’t advance in the sciences.
    At her own personal expense and initiative Lisa managed to enroll herself in a dental college attached to the local university and thereby gained access to the campus medical library. She began working her way through a four-year course to become an accredited dental hygienist. Though, to classmates and instructors, her existence seemed a perpetual solitude, Lisa was now able to spend all of her time with her heroes in science and medicine—mainly the women; Agnodice who, in the fourth century BCE, had to dress as a man because it was illegal for women to practice medicine; Henrietta Leavitt who laid the groundwork in the nineteenth century for all of the male astronomers who would follow her in the twentieth century; Marie Curie who persisted in the investigation of gamma, beta and alpha rays and discovered their nature; Clara Barton; Emmy Noether; Virginia Apgar; Barbara McClintock. There were men in the list, too, but the struggles of the great women fuelled Lisa’s relentless determination more than anything.
    Frustrated with the paced simplicity of dental college—a program she could have breezed through in a few months—she dug into her extra-curricular subjects voraciously. By the time she had obtained her bachelor’s degree she had, in addition to the required work, conducted a self-directed study of everything from the epidemiology of infectious diseases to advanced diagnostic microbiology and the practical theories in DNA and RNA analysis. She picked up her master’s degree almost as an afterthought. Throughout she found herself returning to the properties of common saliva and penned several papers on its surprising diagnostic potential—all of which lay at the bottom of her top left hand dresser drawer under a small jewelry box and about a dozen neatly-folded bras. After all, she wasn’t really a scientist—not a recognized, published one. She was a dental hygienist. Then again, that would be like saying Van Gogh wasn’t a painter because he only sold one painting. If the scientific community could have afforded the fifteen or twenty minutes it would have taken to peruse just one of her papers, they would have recognized the author as an original thinker in the field of diagnostic medicine.
    The phone rang a second time. Busy fragments of a disciplined life swept through her clearing consciousness. The orange glow from a street light outside evoked the long lonely 6:00 AM bus rides from her $650 a month room to the campus in the suburbs and the realization on one of those dank mornings, that she had absolutely no social life whatsoever. Specifically, she hadn’t had a single relationship with a man that was worth the time it took to pursue it. It wasn’t a particularly vexing situation, just troubling in light of the possibility that such unions might provide an emotional stability. Perhaps she could make more and better progress in her work if she had someone with whom to discuss it. She consciously considered whether she preferred women or men and like most other things, she did this in a purely analytical way. After all, she thought, why should gender get in the way of a real and useful relationship? She had been on double dates in high school. She recalled finding one boy sort of attractive. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. But she did recall that he was kind of handsome. She decided to concentrate on men.
    She read up on it. Learned that, though human males with symmetrical features and a strong body type had the best genes, they were the most likely to be unfaithful. Perusing online candidate photos, she chose accordingly. In sum she went on three dates. The first was an embarrassing disaster. It was the very first thing that Lisa actually found herself failing at. If only she could avoid frightening them away. On a second date—what was his name, Sam or Jack or something—things seemed to be going well until she filled a lull in the conversation with this: “Do you often wake up at night with a dry mouth?”
    Poor Sam or Jack was confused. “Uh, yeah, sometimes. Why?”
    “How often?” she asked prepared to write his answer down on a napkin.
    “I don’t know, two, three times a week I guess...”
    “Ever had a Uvulectomy?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Surgery for snoring.”
    “Uh, no.”
    “Then it may be just because salivary flow is lower when we are lying down. But it might be a good idea to have your hormone levels checked.”
    “How... how... how do you mean?”
    “Low testosterone could be the cause.”
    Sam or Jack took this to be some kind of subtle insult and never called Lisa again.
    She had managed to connect with a few more eligible bachelors, along with several ineligible, married cheaters, but most contacts never went beyond the initial online encounter. Arriving a few minutes late for a third date she found the young man sipping a rum and coke. Even before sitting down she wagged a finger at him and said, “You know, you’re lucky that saliva provides glycoprotein for the pellicle, which helps to maintain the structural integrity of the teeth.” She forced a smile, sat, then added “The pellicle inhibits bacterial adhesion to the tooth surface, and protects the teeth from the destructive acids, like that drink you’re having, by up to fifty percent.” Things failed to get back on track and she never saw this fellow again, either.
    Lisa eventually decided that emotional attachments would only be an irrelevant complication and plunged back into her work.
    The phone rang a third time. She found the switch and flicked on the bedside LED, decided to wait for it to ring a fourth time. Perhaps it was a wrong number. Perhaps it wouldn’t ring again.
    Something has happened to Randall. It wasn’t until she had been at work for almost four years as a hygienist in a downtown dental clinic that she met Randall. He was one of her patients. Inexplicably, she found herself a little uneasy when he was in her chair, and she compensated with nervous chatter. During one session she happened to mention that “Salivary gland hypofunction is a far more serious condition than most people realize. As she examined his mucosal tissues and probed his gingival sulcus she explained that “You know we have here a very good diagnostic technology for most of the serious diseases, not just mouth and throat cancers or osteoporosis, but more general diseases like breast cancer and HIV.”
    Randall was always a bit shy, and even during the brief hellos and goodbyes, he didn’t say much. Lisa set a schedule to see her patients three times a year. It never occurred to her to wonder why Randall’s appointments were becoming strangely frequent until one day when Randall was late. The receptionist winked knowingly at Lisa and mentioned that his last appointment was only eight weeks previous. The implication went right over Lisa’s head. When Randall showed up she pointed this out to him and he managed to ask when she took lunch.
    It was winter and bitterly cold outside, so they went to the sandwich shop in the lobby where Randall explained that he was a theoretical oncologist studying the pathology of carcinogeneity. Lisa had read about these rogue researchers who believed they could imagine their way to a cure, but before she could get a word in edgewise, he began telling her all about the mystery of metastasis. It was a frustrated rant, and Lisa was surprised to find that she understood every word of it. The rest of her world disappeared. She barely made it back to the office in time for her first afternoon appointment. At the end of the day she wrote a memo to the receptionist telling her that Randall was to be cancelled as a patient: By law, a dental practitioner is forbidden to treat a relative or spouse or have an ongoing personal relationship with a patient. Lisa went about the nascent relationship with a deliberate methodology never once considering the risk involved in the emotional investment she was making. She had no experience in such things.
    Randall would have eaten Lisa’s papers if he could have. For weeks he lived in Lisa’s world of the diagnostic properties of common human saliva. A few months later Lisa left her job at the clinic and went to work full time as an associate, then as a full partner in Randall’s research program. They spent every waking hour together designing and conducting tests, jointly authoring papers on their work and submitting them for peer review and publication. Together they devised a working procedure for the simple collection and assessment of the PH buffering capacity of common saliva along with carcinogenic bacteria, and periodontal pathogens. Soon they had devised a simple test for a dozen different cancers from swabs taken easily during a routine periodontal exam. They were in the process of publishing a series of papers describing a simple one-step general diagnosis technique that would put cancer medicine ahead several decades, when Randall’s father fell ill with a series of debilitating strokes. It was a long way away by train but Randall was forced to leave his work and rush to his father’s side. He was deathly afraid of flying, so he took the train or bus everywhere. And it was the first time he’d been away from Lisa in almost three years. She was surprised at the temporary hole this left in her existence.
    She grabbed the phone and managed to focus the clock. 4:18 AM.
    She had never realized, until that moment that she couldn’t remember a single instance when she had spontaneously told Randall that she loved him. The regret sank deep into her heart as she paused before prying the phone open with her thumbnail. Should she not answer it? Put on the TV instead? Find out if there had been a rail disaster? She knew the thing would ring a fourth time in less than three tenths of a second. No - better to get the torture over with.
    Click.
    “Hello?”
    It was a man with an accent, Danish or German, his name unfamiliar and foreign. He carefully verified that it was her to whom he was speaking, then apologized rather awkwardly for calling so late. Lisa struggled to bring herself awake, to understand what he was telling her. Something about a matter of importance ... Lisa’s head swam. She wanted to get to the point. “Is it about Randall?” “Yes, and about you, too” the man said. “I am calling to inform you that the Nobel Assembly at the Karolinska Institute has decided to jointly award you and your partner the Nobel Prize in Medicine.”
    What?
    She raised herself on her elbow and looked at the clock again. It was still 4:18 AM. Her thoughts became clearer. What the hell was this man saying? He laughed and explained that most people are confused when they first hear the news. He asked after Randall and Lisa explained the situation. During the short chat that followed Lisa gave him Randall’s mobile number and then closed the phone, cherishing the moment. It was the best bad news she had ever received. The best part of it was that she and Randall would now be able to expand the scope of their work enormously. The bad news was that it meant Randall was going to have to fly. Randall hated flying.








A Dream

Marlon Jackson

I had a dream
Where flowers arose
Each and every minute that I breathe...
I breathed...
Each breath I’ve inhaled
Was a seed under soil bed
Flowers would grow, dozens from one seed alone
How pleasant and consuming they’d look
For such life that lived...I had given life to
a beautiful and fascinated creation
A gift given...from the most high
Born from my source of life swallowed to my lungs
...and raised from the source out of my lungs

to spread all across from me
Such pleasance and such promising
Like a touch from higher share...from love
to give life to what was gifted upon...








Clown Face

Jack Hill

    The q-tip had plunged my ear shut the night before. I visited the doctor and she said two weeks until I would hear again. She said the Grand Canyon caused my hearing loss. The medical assistant scheduled another appointment. Their laughs were whispers when I closed the door to her office and passed through the lobby.
    The sweat stains on my olive shirt make a squinting, frowning face. Two kids on bikes crash into the side of my car when I park next to the garage under my apartment in the alley. One kid cries and lays on the pavement. Blood drips from the back of his forearm when he holds it up. I look away and lock my car, double checking the security system light is on, and push through the side gate to my apartment.
    The laundry room-office at the end of the kitchen exhales like Tupperware when I open the door and I turn on my computer.
    I kick off the shoes and unbuckle my belt and flip on the air conditioner and free the dog from the crate and fill the dish with food and close all the windows and blinds.
    I sit on the toilet and scurry through Outside Magazine, looking at the fit guys hiking and climbing and flying and jumping. I would do all that someday, I think and wipe.
    Back to the computer. Pants down. Dirty sock on the table, next to the mouse.
    I load the bookmarked video of the black girl with the two gallon breasts and the white guy with the clown face tattoo on his abs.
    I want to be him for thirty seconds. I am him for thirty seconds.





Jack Hill bio

    Jack Hill works in litter abatement, edits Crossed Out Magazine, and lives in Northern California.








Omega Delta
(part 1 of a novel in progress)

Visible online in the previously published (but now sold out) collection book Balance

Janet Kuypers


Time: 11:25PM, December 20, 2012 C.E.
Place: LaGuardia International Airport

    The constant clicking of heels, joined with the repeated shuffling of sneakers, joined the constant whirr of roller carry-on bags rolling over the laminated hallways of LaGuardia a few nights before Christmas. The chaotic rumble of voices blanketed the hum form the mix of floor noises to create a hazy cloud of background noise. But Sydney heard each click of her heels as a thunderous boom as she hurried her pace to get to the right concourse for her next flight. With her travel bag over her shoulder for her flight to Honolulu, Sydney Cooke brushed her straightened brown hair from here eyes, quickened her pace to make sure she wouldn’t be late for the 11:58 PM flight. As she turned the corner to the L gates for the International flights, she collided with a man rushing from the other direction.
    “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” Sydney said as she tried to grab her bag falling off of her shoulder.
    “Oh, that’s okay...” The man said. Seeing from her uniform that like him, she was a flight attendant, but for a different airline. “You’re on a flight soon?”
    Sydney looked at the large man and saw he was in a different-colored flight attendant’s uniform. “Yeah, I’m going to Honolulu, in probably twenty minutes. What flight are you on your way to?”
    “Actually, Aerolineas Argentinas has been overbooked lately because Brazil has been closed off, so I’ve been moved, and I’m now on a direct flight to Rio Gallegos.”
    “Where is that?”
    “It’s like at almost the southernmost tip of the country, so it’s insanely long.” He waited a second before he said, “By the way, I’m Brent.”
    Sydney smiled. “...Hi, I’m Sydney. And do you know the language at all for when you get there?”
    “No, but I’m staying in the airport and going immediately back on a flight to Miami tomorrow afternoon... At least you get to go directly to Hawaii and enjoy Christmas there.”
    “Yeah, but I don’t want to get fired if I can’t get to the Aloha Airlines terminal in time. But I’ll only get a day there before I fly the Los Angeles for the next flight just before Christmas.” Sydney glanced back at the hall she should have been running down.
    “Sorry man,” Brent said. “Hope you’re not late for the flight.”
    “Thanks,” Sydney said as they both started to turn to get to their flights. “You have a good flight too.”
    With that they both turned back to the hall and started moving toward their final destinations.


Time: Saturday, 1:46 AM, December 21, 2012 C.E.
Place: Aloha Airlines flight 2242, flying over the Wood Buffalo National Park at the northern edge of Alberta, Canada
Pilot: Eric
Copilot: Brian
Primary Flight Attendants: Courtney, Justin, Shannon and Sydney

    Brian bent over slightly because he was so used to slouching to fit into small places, because he was tall, and curling his long fingers, pulled his headphones off of his head, exasperated. “Eric, This weather is messing up our panels up and we can’t report to any station. I can’t find an airport anywhere to send a message out even.”
    Brian had never been a copilot with Eric Cameron, and Brian was relatively new to flights this long. Eric had flown these long trips for years, and Brian could tell Eric was used to flying these airplanes at these distances, watching the way he kept control of everything and kept every detail in check as he managed flying this plane through the storms. A part of him even wondered if Eric could fly this plane across the ocean manually, and get to Hawaii with nothing other than his own senses.
    But Brian still looked around the panels in the cockpit, trying to make sense of the readings and the turbulence. He then ran his fingers through his short curly hair, still at a loss for any explanation. “I know we’re flying to Hawaii, but there were no reports of weather like this for this flight. I’m sure we would have been notified of any weather problems.”
    Eric took one hand to pull his headphones off too, because the pilots weren’t receiving any radio signals. His headphones moving off his head made a few strands of his straight black hair fall over his forehead, but his hair was of no matter to him as he looked over the expanse of violent weather below. “We’ll have to keep trying every few minutes, but there’s not a lot on the ground below here — we’re almost touching the Northwest Territories. I’m sure that other stations further south and towards the coast are watching our flight pattern and tracking us, even if we can’t get through to them.”
    “It’s pretty dark down there, and —”
    “I know, and yeah, this is the worst weather I’ve ever flown through, but we’ll get though it. Call the flight attendants to let the passengers know that we’re doing everything we can about the weather and we’ll get out of it soon.”
    “But Eric, there was no report of anything happening in our flight path, we don’t —”
    “I know, but we’ve got to tell people something.”

    Sydney got the page call from the pilot, and then tried to look though the cabin. Most people probably just wanted to get to sleep on this flight; they had left New York only two hours ago, and they knew they would be getting to Hawaii in the morning for their Christmas vacations. People would want to enjoy the day in Hawaii, so they’d want to sleep now. But there was no way with the amount of turbulence in the flight that anyone could rest.
    She also heard news reports in the past few weeks of growing seismic activity throughout the world. South America and Central America had an increased number of earthquakes in the past few weeks — another flight attendant even told Sydney in the airport that day that they were working on a flight to Argentina, because people from Europe and the United States were suddenly interested in seeing earthquakes, to see the operations people were going through. Major cities in Brazil were even refusing flights for tourism because of the recent damage. Looking back, she knew that over the years the number of natural disasters throughout the world steadily increased — from hurricanes in the southern and western coasts of the United States, but also in Central America and China, to volcanic activity in the northwest United States and Hawaii and South America and Europe. So Sydney realized that people flying to Hawaii might also be visiting to see the volcanic activity that has started fervently on the islands. But if there are weather problems in Hawaii, she knew they wouldn’t want a bad flight to start their trip.
    Sydney walked over to two other flight attendants, and asked Shannon, “Has anyone else been complaining since all this turbulence started? The babies stopped crying after about twenty minutes of this weather, but the captain just said to tell people that we’ll be out of the turbulence soon, because people won’t be able to sleep through this.”
    “I think it might just bother the passengers more if we keep calling them over the intercom while they’re trying to relax,” Shannon answered.
    “I just looked at the cabin, and no one looks relaxed,” Sydney answered as she moved to grab the intercom microphone. “I know I’d want to know what was going on if I was stuck on a flight like this.”
    “I never thought I’d need Dramamine, but man, this is a tough ride,” Justin, the attendant, said to Shannon as Sydney grabbed the microphone.
    Everyone’s heads turned up toward the top of the airplane when they heard the microphone click and buzz before Sydney started to speak.
    “The flight crew apologizes for the heavy turbulence we’re experiencing, but the Captain said that we should be getting out of this weather soon. The flight is doing well despite the turbulence. We apologize again for any problems this is causing, and if you need anything at all, please press your call button for any cabin crew member to assist you.” Sydney then turned the microphone off and started to put it back in its rest.
    “I’m going to check the foods and drinks in the back of the plane,” Courtney said. “There’s no way we could be serving any food right now, and it shouldn’t spill out in the cabin.”
    “Smart idea,” Justin answered. “I checked our reserves in the front by First Class with Kyle or Jacob to make sure everything’s still stored.”
    Shannon turned to Sydney and asked, “Should we check the cabin to make sure no compartments have opened and make sure everyone’s okay?”
    “We should — we just told people to press the call buttons if they need anything, so we should get out there, too. I’ll move to the back and start checking the cabin and moving forward, and we can meet in the middle after checking.”

    Justin and Shannon took turns occasionally checking over the passengers, but even the flight attendants wanted to stay buckled in their small seats during the flight. Though people might not be able to keep more in their stomachs due to the turbulence, Justin turned to Shannon and set up distributing half glasses of water to anyone who felt like they needed it (only a half glass because the turbulence would spill any more water). After almost an hour of what seemed like constant upheaval, Sydney and Kurt both tried to contact the pilots to see if there were any changes in the weather.
    After almost a half hour of not being able to contact anyone on ground, Eric told Brian that with the weather conditions were so poor they would have to change their route to head further north for ease of flight.
    “But we need to know if other planes are in the area.”
    “Brian, I have to see flights in the air.” Eric then tried to mentally coming up with a plan. “And this weather is making things so rough on our flight, we’ll have to increase our altitude and head up north to find better flying weather...”
    Eric glanced at Brian and could tell he wasn’t comfortable with his decisions to makes changes to their flight. Eric spoke again. “Brian, we don’t have much choice. No one is responding to anything we’re radioing out there, and I can see if there are other airplane lights. I don’t think we have much choice.”
    After making the decision to change their flight pattern, Eric added, “We’ll be barely crossing over the Eastern edge of Alaska by going north. People will see us up there and try to contact us.”
    “And we should be able to radio... well, either Anchorage or maybe Fairbanks. Maybe they could tell us something about this weather, because we’ll have to turn around to go south again to make it to Hawaii.”
    “I know, where we’re landing is on the west side of the islands, and that’s just a hair west of the western edge of Alaska.”
    They knew that making the decision to change their flight pattern in hopes if finding a safer ride to their vacation destination almost left more questions than answers.
    Brian finally asked, “We’re not going to be able to fly around forever. We’re going to have to land somewhere.”
    “Yeah, I know... I fear that the weather is that much worse down there than up here.”
    They let silence fall like a heavy weight on them as they tried to navigate the plane through storm patches. “Yeah, we’ll land somewhere,” Eric said, almost under his breath. “We’ll make it through this.”

    Ten minutes later, the cabin heard the click of the intercom system again.
    “This is your captain Eric. We apologize again for the turbulence we’ve been experiencing on this flight. But because of these conditions, we’re rerouting our flight further north to avoid the weather conditions. It may take a little longer to get to Honolulu, but the flight conditions will hopefully improve so you can sleep the night through.
    Once again, if anyone needs anything, press the call button over your seat to get the assistance of any of the flight attendants here.”
    With that the people on flight 2242 heard the intercom turn off with its now almost usual clicking buzz. And after Eric spoke, he raised the cockpit lights slightly so they could look at maps and paperwork. In the better light, Brian could see Eric’s face, and it looked just as determined and stern as his voice sounded when they talked in the cockpit since the weather had started. Eric then said, “Well, we’ve veered up north, Brian. Hopefully someone up there would be close enough to hear a radio call.”

    Shannon opened her purse once she strapped herself into a seat again, near Justin and Kyle, pulled out her purse and asked, “Does anyone need Dramamine? ...I never need these motion sickness pills, I just keep them for times like this Anyone want one?”
    Justin took one immediately, Kyle waited a few seconds before asking for one. They muffled their thank yous to her, and then Kyle looked up and saw Sydney trying to get into the last seat in that part of the plane. “Hey,” Kyle whispered, “Shannon has Dramamine. Do you need any?”
    “Well...I haven’t eaten much, so I don’t think I’ll be sick — yet. I’ll hold off. But thanks.” As soon as Sydney buckled herself into the seat they heard the buzz of another call button in the section they were sitting in. “I’ll get this,” Justin said as he started to get up to help a passenger.
    For the next two hours flight attendants tried to occasionally walk through the aisles to offer people half-filled glasses of water if people needed something to drink. They couldn’t put more water in a single plastic cup, because it would be too easy to spill half if it was full. Besides, the flight attendants were having a hard enough time even standing or pouring water for people who needed assistance on the flight.
    By 3:30 in the morning, people were getting up to use the washroom to try to throw up, if they didn’t try to use the airsick bags in front of their seats. Because it was still night and the weather was hoprrendous (and because they had flown north toward the Arctic Circle in an attempt to avoid storms), nobody could see a thing in the night sky or on the ground — all they could see was voluminous clouds. Most people on the flight tried to use their headphones to block out the noise from the storm below, which seemed to become more and more thunderous.

    Sue Matsushita wasn’t feeling well in seat 26F of this Aloha Airlines flight to their home in Honolulu, but she wouldn’t say anything to disturb her husband Charlie. She watched him wringing the paper napkin he held from his earlier half glass of water, and Sue finally pulled the airplane blanket from her lap so she could try to take his hand.
    “Chuck, I don’t know what is bothering you, I know it’s a bad flight —”
    “And you know I hate flying.”
    “You’ve taken these long flights for business before, and at least the work is done in New York.”
    “But Sue, the client canceled the account on me. I flew all this way and they shut me down. And they were a good account to keep for next year.”
    Sue looked down and waited a moment before saying, “I’m sorry about that honey, but it’s almost Christmas, and we’ll get back to the nicer weather. The kids will want to see you.” Charlie smiled when she brought up his children, which are now adults. “And you know, it will be just a few months before Tom’s wife has their child.”
    “Our first grandchild,” Charlie said quietly to Sue.
    Sue put her head down and started to smile. “Oh, don’t make me feel so old, becoming a grandmother.”
    “Sue, you’re not old, and you’re beautiful,” Charlie said as he squeezed her hand.

    “This turbulence is terrible,” Brian said to Eric as they tried to manage control of the place. “I can’t believe the weather is still this bad.”
    Eric and Brian both knew that they used radio signals from one airport to another to help direct them toward their destination; Eric didn’t want to tell Brian that the radar panel hadn’t picked up any signals for a while. “Brian, you know how we follow the different radio frequencies of different airports to help guide us toward our destination?”
    “Yeah...”
    “I turned down the lights to the panel to indicate our direction to those airports—” Brian started to look panicked and tried to cock his head so he could see the panel, “and besides you wouldn’t have been able to see it well anyways. I turned the lights down for the panel because I haven’t been able to get any radio frequencies for a while now.”
    “How do we know if we’re going the right way then?”
    “I’ve done this flight for three years straight now, flying it once a week, between New York and Hawaii.”
    “That’s not enough.”
    “No, but it’s something. And I’ve done international flights like this many times before — they even had me on a test flight or two to Beijing. I’ve flown up to Alaska a number of times, too, and I know what the ground is like. I think I can use my head to help navigate through this.”
    Brian looked at him for a moment before checking the controls as they flew the plane. Eric paused as Brian continued to manage steering their ship. He finally asked his copilot, “We’re already at nearly thirty-five thousand, right?”
    “Well, yeah, I know we normally fly at thirty thousand, and right now we’re kind of high, but thirty-five thousand feet is fine. Why?”
    “Brian, this storm’s so much of a problem, and we can’t avoid it by going lower, but there’s a chance we can get on top of this storm.”
    “On top?”
    Eric’s voice changed and gained the tone of a ship captain. “Start an acceleration to forty-four thousand. We might then have to go up to fifty at times.”
    “What makes you think we can?”
    “What makes you think we can’t? This plane can withstand forty-four thousand feet, and we should be able to occasionallt go higher is we need to. So what would we lose by trying?”
    “Excess gasoline for the flight. Have you ever flown that high?”
    “We can go up to fort-four thousand and it should still be safe. No, I haven’t done it, but no, we’ve never been in any conditions like this before.”
    Brian just looked at the pilot in silence. About fifteen seconds passed before Eric spoke again. “Look, no one at Aloha Airlines will have a fit about the gas because we got the flight in safely when we couldn’t even get radio communications.” He continued to look at Brian and the controls before he spoke again. “If anything else, Aloha Air will be thrilled, because if anyone else is in the air right now. They’re all scrambling to keep their planes in the air.”
    “You think other airlines are going through this?”
    “Brian, these weather problems seem to be everywhere. I’m sure we’re not the only flight going to Hawaii. If this storm is hitting so much of North America, I’m sure other airlines are going through this, and Aloha Air will be thrilled that we’ve done so well up here on our own in these conditions.”
    Eric manned the controls as the flight elevated to forty-five thousand feet. Eric wondered if this would be enough, and wondered what he could do to manage this vessel, so he could help the over two hundred ninety people.
    Eric, Brian, Sydney, and the rest of the crew and passengers on flight 2242 didn’t know the extent of the storm, and that it was transforming their world.


Time: Friday, 8:46 PM, December 21, 2012 C.E.
Place: Honolulu, Hawaii
as flight 2242 flies over Canada

    “Mom, the mountains across the sea are glowing.”
    She didn’t listen to her son. “Kulika, you were supposed to clean the toys from outside before you go to bed.”
    “But mom, the ground is really hot, I can’t walk out there.”
    Kaneki knew Kulika had to be making up excuses to not clean his toys, but she dried her hands from the dishes from their dinner. She looked outside and saw winds blowing Kulika’s friends toys across their yard. Kaneki yelled out, “Is that Kala’s bike?”
    “I ... Yeah, but she brought it home today.”
    Another wind picked up and knocked tree branches against their closed door and window. Kaneki looked outside through the window and saw the storm lifting their belongings off the ground, moving things almost thirty feet in a one second wind gust. She also looked in shock at the glowing “mountain” Kulika complained about. Kulika didn’t know those muontains were inactive volcanoes, so as Kaneki looked out the window at the storms blowing things violently through the sky, she also saw those volcanoes were erupting again.
    She wondered if the storm would blow out the windows, so Kaneki backed away from the window before putting her hand on Kulika’s shoulder. “Honey, go downstairs to the basement.”
    Kulika’s eyes turned to saucers, seeing a fear in his mother he had never seen before. “Mom?”
    She turned immediately to him. “It’s okay, honey. Just go down there. I’ll deal with the toys. Just go.”
    Kulika took a step back, looking at her, before turning around and running toward the stairs to go downstairs.

    Kaneki then turned to go to the other side of the house to look for her husband. “Ione!” she called as she got to the other side of the house, drawn to the window to see Mauna Lua’s oversized orange glow, moving and getting larger.
    Ione came in to the living room to see his wife. “Kaneki, I’ve been staring at Mauna Lua — but you’ve seen it too,” he said, looking out the window with her.
    “The wind storm’s shaking the windows in the house, I saw everything flying all over the place in the back yard ... and Kulika even said he saw other volcanoes erupting on the other islands. I didn’t see, but I told him to go downstairs, because the winds are—”
    And with another wind a chair and table flew to the side of their house and their window, shattering the window they were looking through.
    Ione started to walk toward the other side of their home. “I’ll get wood to cover the window from outside,” he said as he opened the back door to get boards.
    Kaneki remembered in a flash that Kulika said the ground was hot and ran across the house to go after Ione. By the time she got to the back door, she could see Ione cursing the heat from the ground he walked on. Ione grabbed a tree to help him from falling, but then the wind picked up and made him struggle to keep hold of the tree trunk.
    Kaneki screamed from the open door. “Ione! Are you all right?”
    “The ground, it’s—”
    “Is it hot? Kulika said—”
    “It’s like it’s moving. The ground’s ... well, it moved under me, and I started to fall.”
    Kaneki watched him struggle. “Ione, I love you. Just get back in here.”
    “I will, I—”
    The cracking of a third of his house, bricks and all, cut off his words as Kaneki fell in the seismic rush down the stairs to the ground. He screamed ‘I love you’ to his wife as the rush of the wind heated everything that touched the ground and moved them north and east.


Time: Saturday, 1:46 AM, December 21, 2012 C.E.
Place: New Orleans, Louisiana
as flight 2242 flies over Canada

    Although people usually filled the streets for drinking in the French Quarter, Bourbon Street was growing sparse and Royal Street was almost empty. Ellen and Kathy had just walked into Tropical Isles, even though they had just picked up Hurricanes in wide plastic cups from the street window of the Court of Two Sisters. They agreed that with the winds picking up outside, it would be a good call to sit somewhere inside until the winds settled down. Kathy was going to order a Hand Grenade so they’d have a reason to stay there, even though they already had drinks. But Ellen found the only empty table in the bar, and it was against the wall near the front entranceway, that they could lean on.
    Tim, Jeff and Dave ran into the bar, trying to hold on to the door frame because the winds were picking up outside. Tim almost stumbled into Kathy as Dave tried to make his way in to the bar. Kathy looked over at Ellen, and wondered how long the storm would last, so they could go outside again. Within thirty seconds, drinks on tables started shaking, and tables that no one was leaning on fell over.
    “Sorry man,” Tim said to Kathy after he regained his footing. “The weather outside is terrible.”
    “That’s why we came in here,” Kathy said, as she turned to look over at Ellen. “I thought this was just a wind storm.”
    “Is it Hurricane season?” Ellen asked.
    “No, I think that’s in the summertime. We should be fine now,” Kathy answered as she tried to move closer to the wall for safety. A few more people huddles against the wall, and they could see out the windows around the corner on Bourbon Street that no one was outside, but papers whipped by with the wind.
    Jeff saw Tim talking to the two girls, but didn’t catch their names and wanted to be the knight for women in distress during the storm. He leaned over and said to Ellen and Kathy, “Are you guys okay? The storm is starting to make a mess in here too — if you need anything, let me know.”
    Ellen and Kathy looked at each other, then back to Jeff. “I’m Jeff, by the way,” he said. “These are my friends Dave and Tim.”
    “Hi, I’m Ellen,” she answered. Kathy then chimed in, “I’m Kathy.”
    The ground started to shake, and a few people squatted toward the ground to not fall over, Jeff started to put his hand out to say, “If you two need something to lean on, I’m here and —”
    In the middle of his sentence the wall they were leaning on cracked, and everyone fell to the ground as part of the building started to move. Ellen was knocked unconscious when she fell to the ground, and Kathy could see the Ellen’s red frozen hurricane drink spilled next to her, pooling like it was blood curling around Ellen’s hand and hip before the ceiling fell on everyone at the Tropical Isle and the ground started to move.


Time: Saturday, 8:46 AM, December 21, 2012 C.E.
Place: Amsterdam, the Netherlands
as flight 2242 flies over Canada

    Hendrikus picked up his weekly paycheck from the front office room of the mini hotel an hour earlier, and had been cleaning the hallways after a late night of customer partying. Henry didn’t want to clean the window display stalls for the prostitutes from the night before; he hated the thought of cleaning up their messes, but he also didn’t want to clean out the public bathrooms. He then heard Johannes, the manager of the hotel, calling from the office.
    “Henry, take care of the window stall first, because people walk by there and see that before coming in here.”
    Henry didn’t want to do the work, but he turned to pick up his supplies to go to the front of the hotel for the stalls. A rumble then swept through the building, and he tried to hold onto the wall at a doorframe to steady himself. He looked over at his things and saw the bucket of cleaner splashing all over the floor; then he heard a window crack. Henry leaned over the grabbed the doorframe before he took a stumbling step toward the main hallway. Looking outside, he saw Johannes was holding onto another doorframe at his office toward the front of the hotel.
    “What the Hell was that?” Johannes said, one he spotted Hendrikus.
    “I don’t know,” Henry answered. “I heard glass breaking.”
    “It was one of the front display windows,” Johannes said. Before Henry could say anything, a couple opened their hotel door and looked out to see what was going on. Joost, the client from the hotel room, looked around and saw Johannes. “Our furniture ... it’s moving,” Joost said, as Johannes’ employee Inge kept one arm on Joost and the other hand on the doorframe. Just as Joost finished speaking, another rumble shook the hotel and the plaster around the walls and bricks started cracking. They heard a loud thud from another hotel room, and then the door opened with another client almost falling as he tried to keep balance. Tunis barely had time to look up after opening his hotel door before another rumble cracked the main hallway ceiling and tiles first fell to the ground.
    “I don’t know,” Henry said, as Johannes immediately said, “sit against this wall in the main hall, because there’s a support beam here, we’ll figure out what’s—”
    Johannes couldn’t even speak as another crack knocked him to the ground and his desk pressed him backwards against the wall. Henry looked over to Tunis’ room and saw Helge as a ceiling beam and a part of the wall fall on her, pinning her off the edge of the bed to the floor. The hotel then almost cracked in half, and started to separate, with one half moving north. Henry thought about Hilde, who was stuck in a small side room off another hallway, as the second floor and ceiling then lost its support and fell on top of him, leaving only his left arm out for anyone to see.


Time: Saturday, 9:46 AM, December 21, 2012 C.E.
Place: Athens, Greece
as flight 2242 flies over Canada

    Jacob Alhadeff woke up earlier than his wife Lea imagined, because he had gone out to meet friends Milha, Palomba and Reeial last night after they worked late. Lea had been preparing breakfast for him and had feta, tomatoes, oils, olives, and almonds.
    “Did you enjoy being out with the your friends from work?” Lea asked.
    “Hope you don’t mind we went out,” Jacob answered as he leaned on the bedroom doorframe.
    Just as he finished his words, the house shook and all of the glassware and jars that were on the kitchen counter started to rattle. Lea looked around the room, and then looked back through the hallway at Jacob. “Jacob,” she said, scanning the rooms with her eyes, “brace yourself with the doorframe.”
    “I’m not that hung over...”
    “No, I think another earthquake is coming. Try to go to the floor near the center column so nothing will fall on us. I’ll be there in a second.” Lea grabbed a pitcher of water and two glasses stacked, and tried to grab the bowl of almonds for them to snack on while waiting for the earthquake to subside. Jacob was walking to the living room to sit on the floor next to the center column when another quake hit and the entire house shook, knocking Jacob to the ground as he tried to walk into the living room.
    Lea held on to the counter as the earth shook again and heard the noise in the living room. “Are you okay?” she yelled out.
    “Yeah, I fell in the quake, but I’m okay. Get in here, stuff will knock over in the kitchen.”
    The house started to shake more, so Lea forgot about the water and nuts. Remembering how they dropped to their knees when hiking to avoid the violent winds on the mountain peaks on their last vacation, she moved down to the floor. She hoped she would be safer if she went through the house on her knees to get to the safe spot in the living room. She made it to the living room doorway and saw Jacob sitting there, when a huge creaking thud echoed throughout the house. With the loud boom came an additional shift in their house, which actually dropped Lea flat to the floor.
    Jacob panicked when he saw Lea fall. He got up on his knees and started to try to crawl toward her, because she only had about ten more feet to travel before they’d be under the house beams. “I can’t believe this,” Jacob muttered as he then looked toward his wife and said, “Are you okay? Get over here, we’re almost set.”
    “Yeah, I’m trying,” Lea said. “It’s like the house is even shifting, so I lose balance.” She moved a little over a foot on her knees when another quake rocked the house. Jacob heard the walls start to creak and saw plaster crumble around the room as he started to move toward her on his knees so he could meet her half way and pull her toward the center column.
    They almost met in the living room along the floor as the house started to move again, this time more violently, and two of the walls started to collapse. Jacob grabbed Lea’s hand just before the main wall and the floor above them, fell straight down onto them.


Time: Sunday, 2:46 PM, December 22, 2012 C.E.
Place: Shanghai, China
as flight 2242 flies over Canada

    Though Yi Min and her husband Shen had done their tree hitting ritual this morning, Shen decided that because his circulation was deteriorating, he should go out to the courtyard outside again for more tree exercises. Yi Min had added more ginkgo biloba to their daily tea, hoping this would also help their circulation and health, so she started brewing another pot of tea after watching him walk outside to go to the sophora japonica scholar tree outside their home.
    Mr. and Mrs. Zhao left their work in their farming community outside of Chongqing — they opted to leave the rural life to go toward the water and to Shanghai. They had more access to Chinese medicines in Shanghai, but they had less room in their apartment home, less room to hang their clothes to dry, and only completely different (and more generic) options for food from larger companies. Shen had to go to the scholar tree on the corner at an open courtyard for his regular practice of moving his arms and hitting the tree bark repeatedly; but many people did this and no one thought anything of this use of the public tree.
    Yi Min tried to make sure everything was good to help her husband as they were getting older, and she added a slight amount of ginger to the ginkgo biloba root for steeping his tea. She placed a large pot over the stove to heat water for their tea as she felt a rumble again from the house. They had been having trouble with the weather for weeks now, with weather changes due to ocean storms and typhoons, and distant volcanoes becoming active again. She could hear the howling wind as storms started to pick up again.
    Shen felt the wind pick up too, as he then made a point to hold onto the trunk of the scholar tree for stability. This windstorm, however, even started to rip branches off trees and knock over chain-linked bicycles. When Yi Min heard things knocking into the walls of their home, she looked to the window to see branches and pieces of wood hitting the window, until one object was blown through the closed window. She thought she felt another earthquake starting, and with Shen outside, she didn’t know where to go or what to do.
    What Yi Min didn’t know was that the weather changes and the quake would soon make her building start to collapse, and tip over only feet from Shen’s scholar tree.
    Shen tried to hold onto the tree truck as he heard scooters tipping over and starting to blow away — he even saw a few people get caught in the wind and thought they were starting to fly away.
    Due to the almost instantaneous, drastically tumultuous weather changes and the impending plate shift all over the planet, those people weren’t “flying” away. They were being thrown away — just like most everyone else on planet Earth.


Time: Sunday, 4:46 PM, December 21, 2012 C.E.
Place: Melbourne, Australia
as flight 2242 flies over Canada

    Dena was starting to get ready for her date with Lachlam; they agreed to have dinner on Sunday before Lachlam left the next day to visit his extended family north of Brisbane.
    Dena needed to shower to clean herself off before her date with Lachlam, because she had been hiking with Lorrae and Narelle for hours to witness the new destruction from the Tweed Volcano (even though they argued over what to call it: as Lorrae said it was the Mount Warning Volcano, and Narelle was saying that it was just a part of the Border Group). The girls thought they’d spend the morning walking near the edges of some of the newly formed mountain ranges from new volcanoes because volcanoes had been erupting regularly recently. But their excursion took twice as long as they expected, and Dena only got home at 3:30 in the afternoon. She swore that after her shower she would try to rest for a few hours before meeting with Lachlam.
    The hot spot beneath eastern Australia is broad, and took advantage of weak places in the plate to feed magma to the surface. These girls didn’t know the science behind why volcanic activity now existed on such a grand scale, they only thought it was amazing to see Volcanoes erupting and seeing the lava flowing at a safe distance. They would hear reports on the news about Mounts Schank and Gambier of the Newer Volcanic Province of Victoria and South Australia erupting violently since they started again in 2004. Narelle would hear that the cone-shaped volcanic pit used to be considered one of the earliest volcanoes in Australia (though many volcanoes were erupting now), and she wished she could witness its erupting again. She loved this because Narelle was even a photographer — she followed all the reports of volcanic activity in Australia (even ones she couldn’t visit to witness), but she always lugged her camera bag around with her 35mm as well as her digital camera, and she loved using her telephoto lenses and taking tons of photographs of the lava while it was still flowing.
    They knew, scientifically and historically speaking, that the Australian plate moved north at only about 75 km/million years or 7.5 cm/year. But they didn’t feel there was any reason to question the plate shift in accordance with the eruption of so many volcanoes.
    Dena didn’t even think about it, until she felt what seemed like the beginning of an earthquake only minutes after she got into her apartment. She felt the shaking get worse throughout her apartment, so she turned the television on to see if there were any news reports explaining the earthquake. As soon as she changed the channel and found a news station, she called Narelle.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey, Narelle, it’s Dena.”
    “What do you need?”
    “I was wondering if you were feeling anything over near your place.”
    “The quake? Yeah.”
    “Did you hear anything about it?”
    “No man, I’m clearing all of my glassware now and putting my camera stuff safely away. Have you checked out the news?”
    “I just got it on. I was going to take a shower, but I don’t know if this will be serious or not, like, if I should wait this out or take a—”
    Another loud crack rumbled through the town, knocking Dena off her chair. and knocking the phone out of her hand.
    It also disconnected them, because phone lines were down from the earth’s shifting.
    Dena looked around after checking and finding out that the phones were dead. The shaking continued, and half of her things fell from all of the shelves in her home. Things even fell from the countertops, the tables — even her nightstand. She didn’t know where to go, and she knew the ground was so shaky taht she didn’t know where to stand or walk (or run) to safety. She crawled toward the broken back window (while making sure to avoid the glass), and she could hear people yelling in the streets.
    She tried to get up to listen to them screaming, and when she was able to lift herself to see out the window she could see people screaming about the heat in the streets. She didn’t understand it, but she could see people trying to get their feet off the ground, but most surfaces shook and everyone was actually trapped in the open space outside.
    Dena turned back and slid down the wall, so she was sitting on her floor, leaning against the outside wall. Less than thirty seconds later another crack came, and the building Dena was living in almost split in half, before the Australian plate started to move.

•••

    When the phones disconnected them, Narelle didn’t know if Dena was okay, but she hurried to gather her things, so her camera equipment would be safe until after the quake was over. She didn’t hear of any reports of seismic activity predicted for their area, and their seismologists were relatively good at predicting days when earthquakes would hit.
    Narelle also knew Lorrae would be the last to get home; with the phones down she couldn’t know if Lorrae even made it home before the quakes started.
    As Narelle was trying to put away her digital camera (the 35mm and film was already in a safe), she heard a loud crunch and a tear from the other side of her place. She instinctively ran toward the noise, and stopped in her tracks when she saw the far wall torn from the side of her building. She could hear people screaming outside, and she heard people yelling through the walls of her flat. She then instinctively started to think like a cameraman, and she knew there wasn’t much more she could really to do protect her equipment, so she slowly walked toward the hole in her home. She put her digital camera toward her face (with an almost empty memory card, she knew she had plenty of room for photos), and started snapping pictures of the hole in her home and the sky through her walls. As she got closer to the opening she could spot faces that went with the yelling she heard in those streets. She looked for a brief moment, and knowing there was nothing she could do from there for them, she just moved the camera in front of her again and started snapping pictures of the crowds over and over again.
    She was trying to zoom her camera in so she could get better close-ups of the people caught in this natural disaster, when her building started to make that rushing noise again. She heard it coming from behind her this time, and turned her head just in time to see another wall collapsing, falling on half of her body, as she fell with it, creating a domino effect into the floor and with the remaining walls, as everything started to collapse into the heated ground, now starting to move faster with the plate.

•••

    If her digital camera could have been rescued, it would have captured the last ten seconds of the people’s lives on that street corner, on what was supposed to be the Sunday before Christmas.
    But with the plates moving at the rate they were, causing such heat in the ground and such violent wind gusts and such tidal waves in their rapid motion, no technology would be saved. No people would be saved; no people on the land could survive there.
    Scientist could not foresee the reason for the escalating earthquakes, tidal waves, sand storms in the deserts and almost global volcanoes. They couldn’t even explain the breaking of polar ice caps in Antarctica. Knowing the effects of celestial bodies on the Earth’s weather, scientists and astronomers searched for more celestial explanations — and although they saw a few stray comets, they thought the Earth was safe from a collision with them, though they wondered if near collisions would wreak havoc on the planet’s weather patterns. Ultimately, they were still at a loss for what could be causing all of the global problems.
    They couldn’t come up with an explanation because they had no warning for the plate shifts that the increased weather problem for the past few years were the predecessors for. There were more and more natural disasters around the globe, but no one knew to connect the pieces, because no plates had moved enough to force anyone to question it.

    They couldn’t question it any longer, as buildings collapsed and cars became ovens in all civilized places. Even trees in forests lost the majority of their leaves, and some were even uprooted. Even aquatic life couldn’t survive the weather, which led to drastic oceanic changes. Nothing seemed safe any longer.
    And nothing was.






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, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, and the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).





what is veganism?

A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?

This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?

We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.

We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.

We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action

po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353

510/704-4444


MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:

* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.

* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants

* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking

* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.


The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology

The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:

* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;

* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;

* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.

The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.

For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson

dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

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