down in the dirt
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In This Issue... Fritz Hamilton Eric Burbridge Liam Spencer Marlon Jackson John Ragusa Allen M Weber Kenneth DiMaggio Chad Grant Eleanor Leonne Bennett art Nick Viglietta Travis Green Margaret Doonan Maria A. Arana Jon Brunette Michael Chaney Bob Strother Daniel Flaherty D.S. Maolalai Adelaida Avila Brian Boru Kevin Michael Vance Michael Royce CEE Janet Kuypers

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“He shoves me down on the table.” “He tries to beat me to death.” Fritz Hamilton     “He shoves me down on the table.” “He tries to beat me to death.” “Friends drag him off.” “The police try to calm me down.” “I can’t stop obsessing about this.” “The cops tell me my obsession is normal, but it will go away.”     The Aztec drug cartel now dominates the Sinaloa cartel. They explode dynamite in Mexico City killing 238 mothers & children. “He pushes me along the aisle.”     Italy can’t manage anymore economic austerity. They reduce the minimum wage for the young by 32%. The banks could care less. Angela Merkle & Germany call all the shots. Workers in Spain are rioting. There are no jobs. “He tries to beat me to death.”     Santorum cuts Romney’s lead in Michigan. Romney’s money & organization will win Michigan anyway. Newt has fallen far behind. Santorum’s bigotry & anti- gay rhetoric helps him blossom among the yahoos. It boosts Obama’s raitings. He is now the favorite to win reelection despite high unemployment. “Friends pull him off me.”     Kobe sinks impossible shots. Gasol & Bynum get the rebounds. The Asian star Lee scores two 3-pointers. The Knicks hold on. “I jab two fingers into the jailbird’s eye. I’ll see him back in Corcoran or San Quentin. I’ll see him feet first carried out the door of the 202 Club.”     50% of hospital beds everywhere now for the insane. Hospitals crowded as never before. “Beating him to death. No way to sleep. Beating him, beating him.”     Children molested in the elementary school, being stripped & fondled, made to eat spoonfuls of the teacher’s semen. When it’s found out, the teacher is trans- ferred to another school. “Killing psychotic marauder, beating him to death, beating him, beating ... “     Roses blooming on the side of the hill.

I go to the thriftshop to find a cane or walking stick. Fritz Hamilton     I go to the thriftshop to find a cane or walking stick. I just turned 76, & some 40ish fool attacked me at an AA meeting yesterday. In a few days I’ll have 40 yrs of sobriety, if I don’t drop dead of old age or get beat to death by some young coward. I have reported this to the Pasadena Keystone Cops, but as anyone who reads the papers knows, cops will find every reason not to pick up this product of the California prison system. For various reasons the cops foster the psychopaths who run the streets killing, maiming, robbing & doing other such things to prove their personhood. L.A. Cty is just behind Chicago in the misery factor. If you want the police to ignore you when you need them, live in Chicago or L.A. Cty. The Pasadena police are in L.A. Cty. I have visited them twice to report my assault & twice, for technical reasons like my not knowing my crook’s last name, they have refused to do anything. Once the original cops who took my conplaint were out, so they had no one to deal with my case.     The trouble with being 76 is life can be dull & depressing at times. But the coward Matthew has spiced up my life. I feel good about getting into a fight of any kind at my age. It’s both amazing & wonderful that I’m going through this. How many old guys get this opportunity?     After I purchase my stick at the thrift shop, I’m going back to the same meeting place today, & I shall share what’s going on with me. If Matthew the coward is there, all the better. If he’s not, the meeting will get a dose of this bullshit again. I hope to keep this going until Matthew is back in prison, & I’m a senior hero of the month. Then of course the drama will be over, & I’ll have to seek my amusement elsewhere.     I rise from my desk, almost falling backward over the chair to bang my head against the closet door. Then I’ll have the real problem, which is to get back on my feet. This is an old people’s dilemma, which is what I am, but I still have enough left to destroy Matthew & make me the hero of the senior center. This has all the horror of a TV sitcom. The Oscars are on tonight, & I think I’ll win one, while drinking a gallon of the psychopath’s blood before camera. Brad Pitt will look on with amazment. George Cloony will be jealous. My innumerable girlfriends will swoon & tear off their clothes begging me to partake of them. Most of all, I won’t be trapped in the foul pit of delusion.     I go to another thriftshop to find a walking stick, but I trip on the step & break my nose on a kewpie doll. !

Ten Percent Eric Burbridge     “Convict #62110 report to the office. If you do not know where to go, follow the signs. Simple.” The raspy male voice said.     A wave of anger engulfed Natalie Sherman, but she remembered the anger management sessions of the state’s female correctional center. Relax, Natalie. Do not forget what you promised yourself. Whoever this fool was he knows your number, do not let him get your goat. It looked like a casting call in the small waiting room of the halfway house. The other three chicks had curves like her. What were the odds of that? She rubbed her freshly manicured fingers over the stubbles of the pendant that hung around her neck and chanted in silence. She exchanged dirty looks with her possible roommates and uncrossed her jean clad legs. Her ankles were rigid when she stood in her stiletto heels. At five eight with soft sculptured features and short brown hair, she only got one scar in that hell-hole on her beautiful tan face. She adjusted her white embroidered blouse. Now, young girls, watch, how a well preserved thirty- five year old walks up the stairs. Eat your hearts out.     Every step was spotless, even in the corners. She reached the top, looked down the brightly lit hall and inhaled the spring-like fragrance that circulated. Polished linoleum floors. Nice, very nice. The interior of the renovated warehouse had double smoked glass doorways to the offices. Most were open with little or no noise emanating from them. Signs pointed to the end where the voice originated. Was he short, a fat slob or a combination?     She pushed open the door and smelled a horrendous fart and fanned her nose. It would be nice if he sprayed. Whoever he was he didn’t look up. Probably a retired cop turned parole officer, and from the smell and the milk shake on the desk, he was lactose intolerant. The furniture was cheap assembled well, but do not bump it too hard. A lot of books and files were on the shelves. His head turned just enough; she saw his round mouth, thin moustache with the rat like teeth that poked out his upper lip. His ears stuck out and he was thinning on the top of his peanut shaped cranium. A cap definitely wouldn’t hurt at all. *     Roscoe Willis had glanced at the shadow standing outside his office when the door swung open and #62110 walked in. He looked at her out the corner of his eye, then the picture in the folder. Attractive, but a criminal nonetheless. The lookers were by far some of the worst. Their looks entitled them to privilege. So they thought. “And you are?”     “Natalie Sherman, sir.” She stepped forward and extended her hand.     Willis looked and leaned back in his chair. “Until you are worthy of being called your name; you are #62110. Sit down,” he snapped. “My name is Mister Willis or Willis. I see you like drugs like most of the residents of this facility.” Willis picked up a packet and slid it across the desk. “Read the rules, memorize them and believe them.” He watched her pick it up like it was a burden. “This facility is spotless, all the time. It smells good too. If you smoke, do it outside.” He continued thumbing through the file. Possession of cocaine with intent to distribute and unlawful use of a firearm. “I see you shot at a cop—”     “That’s a lie.” Natalie interrupted.     “What?”     “Again. That’s a lie. And, they dropped that charge, sir.”     Willis frowned. Feisty. She’ll be back in prison in two months. “Even though you’re out, you are still state property, so to speak. We demand one hundred ten per cent from our residents. One hundred to the state and the other ten to us. If you do not understand, you will. Any questions?”     Natalie shrugged. “Not now...I guess. Oh, I saw an arts and craft store down the street. I would’ve stopped, but I didn’t want to be late.”     “And?”     “And, I would like to get a few things before I settle in.”     Willis hesitated. She’s also a smart ass. But, his devotion to education and rehabilitation of ex-convicts overrode the urge to deny her request. “What do you do?”     Natalie smiled, “I make dolls of all sizes. I sold them until, well, you know.”     “You got an hour. Go out the door, make a right, then go left to the end of that hall. You are in #201.”     “Thank you, sir.” *     Natalie kicked off her high heels. She sat two shopping bags on a table under a noisy ventilation stack that hung from the lofts rafters. The room was stuffy. So much for Willis’ “always smells good” statement. She went and opened the mini-blinds on the bottom of four large smoked glass windows. Stone partitions separated each room with suspended acoustic ceilings. Typical dormitory dresser, desk and beds lined the walls. Natalie slid open the closet doors and found a foot locker. She popped the locks. Empty. Good, just the place to store her tools and materials. She unpacked her suitcase and put the family photo with her twin nieces on the bed’s headboard. She owed her brother a slap for not bringing them to see her. Now that she was in, she better enjoy the privacy before her roommate showed, whoever that might be. She stretched out on the bed and read the packet Willis gave her. *     “#62110 report to the office!”     Natalie sighed, took a deep breath and excused herself from the NA meeting. Willis had a habit of breaking the spiritual bond of the meetings. He just tore his behind. The sliding doors bounced off the recessed door stops when she pushed them open. “What is it, Willis?”     Willis shot out of his seat. “Who do you think you are talking to!”     “You!” Natalie walked up to him. They were almost nose to nose. “Some of them are scared of you, I’m not. You want respect. Give some.”     Willis put his finger in Natalie’s face. “Mess with me and I’ll send you back to Dwight to finish your sentence.”     “I’m scared. You pull that crap. I’ll sue you.”     Willis blinked, his frown relaxed. He giggled. “That’s been tried before with no success, convict.”     “Ex-convict.”     “Where’s your contribution to the Blake Halfway House?”     Natalie stared at the unattractive parole officer, got a chair out of the corner and sat. “The ten percent extortion money? I do not have it!” she snapped.     “It’s not extortion. Don’ start that crap. The state only gives us so much. Without the residence’s help a lot of the amenities would not be here.”     “Sounds good, but it’s bull...without the residents,” Natalie mimicked. “That’s a joke. You’ve covered your tracks well.”     “My work here is appreciated by most. I got awards for it. Get with the program, convict.”     “I am with the program. For three months I’ve given my 110%. Where’s my dolls?”     “I got them. Those are masterpieces, such detail. You’re very talented, 62110.” Willis said. “They will be your 10%.”     “Those are for my nieces! I made them inside. I got special permission from the warden to make them.” Natalie stood and eased her hand toward a small glass sculpture on the end of his desk. “Put them back.”     Willis stared at her hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”      She pushed the paper weight across the desk and it fell in his lap. “I tried Willis...I tried to be nice.” Natalie stumped out and slammed the doors.     “So did I convict!” *     Natalie shoved the open and it slammed into the wall. Cheryl and Klarissa jumped up and started laughing. “We thought you would have at least a busted lip girl. Smile, you’re driving that SOB crazy. You’re following the rules to a tee. A judge won’t touch you.”     Natalie flopped down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Klarissa did twenty years for murder; Cheryl used to be a major dealer. Both were wide and short with innocent tones in their voices. Those tones didn’t match their hard looks. “I’m sick of Willis. Now, he pays! You with me?”     “Yeah...Wait a minute girl. What are you talking about?”     “Don’t worry. You won’t go back to jail. I just need a little of your personal info.”     “ OK.” They said.     Natalie grabbed the talisman around her neck, tapped it and smiled. “I got a secret weapon most people do not believe in.”     Klarissa chuckled. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with those dolls, would it?” Natalie nodded. “You a priestess?”     “Yeah.”     “My aunt believed in it, but I never gave it much thought,” Klarissa said. “Girl, do your thing.” *     “I’ve thought about what you said the other day, but I need to clear up a few things, Mr. Willis. Natalie sat in a chair opposite her nemesis. “10% of what I have?”     He could not stand this ex-convict, but he couldn’t violate her. She did everything by the book. He sighed and dropped his pencil on the desk. “Yes, 62110.”     “Is that like for example, if I made $500in a month then $50 goes for the house.     “Yes. You can do percentages. That’s wonderful,” Willis said.     “Does that include Klarissa and the others who are still called by their numbers?”     “Oh, you mean 22001and 46990? Yes,” Willis snapped. He rolled his chair over to cabinet and got a file. “Is there anything else you need, 62110?”     Natalie smiled, “I’ve been working on something and I can proceed when I get additional information. If we give 10% a month, at the end of 10 months, that’s 100%. Right?     “You did the math. That is so nice.”     “So, 100% of what we have is fine with you?”     “That is right, 62110. Now get out.” *     Natalie had the room to herself and most of the residents had left for the holiday weekend. She lit some candles and put some standing talismans on her desk. She draped ritual beads around her neck, stripped down to her underwear and started chanting. She picked up the ceremonial rattles and threw her head back in prayer to the Loa spirits. Her arms shot out, the rattles vibrated and rotated in her hands. She spun slowly, at first, while the muscles in her flat stomach rolled in rhythm. Then her head whirled faster like it would detach itself from her body. She screamed as the spirit engulfed her. Then she froze with her eyes rolled back in their sockets. Cold sweat dripped down her forehead and her heart raced. Her spirit was in a eerie dark place with a light shining at the end of a corridor. The distance between light and dark got smaller...smaller... “That’s a provocative dance, 62110.” Her eyes popped open. Willis stood in the doorway, his eyes trained on her panties. “I don’t believe in Voodoo or whatever that is.”     Natalie did not budge. She focused on the parole officer. “You will.” Her nostrils flared and her eyes were filled with hatred. “Give back my doll or else.” He moved forward. “A wise man wouldn’t do that.”     Willis stopped. “I heard the noise and I thought I would...”     “Get out, Willis. And turn out the lights.”     “Or what? You’ll cast a spell on me.” Natalie nodded. He laughed and closed the door.     Natalie tingled and trembled with the power of the spirit. She went and pulled out her equipment. Now she was ready. Her heart broke when the twin five year olds asked, “Auntie Natalie, where’s those dolls you said you made?” You’ll damn the day you took them, Mr. Willis. If it’s doll you want, it’s dolls you will get. *     She laid out several molds on the table. They were the same size as the one’s Willis took of her nieces. Every month you will get a doll from the three of us. A special doll with a touch. Natalie was a stickler for detail. She had a jeweler’s magnifying glass and some of their other tools.     She chanted and poured wax into the molds. Two hours later, she waved her rattles over the cooling wax heads. This added a touch of disdain for the house’s director/founder/manager or whatever he called himself today. She started to make the bodies out of plastic sticks, but that wasn’t good enough for him and the clothes wouldn’t fit right. So, she poured some body molds. The wax cooled and she removed the parts. Next, she put each one under the magnifying glass and carefully shaved off the excess wax. She fashioned Willis’s bushy eyebrows, crinkled skin, booty sized lips and rat-like teeth. Once the body was assembled she took a piece of black string and wrapped it in a shape to represent his colon. Another piece of string went around that to cause slight constipation. She dressed him in slacks and a shirt and tie and stood it on the table. This Willis doll has her problem; constipation. Well, Mr. Willis you did say you wanted 10% of whatever we have. She made two more. One with an unfolded paper clip around the head and a miniature blood pressure belt around the arm. This was Klarissa’s ailment; migraine headaches and hyper-tension. And, the last with a string around the ankles, for Cheryl’s gout.      She stood her creations side by side. Tomorrow was the first of the month when contributions to the house were due. *     June 1:     Natalie slid the door back with her elbow and carried in a box with the three dolls. “Good morning, Mr. Willis.” He looked up and grunted. “I have something just for you.” Natalie pulled them out one by one and walked over to the window ledge.     “What are you doing, 62110?”     “I brought these for you. Give me back my nieces dolls. You can have these.” She stood over the reclined Director.     Willis leaned forward and looked at her with disgust. “No. These are voodoo dolls of me? Any pins sticking in them?” He laughed and studied the statues. He touched the one with the paperclip on its head. “What does that mean?”     “Migraines.”     “I don’t have them.”     “You will.” Natalie smiled and reached in her pocket. “This is my 10%. It’s not much, I only sold a few dolls—”     “62110, I know you don’t have much. That’s not the point,” he interrupted and counted the money. “Now, leave.”     July 1:     Natalie watched Willis rub his head through the smoked glass doors. He started to rest his head on the desk when she slid the doors open. “Good morning, Mr. Willis. How are you?”     Willis just looked and sighed. “What is it, 62110?”     “You have my nieces dolls. Give them back.”     “No!” Willis grimaced in pain and rubbed his forehead.     Natalie walked over to the window, picked up a doll with its jacket closed, and opened it. “See that string?” Willis nodded. “That’s your colon. You are constipated.”     “No, I am not.”     “You will be. Here is my 10%.”     Willis counted the money. “That’s better, 62110. Good-bye.”     August 1:     Klarissa shook Natalie. “Wake up girl. I can hear you snoring in the hall.” Natalie sat up, stretched and yawned. “I’m tired. What time is it?”     “Nine o’clock.”     “Damn, I’m late for work.” Natalie jumped up and grabbed her things ready to head for the shower.     “One of the guys said they heard Willis in the bathroom. They say he’s in there all the time, grunting and groaning. You got him good, girl.” They started laughing. *     “How you feeling, Mr. Willis? Have you noticed the veins in your forehead? Your pressure is up.” Natalie got silence and a dirty look. He hadn’t moved the dolls. She lifted the pant leg of the third doll.”See that string? That’s gout.”     “I don’t have—”     Natalie smiled, “You will. Where’s my dolls?”     “None of your business, 62110!”     She shook her head. “Here’s your envelope...and by the way, every month that 10% accumulates. Which means it gets worst by 10% every month. You did say you wanted 10% of whatever we had. Remember? What’s that cliche? Be careful what you...well, you know.”     Willis shot of his chair propelling it back against the wall. “Get out, 62110, before I send you back to prison!”     September 1:     Natalie caught a glimpse of Willis struggling on crutches going in his office. She rushed down the hall. “Oh, Mr. Willis. I have something for you.” She waved an envelope when she entered.     Willis sat at his desk, panting and sweating. He was exhausted. She looked at the window ledge and the dolls had been replaced with her nieces. “Oh, I see you came to your senses.”     “Take your dolls, Ms. Sherman.”     “Ms. Who?”     “Ms. Natalie Sherman. Take your property and take this curse, spell or whatever this crap is, with you.”     “Oh...I have to think about that.” Natalie gathered her niece’s dolls. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Willis. You do know what in touch means, don’t you?” She walked out the room and slammed the door.

Keep it that way Liam Spencer     There was a petite red head at one of my favorite hangouts back east that I always had my eye on. Many other guys also keep a famished eye on her as well, and we often compared notes. Men considered her too hot, and thus too in demand for any of us to have a chance. Yet she was there every other Saturday, showing off that amazing body, and never seemed to have a man with her.     Her long red hair flowed so beautifully to the gothic music, her tight body moved in all the right ways, and she had the look of sensuality that would make anyone cum in a mere minute. Other women seemed to dislike her. Men would drop anything to have just a peek. She oozed sex, screamed it in beautifully silent screams. Most of us forgot our own names when she danced.     I usually stayed close to the bar, but made the rounds and checked out the dance floor all too often. It was always important to be seen talking with many people, even as there was little to talk about. The place was always full and lively. There were attractive women, their male friends, and intimidated males who drank away their sorrows of not being able to get the attractive women. I was different in that I didn’t care about status or being able to get whoever. I just wanted to drink and enjoy, so I talked with everyone.     The night that changed things and elevated my status came the when I was determined to not go out for financial reasons. I was having troubles, and decided to save money. However, there was a party at work for the customers. The owners of the small printing company had made the mistake of having an open bar and inviting employees. We drank them dry, and stayed long after the customers left. Free drinks? Are you kidding me?     After the owners threw us out, my boss, an Irishman named Bob, dropped me off three blocks from my apartment. It was also four blocks from my fave club, and I was drunk and fired up. There was no way I was heading home.     I walked in, went to the bar, and bought a rum and coke. The place was packed as usual, but I was more fired up than usual. I went to the dance floor. There she was again, like a vision, oozing sexuality, dancing alone. I sipped heavily, then took the plunge.     I danced right over to her. She looked at me, then danced away. I kept on dancing, slowly inching closer. She looked at me and danced away, but turned her head and gave me a look that seemed to ask “Do you dare?” I dared, and danced to her again. Her expression was if to ask “Who is this guy?!” She danced facing my direction. Her facial expression showed interest.     It was as if the whole place was watching. Many were. None I had known of had gotten to this level with her. We danced closer. The music seemed to elevate in energy. We danced even closer. Then closer again. Her expression lightened from standoffish to surrender. My cock was rock hard, and my heart pumped violently.     Then it happened. We danced too close, and gravity of passion gripped us hard. Within seconds, we were dancing with no space between us. She rubbed her sensitive parts against me everywhere. We kissed, then took turns kissing each others’ necks. I caressed her curves with my hands. She raised her arms as to invite me to caress even more of her. As the d.j. announced a break, we kissed with full tongue action. All eyes were on us.     We went to the bar to get drinks. I readied to pay. She smacked my hands down, and pulled out her debit card. She bought the drinks, then pulled me off to a quieter area. We sat down close together and set our drinks down. She gave the look, that of having been turned on and needing more. No words were exchanged. We kissed and made out for a solid half hour.     She paused from the kissing first. After a moment, she got up, grabbed my hand, and led me out of the bar. When we got outside, she waved a cab. It pulled over, she pulled me to it.     “Where to?”     “1623 Broad.”     Her voice was heavenly, but I had no time to evaluate. We were going at it hot and heavy in the cab. She panted and kissed as I kissed and fondled. She guided my hand down her pants, and let out sounds that echoed pleasure. The cabbie repeatedly glanced in the rearview, and almost drove off the road several times.     We finally arrived at her place. She paid. We went in. It was a nice older home in a decent neighborhood. She led me upstairs and into a bedroom. She locked the door behind us, then began peeling the leather clothing from her sweaty, hot body. I took my clothes off too, watching her the whole time.     Her body was way more amazing than I thought it would be. Her curves were perfect, as were her hips. Her legs were maddeningly hot. We kissed while we stood naked, but gradually made our way to the bed. The foreplay was amazing, but the sex was brain melting, round after round. Hours rolled by like minutes. Orgasms broke the otherwise dead night. She was far better than I thought possible. After long sessions, she passed out. Shortly thereafter, I passed out too.     The next thing I remember was that of a baby crying. I thought I was dreaming. Then there were sounds of young children playing, crying, and yelling. A middle aged woman could then be heard bitching in a foreign language. Pots and pans clanged. I was waking up alone in bed, but where was I?     I waited and pretended to still be sleeping. Surely the red head would be back. No one would leave me like this. I felt like death. Minutes rolled on, then an hour rolled on. Ninety minutes followed quickly. I had to piss and have water. I slowly and quietly got up. I slowly dressed, then slowly opened the bedroom door. It was clear. I snuck out and looked for a bathroom.     Three doors down I found one. I was grateful to lock the door behind me, and take care of business. As I washed my face with cold water, I tried to remember the paths to escape through the front door. Suddenly there was a knock at the door.     A childs’ voice was heard; “Come on! I have to go!”     What else could I do but walk out acting as if was supposed to be there? So that’s what I did. I walked out, and the kid rushed in. He looked at me funny, but had to piss too bad to raise hell. I made best use of my time, and snuck down the stairs. Finally, I was within short running distance of the front door and thus freedom. I was seconds away.     A rasy woman’s voice called out, “Hey sexy! You’re alive!”     It was the red head. She saw my legs coming down the stairs. The middle aged woman said something that sounded mean. The red head told her to shut up.     “Want some coffee, baby?”     Her eyes smiled. She looked great. I wondered about getting her back in bed.     “I’d love some.”     A cup was in my hands in ten seconds. It was awful.     “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”     The older lady cursed. We left. I took the coffee cup.     We got in the car, an old Buick. She drove a block away. She put the car in park.     “We passed out before it got good.”     Suddenly we were kissing and making out. She guided my left hand to her boobs, and my right up her skirt. I slid my finger inside her. She let out a moan.     “That’s it, we are going to your place.”     I lived ten blocks away. We were there in minutes, then went inside. She pulled out a pipe and took a hit. Then she stripped down. I did too.     We went at it intensely. My hangover didn’t matter so much. Round after round, we went at it. We broke for her to smoke up and for me to have a quick drink. The Sunday afternoon went quick. I wanted yet another round, but she stopped me. We lay beside each other, catching our breath.     “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”     “Tell anyone what?”     “Better keep it that way.”     She got dressed and left, saying nothing. I raided my fridge, ate well, and took a twelve hour nap. When I woke, I smiled about the weekend. I was exhausted.     No one I knew believed me. Even those that saw us leave together.     They responded, “No one gets her.”     “Well, someone does.”     “Not you.”     Two weeks later, I saw her at the same club. Our eyes met. She looked away, then turned her back to me. Guys sneered. I drank more, and ended up going home alone.     It was another month before she came over for more sex.     “Sorry about that. I don’t want just any guy thinking he can get me.”     Great. That’s exactly what it would have said.     Well, at least I got mine.

The Art of Wisdom Marlon Jackson However the light shines, there’s always hope But in certain cases, some things are eerily meant to be Whenever I go to sleep, i think of theories and wonder if they have explanations Not always they don’t, that’s how life is along with joys and pains and strain and On what we learn each day we breathe under the sun or under the rain I feel compulsive to do anything I do like art of wisdom-I have wisdom to continue my work and for myself I stay true

Cheaters Never Win John Ragusa     High-school freshman Dane Sabaken was flunking his English course. He never put much effort into it. His mind was on cars, girls, and football, so he didn’t devote enough time to studying. He didn’t think English was important, anyway, unless you planned on becoming a writer, which he didn’t. During class, he would daydream as his teacher, Mr. Canville, lectured. His mind would focus on other things. He got F’s on every one of his exams so far that year. He didn’t care about learning the material; what bothered him was that if he didn’t improve his grades soon, he would fail for the semester, and his parents would ground him for a good, long time. It would be a bummer. Staying in his room was unbearably boring; he had to get out and join the action.     Dane thought that if he flattered Mr. Canville, he might give him a passing grade in English. So when he entered the classroom one day, Dane said to him, “That’s a real nice tie you have on today, Mr. Canville.”     Canville was not flattered. He said, “Compliments won’t persuade me to give you a passing grade, Dane, so you can cut out the sucking up.”     Dane wished he could memorize all the chapters, but it was too much to learn in a week’s time. That’s how long he had until the mid-term exam.     Dane felt desperate. He had to pass English class!     At first, he considered using cheat notes. But they were easy for his teacher to spot. No, they were too risky.     Then he thought of looking at another student’s paper. But the other students might not know the material any better than he did. That was out, too.     Then one day, he discovered that he could hear the thoughts of the person nearest to him. He had mental telepathy!     Now he could hear what girls thought of him. The girls who didn’t like him wouldn’t get asked out by him. He would ignore them.     Dane knew that he could use his telepathy to his advantage somehow.     Then he had it. During class one afternoon, Mr. Canville announced the grades of the students on their English exams. Dane heard that a girl student named Trish Stuart got an A on her test. Dane decided to sit next to her when they would take tests. He would hear the answers in her head and write them down on his paper. Since most of the answers would be correct, he’d get A’s on all his remaining exams! He would pass English for the semester, as he wanted to.     Dane thanked God for giving him telepathic powers. It would save him from flunking English that year. It was just what he needed.     Dane congratulated himself on his plan; it was foolproof. Of course, it was cheating, but that didn’t bother him; after all, what high-school student didn’t cheat nowadays? And there was no way that he would be caught. This was the perfect way to get good grades in English.     Dane’s parents would be pleased, too, with his grade. They would let him go out and have fun. His social life would pick up again.     On the day of the next exam, Dane sat next to Trish. He was all ready to use his telepathy. When they started taking their tests, he heard the answers in her head. He wrote them down on his test paper. When they were both finished, Dane and Trish turned in their papers. Then they went back to their desks.     At the end of the class, Mr. Canville said to Dane, “Come up here a minute, please.”     Wondering what could have gone wrong, Dane walked up to his teacher’s desk. “What is it, Mr. Canville?”     “I know you cheated on this exam.”     Dane was dumbfounded. “How did you know that?”     “I’m aware that you used your mental telepathy to hear the answers from Trish Stuart’s mind and wrote them down on your paper.”     “How did you catch on to my secret?”     Mr. Canville smiled. “I also happen to have mental telepathy. I heard your thoughts because you sat across from me in class.”     Mr. Canville wrote a big, red F at the top of Dane’s test paper as he said, “Cheaters never win, you know.”

Findings (In memory of James Vincent Weber) Allen M Weber Guitar picks (the amber mediums he preferred) discovered while vacuuming under hook-rugs and between floral couch cushions, are considered assurance, tokens to the faithful for whom he once played. Not known for such careful cleaning, I am visited in my sleep. From behind its grief- tinted windows, he offers flight in his ’39 Ford to where the corporal car still rusts in higher grass and shatters of snow. There, aware that I can’t bleed or suffer the cold, he leads through snarls of feral blackberries— risen from the ashes of his childhood home— to uncover the ring that fell from his hand the summer before I was born.

Allen M Weber Bio     Allen lives in Hampton, Virginia with his wife and their three sons.     The winner of the Virginia Poetry Society’s 2011 Edgar Allan Poe Memorial Prize, his poems have twice appeared in A Prairie Home Companion’s First Person Series, as well as in numerous journals and anthologies—most recently in The Quotable, Snakeskin, Prick of the Spindle, Terrain, Loch Raven Review, and Unlikely Stories.

American Gothic (#3). Kenneth DiMaggio Even if the rail- road no longer runs through this rusted but still pornographically neon American town you can tell how you were born on the wrong side of the tracks just from the way your shadow can never cross over without making the Rorschach of a body-bag

Janet Kuypers reads the Kenneth Di Maggio poem American Gothic (#3) from the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine

See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading this Kenneth Di Maggio poem in the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine live 2/13/13 at the Café Gallery poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (Canon cam)

Farewell was All it Took Chad Grant     Her words were a poison consumed in small quantities, a mithridatization to immunize his wanting for her. Though only friends, he kept a cock sure attitude that those desires would be met, and that one day her attacks of defamation would cease.     Despite her unwillingness to abound him with the satisfaction of her bodily pleasures, she instinctively knew of his desire to sleep with her, and took full advantage of her stunning good looks knowing that he would not dare to approach her.     He handled such frustrating situations just as any other neurotic young virgin of 26 would, by complementing her beauty at home confined to his room with an old copy of Playboy magazine and a bottle of lotion.     Why he put up with her, God only knows. When it came to a debate on such topics as literature or art her rebuttals were often fashioned in an ad hominem manner, “What makes you so smart on Rimbaud; you don’t even know how to read French.” She was quoted as saying once, this, a contrast to her sumptuous background and her splendid appearance.     She was a very elegant yet petite 5'8, with the most gorgeous smile, cropped brown hair, which would often cover one eye. Her eyes were a pallet of green, the shade of Absinthe, the shade he drank and dreamt about. She rarely ever wore makeup; she was of natural beauty as well as attraction.     Men fawned after her and would flock by the dozens to talk to her. In the course of their knowing she had many flames, but all of them fizzled, none of which lasted any more than a month.     The two had met one autumn while freshman in college, still young, adjusting to the regiment of being away from home. They were taking an art history class together when the professor brought up Van Gogh. Afterward that was when he approached her, “How are you enjoying the class?” He asked.     “I cannot stand this professor, his lectures are so blasé and unmoving.” Later he would often quip to himself about cutting off his ear and delivering it to her as a declaration of his heart.     There are moments when there is nothing more to say but farewell, that was eight years ago and she has since moved to Provence in the south of France. Farewell was all it took to immunize him from a virulent friendship which lasted for seven and a half years. He often dreamt of her dining at a café terrace at night, but this was all fantasy. He had always lacked the poise to say anything, to be the one to cut the ties and throw in the towel. Were his motives selfish? Perhaps, but one may say, “The way to know life is to love many things.” But ah, C’est la vie (such is life).

edenss cord, art by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Eleanor Leonne Bennett Bio (20120229)     Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old iinternationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic,The World Photography Organisation, Nature’s Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010. www.eleanorleonnebennett.com

Indifferent perceptions Nick Viglietta Their eyes have been closed. Bleak minds dying with hunger Tumultuous existence is a dream on the other side of the eye. Sensations of illuminated daylight and domed nights will never permeate their sight. Recollections project in mosaics. A self conscious sleep: the eyes convulse, but never enough to initiate lucid relief disintegration of thought. Their eyes will not open. They have become prosaic flowers that have dried, closed, and died.

John reads the Nick Viglietta poem Indifferent Perceptions from the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine

See YouTube video of John reading this Nick Viglietta poem in the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine live 2/13/13 at the Café Gallery poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (from the Canon camera)

She was lost Travis Green She was the color of dry fields, she was a pile of dead leaves, a stumbling tree, a burning wood, a sunken star, a cold brick wall, a droopy ceiling fan, a cloud, a shower curtain, a bottle of pills, a floor cracking board, a blade scrawled window, a silent sky sinking, a tumult of waves dying, a broken peanut butter jar, a sewage tank, a smashed car, ran down building, a mountain falling, nails scattered on a counter, a moon with discolored dreams.

John reads the Travis Green poem She Was Lost from the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine

See YouTube video of John reading this Travis Green poem in the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine live 2/13/13 at the Café Gallery poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (from the Canon camera)

Another Day in Paradise Margaret Doonan     “How was school?”     He shrugged, dropping his backpack and kicking it to the wall. Her fingers twisted in the tattered dish cloth, the modest rock on her ring finger catching the afternoon sun and shooting sparks of white and blue across the tiles.     “Anything you want to tell me?”     “Nah,” he yanked open the fridge and stared at the shelves. Grabbing an already opened Royal Cola can, he let the door swing shut by itself, the thinning seals meeting with a solid thunk.     “No sweets before dinner,” she rubbed the dish cloth over a faded floral plate from the sink.     He swigged at the can, smacking his lips noisily and walking into the living room. She watched him from behind the bench, corners of the dish cloth flailing as she picked up a bowl. He dropped onto the couch, shoes hitting the tired coffee table’s top and making the legs shudder.     “Don’t you have an essay due?”     “Not till Monday,” he reached for the remote.      The red light blinked, hesitated, then, after a moment, the screen flickered to life. The wonders of Easy-Off Bam blared from the box. She placed the last bowl on the bench top and wrung her fingers through the cloth again, paying extra attention to the water hugging the skin under the band of her ring.     “I saw Terry’s mother today.”     He flicked through the channels lazily.     “She told me Terry’s been getting into a bit of trouble at school.”     He lifted a shoulder.     “Fighting, and cheating on exams, and he was even caught smoking,” her slippers flip-flopped against the tiles as she stepped towards his crumpled backpack, tucking the dish cloth into the waist of her skirt as she moved.     “So?”     “So, isn’t Terry your best friend?”     “So what if he is?”     She bent down and picked up the backpack. Placing it on the bench, she unzipped the front pocket. She saw his neck stiffen at the sound.     “I also received a call today,” her fingers dipped into the pocket, running along the walls of the compartment until they slid across a cardboard corner. “From Principal Garret,” her fingers traced the edge until they closed over the shape. The smell of stale tobacco followed as she drew the small packet from the pocket.     Elle McPherson crooned the marvel of her sunscreen, her lean limbs twisting and curling for the camera. Her voice hung in the air, lingering in the hollow silence.     His gaze remained on the television until the bronze blonde had winked into a Toyota commercial. Pulling his shoes from the coffee table, he turned to face her.     “Anything you want to tell me?” She repeated, flakes of loose tobacco scattering she tapped the corner of the packet on a blister on the benchtop.     His Adams-apple bounced. “They’re not mine. Terry asked me to hold them for him.”     “Really,” she flipped the lid back and counted four mangled cigarettes. “Are you sure?”     “Yeah, his mum was flipping out, so I said I’d hang onto them for a couple of days,” he licked his lips.     “Terry smokes Winfield?”     He nodded.     “The cigarettes in the packet are Peter Jackson.”     “What?” He blinked. “Yeah, that’s what I meant, Terry smokes PJ’s.”     “Stop it, Andrew. Admit it.”     “Admit what?” His eyes darted from the packet to her face and back again. “You don’t believe me?”     “Andrew, the principal caught you on the oval.”     “As if you would take Garrets word over your own kid’s,” his shoulders bunched as he pushed up from the couch. “That jackass hates me, he’d say anything to get me in shit.”     “Language please,” she dropped the box on the bench and folded her arms. “Principal Garret doesn’t hate you, now just come clean.”     He snorted. “This is bullshit, your always taking everyone’s side but mine.”     “That is not what this is about. Just admit you were smoking, all I want is the truth for once.”     “You don’t want the truth, it’s another one of your excuses to stop me from having a life.”     She sighed. “Andrew, that’s not fair.”     “Whatever.” He fell back onto the couch and grabbed the remote. “Dad would’ve believed me.”     “Andrew,” her arms lowered, finger grasping at the dish cloth. “Andrew, please.”     The virtues of throw-away kitchen wipes boomed across the room, making her ears ache and her eyes burn.

The Loss Maria A. Arana stained by the ambush of my own mind left for dead trouble comes my body accepts it resigns to pain

John reads the Maria A. Arana poem the Loss from the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine

See YouTube video of John reading this Maria A. Arana poem in the 2/13 issue (v115) of Down in the Dirt magazine live 2/13/13 at the Café Gallery poetry open mic she hosts in Chicago (from the Canon camera)

The Victim Jon Brunette     I walk down the hall—tap, tap, tap—and find my door. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to put the key into the lock; I’ve done it thousands of times. I like the sound of the key inside the lock; the rhythmic metal-on-metal eases me. It reminds me of safety, as though no one can touch me after I go inside my apartment. It has a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, and a phone that rings a little too loudly, although it doesn’t have to ring loudly at all, and a radio. I have no TV; I cannot watch the picture anyway.     I love the sound of the radio, especially those old-time plays that have live actors who tell stories that I cannot see. I see no point in a TV, but a lot of people tell me that it seems strange to have no TV; it unnerves some people a little bit. Everyone has a TV, unless one is blind.     I step into the living room, go into the kitchen, and put a coffeepot on the stove. Then, I walk towards the bedroom. Some people think that blind people move slowly because they cannot see, but inside my own apartment, I usually move around quite quickly, because I know the layout and the surroundings, but, now, I move slowly because of my age. I have just turned fifty, and people my age never move fast.     In the bedroom, I hear the sound of wind hissing through the window; it comes slowly and steadily, like the pot I have just put on the stove. It’s also rhythmic, as continual as the beat of my heart, or the breath that comes out of my lungs. The room feels crowded suddenly, and I cannot put my finger on the reasons why. I move around the bedroom, hanging my coat on a rack, my shirt on top of a nearby table, and my shoes below the bed. The hiss continues, like the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs—the wind through the window.     I check the window, and to my surprise, it isn’t open. It doesn’t budge although I pull the handle hard. I flip the lock, and it slides slowly, like the sill has to be oiled. Only, now, the window doesn’t make the same hiss as before; it sounds like a steady flap, like the clothes around me as I walk, the wash on the line outside, or the air hitting a body, at least mine.     And I realize that the body the wind is hitting doesn’t just belong to me. I figure it out by the sound of the wind that flaps, doesn’t flap, and, then, flaps some more. Only, I am not moving around—someone else is!     I wonder if he wants money or my body, as his lumpy hand touches my mouth and nose. I can’t breathe, yet even if I could, I still wouldn’t be able to. My mouth feels dry; my heart skips a beat, like the rhythmic hiss that isn’t really the wind. The wind flaps loudly through the window. And the hiss stops, and, then, starts once more. My brazier falls off and a chilly breeze hits my breasts like ice water. I feel goose bumps down my spine; I realize that despite my fifty years, he has come for my body. I don’t want to give it to him.     I have no choice. No one does, which is why rape is a crime. It is a crime that no one can stop; if they could, it would never happen. Now, it will happen to me. I can’t prevent it, however much money I try to offer. Money cannot stop rape; nothing can.     I block out the hiss of his breath, the beat of my heart, and the wind flapping through the window that hits his body louder than mine. I will never feel emptier, yet, still, I must look beautiful to him. No one would rape an ugly woman.     Surely, I must look beautiful.     Yet, I have to wonder quietly: will I still look as lovely afterwards?

Mischievous House Painters Don’t Go to the Mall to Shop Michael Chaney     Vic preened his greying ponytail. “Jackpot,” he said showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Marlon Brando is going into the Footlocker.     “And he’s got a bag with him from another store,” Simpson added.     Vic left his friend and the two new guys to browse baseball hats.     Manny and his cousin, Chewy, had joined the painting crew that day. All morning there was big talk about what would happen at lunch. Neither could imagine that it would be like this.     “What if Brando does not buy nothing?” Manny asked.     “Don’t matter,” Simpson said.     About an hour earlier they were eating at the food court across from the man they dubbed “the mean Marlon Brando.” Their talk drifted to an initiation test for the new guys. Chewy insisted he go first.     Simpson was explaining the concept of waxing to him when, speak of the devil, pouty lipped Marlon brought his tray back to the Golden Wok counter, where he berated a young woman so loudly Vic swore he saw her hair flutter.     “I clearly asked her IN ENGLISH if this dish had GLUTEN and she said no, NO GLUTEN.”     “What a douche,” Simpson muttered. “I just can’t stand people like that. Pushing around someone weaker than him.”     “We’ll get him,” said Vic. “But first, let’s give Chewy his initiation.”     “What EXACTLY is saitan anyways?” Brando was pointing a manicured finger at the plate of food as Vic and the boys walked by. The manager explained something out of earshot.     “FRIED GLUTEN! This is just ridiculous. I can’t believe...” Thereafter, the complaints were too distant to hear.     “So let’s do this quick, Chewy,” said Vic. “You know your lines, right?”     “Sí.”     “Let’s hear your rant.”     “I ask for manager. Look sad. Say: You messed up my wax last week. I want the manager.”     “Perfect. And you know what to do from there. So off with you.”     The others pretended to be passers by, catching glimpses through the window of the salon. Chewy at the desk. A lady with a yellow buzz cut consoling. He stomping and pointing. An older woman who looks like an owl. Chewy making demands. Then, success. He and the manager go into an unseen room. When Chewy returned, his face beamed.     “Did you show her your ass?”     “Yes.”     Through laughter: “Did she freak?”     “No. She liked it.”     Arrested laughter: “She what?”     “She say, ‘You poor boy. I fix you.’ She was gentle.”     Manny’s Spanish spilled out in a frenzy.     Vic cut him off: “She fixed you?”     “She say, ‘I do whatever you want.’ I say, ‘Whatever?’ And she, ‘Anything.’ So I say, ‘Give me check for one hundred dollars and I don’t tell my lawyer you wax burn my ass.’”     Chewy pulled a check out of his pocket, licked it, and slapped it onto his forehead where it stuck. In blue ink was Matilde Swerengen’s signature underwriting a cool one hundred dollars to one Jesus Gonzalez.     Manny cheered.     “But she signed it over to Jesus,” chuckled Simpson.      “Chuy is short for Jesus. It’s a nick name,” Manny explained.     And that’s when they saw Brando in the Footlocker, where Vic was now holding a hat he was pretending to buy.     “Was’he gonna do?” Manny asked.     “You’ll see.” Simpson was trying to keep track of the events in front of him, but a woman with pink legs squeezed into jean shorts was barking into her cell phone. Her little boy was begging to be picked up.     “Where were you girl? I needed my girls and you were nowhere—Stop it Dante! Momma is speaking.”     When the sales clerk left Brando on the orange bench, bag beside him, Vic made his move.     “Don’t give me that shit, girl, Trina told me what you said to her—Not now Dante, Damn!—Don’t even lie. Don’t even lie. Don’t even lie—”     With one hand Vic waved to Brando. With the other, he dropped the hat silently into Brando’s bag.     “Hey man,” Vic said. “You gotta compass?”     “Dante! I said No! What the fuck is wrong with you!”     “A what?”     “You gotta compass?”     “—I trusted you girl. But where were you? Hold on—Dante, I ain’t gonna tell you again. Do it again and I swear—”     Simpson noticed a fire alarm next to the water fountain.     “A compass?” Brando sneered.     The clerk returned.     Then the sound of a child being smacked followed by soaring cries.     “Not here, dude,” Vic snapped at Brando. “I’ll never be your accomplice again!” Without even glancing at his friends, Vic made a beeline for the mall exit.     Simpson promptly made another beeline for the fire alarm. He grabbed the red plastic tongue and yanked until the mall shrieked like a sub descending.     Then Simpson smashed the glass of the fire extinguisher.     In the hours that followed, Simpson would prefer Chewy’s way of telling it.     “He walked up to her all psycho calm and sprayed her right in the face. And then he just walked out with it still in his hands all slow like this shit is mine.”

Michael Chaney bio     Michael Chaney is the author of “Fugitive Vision”, the editor of “Graphic Subjects”, and the walker of a dog named Vegas. He confesses to wincing whenever the term academic is used as a pejorative and dreams of launching a line of cheese-flavored sodas.

A Beautiful Demise Bob Strother     Standing on the fourth step of the pull-down door, Wallace Mott surveyed his mother’s attic. Late morning sunlight stole through a slatted vent. Dust motes glowed like tiny fireflies as they crossed through the beams and then disappeared into the shadows. The air was still and close, musty, but not unpleasant. He sighed as he took in the trash and treasures of a lifetime: stacks of children’s books, an old phonograph, sheet-shrouded furniture, boxes and trunks full of who knew what.     It had fallen to him, as the son and because he lived nearby, to make all the arrangements for his mother’s funeral. He hadn’t minded; he loved her deeply. She’d made it simple—living will, insurance and bank records easily accessible and meticulous, and a pre-paid burial plot next to Wallace’s father. She even had the music picked out for her service, all the more remarkable since she’d been in excellent health when she died.     They were going to have lunch at the Anchor Inn that day, something they did most weeks during the summer, a time set aside to enjoy the lake view, reminisce, and talk of future plans. His mother was ten minutes late when he heard the sirens and got a funny feeling inside. He left the restaurant and took the route she would have traveled, hoping he’d meet her. Instead he found police and rescue vehicles gathered near one of the sharp curves overlooking the water. He parked and walked to the precipice, his heart beating an ominous rhythm in his chest. The rear of the burgundy Enclave bobbed in the sun-drenched water sixty feet below.     A half-hour later, Wallace watched as the wrecker winched the Enclave onto the shoreline. Saw them place his mother’s body on a gurney. Cried openly as the ambulance pulled silently away.     Now, the funeral service over, friends and relatives departed, he was left with the task of sorting through his mother’s belongings. He stepped up onto the attic planking and turned on a light. “Well, Mom, let’s see what you thought was so important you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.”     By three-thirty, Wallace had compiled a preliminary list of articles that could be donated, those destined for the curb, and some he had no idea about. He supposed most survivors had the same problem—photographs and keepsakes that had meant so much to your mom or dad. No self-respecting son or daughter wanted to discard them, but what did one do with them?     Carefully, he climbed down from the attic carrying a box of photograph albums. Inside one he’d found faded color shots of his mom and dad attached to the pages with “L”-shaped adhesive corners, and captions written in his mother’s hand. He took a seat on the living room sofa and placed the album box at his feet.     Across from him above the fireplace, framed photographs lined the mantel—Wallace’s mother in her wedding dress and his father in his Army uniform, another with his father and their dog, Chang, sitting on the front steps. Yet another of his father in helmet and fatigues standing next to a troop transport truck. Jim Mott had been a handsome man and looked even more so in his uniform. At least his mom thought so, judging from the number of photographs his she had kept in virtually every room in the house.     Wallace smiled, wishing he’d known his father. But he’d been a toddler when his dad was killed in Viet Nam. When he was older, his mom had taken his face into her hands and looked him in the eyes. “Your daddy died a hero, Wallace, trying to save his fellow soldiers. It’s important you know that. It’s the knowledge you’ll need to help you find your own place in this world as you grow up and become a man. Be honest and strong and courageous. If you do, your father will be proud of you and so will I.”     Wallace had tried to do just that. Even when he’d seen the other boys playing catch with their fathers, shooting hoops in the driveway, or loading fishing tackle into their cars, he hadn’t cried. He’d wanted to, especially at his high school graduation, when his mother stood with him amidst the milling families and camera flashes capturing that “cap and gown” moment for posterity. When her eyes had misted over and she’d said, “Your father would have been so proud.” And finally, when Wallace’s unit came back from Iraq, and she was there waiting for him. She’d brushed her fingertips over the ribbons on his uniform and hugged him tightly. “You’re a hero just like your father,” she’d said.     He hadn’t really been a hero, at least not in his own eyes, but it was enough that his mother thought so, and maybe his father did, too.     Wallace got a Pepsi from his mother’s fridge then returned to the sofa and reached for the first album. He sipped the soft drink and began flipping pages, reliving vicariously his mother and father’s high school days. He smiled at one photo which showed his mom standing between two boys, one of whom was his father. It had been taken at some lake, he imagined, since they were all wearing swimwear. The boys were striking muscleman poses while his mom looked embarrassed.     The next portfolio had few photos, but on practically every page his mother had pasted in letters she’d received while his father was in Army basic training. Wallace read through a few, noting that the news was always pretty much the same: nasty drill sergeants, hard work, bad food, endless routine, and an unflagging affection for Wallace’s mother.     Photographs in the third album were largely taken while his father was home on leave following basic training. It showed the happy couple being married, leaving the church in a car with No Sleep Tonight scrawled on the rear window in white shoe polish, and honeymoon shots from what Wallace guessed was a Florida beach.     The remaining few collections were filled mostly with pictures of Wallace as baby and a toddler. He skimmed through them, wondering idly if his early memories were really that, or if he’d manufactured them after seeing the photos at some point later in his life. Under the last album he found a stack of correspondence bound with a frayed rubber band. The return address identified the sender as the Department of the Army. Curious, he pulled the first letter out, removed the envelope, and smoothed the folded paper across his lap.     Dear Mrs. Mott, it began. This letter serves to notify you that your husband, PFC James P. Mott, has been officially declared AWOL from his posting at Fort Irwin, California. Should the AWOL period extend beyond thirty (30) days, PFC. Mott may be considered to have deserted his post...     The rest of the letter went on to state the potential ramifications of his father’s remaining on AWOL status, how that might affect spousal subsistence payments, and numerous other items.     Wallace sat for a while, clutching the open letter, staring at nothing. Then he replaced it inside the envelope and opened another. This letter, dated a few weeks after the first, told of PFC Mott being arrested by the military police, stripped of his rank, and placed into incarceration. The third, some months later, dealt with his shipping out to Viet Nam.     Well, Wallace thought, at least that was good news. This was the opportunity where his dad had redeemed himself for his momentary lapse of judgment—where he’d made the ultimate sacrifice to save his buddies. Who knew why he went AWOL? There might have been several justifiable reasons. Whatever they were he’d made up for it in the end, hadn’t he?     Wallace’s good feeling was short-lived.     The last letter in the stack had been crumpled at some point, showing wrinkles and creases even three decades hadn’t erased. He opened it and began to read. When he finished, he read it again. Then, in desperation, he reread the address on the envelope and rechecked the salutation. They were correct, of course, and the words written on the page undeniable. His father had been shot and killed while looting a storage facility on the Cam Ranh Bay Army Base outside Saigon. Further investigation had revealed his participation in a black market operation along with several other soldiers assigned to the base.     A single tear rolled down Wallace’s cheek. He drained the last of his drink, tossed the letter into the box, and walked to the living room window. Outside, birds chirped, kids played in the street, and people went about their lives.     He was still standing there when his cell phone rang.     “Hey, babe, how’s it going?”      “It’s going, I guess.”     “Finding anything interesting?”     Wallace turned and looked down at the box of albums. “Just the usual stuff—photos of Mom and Dad when they got married, baby pictures of yours truly, things like that.”     His wife chuckled. “Bring some home with you. We can show them to Charlie, see how much y’all looked alike when you were younger.” She paused for a moment. “By the way, Charlie says you promised to play catch with him this afternoon. Maybe you can leave the rest of the sorting for another day.”     “Yeah,” Wallace said. “I’ll do that. Tell him I’ll be home soon.”     After Wallace rang off, he bundled up the letters, slipped the rubber band back around them, and tossed them in the trash. Then he walked to the mantle and picked up the photo of his mother in her wedding dress and his father in his uniform. They both looked very happy.

Bible in a Trashcan Daniel Flaherty     He was nineteen and walking through the dormitory with a duffel bag full of bottles that clinked together. Jay knew that he was finished if he got caught with the alcohol he was carrying. He attended school on a campus where alcohol was prohibited, and violators were disciplined; unless you were under aged, then they kicked you out. Which was just fine with Jay. He always said that booze without laws prohibiting its use was like playing Pac-Man without ghosts.     Jay had to get through the commons area to reach the stairs, and it figured that there would be two resident hall assistants hanging out. He thought that maybe he could get past without them seeing him.     “Hey, Jay...what’s up?”     Jay turned his head but kept walking.     “Hi guys.”     “Carrying a lot of stuff there.”     “Books. Gotta study.”     “Studying on a Saturday. Shouldn’t push yourself so hard, Jay. Take it easy.”     “Yeah, well, test on Monday.”     The desire was to run up the stairs two or three at a time, to get out of the sites of the RAs and into the safety of the dorm room. But it took skill and discipline, this act of sneaking alcohol into the dorms. If you panicked and ran, then they would know something was up and might want to see exactly what you had in that bag. So Jay played it cool and casually strolled up the stairs.      He went down the hall and stopped before his dorm room. Behind the door was pounding music and the raunchy tones of intoxicated and carefree youth. Jay knocked loud enough to be heard and everyone inside shut up, wondering if one of the residence assistants were investigating the noise.     “Hey, it’s me,” Jay yelled.     The voices started again, excited. The lock was pulled back and the door swung open.     “My man! What’s up!” Randy stood there with a can in his hand, and stepped aside.     Jay walked into the blacklight lit room and the smells of beer and Axel body spray. Everybody’s voice went up a crescendo as they greeted Jay. Two people moved aside to give him space on a bed, and he plopped down beside them and set the bag on the floor.     “Hey, who’s thirsty?”     Everyone cheered and Jay pulled back the zipper. He reached in and pulled out bottles of hard alcohol: rum, vodka and schnapps that tasted like watermelon and sour apple.     “Beer is dandy, but liquor is quicker,” he said. Nobody got the reference, but they responded to it favorably anyway.     As everybody swarmed around the alcohol, Jay reached into his pocket and pulled out the driver’s license that said he was 21, and kissed it.     “My best friend.”     On the stand beside his bed, Jay had a small statue of a naked woman kneeling on one leg and holding a tray. That tray was probably intended to hold spare change, but Jay always displayed his fake driver’s license on it like a religious fetish.     “Dude, what did you get on your project?” Randy asked, kneeling before Jay.     Jay had pulled out his personal drinking glass, one that weighed over a pound and cost him $35.     “I got me a C.”     “That’s not too bad. Did you do that rebooting setup you were talking about?”     “Naw, man. I stalled on it, and by the time I was ready, there wasn’t enough time to do it and hand it in, so I wrote a paper on flash drives instead.”     “Oh, man, that sucks. You should have done that rebooting setup thing. A physical piece of software would have scored you more points than a written report. People taking that class just for the credits: they write reports. You need tangibility, dude.”     “Next time. I’ll do it for my final.”     Jay opened the mini-fridge and pulled out ice cubes and a carton of half-and-half. He began fixing himself a white russian.     “Hey,” the girl next to Jay asked. “What were you guys just talking about?”     “This computer engineering class I’m taking. I was going to create this program for a class project. I’m majoring in computer engineering, so when I graduate I’ll be making lots of money.”     “It’s pretty expensive to take computer engineering classes, isn’t it?”     “When I graduate, I’ll be $150,000 in debt.”     “Oh my god!”     “But you know what? When I get a job—which will be soon because computer engineers are in demand and there aren’t a whole lot of ‘em—I’ll get it all paid off in three months.”     “Really?”     “Really. And—” Jay held his hand holding the glass out with index finger extended so he could poke her in the arm. “And you know what my minor is?”     “Uh-uh. What?”     “Cantonese.”     “What’s that?”     “Cantonese is the Chinese dialect spoken in Hong Kong. When I graduate, I’m gonna get a job in Hong Kong. And know what I’m gonna do there?”     “No. What are you going to do there?”     “I’m gonna find a Chinese girl, and I’m gonna marry her.”     “You want to marry a Chinese girl?”     “Yes ma’am.”     “Why?”     “Cuz Asian women are hot.”     “So why not a Japanese girl? Don’t you think Japan is cooler than China?”     “Ehh—” Jay titled his hand up and down. “Sort of. But Chinese women are hotter.”     “They look the same to me.”     “Chinese women have straighter and darker hair. And their eyes are slanted longer.”     The girl laughed.     “So you’re gonna be a computer engineer and live in Hong Kong with your Chinese wife?”     “That’s right,” Jay said. He leaned his back against the wall and dreamed. *    *    *     Jay entered his room feeling depressed. He had just come back from his computer engineering class where everybody had to hand in their final projects. Jay had been positive that by this time he would have done that rebooting software that he talked about all year, but again time got the best of him and he ended up doing another paper. And this paper had been written at the last minute. Reading it over before class started, Jay noticed some typos that were going to cost him.     And tomorrow’s my Cantonese language final, he thought. Gotta start studying for that.     Jay picked up his Cantonese textbook and sat down with it. He looked over some of the important grammar reviews but then his mind wandered. He flipped through the pages until he found that picture he liked, the one of the Chinese woman with the braids and wearing the parka.     Man, that’s hot, Jay thought. Someday I’m gonna have a girl like that.     The telephone rang, snapping him from his daydream. He dropped the book and picked up the phone.     “Hello?” he said.     “Hey, Jay, dude! What’s up, motherfucker?”     “Steve, what’s going on?”     “Dude, party of Clifford’s.”     “When?”     “Right now, dude!”     “I’m there.”     Jay hung up and went to the bathroom to get ready. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and grinned.     “Looking good, my man,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. He could do that project next year. And maybe come up with a second one to do during the summer. “The future is yours.”     Jay reached down to grab the bottle of Axel spray and froze. There were liver spots all over the back of his hand, and the skin was wrinkled. Jay looked back in the mirror and saw the loose skin and spots there as well. And the bags under his eyes and receding hair that had turned white.     “Oh, that’s right. I’m 60.”     Jay turned around and there was nothing.

either way, you have to have one D.S. Maolalai it takes about a year and a half of working the same goddamn job for you to finally get tired. it takes about a month perhaps two months of seeing the same woman for you to get sick. sick of her smells and her hairs, the way her armpit creases and the things she makes you do to her, rummaging in mouldy buckets of bait and buckets of chum, worse than being at the carnival, the circus, worse than hearing ambulance sirens in your head at 3 am. she stinks like old vegetables and her voice gets louder - fingers in your ears and mouth and you change your shifts to avoid her which ruins your humour and your back and yes, since you ask, I hate my job and she recently left me.

Gratitude and Relief Adelaida Avila     I was stopped at the light, anxious to go, I had 20 minutes to get from Little Ferry to Rutherford or I was going to be late back from lunch. She knocked on my window. Where did she come from this tall, slender, older, white woman with auburn hair? She had on a light pink top, tissue in her hand and a bib around her neck. She’s saying something. I can’t understand her. She’s pressing on her neck. She doesn’t have a voice box. The more she strains, the more foam she creates. Oddly I’m not disgusted. Cars are going around us - this isn’t safe. “Do you want me to give you a ride somewhere Miss?” She nods yes. “Ok, come” and I motion for her to get in my car. Quickly I reach in my purse and say a little prayer: “Please God, I want to help her. Please help me understand what she‘s saying.” I give her a pen and paper. “Write on here where you want me to take you.” Barely able to hold the pen, she scribbles “JTL”. That’s easy - our town pharmacy. I put the car in drive, look at the time and think - I can do this, I can drop her off and get back to work on time. Yea right, whatever!     She motions for me to pull over but we’re not at the pharmacy, we’re in front of a restaurant. With her index finger in the air she mouths the words “one minute”. I nod and say “Ok, one minute. I’ll wait for you.” I’m counting the minutes. 1, 2, 3 finally she’s back. She has money with her. She puts it on her lap. She’s trying to tell me something with her hands. Ten? “You need $10?” “Yes” she says. I take out a $10 bill and give it to her. Now we’re in front of JTL. Again with her index finger she tells me “one minute”. I nod and say “Ok, I’ll wait.” Shit! I’m going to be late! Again I’m counting the minutes 1, 2, 3, 4. She’s back in my car. “Home” she says. “Ok, where do you live?” “Liberty Street” she says. That’s my street. From the corner of my eye I see she puts the visor down and checks herself. She smells pretty, like soap and scented lotion. She asks me for tissue and wipes the foam around her nose and mouth. I look away. Tears sting my eyes. I feel her hand on my shoulder. I look at her - she’s thanking me. Her palms together, like she‘s praying. “You’re welcome Miss”. I’m trying harder not to cry. We’re in front of her house, I reach in my purse, take out all the cash I have and give it to her (it’s not a lot, who carries cash anymore?) She thanks me again and I watch her walk away. I don’t have to hold them anymore - I release them and the tears just flow and flow. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. Grateful for the opportunity to help my neighbor and relieved that he answered my prayer. She was able to communicate to me what she needed even though she couldn’t write or speak.

Subject 137 Brian Boru      “Whatever you do, don’t panic, Mr. Edwards. Everything is going to be all right,” intoned a phlegmatic voice through a speaker in the ceiling.     Ian Edwards awoke on an examination table in what appeared to be an operating room. Through his blurred vision, he could make out stark-white walls and a high intensity light above that shone down on him. He cautiously sat up in the unfamiliar room. Icy beads of panic, sickness or both ran down his back. The room was rent with the smell of bleach and disinfectant, but the stench of rot rose above it.     “Where am I?” he gasped and looked around the room to inventory his surroundings.     His vision cleared and he saw a large mirror in the wall. Ian’s eyes focused on his reflection. His throat closed up and his heart skipped a beat. What stared back at him was the cadaverous face of death.     On the opposite side of the two-way mirror, Dr. McCade swiveled in his chair to face his research assistant, David.     “Hey, why do you even bother with that ‘don’t panic’ diatribe?” McCade asked. Without looking up from his monitor, David replied, “Call it a way to work through my guilty conscious. I know what we do here and you can say it’s in the name of science, but to me it’s still –” McCade cut him off with a loud slurping gulp from a can of diet Pepsi and mumbled, “Whatever.”     The observation room was a state-of-the-art virology mini-lab complete with a viewpoint into its Level 4 containment room. McCade watched Subject 137 regain consciousness and look around. Again he turned to David, his straight man for every sick joke. With a mock look of terror, his eyes snapped wide. Imitating many past research subjects he cried out, “Why me! I’ll do anything you want. Just help me!” He slapped his sweaty hand on David’s shoulder and squealed out a peal of sadistic laughter. He then slurped from his soda and let out a loud belch.     David clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut to maintain his composure. He took a deep cleansing breath and began to record the log entry for Ian Edwards. He hoped after today, this would be the last he would do.     “Subject 137 was procured at 23:14 outside his place of work. There were no witnesses or casualties in the process. The Lazarus pathogen was administered at 01:24 via aerosol agent. Subject has regained consciousness at 03:17. Vitals follow –” McCade interrupted     “I’ll be in the can if you need me.” Then he rocked his obese body to his feet.     “Please remember to flush, sir!” David pleaded.     A half hour later, the floor creaked when Dr. McCade lumbered back to his chair. “Aah. Ten pounds lighter.” He giggled.     “Sir?” David inquired.     “Be a good assistant and unclog the toilet,” McCade ordered.     “Ugh,” David muttered and left the room.     Ian stumbled from the exam table. His rubbery legs, tried to give out. He cautiously approached the mirror and the ghastly image it reflected. He slowly reached out to touch his reflection, but withdrew at the last second. His eyes were bloodshot. Deep black lines encircled them. The rest of him was devoid of color. Panic raced through his mind in trying to solve this enigma. He remembered working late, walking through the parking garage, then a quick, sharp pain in his back. After that everything went black and he awoke here.     “Hello!” he yelled.     Was this someone’s sick idea of a joke? A crippling wave of nausea hit him followed by a vicious coughing fit that drove him to his knees. He gasped for air like a fish out of water and vomited copious amounts of blood – black blood devoid of life.     “Oh God.” He moaned.     Dr. McCade opened yet another diet Pepsi and slurped noisily at it as if it were ambrosia. A tiny river of soda trickled down his multiple chins and pooled on his once-white 8XXL lab coat. Stains of reds, browns, and yellows from past meals covered it. He reached for a family-sized bag of potato chips and his reinforced office chair squealed in protest. He fed himself fist after fist of chips and chewed with his mouth open.     “Hey!” he exclaimed. “Did I tell you the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the altar boy?” he asked with childish glee.     “Yes. Three times already.” David sighed.     “Well, just in case you forgot any of it,...” McCade began and retold the tasteless joke.     David had been cooped up with this disgusting creature for eight long months. Dr. McCade was the most brilliant virologist he’d ever seen, but he was also a vile, lecherous, gluttonous beast lacking any sense of social grace. He had created the Lazarus Pathogen, a virus more deadly than Ebola and the Black Plague combined. Lazarus was a wholesale killer with a twist--so called reanimation. Once infected, the host would exhibit a myriad of symptoms: blurred speech, headache, vomiting and coughing up of blood, coma and death. Over 66.7% of subjects fell into a coma-like state after approximately six hours. The other 33.3% died. In the surviving hosts, the virus mutated and took over control of motor functions. It “reanimated” the host into a rapacious, mindless killer. It then spread itself via blood or saliva through acts of violence and cannibalism. The subjects had the appearance, locomotion, and lack of consciousness one would perceive as the walking dead.     McCade had created The Game Changer in warfare. Once this virus was dropped on the opposition it would be just a matter of days before total victory. The beauty of it was that no casualties would be inflicted on our side. After reanimation, the infected would die within three days. But during those days, they would infect or kill as many as they could. If today’s testing went well, development would begin on an aerosol delivery agent, and David would be untethered from McCade.     Ian wretched and coughed up more clotted blood. He felt like his insides had been put through a garbage disposal. Between fits he pleaded, “Someone get me a doctor, please! Something is terribly wrong.”

the end Kevin Michael Vance     Matthew Crane stepped off the curb and onto Bybee Street. The street itself was empty. There were no cars or trucks or SUVs parked on either side. No automobiles drove up and down the narrow lane, nor did any cross Bybee off Milwaukee avenue, following the stop light which hung, as it always had, above the intersection... its three lights dark.     As he walked, Matthew’s new rain pants squeaked like tentative mice. When he swung his arms, the slick, rain-repellent material of his jacket made swooshing noises. The jacket and the pants were new: Columbia brand, straight off the rack from the outlet store on Tacoma. He had a brand new Kelty back pack, and shiny, new Danner boots from Al’s boot shop on eighty-second in southeast.     Why not take them? he had thought. There’s no one to miss ‘em.     A typical Pacific Northwest day greeted him. Gray, thin, wispy clouds covered the sky. The ambient light also gray, almost dingy, lending a sense of mustiness to everything. A spattering of rain, a mist, more of an annoyance than any real danger, kept Matthew moist but never really drenched him. He traveled down the middle of the empty asphalt road, listening to the sound of his boot heels echo back at him from the vacant restaurant buildings on either side.     Matthew had never liked Portland, Oregon; always finding the city and its helplessly liberal denizens annoying at their best, downright irritating most of the time. The narrow streets, so European-like, were a hazard to maneuver a compact car through, and nothing short of fatal while riding a bicycle. A congested city in which you waited an hour for a ten-dollar plate of eggs and toast, paid three-dollars and fifty cents for a can of tasteless, organic, Vegan chili sold to you from a dubiously liberal grocery store, and purchased pints of IPA from any one of the many local microbreweries for upwards of seven to nine dollars.     But that had been how things were a month ago. Now Portland was something different, something changed. He liked the city even less now that all the people were gone. Well, that wasn’t all together true, either.     A sudden chilly gust of wind brought the sound of a crow sharpening its black beak against the rain gutter of a nearby bungalow, as well as the hushed slapping of larger droplets of rain.     Matthew reached the intersection of Bybee and Milwaukee and stood beneath the inert stoplight. He heard nothing, nothing man-made at least, and beyond that, more of the same. The only sounds were the wind, the susurration of leaves, and the hushed drumming of rain.     Milwaukee stretched away from him on his right and his left- heading north and south simultaneously. Matthew stood with his back to the bloated Willamette River. In front of him, Bybee dropped slightly past a US Bank depository, slid motionlessly over McLaughlin Boulevard, continued on past a verdant golf course, winding its way through a wealthy neighborhood until it finally reached Reed College, and the Woodstock neighborhood. On his immediate left, he witnessed a restaurant he had frequented for noodles called Stickers- Tangy Sesame Bangkok noodles with peanut sauce... the best in the city. The restaurants glass façade spattered with rain and reflecting the unlit darkness from within. Almost as dark as the stuffy restaurant and working class bar directly beside it. Beyond these, Matthew glimpsed an entrance that somehow still struck him as inviting, albeit its’ flashing neon and glittering lights were just as dead and dull as everything else.     He smiled dismally under his rain hood. He had forgotten that not only did the Sellwood neighborhood have Stickers, but it also had a movie theatre.     The Marquee read- Better Days. Try as he might, Matthew couldn’t recall the movie, but he found that his feet, seemingly of their own accord, were leading him closer to the glass doors. What looked to be a fleet of parked cars, possibly over a hundred- everything from caravans to wagons, hybrids to diesels, compacts to luxuries- stretched north down Milwaukee.     ‘Least it’ll be out of the rain.     Matthew stepped onto the curb, shuffled up to the door, and touched the handle. #     A little over a month ago, Matthew had been trapped, caught in a cage of his own making. How do you say goodbye to someone you love?     Matthew reached for the door handle of the bedroom he shared with his wife.     “I wanna know what the plan is. I wanna know that I’m not wasting my time... that you’re just as invested in this family as I am.”     She wouldn’t let it go. She never let things go. She was like a whirlwind, a natural force that you did not enjoy or savor, but rather you survived and endured, clinging to any purchase of reality or rational thought as if it were a banister you clung to in a tornado. And they were fighting. They always fought. Sex had become a distant memory difficult to recall, intimacy, only the fleeting dream of pleasure, or maybe the dream of a rich and rewarding past life.     Her name was Carol.     “I need to know these things, Matt. It’s important to me. It should be important to you. I get scared. I get scared, because I feel like you’re not into this... as much as you should be. Like you regret... I da’know... us.”     “I don’t.” Matthew heard himself say. However, far in the back of his head, where the darker thoughts roamed, the thoughts Carol would refer to- if she had the courage to voice them- as perverted, he did... he did regret. He regretted it all: the falling in love, the one night of drunken, unprotected sex, the announcement that “they” were having a child, her unflinching desire to somehow legitimize their relationship by getting legally married, and then finally, the whole, tortured ceremony.     “Do you mean that?” she asked.     “I do.”     “Do you promise?”     Matthew nodded.     “Where are you going?”     “I gotta pee.”     Before Matthew could close the door on her, she said one more thing, “Make sure to close the lid on the toilet. You know how the cats drink out of the bowl, and when Horace gets into the flower bed I have to clean the damn thing before I can go.”     Matthew ignored her, and shut the door quietly. As he moved to the top of the stairs, he glanced into their daughters’ room. Ella turned three next month, and thankfully slept soundly. He walked quietly down the stairs, flopped onto the couch, and turned on the television.     The newscasters’ hair and suit looked “picture perfect”. And he smiled an incongruous smile as he spoke.     “Some of the top minds from all over the world have called an international press conference, the first of its kind in recorded history. We’re now told that together, over three thousand scientists, physicists, chemists, geologists, biologists, astronomers... all the Noble laureates in science, even mathematicians and psychics and astrologers, from over seventy different countries have been sequestered away in a vacant Air Force barracks outside of Colorado Springs for well over a year now. They only recently emerged. And it’s being said that their findings are to be the most extraordinary and significant data of our time. As I speak, the elected delegate from the group, a one Hans Von Bender, is just now stepping up to the podium. This is, to say the least, unprecedented. I remind everyone that these men and women have been quoted as saying that they have new information that will irrevocably change the lives of every man, woman, and child on earth.”     He quickly changed the channel. #     The door handle to the movie theatre felt cool to the touch. For two solid breaths, Matthew hesitated; anything could be in there, in the dark, cavernous space... anything at all. He took one last breath, swung open the door, and stepped into the foyer.     The smells hit Matthew first: old popcorn, stale butter, mildew trapped for a month in the fibers of a damp carpet that had not been vacuumed for just as long, lingering mold building in unattended bathrooms and wash stations, and something worse... the undeniable reek of rotten eggs, the stench of methane and of hydrogen sulphide. Matthew knew what that meant even if he didn’t know the name; in any city, he imagined, in ever city, even one as laden with moisture as Portland, he had known, on some level just what he might find. Even in the beginning. After, it had all happened, and he had found himself totally, irretrievably alone, he had kept going inside, kept inspecting the buildings, exploring the interiors. Looking for something... someone, maybe. To be honest, Matthew never really knew. They were, the hollowed out insides of buildings, in fact, dark, terrifying places of sudden explosive, echoing noises- foundations shifting, boards creaking, steel moaning- places of heavy shadow, and deep wells of black unknown, all weighted down by a somehow vacant, moribund silence. But he felt compelled to look, to delve within.     In all his wanderings and tentative searching, he had found nothing but death. Always death. Everywhere. Building after building, whether it be a high-rise, condo, business, restaurant, apartment or house, there were always people, all huddled together, all sharing the same fate... and all of them... rotting.     Nowhere, had he found any semblance of human life. Plenty of flies, deer, and the random raccoon or rat yes, but nothing else.     On some level, instinctively maybe, Matthew knew the theatre would be no different, but at the same time, possibly driven by the same instinct, he knew he could not turn away.     Matthew’s new boots squeaked only a little as his feet drew him softly across the damp carpet. The concession stand was, of course, empty, movie posters of twenty-first century films Matthew had difficulty recalling were nailed to mustard yellow walls. As he slipped past the glass, rectangular, popcorn maker, he noticed two bathrooms to his right, one male, one female; to his left were two, arched door ways hung with heavy, maroon, velvet curtains, between these sat a wrought iron, park-like bench. He moved to the nearest doorway, pushed aside the bulky curtain, and immediately coughed violently as the wave of rotten egg smell spilled over him like liquid sewage.     The theatre was draped in an inky black. If they had been watching a film- the people jammed into the theatre- then it had long ago run off its’ reel. Matthew sensed their combined mass more than seeing them, albeit he could see the first few rows from the gray light exuding through the front doors. He felt that in every last seat, sat a person; and that each one of these “persons” was dead, dead and putrid within the tepid, gas-choked theatre, and that many more lay draped over one another in the aisles; calf-high piles of corpses.     He took off his new backpack, set it on the carpet (the carpet squelched moistly), unzipped a side pocket, reached inside, and brought out a Surefire flashlight (this also absconded from the Columbia outlet store).     Covering his mouth, he flicked on the torch and took one step into the aisle.     They were there, probably more than three hundred of them, their bodies already bloating and their skin turning a rancid green, clear, watery fluid leaked from their nostrils and mouths; this thrown into stark, jittery relief, by the shaking light of his torch. Agitated movement, a huge amorphous cloud of deeper black, rose sluggishly above the corpses’ heads and then descended, just as sluggishly, back into their midst.     Flies, Matthew realized, those are flies.     Slowly, he searched. Again, not knowing what he searched for, simply compelled to look. All he found was death. Here and there, Mothers embraced long-dead children seated on their laps. Lovers were locked in eternal kisses. Smokers- distinguished by the dry ends of filters still hanging limply from their distended lips- sat lazily, reclined stiffly, slumped in darkened corners. Sweethearts held hands. Drunkards grasped to the filthy necks of empty bottles. There were people with plates of moldy food on their laps; there were people wearing fancy suits and stupid hats. And they were dead, all of them. They sat or lay peacefully in quiet appreciation. They had made their decision, and they had died together. And everywhere, littered about the floor and the bodies and between the seats and the aisles, even clutched tightly within stiff, dead hands... the plastic, pill bottles.     Matthew let out a retching gag. He pretended that the sudden, blinding, effusive tears were from the stink and the vision of gaping mouths stuffed with swollen, protruding, grayish tongues. However, he knew he was lying to himself. He lurched out of the theatres’ interior, grabbed his backpack, rushed past the concession stand, and burst out onto the silent, empty street. #     “But they’re saying,” Carol began and then slighted, paused.     Matthew played with their daughter, while simultaneously, and without looking at his wife, shook his head disapprovingly.     “They’re saying,” she continued, irritated, “it’s going to be catastrophic. They’re saying that all the findings point to... to... complete and total destruction.”     “Do you believe everything ‘they’ say?” he queried.     Ella sat beside him, a set of plastic teacups placed between them. She had been in the process of chastising Matthew for not sipping his tea properly when Carol started in on him. The three of them sat together on the top of Mount Tabor; lush, verdant trees and opulent homes lengthened away from them in a westerly direction. From their high vantage point, they could just glimpse the cramped downtown as well as the emerald green glow of the “west hills”. The sun, suspiciously out and radiating both warmth and light, sat low in the sky. The day was bright and clear and warm. Two couples and one family of six occupied the hilltop with them. All of them, including the Crane family, were strangely reserved, strangely quiet, a gentle hush moving imperceptibly between them.     Carol and Matthew argued in muted tones.     “So you don’t believe it?” Carol asked Matthew. “You think they’re wrong?”     Matthew shrugged, “I don’t necessarily think they’re right.”     “Are you a scientist? Are you an astrophysicist, or a biologist, or a... a... astronomer?”     Matthew turned away from Ella and gave his wife a look.     “Don’t give me that look,” she said to him.     He stifled a humorless laugh.     “It’s not fair,” she said.     “What isn’t fair?”     “How can you NOT believe? The whole world believes?”     Again, he shrugged.     “Aren’t you frightened? Aren’t you scared?”     “Momma,” chimed Ella.     “Quiet,” Matthew said sharply to Carol.     “How can I be quiet?”     A moustache wearing, twenty-something, skimmed quickly past the crest of the hill to their immediate horizon. Riding a bicycle, the youth rode dangerously fast across the striated black pavement that ringed mount tabor like a macabre barbers pole.     Matthew watched him go and then turned to Carol. “Calm down.”     “Calm down,” she retorted. “To hell with you and your calm.”     “Mommy.”     “Carol, you’re upsetting her. Stop it.”     “I will not,” Carol intoned. “She needs to be upset. I mean, this whole thing is... is... upsetting.”     “Daddy,” Ella intoned.     Carol turned to Ella, “Daddy’s being stubborn, as usual. Something’s happening. Something big. Everyone in the world believes it. Everyone except daddy. Daddy has no reason to think he’s right and everyone else is wrong. But he does. So he sits there... like a jackass.”     “Jesus, Carol.”     “What’re we gonna do, Matt?”     Matthew ignored her, running his fingers through his daughter’s hair.     “We should try for the shelters.”     “No,” said Matthew.     “Why not?”     “We’d never make it in time... or in the time they’re predicting. ‘Sides. I don’t wanna be trapped on the highway with a hundred thousand other people thinking the same thing. No way.”     “You’re not suggesting,” Carol breathed deep, “the other plan.”     “No way,” he repeated.     “Great. Then what the hell are we gonna do?”     “We’re gonna sit here,” said Matthew.     “Great.”     “We’re gonna sit here, and enjoy a rare and beautiful day in the middle of Feb’uary.”     Carol made a decidedly condescending noise, something between a snort and a sneeze.     “We’re gonna have tea... and enjoy the rest of the day.” Matthew tipped his teacup to his daughters. “World ain’t over yet. Eh baby?”     While looking uncomfortably from one parent to the other, Ella tried to smile. #     It had stopped spitting rain, but the wind blew harder, shaking the sides of Matthew’s tent. The wind made a giant rustling noise like a blanket being shaken constantly, and the trees bent and groaned as the strength of its intangible power swayed them back and forth... back and forth. Every now and then something heavy, probably a pinecone, would fall from above, making a dead thumping sound on the soft ground below. Random pine needles from the Tamaracks surrounding him in the park where Matthew camped smacked the slick roof like rude fingers, a roof that reeked of new plastic and glue. He smelled the spice of the pine, the wet grass, the sodden earth, and a smoky quality he recognized as the storm. The park sat a few miles north of Sellwood, up a large hill, upon which ran Holgate Avenue. It had taken Matthew two hours to get there. Matthew preferred to walk. One of the rare things he had respected about Portland was its public transit system. After taking the bus for fifteen years, the thought of owning and operating a car, even now, idly struck him as disconcerting. It had been dark when he’d begun making camp, but he had wanted to get as far away from the movie theatre as possible.     Every time he walked the vacant city streets an eerie sensation filled him, the only... real sound being the reverberated rhythm of his boot heels. Each time he saw very few cars, and if he did see one, inevitably, they were parked incongruously in the middle of the road, or driven violently into the entrance of a storefront. It was not, necessarily, the emptiness, which drove ragged spikes of unease and dread into Matthew’s addled brain. More so, it was the dead, the unseen, unheard mass of them... the mob of bodies on the very outskirts of his perception. He did not, on any level, relish being the last man on earth. It had been, and still remained a difficult fact knowing that he would never have another conversation with a living human being, that his own voice would be the single cadence to the tempo of his life, a life which he barely even recognized any longer as his own. He had been a fan of movies that dealt with the aftermath of one or another apocalypse, often filled with a sense of hope and an indescribable heroic yearning while watching some unlikely protagonist meander down empty city streets and past hollow buildings. But this felt different. This was his life, not some movie, and he had never known how lonely he could be until he was truly and completely... alone.     Passing a Plaid Pantry, Matthew had quickly ducked in for supplies, grabbing a can of Ravioli, some pretzels, a box of Twinkies, and two six packs of Rogue breweries “Dead Guy” ale.     In the tent, its’ almost translucent, dark blue siding lit brightly by a battery powered Coleman lantern, Matthew finished his fourth “Dead Guy”, threw it out in front of him, and opened a fifth. He sat staring past the unzipped, opening that led inside, out into a night blacker than any he’d ever experienced before. He could barely glimpse the playful wink of the empty, amber, beer bottles laying in the grass at his feet, however, overcast as Portland weather so often was, the trees, the edge of the park, and the street beyond it were completely indistinguishable.     A dismal, choking laugh escaped him. He felt the pressure of the solitude surround him, and his breath came short, stagnant, and thin.     Tilting his head back, taking a long, luxurious pull on the bitter and decadent ale, Matthew set the bottle next to his knee, and reached into the breast pocket of his new jacket. Withdrawing the plastic pill bottle in which lay one, innocuous white pill, Matthew shook it, and listened to it rattle.     The sight of it brought sudden, effusive tears to his eyes. Matthew clutched the pill bottle tightly and began to sob. #     “I got them today,” said Carol.     Matthew, drunk already, set down the amber bottle carefully and frowned at Carol.     “I got three.”     “Why?”     “Well... considering you’re being about as stubborn as a man can be... considering we’re not trying for the shelters... considering they are NOT wrong.” She shrugged. “I got three.”      “What if they’re wrong?”     Tiredly, Carol said, “They aren’t.”     “But how can they know what’s going to happen? How can anyone?”     “Well... they’re a lot smarter than us.”     “Fuck.”     “I don’t want Ella to die like that.”     “I don’t want Ella to die at all.”     “When the time comes... I’ll give the pill to her first, then I’ll take mine. Yours is on the kitchen counter.”     “I won’t let you do that.”     “Matt. I’m not arguing about this.”     “First time in your life.”     Carol actually laughed.     “You’re not giving Ella that pill.” He hesitated. “Where is it?”     “I hid them.”     “What? Where?”     “I knew you would freak out. I know you don’t believe... but I do. I do believe. And I’m not going to watch my baby burn... or drown... or worse. I... I don’t think I can handle that.” She paused, stared down at the floor, and then lifted her gaze back to Matthew, sudden tears blooming in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t want to see the end of the world.”     Matthew chuckled humorlessly.     “It’s called a Coronal Ejection... Mass Ejection... or something. It’s... it’s going to destroy... it’s going to kill everything. They say it might happen all at once... depending on how close we are to the sun, or it might take months... months of storms, earthquakes, tidal waves, heat waves. Can you imagine — one hundred and seventy five degrees in Portland? A living hell.”     “I am not taking the pill. You are not taking the pill. And I sure as hell am not gonna stand by while you give it to our daughter.”     “I told you I’m not arguing with you.”     “Fine. I’ll find ‘em.”     “No. You won’t. I hid them good.”     “Yes, I will.”     “Ella’s asleep, Matt. We have one night left... just one.” She paused again. “Do you wanna make love?”     “I want to find those fucking pills.”     Carol sighed. “The world’s ending tomorrow and you wanna ransack the apartment?”     “Exactly.”     “I still love you, Matt. Even though you can be such a shit.”     Matthew ignored her and kept searching.     “I don’t regret anything. Well... some things maybe. Maybe a little.     “Carol,” he said, “Where’re those pills?” #      Matthew had been searching for a while, how long he wasn’t sure. But when he emerged from his drunken stupor, the living room and kitchen were a mess: coffee table overturned, book shelves empty, books thrown carelessly to the floor, computer desk open, every cabinet in the kitchen flung wide and there continents scattered over countertop and floor. With a suddenness that made his shoulders spasm, he realized two things: he’d been at it for well over an hour, and that the apartment was still and silent.     “No,” he whispered to himself, while at the same time rushing across the living room. He tripped over a book, scraped his knee against the edge of the wooden staircase, fell to his hands, righted himself quickly, and took the stairs two at a time.     Matthew reached the landing and saw both doors closed; the one that lead into the bedroom he shared with Carol, and directly adjoining this, Ella’s bedroom.     Frantically, he flung open Ella’s door, and quickly surmised the room was empty. Without thinking, Matthew turned to their bedroom door, reached for the handle, and froze.     Silently he pushed the door inward.     Carol held Ella in her arms on the bed. Matthew stood in the open doorway staring down at them. They didn’t move. They didn’t budge. The only thing that came from his wife and daughter was a rigid stillness, a terrifying stillness- no twitching feet, no scratching, no sniffling... nothing. Beside his girls, on the bedside table, propped up next to a half drunken glass of water, were two empty pill bottles. Never in all his life did Matthew think something as benign as a pill bottle could inspire such hatred and rage. He glanced from the bottles to his girls and back to the bottles again.     Suddenly he turned, tears fogging his sight, mugging up his brain, and ran down the stairs. He felt his mind shut down, refusing to move, refusing to start, jammed like a bullet in the barrel of a gun, neither going forward or back, simply in a kind of stasis.     When he reached the living room Matthew fell to his knees and vomited on the floor. Shaking, he pulled himself to his feet, and slouched over the couch. The dreary light of late morning cascaded in through the open window. A tiny, brown bird fluttered from naked branch to naked branch amidst the tangled mess of a dogwood tree, a few remaining flame-pink flowers clinging desperately, mournful and droopy with the weight of rain. He watched the bird until it left the tree and sped away over the varied rooftops, moving away from him and fading into the distance.     The world remained. The sun still barely shined, as it always had in the Pacific Northwest. The birds still flapped and fluttered. A large, flying, green bug buzzed across the window, struck the pane with a hushed thump, did a loop in the air, and then descended out of sight.     But what had happened to the world?     That was the first time Matthew perceived the ubiquitous silence. It did not strike him like a slap. It was much subtler than that. The silence calmly and pervasively began to permeate his surroundings, as if the living room slowly flooded with cold, clear water. It became a force he would learn to recognize as his reality, something he had to mentally, emotionally, and physically push through, or squirm his way past. Gone was the vibrant hum of car tires rotating over highway, avenue, and lane. Gone was the gruff sputter of those same vehicles engines. There were no honking horns, no distant siren wails, no chop’a... chop’a... chop’a... of traffic helicopters. And the combined voices, layering everything like palpable frosting, of well over two million city dwellers, recognized or not, were also simply gone; in its place... the solid quality of emptiness.     That is when he really understood things would never be the same again. That everything on earth had changed.     Matthew crossed the living room, entered the kitchen, opened the back door, and froze. There on the white, Formica counter, next to the toaster and Espresso machine, untouched and unharmed, the pill bottle Carol had mentioned. He stared... for a long time he just stared. When he left, he didn’t take his keys or his wallet. He didn’t grab his coat. But he did softly grab the bottle and shove it into his pants pocket. #     Matthew hadn’t been back to the condo he had shared with Carol and Ella in over two weeks. Any reason to return overridden by what he knew he would find- pallid skin slowly turning green, bloated tongues, stink, and flies.     He sat on a curb outside the Burgerville on Hawthorne Boulevard. Midday. Matthew missed the taste of grease and the sumptuous meal of a juicy hamburger, missed the smell that would exude from the place when they were grilling. In his right hand, he held the tiny bottle, inside of which lightly clattered the pill.     He had left the tent in the park, and in one of his many drunken stupors walked some forty or fifty blocks, essentially passing out on the couch of a local coffee bar. After waking, groggy and incoherent, he had pillaged the place: two-week old scones- stale and dry, clean water in plastic jugs- tepid. The industrial drip coffee makers and espresso machine vividly mocked him, and all he could do was stare, and remember not-so-distant days of ease, where a hot, steaming cup of Joe was as quick and close as his neighborhood coffee shop. From that point on Matthew had simply begun to walk: from twentieth to Eighty Second, from Southeast to Southwest, then back to Southeast again. He had completed all of this in a daze, meandering aimlessly, searching for any sign of human life, and finding nothing but death and corpses.     They all believed what they had been told, every last one of them. No one had questioned a word, or a thing, or anyone for that matter. All had blindly and dutifully done as they had been told to do. They had taken their pills, and they had died. Many of the faces Matthew could bare to stare into were smiling.     As impossible as it may seem, and in all of Portland proper, he had found no holdouts, no rebels... nothing. He knew they had to be out there. But where were they? Where were the religious groups who considered suicide a sin? Where were the anarchists who yearned for the apacolypse? Where were the doubters... the questioners... the people just like him? Did the rest of them flee to the shelters? Or were they hiding somewhere in the city, waiting for the world to end in a fiery hell of destruction and retribution?     Matthew knew there had to be others, but he also knew that deep down he lacked the courage to find them. And part of Matthew realized that he did not necessarily want to find them. Hard enough being in the world when there were people. Harder still living in some barely realized dead world, some science fiction writers “wet dream”. A twisted world without the love, companionship, and laughter of his two girls.     A skittering sound brought his attention to the curb directly opposite him. There a gray and hazelnut-brown dog, raggedy and filthy, lightly trotted between a haphazard mess of rundown food carts, moving East up the gently sloping rise of Hawthorne Boulevard. The dog looked unconcerned, not so much as glancing at Matthew.      Matthew opened the bottle and regarded the pill thoughtfully. So innocuous... so benign.     “I miss you,” he said, the sound of his own voice amidst the heavy stillness, startling him to where he fumbled with the pill bottle, nearly dropping it in a puddle.     He laughed, this time an offensive sound.     “Why’d you leave,” said Matthew. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean those things I said. Those things I thought. Honest.”     Matthew stared at the white pill, clean and bright, the hand holding the bottle filthy.     “I’m all alone.”     A single tear slid down his face as he brought the bottle to his lips.     “I can’t do it by myself.”     Matthew opened his mouth and hesitated. A bleak and cold future spread wide within his mind: scavenging for food scraps; making a camp fire (Matthew didn’t know the first thing about starting flame, and the prospect of doing so terrified him); sifting through the physical as well as mental detritus in a vain attempt to regain some lost part of his humanity and individual dignity; warring ceaselessly with persons reveling in the world they liked to refer to as “Judgment day”.     “I can’t do it by myself,” he said again. Matthew let the pill drop into his mouth and he swallowed dryly.     He tried to stop it because it felt weird, it felt somehow wrong, but he couldn’t... he could not stop the dismal grin which stretched across his face. It would soon all be over, all the pain, all the hurt, all the memories. Never before had he even contemplated suicide, but now, as he could literally feel the pill dissolving in his stomach, he wondered why not.     A laugh like a bark escaped him. He took off his jacket, rolled it into a ball, set it beside him, and stretched out on his left side on the curb. His eyes felt heavy, and a great yawn took over his mouth.     “Very soon now,” he whispered.     At the edge of his hearing, something scratched, an annoyance: mice scrabbling inside invisible walls, the tick-tick-tick of an old time alarm clock. It kept the laden sleep, which seemed to fold over him like a comforter, at bay. He hated it, until he realized he heard a vehicle engine.     A weak lassitude suffused Matthew’s muscles. So much so, that he could no longer raise his head as the brusque noise of the engine, and the heavy crunch of thick tires over coarse concrete, invaded his conscious world. Coming closer and closer, until finally it roared up to him like a steam engine. Tires squealed. Brakes squeaked. The hinge of a car door opening shrieked across the city, as did the resulting explosion of that same door slamming shut. Footsteps crunching across concrete brought a shadow over Matthew’s prone form. A second later someone knelt down beside him.     He struggled to keep both eyes open.     “Stupid fool,” said a woman’s voice.     Feminine hands reached down, picked up the pill bottle, and then idly chucked it into the street.     “We should have made love. I wanted to. I really did. But you... you were always so fucking stubborn.”     Matthew tried to speak. He got his mouth open, but the only thing that came from it was a slender line of drool.     “I didn’t mean to deceive you. It just... kind of happened. I was gonna do it, I really was. I had the bottles open and the pills in my hand. But I couldn’t.” A heavy sigh. “I Couldn’t bring myself to give our baby the pill. I threw ‘em in the trash, and we went to sleep. We were sleeping... that’s it. Just sleeping. I should’a known how you would react. I should’a said something before we went to bed... but I didn’t.” The woman sniffed loudly: tears maybe, more likely allergies. “When we woke you were gone. You never checked on us, did you? You never made sure we were dead. You just left.” Again, she sighed. “You were right not to trust them. An’ I was such a fool, we were both fools. Then it hit me, Matt- now Ella and I had a chance... a chance without you. I’m sorry. I really am.”     Matthew couldn’t lift his head to look at her, he didn’t have the strength. Slowly his eyes began to close.a     “I’m glad you were right this time. And... an’ I hope you find peace. I really do.”     Soft fingertips brushed hair from his forehead, and she said, “Good bye, Matt.”     She stood up, turned, and walked back towards the idling vehicle.     The last thing Matthew heard before he died was the sound the car engine, fading into the distance.

On Safari Michael Royce      “We’ve got to go to Africa,” Francie said, “before it’s too late.”     “Yeah,” I responded in a neutral voice. Painfully conscious of what she meant we might be too late for, I was wary to commit. This is the yin and yang of our marriage. Francie is always ready to go, everywhere, at any time. I have to be convinced.      We discussed the cost of a safari and calculated it at three times what we’d ever spent before during well-travelled lives. I dragged my heels. “The big animals, the birds,” Francie said. “There’s nothing like it anywhere else on earth.”     I was attracted to the adventure but also to the opportunity to escape the short and grey days of winter in Portland where we live. I weighed arguments for and against the trip for a day and then conceded. “I’m in. Let’s go.” We wired money and committed to a three-week trip to Zambia.     We would arrive in January, the middle of the rainy season when monsoon rains fall in the afternoon, alternating with brilliant sunshine and cumulus clouds, which soar like huge white towers into the sky. The tropical heat is moderated by these rains and the great plateau on which Zambia is located. The land ripples with green grasses, trees are in flower and birds flaunt mating plumage. Although I longed for warmth and sun, I was happy to avoid the unrelenting heat of the dry season.      Our flight from Portland to London, to Johannesburg, and on to Lusaka, Zambia, left us stunned. “How did it happen?” our eyes asked each other. We left the familiarity of home, entered a long metal tube, and hurtled through space. Thirty hours later, we arrived in an exotic land—in latitudes which are down where we are up, south while we are north. Yet it was the same world as our own, where people make reservations and honor them.     As planned, Peter, who would be our guide while we stayed at Mfuwe Lodge, was at the airport to meet and transport us in a van to the lodge in the South Luangwa National Park where we would spend the first part of our stay. For several hours, we bounced east toward the Luangwa River on the Zambian national highway, more memorable for potholes than pavement. The sharp overripe smell of earth released by the rain and the soft caress of wind against my arm at rest on the window ledge lulled me into a half-dream. As we passed villages where people moved through the day in their diverse rhythms, I nodded with sleepiness but identified with the patterns of life I saw. Francie fought exhaustion to watch all we passed with intensity. Turning, she commented to me quietly, “One of every seven adults in Zambia has HIV and the country’s life expectancy at birth has fallen to 52.” My mind could not cope with such statistics.     As we continued toward Mfuwe, we reached savannahs covered by the grasslands of the Luangwa floodplain, which stood as high as six feet. Through these jade seas, elephants floated like shadowy houses in the slanting light of late afternoon. Closer to the river, hippopotamuses burped. They waddled among the watery rushes and scoured worn paths as they hauled their sausage-like bodies up the banks to forage in the dense riverside growth. The ancient Greeks named them river horses. I thought they resembled massive bratwursts. A sacred ibis, legs pulled beneath in flight, pierced the air with its thick-curved bill. The white of its feathers contrasted with the blackness of its bald head and legs. I surrendered to the strange calls of animals new to me and the moist riverine smells.     From the south, the village of Mfuwe huddled next to the road for miles as we approached the gate of the South Luangwa National Park. People walked and rode bicycles on both sides of the road; there were very few cars beside ours. The road was raised on a dike and loomed above the village, separated from the road by a trash-filled marsh. Small open air stores, constructed with timber and corrugated tin roofs, offered a handful of items. They sold what the poor can buy—home grown vegetables organized in neat pyramids, dusty inner tubes and bike rims hanging from rafters, pre-paid minutes for cell phones, coca cola, meager troves of packaged cookies and tins of cheap food. In open spaces between the clusters of stores, we saw struggling plots of corn.     Further back from the road, we spotted homes arranged in compounds. Three or four thatched round huts clustered together, each no more than ten feet in diameter and enclosed by a fence of stripped tree limbs driven straight into the ground. The walls were made from mud, clay and the dirt of abandoned termite mounds for adhesion. In the main shelter, there was a single room with a dirt floor for the family. One or two smaller huts stood close by for extended family and generally a covered outdoor cooking area without walls.     Electricity lines passed the village beside the road apparently for some richer destination because we noticed very few of the local stores or homes were connected. Children trudged to and from communal water pumps, carrying five-gallon buckets. There was no plumbing or water in the houses. People had only the bushes in which to defecate or urinate. I thought of our Portland home—2600 square feet, four bedrooms, and two and a half bathrooms.     Finally, we passed from the village through the gate to the Park. In another half-hour, we arrived at Mfuwe Lodge where the staff greeted us with fruit drinks and chilled cloths to lower our temperature and dab at the dust of the trip. The coolness against my neck revived me.     The reception hall of the lodge was designed in open style without walls, protected from the rain but not necessarily the animals. The roof of the dining room rested on massive pillars and light from candles danced on the surface of the swimming pool. Freshly cut bird of paradise flowers adorned the tables.      Staff guided us to our bungalows with walls of white-washed clay and thatch sweeping down to within feet of the ground on both sides. Inside a king-size bed was enshrined in a canopy of mosquito netting. A bank of louvered doors faced the river. Outside on a deck above the Luangwa, we relaxed and watched as rafts of hippos floated 20 feet from us. Their ridiculously small ears twitched on bony foreheads while bulbous eyes peered about like periscopes.     The deep rumble of a drum called us back to the main hall for the sundowner, a pre-dinner ritual of hors d’oeuvres washed down with a wide range of drinks. I sipped my gin and tonic in that gentle hour after the sun sets when the animals of the day are quieting toward sleep and the predators of the dark have not yet started to hunt. Andy, the lodge manager, came over and introduced himself. He showed us pictures of an elephant striding purposefully past the reception desk and lions sleeping in cool corners beside the guest houses. No guest, he stressed, should walk outside at night without an armed guard from the staff. The pictures convinced me although I realized Andy had a larger motive for his warning than our safety alone. The maiming or death of a guest by a large predator would hardly promote ecotourism.     The dinner tables were set with linen and lit by candles. After our long journey, I was more tired than hungry but diligently worked my way through an entrée of mixed cheeses and olives rolled in anchovies, a main dish of chicken couscous, a salad course and dessert, all matched with appropriate wines. I confess to a personal weakness that compels me to eat what is put in front of me, especially when I have already paid for it. After dinner, Francie and I were totally done in and asked to be escorted to our bungalow.      On the way, I selected an old book from the library because I was intrigued by its title, “The White Impala,” and even when tired I like to read before sleep. The author Norman Carr was a legend in the South Luangwa Reserve. When we arrived at our bungalow, I thumbed through the book reading the flyleaf, the introduction and captions on the pictures, a habit of mine to warm to a story before diving into it. Here and there, I scanned a page or part of a chapter to capture a fuller sense of the book.     Carr killed 200 elephants one year. He had been a professional hunter, who became a ranger in the Park at its founding. At the start, I learned, the main duty of a ranger was similar to those of a hunter. After listening to the complaints of local tribesmen about elephants trampling their crops or occasionally killing a villager, Carr entered the bush to track and kill the rogue elephant in obedience to an apparent codicil to the Law of the Wild. If animals forget what they are and where they must stay, they must be exterminated by that most ferocious of predators—small, unassuming man, who has command over the machineries of death.     The book contained pictures from the late 1890s in Chinde, Mozambique, at the mouth of the Zambesi River. On safari, Carr’s father, maybe in his late twenties, looked sleek and cool in his machila, a litter carried on a stout bamboo pole. He reclined on a padded seat three and a half feet long and two feet wide. Carried by four black Africans, he exhaled a tight cone of cigar smoke. At each end, two bearers hoisted the pole, which rested on the right shoulder of one and the left shoulder of the other. Attached to the pole was a woven carpet, which could be tilted back and forth on the fulcrum of the bamboo to provide shade. The father’s face, partially in shade, was smooth as he looked on a scene outside of our vision, but seemingly of his possession.     Carr’s mother, sat regally in her machila, attired in a full length dress with a high collar to her chin. Her bearers wore sarongs and were bare-chested. Unlike her husband, she sat facing backward and wagged an imperious finger at the two men lifting her machila. Perhaps, a woman’s role was to review the past and a man to look into the future for chance or danger. She wore a broad-brimmed hat, almost 20 inches in diameter, decorated with fluffy white plumes of some expired and exotic bird. Her black and white terrier sat comfortably in the shade at her feet.      The picture was a tableau of colonialism and its wretched morality. I had trouble shaking the images before sinking into sleep.     The next morning before the first dim light, we woke to the gentle call of the guards, who had protected us through the night. Reluctantly, I disentangled myself from the crisp white cotton sheets of the plump bed and stumbled into a bathroom divided into two parts by a serpentine five-foot clay wall. One section contained two sinks topped by mirrors for shaving or primping and, on the other side, the toilet was snuggled next to a bookcase filled with magazines extolling various African adventures. The shower, a walk-in unit attached to the bathroom complex, boasted two separate nozzles on opposite sides of a circular wall the height of our noses and separated by three feet from the overhang of the thatched roof. As I revived slowly under a hot stream of water, birds rustled the butterfly leaves of the nearby mopane tree and animals roared greeting to the day.     Before our first safari, we were served tea. It was a meal significantly larger than my customary breakfasts—tea or coffee, rolls and jams, juices, cereals and home-made bread toasted over an open fire.     After tea, while the sunlight still streamed obliquely across the land and it was not yet hot, six of us piled into a specially-designed stretch Land Rover, open to the air on the sides. The driver and Peter, our guide, rode in front. Three bench seats for guests rose like bleachers behind the driver so that each row had an unimpeded view as we drove through the grasslands searching for animals. Our first sighting of the morning was a Lilac-Breasted Roller, perched on a bush near the road. Motionless, its rich pastels lived up to its name.     Peter was from the local village. Through determination and luck, he had advanced through the ranks from assistant driver, gun bearer, to the apex as guide, a highly desired position where it was possible in season to average $25 to $40 per day, over twenty times the average daily income of Zambia. To become a guide, we learned over several outings, required several years of school, covering the natural sciences for birds and animals, the classification of trees, bushes and flowers, but also auto mechanics because the guides were often our drivers, emergency medical training, and basic linguistic and other social graces to meet needs of guests from varied lands.     Peter shared the knowledge which can be gleaned from examining scat and faint hoof marks in the dust. He taught us how to differentiate the antelope family—impalas flashing a delicate black “M” on their backsides as they scattered; kudos with parallel striping; waterbucks with white circles on their rears leading inevitably to the unfortunate nickname, “Toilet Butt;” and the sharp-horned and spotted bushbucks. Along with antelope, we saw elephants, hippos, lions, leopards, warthogs, hyenas, and over 200 different birds during our stay.     By mid-morning, we returned to the Lodge for breakfast to confront hot sausages, scrambled eggs, pancakes, juices, cinnamon rolls, steaming fresh-brewed coffee and espresso if we wished. A good night’s sleep, rich aromas from the buffet table and several hours outdoors, even if mainly seated, combined to generate a strong appetite. After two heaping plates, I drifted off to read, write postcards and nap suffused with what I had seen and gorged with food.     As I drooped toward a nap, I reflected that Mfuwe Lodge at $350 per day, inclusive of lodging, food and drink, guides and transport, was a life-time experience well worth the cost. Yet partially formed questions lingered in the shadows of my consciousness. Wasn’t such an amount a year’s salary for a villager? What would it have meant to the average Zambian family?     At one, the drum summoned us to lunch. Lunch was also a serious matter with aubergine salad, marinated beef, curried chicken, green salad and beans. Anything one wanted to drink was available, although mostly we attempted to avoid alcohol at lunch so not to slump in the afternoon heat. To further ensure that guests were not underfed, there was another British-style tea in mid-afternoon of savory tarts, either spinach or mushroom, and sweet cakes. I accepted, with only slight reluctance, that I would return from this trip with some added pounds to supplement memories.      After this tea, we mobilized for our afternoon safari, which lasted from four until seven. The light stretched longest in the hours before sunset, attaching a mystery to five giraffes as they loped across the plains through scattered trees and a dazzle of zebras which disappeared at a gallop when the Land Rover took an unexpected turn. Promptly at six, our vehicle pulled to a stop. The guides lowered a specially designed grill on the front of the vehicle to serve as table for our sundowner. I stuck with gin and tonic.      “A slice of lime for you?” one guide asked me.     “Ice?” the other offered.     As I drank, I watched the sun drip behind the horizon. Everything was done for us; our only task to enjoy.     While returning to the Lodge, we were able to view the nocturnal activity of the larger animals. We gazed into the deepening darkness with contented smiles while the guides searched for signs. The roars of the local lion pride rumbled for miles through the darkness. Stopping the vehicle abruptly, our guide focused his flashlight at the crotch of a tree ten feet above the ground. I could barely discern a half-eaten impala, dragged up into the tree in the powerful jaws of a leopard to protect his prize from scavengers during the several days it took him to consume the meat down to the bone.     For our morning trip the third day, the Lodge organized a visit to a school for older students in Mfuwe. We visited a dormitory and asked a knot of amused boys if we could look inside. “Yes, come in,” they said. We asked many questions. “The government provides free education through the seventh grade,” they responded, “but for secondary school, families must pay for everything.” For all but local kids, this price included room and board. “Because we walk long distances from our homes in the rural areas to reach school, we must live in dormitories and can return home only on vacation,” one lanky teenager told us.     The 30 by 30 foot barracks for the boy students was clean, smelling musty but not intolerable. Of course, it was not yet the hot season. Four boys slept to a bunk—two on a narrow cot below, head to toe, and two above. A hundred boys lived in this room with space only to slide between the bunks on entering or leaving. All their meager personal possessions hung in netting from the rafters. The crowded conditions reminded us of pictures we had seen of the Middle Passage during the era of slave trading. The dorm, I feared, was a tubercular epidemic waiting to flower. But the students were stoic and determined to learn; however they could.     On the afternoon safari, we watched while lions lolled in the dirt ten feet from our Land Rover as they rested from a night of hunting. For an hour, we studied a male, his pride of three lionesses and four cubs, without apparent notice on their part. Returning to the lodge after sundown, we passed the same place where our guides had spotted the leopard kill the night before. The cat-gleam of two eyes reflecting from Peter’s flashlight burnt back at us from the tree. After several minutes, the leopard stretched, stood, stalked down the branch and leapt silently to the ground. I watched as it turned and stole toward us on silent pads, slinking past the side of our vehicle close enough for me to have leaned out to touch him, if I had been gripped by a death wish. In situations like this, Francie and I have learned to rely on the assumption, which we have cultivated over the years, to guide us in our off-the-beaten-track traveling. Surely, the local people we are with don’t want to die either.     Later, I came to appreciate that the vehicle was part of a neutral landscape to the lions, leopards, giraffes, elephants and other mammals like wallpaper of a room at home. I was neither predator nor prey; my scent did not warn of danger or opportunity. The guides warned, however, that if we placed our arms outside the vehicle, or moved abruptly, our invisibility would vanish.     Another day, we observed a male elephant, standing 13 feet tall and weighing over 12,000 pounds, graze within fifty feet of our car. A substantial sneeze escaped Peter. The elephant’s ears flapped and it rocked back in forth in mock challenge.     “Freeze,” Peter whispered. “Wait for him to finish his business.” Unsure what this business might be, I did not move. Eventually, the elephant wandered away in harmony with a schedule and agenda of its own.     We arrived back at the Lodge with enough time for a hot shower before heading to the main dining area. While waiting for dinner, I ordered Johnnie Walker whiskey. The meal was braised pork chops, chutneys, and curried rice. There was a full and free-flowing supply of red and white South African wines. A waiter hovered behind me and asked, “May I top up your glass?”     As we had hoped, our stay in the Luangwa valley was an once-in-a-lifetime experience; but, at some point, I realized we were pampered and privileged not utterly unlike Carr’s parents over a century before. While the local men physically had carried the Carrs on their shoulders, we were carried figuratively in a world where rich nations have risen up on the backs of the poor.

Michael Royce Brief Biography     Michael is a graduate of Portland’s 2011 Attic Atheneum, a one-year alternative to a MFA program. His published fiction and creative non-fiction has appeared in Fringe Magazine, Prime Number Magazine, Prick of the Spindle, The Linnet’s Wing and the Midwest Literary Review. His series collectively called “Mississippi Freedom Summer in Eight Vignettes” was published in the “Best of the Net 2011.”

A whiskey drink (his milk addiction) CEE Prince Valiant’s giving me a Spock-eyebrow From the gift I brought you I’d like to cram the artbook down your throat Right now Right now, the nurses are debating at their station How best To move you to Psych You’re doing a psych job on us We who cared enough to care enough to visit, Telling us a faceless Other told you you could Beat your insomnia With whiskey and milk Yeah, and I could beat your insomnia by beating You With Prince Valiant down your throat Like justice milk But, the nurses would put me in Psych, if I did that That has to be the damnedest irony

Friendly Visit, late night, 1997 CEE Knocknocknock We know you’re there, We can hear your picture tube blinking Knocknockahaircut--rap!rap! You’re not fooling anyone We’re bored, tonight I guess you were, too Heavy door unlatches as I pound Clacking open, and we peer, kids at Santa, You’re watching TV, back to us, I ask you What’s your deal Your deal is asleep Passed out in your chair, glass near empty Brubbie’s passed out on the couch Hand firmly gripping A full, unopened beer, Brown punt flat to the floor We call a bit to you both, but the Sandman’s Gotcha Sheepish, we herd ourselves out Pull the unlocked door as tight as it’ll shut A wandering criminal could just walk in You might well be killed in your sleep But, hey, your house and your privacy I know how I get, When someone wakes Me up

Salesman Janet Kuypers (1991)     The doorbell rang. “Who could be stopping by at this hour?”, I thought, but I put my magazine down and walked to the door. A man in a plaid suit stood in the hallway with a worn briefcase in his hand. He flashed me a tired, business-like smile. It almost seemed genuine.     As he rambled on and on about... Well, I don’t really know what he said. I don’t even know what he wanted. “What is he selling?”, I thought, and my head became dizzy with his confusing words. It all seemed like nonsense. But it all seemed to make sense.     I didn’t like what I heard. But I tried to listen. I wanted to listen. I had to hold on to the door frame: I had to keep myself steady while this man’s thoughts tried to knock me down.     I finally stopped him. “What are you trying to sell me? What are you trying to do?”, I asked. The man looked at me and said, “I’m trying to sell you an ideology. I am trying to poison your mind.”     I slammed the door in his face. Alone, I let go of the door frame. I fell down.

Doctor Janet Kuypers (1992)     Once upon a time there was a young man who was very intelligent. You could see him at his desk now, writing, or sitting on his bed, leaning against his headboard, reading, studying. And people knew he was intelligent, and people knew he would be a doctor someday. If you got him talking, he’d tell you about starting work in the emergency room, about the people he met, about the lives he wanted to save.     And this man was also a very handsome man, he stood tall, blonde hair, bright blue eyes, eyes like water, reflected in a scalpel. He dressed well, always looked impeccable. And he had a wide, open smile. His mother never had to tell him to brush his teeth every day.     And this man was a charming man, as most would have to be to be a good doctor. He was raised well, given the best of everything, and still taught the value of work. And as you’d get to know him, you’d see that he holds open doors for you, listens intently, pays the bill, laughs at your jokes.     In fact, this man is so charming, so kind, that you’ll never see him yell, never see him get angry. He never swears, never cries, never laughs too hard, never has too much fun. He’s like a Ken doll. You can be mean to him, you can steal from him, you can rape him. That’s part of his charm.     He was so charming. So lifelessly charming.     Just once, I wanted to be able to grab his broad shoulders and shake him, dig my fingers into his flesh, maybe break a nail, maybe bring some more pain into his life. I wanted to grab him, to shake him, to tell him that he needed to feel this pain, he needed to feel it, because without it he couldn’t feel the joy, the bliss, the ecstacy of life. When he saves his first life on the operating table, when he falls in love, when his first child is born, these things will all register in his mind, he will understand these things for what they are, but otherwise they will mean nothing to him. How do I tell this charming man, this handsome man, this intelligent man, that he’s not living life right? How do I explain these things, how do I explain the color blue to a blind man?

the Apartment Janet Kuypers (spring 1991)     “Could you pull out a can of sardines to have with lunch?”, he asked me, so I got up from my chair, put down the financial pages, and walked into the kitchen. The newspaper fell to the ground, falling out of order. I stepped on the pages as I walked away. I realized he hadn’t been listening to a thing I said.     He had to look for a job, I had told him before. This apartment is too small and we still can’t afford it. I put in so many extra hours at work, and he doesn’t even help at home. There are dishes left from last week. There is spaghetti sauce crusted on one of the plates in the sink. I opened up the pantry, moved the cans of string beans and cream corn. There was an old can of peaches in the back; I didn’t even know it was there. I found a sardine can in the back of the shelf.     I saw him from across the apartment as I opened up the can. “We have to do something about this,” I said. “I can’t even think in this place. I’m tired of living in a cubicle.”     He closed the funny pages. “Get used to it, honey. This is all we’ll ever get. You think you’ll get better? You think you deserve it? For some people, this is all they’ll get. That’s just the way life is.”     I looked at the can. I looked at the little creatures crammed into their little pattern. It almost looked like they were supposed to be that way, like they were created to be put into a can. The smell made me dizzy. I pushed the can away from me. I couldn’t look at it any longer.

Driving By His House Janet Kuypers summer 1992     I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. I don’t even want to see him again. I don’t want to have to think about him, I don’t want to think about his big eyebrows or the fact that he hunched over a little when he walked or that he hurt me so much.     I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, but sometimes when I’m driving I’ll take a little detour and drive by his house. I’ll just drive by, I won’t slow down, I won’t stop by, I won’t say hello, I won’t beat his head in, I won’t even cry. I’ll just drive by, see a few cars in the driveway, see no signs of life through the windows, and then I’ll just keep driving.     I don’t know why I do it. He never sees me, and I never see him, although I thought I didn’t want to see him anyway. When I first met him I wasn’t afraid of him. Now I’m so afraid that I have to drive by his house every once in a while, just to remind myself of the fear. We all like the taste of fear, you know, the thought that there’s something out there stronger than us. The thought that there’s something out there we can beat, even if we have to fight to the death.     But that can’t be it, no, it just can’t be, I don’t like this fear, I don’t like it. I don’t want to drive by, I want to be able to just go on with my life, to not think about it. I want to be strong again. I want to be strong.     So today I did it again, I haven’t done it for a while, drive by his house, but I did it again today. When I turned on to his street I put on my sunglasses so that in case he saw me he couldn’t tell that I was looking. And then I picked up my car phone and acted like I was talking to someone.     And I drove by, holding my car phone, talking to my imaginary friend, trying to unobviously glance at the house on my left. There’s a lamppost at the end of his driveway. I always noticed it, the lampshade was a huge glass ball, I always thought it was ugly. This time three cars were there. One of those could have been his. Through the front window, no people, no lights. I drive around a corner, take a turn and get back on the road I was supposed to be on.     One day, when I’m driving by and I get that feeling again, that feeling like death, well then, I just might do it again.

Having Children One Day Janet Kuypers summer 1992     Every time we’re together we talk about how much we both love to play with children. I wanted you to meet my niece and nephew, Claire is five, Marshall is two and a half, oh, he’s so adorable at this age, all he does is hug and kiss you. And it’s so cute how he kisses you, you’re holding him in your arms and he grabs the sides of your head with his tiny little hands and he kisses your nose. Well anyway, I just thought you’d think they were adorable, well, they are, but I just wanted to see you with them.     And you came over, and they saw you, and they were probably thinking, “a stranger, oh no, it’s a stranger, run and hide, run and hide,” and I really hope you didn’t take offense that the kids were a little scared of you. What do you expect, they’re little, they’re afraid of anyone other than their mother holding them, I mean, you understand, right?     But I wanted you to see them, I wanted you to see the love I had for them, for the future, for their future, for my future, for our future. I just wanted you to see why my eyes glowed when I talked about them.     So the day went on and little Marshall sat down next to his daddy to watch t.v., and even though he didn’t know you he sat down next to you, too. And earlier you kept doing cannonballs into the swimming pool so that you would splash Claire and I. She laughed when you did that, you know.     I told you earlier that day that I felt like I was never wanted by my family before, I was unplanned, unwanted, neglected, blah, blah, blah, and you were saying you would never have an unwanted child. If one day your wife told you she was pregnant, you could never not love the child. That child would only enrich your life more, those were your words, I remember them exactly.     And I wanted you to know what it meant to me when at the end of the day the kids were leaving and I told little Marshall to give you a hug and he did. And he gave you a kiss, too, right on the nose, and without my asking. And you laughed. And you looked at me, laughing while this two year old boy clung to your neck and you gave me this look, this look that was almost serious. It was a look that said that one day this may be yours. And it may.

Having Company Over Janet Kuypers spring 1991     I was walking through the living room. My parents had company over. I was young. I could walk, but I could barely speak. There were maybe six or eight people over. Half of them were sitting at the bar. We had a bar. My parents would always sit there when they had company over. My father would stand behind the bar, like he was a bartender. He looked like he controlled everything. The lights were low. The carpeting was multi-colored -- it was black with some different shades of brown and a little grey and white in it. In the light it looked like there were things in the carpet, like it wasn’t clean.     I was little. I don’t remember faces. I remember knee-caps. That’s all a one-year old sees. I remember walking through the living room, between the bar chairs and the white couches. The bar chairs looked like barrels with red leather where the seat would be. The white couches looked old. They were my grandmother’s. As I was walking, a woman came in front of me. For some reason I think she had short blonde hair, but all I really remember about her is that she was fat. She had fat knee-caps.     She asked me when my birthday was. I said, “June.”     I remember that she got excited that I told her my birthday was in June. She turned toward the bar and started telling people that I just told her that my birthday was in June. I couldn’t understand what she was getting so excited about.

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).