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Tractor Boy Robley Browne     “Oh, quit feeling sorry for yourself,” said Mrs. Spurlock. “Out of all the kids we’ve had here, you’re the only one who’s had to deal with adversity. You’re the only one who ever got handed a raw deal.”     “I was handed a raw deal,” I said to her.     “Aw, poor baby,” she always said back.     “Maybe you didn’t get the memo,” I used to tell her. “It turns out secondhand smoke kills.” And she’d just light up another Winston.     “How was church,” sometimes I’d say. “Did you remember to mention all the Old Grand-Dad and off-track betting?”     “And freeloading juvenile delinquents?” she’d ask.     “Eat shit,” I’d say. And then she’d grab a TV Guide or ashtray and throw it at me. * * *     I was seventeen years old and living in a foster home in Sherman, Texas. It had all the warmth and coziness of a state penitentiary.     “A penitentiary?” my roommate Spider said to me. “Bro, you don’t know how good you got it here.”     Spider loved the place—acted like three hots and a cot were absolutely all there was to life.     I made some comment about how much toilet paper was left, and he said, “Y’all ought to try seeing the roll as half full for once.”     “Hurry up in there,” Mrs. Spurlock said, banging on the door. “You got Spider waiting out here.”     Through the bathroom window I had a perfect view of a red Harvester Cub tractor cooling off under a tree. I tugged furiously at my cock as my eyes raced up and down that hot little body. When a butterfly landed on her shapely rear end, I lost it and blasted my load against the wall.     “You need to get a girlfriend,” Spider said as I walked out.     “You’re the one with all the Beyonce posters,” I said.     At El Paso High School, the girls are all stuck up. I went to a Sadie Hawkins dance once in the school gymnasium. You had to stand against the wall like an idiot and wait to be asked if you didn’t have a dance partner. After about half an hour, two girls walked across the room to me. One was pretty, with strawberry-blond hair; the other had shoulders like Mike Tyson. The Mike Tyson one said, “We were just wondering, do you plan to murder one of the girls here tonight and then wear her skin around as a coat?”     As lousy as things were, I kept reminding myself that they could always be worse. Spider’s brother had some sort of deal, a fucked-up immune system I think, and he had to stay inside this big room-sized incubator. Spider told me if his brother ever set foot outside the protective room, the unfiltered air would kill him.     If there was some fucking place I hadn’t been sent yet, that’s where Mrs. Spurlock stuck me. I stood around in a crowded church. I sat all day in my room. I spent three months in summer school. I slept on a cement floor in a jail cell. When I went to jail, the guard kept calling me by my booking number. Whenever I’d say I was hungry or wanted to talk to someone in charge, he’d go, “I’ll get right on that, Mr. Five-Four-Two.”     I wanted to bail on everything, hit the road. I mean it wasn’t like I had anyone dropping by or sending me mail, so I didn’t need an actual address. I’d drive across the goddamn country. See the heartland. I’d wash dishes here and there. Sleep out under the stars. Expand my horizons, unlike all the other shit-for-brains at this place.     “How are you going to do that when you can’t even wash the ones you left in the sink?” Mrs. Spurlock said when she heard this.     “Those would be your golden boy, Spider’s,” I said.     “Spider’s?” she said.     “Yeah,” I told her. “What’s so hard to believe about that?”     “Why would Spider leave a stack of dirty dishes in the sink?” Mrs. Spurlock said.     “Because he’s a lazy piece of shit, same as me,” I told her. “Because all he’s ever gonna be is a fucking burden on society.”     “Okay, okay,” she said, “take it easy.”     “Take it easy,” I said.     “Take it easy,” she said. “Sit back down.”     That was my last semester at El Paso. I was a few hours late driving the Spurlocks’ ’57 Chevy pickup around looking for my dog, and my teacher never stopped bringing it up. Days later, even if I did well on something, all I got was “You just rolled in here like it was no big deal. You completely disrupted my class. You need to have a parent call if you are going to be tardy.” I’m sitting there and the teacher’s just going off on me in front of the whole class. Eventually I told her that was absolutely fascinating, but the class would probably be better served if she shut her fat mouth and went back to teaching history. * * *     You get all lovesick is what happens.     The first time I saw Chase, she was dripping wet in the middle of a high school car wash. I started talking to some dude waiting for her who seemed like a decent enough guy even if he didn’t appreciate her. The “for sale” sign in her window read best offer. I’d never had a thing for Ford Torinos, or Cobras, but this one was something special—I mean right away she just seemed like the one. Before you could say two eggs over easy, I was planning ways I could make her mine. I could get a part-time job—or talk to a bank. Take out a loan like a decent fucking member of society.     He gave me his phone number and address. Of course this Dave Santos lived in the Double Diamond district, a gated community. From what I gathered though, it was someplace I’d never been before.     There were a couple of neighborhoods in El Paso where I wasn’t supposed to go. If I accidentally trespassed on one of them, I was basically screwed.     Mrs. Spurlock and Spider noticed me acting differently. They started making little comments and asking me what was new.     One of the times I went over, Chase was sitting out front in the rain when Mr. Santos came out of his house. “Small world,” I said, “My grandmother lives right up the street.” And he said that was an interesting coincidence. I asked why he didn’t keep her garaged, and he said I shouldn’t worry about it. I told him I would definitely be coming by with some money soon, and he said to be sure I gave him a call first.     I rode my bike by there twice late at night and wasn’t able to come either time. The second time I had my dick in her gas tank when a light came on over the porch. I had to crouch down behind her while Mr. Santos stood on the edge of his steps looking up and down the block. * * *     I’ve changed homes a thousand times, and somehow I’ve always wound up on the bottom bunk. Under my bed against the wall, behind some boxes, I kept a backpack containing a ski mask, a jar of Vaseline, some hydrogen peroxide, gauze, bandages, styptic pencils, a police scanner, a bunch of Auto Trader printouts, a flashlight, and an old T-shirt. The police scanner was just a tiny thing with a long antenna.     I got the book bag from my counselor at Child Protective Services after I left home. I put a change of clothes in there, and some bathroom shit too.     When I was like ten, I used to have this video game where you had to kill off all the zombies in a shopping mall with a machine gun. My neighbor Carlos and I used to play each other, and we’d stay up late seeing who could get the highest score. I had to hit my joystick over and over until my palm got this painful red bump on it. This one disgusting hot weekend, it must have been during summer vacation, I had finally gone ahead. All I had to do was run my guy up to the roof to finish the game. But I couldn’t stop pounding the controller. I remember Carlos running to call his brother as the sun was coming up. And his older brother’s mouth fell open when he saw my bloody hand, and he pleaded with me to stop. Carlos and his brother were yelling to each other in Spanish and then it was like they both just ran out of words, and they didn’t know me. I felt like Zippy the Pinhead. One of them unplugged the TV, and the other one yanked the controller out of my hand. Then Carlos started bawling, and they both climbed in his shit-brown Toyota Corolla and drove off.     Freshman year I began getting in a lot of trouble at school. Ditching classes. Getting in fights. The story goes that I was such a handful, Mrs. Green called the parents and asked them if they’d ever considered homeschooling. I guess she figured I could just study our monthly eviction notices and tally up the old man’s beer cans. That was the summer the parents deposited me in the summer drama program. We had to put on a production of Frankenstein’s Monster. Somehow, I wound up with the privilege of playing the monster.     I had class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights and three-hour rehearsals every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s about the last time I can ever remember us all in the same car together. It was a three-door Hyundai Excel my father had gotten from a friend of his. The back door was broken, and I’d have to get out through the hatchback. They’d always say, “Just be yourself,” as I was climbing out of the car. I guess that was supposed to be funny.     There was this one part I loved to rehearse, where this impossible bitch Candy, who plays a little girl, is tossing daisies into a lake and watching them float. She decides to give me a thrill and gives me some of her precious flowers. She pretends she likes me. Then when I find out it’s all bullshit, I get to toss her ass into the lake. * * *     After the night Mr. Santos came out of his house, I stopped going by to see Chase. I gave him a call, finally, and left a message on his voice mail: “Have you thought any more about my offer?” I said. “Give me a call.” And then when I was making my lunch, I recalled I hadn’t left my name.     Toward the end of that summer, a mouse finally got caught on one of my homemade glue traps down in the basement. I watched it struggle to pull its collapsed body from the paper for several minutes and then stepped on it. I brought it out to Mrs. Spurlock on the porch, and she said, “That’s disgusting.” And I said, “That’s all you’ve got to say? I solve your mouse problem, and you don’t even want to say thank you?” And she said, “My hero. Now get it the hell out of my face.” And took another pull from her mason jar. So I tossed it into the sunhat by her feet. Then as I was walking across the farm, I decided she didn’t deserve my help, so I went back down to the basement and picked up all the traps. * * *     The lady who showed me the bras at Kruger Auto Supply told me that vinyl was the hot thing right now and would be best for Chase’s measurements. Another guy told me later that that was all horseshit, and leather was the classy way to go. I got that, a chocolate-strawberry air freshener, and a CD called Seriously Cool Driving Music because I’d always liked the song “Radar Love.” After that I went by Open Road and picked up an old-fashioned picnic basket and some road maps. The salesman at the store kept calling me “a real Don Juan.” I joined a car club that met each Wednesday at this Retro Burger just to talk cars and have someplace to go. I had to take the bus to get out there, and somebody trying to get my goat asked if I ever planned to get a car, and I said, “Well, what do you think?” I talked to a couple guys who seemed all right who said there was nothing wrong with me. This old guy, Artie, was living in his T-Bird and said he had since he was seventeen. He even said we should get together and cruise Main Street sometime, but it never happened. This woman was going on about how she liked to get her GTO up to one hundred miles an hour while her girlfriend got her off with a vibrator. She advocated this sort of thing for everyone who owned a classic car. She said once a cop even chased them through the hills, but that the flashing lights and sirens only added to the whole experience.     I got a tribute tattoo for my grandma Elsie at the House of Pain in Vista Hills when I was leaving. The guy used a photo from my wallet. It’s one of those photo booth pictures, and my grandmother is wearing my dark sunglasses with a big cigar in her mouth. The work cost me two hundred and twenty dollars and came with a little bottle of lotion for my arm.     I stayed in my room for a few hours after the whole mouse thing, and when the Spurlocks started watching their idiotic TV shows, I went out back and began greasing up their tractor in the dark. I was just beginning to work up a lather when I heard the screen door squeak open and Mr. Spurlock ask me what I was doing. He was at the top of the steps in his wheelchair under the porch light.     “My chores,” I told him.     “Well, when you’re done fooling around, I need you to help me over to the barn.”     “What’s Mrs. Spurlock doing?” I said. She claimed she couldn’t budge the old fart, but I’d seen her lift whole bags of potatoes plenty of times.     “Mrs. Spurlock is taking a nap,” he said. “Are we going to debate this or are you going to come help me?”     I wheeled him into the barn and up to a shelf of thick blankets. “We’ll need to get these things up on top of Roscoe and Pete,” he said.     I kept changing my Facebook status while he was in the stables with the horses. Finally I settled on what my mother used to sarcastically call my parents’ song: Love will tear us apart. “Are we almost done?” I said to him after a couple minutes.     “Why, you got someplace you’re supposed to be?” he said, pushing himself out of the stable.     “What if I do?” I said, looking at the crumpled blankets in his lap. “I thought you were going to put those on the horses.”     “I gave up,” he said. His glasses were crooked, and little beads of sweat were dripping down his forehead.     “Listen, I was talking to some guys over at the Flytrap,” he said as I pushed him back toward the house. “I think maybe you got a problem, one of them fetishes. You could probably do with some professional help.”     “Not this again,” I said.     “It isn’t normal,” he said. “It isn’t good for you.”     “And you’re going to tell me what’s good for me,” I told him.     “One of the fellas, Beefy, he used to have a thing with rubber dolls. He goes to meetings now. He ain’t touched one in, oh—”     “—Can we just drop it? Can we?” I said.     When I wheeled him back to the living room, Mrs. Spurlock was asleep on the couch with her mouth open. For an instant I thought the stupid bitch was dead.     “Please try to keep the noise to a minimum,” Mr. Spurlock said before I slammed the door to my bedroom.     He wheeled by later that night when I was playing High Speed Chase on my phone. “There are places we can send you,” he said. “Treatment centers.”     “Wouldn’t that be convenient,” I said.     “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.     “Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of me soon enough,” I told him. “I’ve about had it with living in this goddamn Bates Motel.” And that got the two of them to finally go down to their room.     When I heard them milling around the house in the morning, I went and got my bike and rode it out to Big Al’s scrap yard. I left so fast I forgot to bring my phone. Sitting at the top of Grant Hill, I watched the giant crane picking up stripped-down sedans and topless coupes. I began to feel guilty looking at other cars. I wished that I had my phone so that I could at least play High Speed Chase.     A year ago my counselor got the bright idea to put me in this scared straight program in Fort Worth. Death row inmates in federal prison cursed me up and down all afternoon, but I just tuned them out. When that didn’t seem to click, the guard said not to be so cocky, that I hadn’t seen anything yet. I ended up locked in the morgue with a bunch of stiffs. “It’s okay if you feel like crying,” my counselor said when I came out. I remember he was holding a book called <>IIntroduction to Teen Counseling. “About what?” I asked him.     I couldn’t eat. I would sit in front of a bowl of cereal and just stare at it. Couldn’t sleep. I started having strange thoughts too, snapping at people. I had a pretty good idea of why. Not that I expected anyone to give a rat’s ass.     I came out of my room after lying in bed until noon and unplugged my phone from the charger. Mrs. Spurlock had the door to the refrigerator open, and her olive-green kitchen stunk like Pine-Sol. She was digging through a drawer at the bottom with a yellow piece of masking tape across it labeled “guest” in black cursive.     “Is there something wrong with this charger?” I asked.     “How should I know?” she said back. “I’m assuming you’re done with this.” She was wearing her floral bathrobe, holding something wrapped in Saran Wrap over her head.     “That’s not mine,” I told her.     “Well, it was in your drawer,” she said. I left her and went into the garage. Mrs. Spurlock said, “He probably found somebody who made him a real offer. Anyway, I don’t see what you love about that car so much,” she added, once she had closed the drawer and shut the fridge.     I found an outlet and checked through my messages. Nothing new. Just an old one from Mr. Santos saying that he would give my offer some real thought. He would get back to me. His distorted voice said, “The thing about this one is, she’s got a lot of people interested in her—we may want to play the field a bit, you know?”     Suddenly it dawned on me I was not going to hear back from him. Everything went out of me like a blown-out tire. “Fuck!” I yelled, slamming the phone onto the workbench. I stood there holding the jack in the outlet. The garage was dark except for some reflections across Mr. Spurlock’s stupid jars of bolts and shit.     “Oh, calm down,” Mrs. Spurlock said. “You couldn’t have afforded her anyway.”     “Don’t tell me to calm down,” I said.     “Please,” she said, shutting off the faucet. “You’re acting like a damn fool—” When I came into the kitchen and stood behind her, she said, “—not that it isn’t understandable.”     I kept thinking how Chase and I were meant to be together, picturing all these guys putting their hands on her. I pushed by Mrs. Spurlock and threw my phone in the garbage.     “What are you doing?” she yelled.     I’d about had it with listening to her run her ignorant mouth and went out to the porch to think. I was considering riding my bike over to see Chase, but my heart was pounding too hard. My shoulders were hot and I couldn’t catch my breath. I decided to wait until I felt my body calm down. After a few minutes Spider woke up on the swing. He rubbed his eyes and said, “Dude, seriously, you’re going to wear a hole in the porch.” Meaning I was pacing a lot, so I went around back and sat down against the barn. I watched Mrs. Spurlock’s gray head bobbing around over the sink until she must have noticed me because she wiped some steam from the window.     Then I started to feel so anxious that I figured I had to do something, so I grabbed the bag from my room and got my bike from the porch and rode it down to Brownie’s Hardware. It was colder than shit, but I couldn’t stop sweating. I looked at the flathead screwdrivers and the power drills while some Iranian guy at the cash register kept giving me dirty looks. I didn’t even know if I was buying the right shit, but I paid for it and put it in my bag. When I got back my caseworker, Miss Jaffe, was standing on the porch talking to Mr. and Mrs. Spurlock. I hid behind a hedge at the end of the driveway and waited for her to get in her brown Volvo GLT Wagon, with its 2.4-liter engine, automated climate control, and five-speed manual transmission.     I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! I was saying to myself. Just seeing her with that stupid clipboard again had me freaking out. My mind was racing. I felt outside of myself. I could see my body from above, crouched behind the swaying bushes.     When she drove away I walked in the front door like everything was damn Skippy. There was a green pamphlet on the entrance table that read, Texas Treatment Centers. A band of light lay across the living room couch. I could hear Mr. and Mrs. Spurlock talking in the kitchen. I cleared my throat and started in past them toward my bedroom.     “Miss Jaffe was here,” said Mr. Spurlock. He was looking across the table at his wife, who had her face pinched tight like she smelled a turd.     “Yeah,” I said.     “Yeah, so, we had a talk,” he said. “She seems to think you’d do better in a controlled environment.”     “And what do you guys think?” I asked them.     “We agreed,” said Mrs. Spurlock, turning the bowl of plastic fruit in front of her.     I went out the back door and sat down on the steps. They’d probably called Miss Jaffe when Mrs. Spurlock walked in on me with all those car magazines. Or it might have been when I cut myself up on the gas tank of their tractor. There wasn’t anything to stop the bleeding, and I’d left a trail of blood leading from the porch to the bathroom. Either way this was their doing.     “I’m going out,” I told them when I came back in.     “We’re only looking out for your best interests,” Mr. Spurlock said.     “You guys are all heart,” I said.     I changed into a silk shirt and slacks and combed my hair and sprayed myself with some of Spider’s cologne and got the fuck out of there.     It took me longer than usual to get across town because I was trying not to sweat. When I got close to the main entrance at Double Diamond, it was just getting dark. I got off my bike and walked it over behind the mailboxes. When I was sure nobody could see me, I opened my bag and went through it to make sure I had everything and to go over what I was going to do in my head.     Every five minutes or so, someone would pull up the flowery driveway and open the metal fence. It was an arched gate with a diamond on either side, and whenever it jerked to life, you could hear the chain rumbling along the bottom. Beside the entrance was a community bulletin board. There was a Thanksgiving turkey made out of construction paper behind the locked glass, and I remembered a commercial on TV advertising a getaway for young people called Art Camp for Teens.     I thought, Jesus, if I’m actually going to do this, I want to start out completely fresh, so I took the driver’s license and social security card from my wallet and ditched them behind some bushes. The air was thick with the smell of lilac. Nearby, I could hear someone hosing down a driveway and a little farther off the gentle clatter of crockery as someone else was making dinner. And the whole time I’m watching, I’m thinking, If I mess this up, if I get caught, the Spurlocks will make it their life’s mission to make sure the whole lousy world knows my personal business. So I put on my ski mask and got ready.     But no one came down the driveway. I sat on my heels and listened as a streetlight buzzed away over the gate. I untied and retied my boots. My face started to itch. I took off the wool mask and shook it out and put it back on. Finally a snow-white Town and Country pulled around the corner. Two kids were in back with their dog watching something on the drop-down Blu-ray DVD system. When it drove in I waited until it was a good ways down the block and then ran in and crouched down behind a fire hydrant. In the beginning of Frankenstein’s Monster, the hunchback has to hide behind a cardboard tombstone with his lantern in the graveyard. I just remembered that.     The monster that the town goes after is supposed to be made out of spare pieces of regular people that the hunchback collects. When they chase me into an old mill, I climb all the way to the very top. Then there is nowhere for me to go. I grunt and growl and throw the guy who created me out the window into the windmill.     I ran along the sidewalk until I came to his neighbor’s place, where I crawled under a camper shell in the driveway. I was breathing so hard I thought I was going to hyperventilate. Chase was still there, her crimson-red body sprawled out like a seductress lying in wait. Cupping my hands over my mouth and nose, I tried to control my breath. Dew was falling quickly, settling on the camper window and giving everything a surreal look.     By the time the light finally went off in the Santos’ place, my legs had gone numb. I dragged myself out from under the camper and stood up by a pile of firewood covered in a plastic tarp. It was windy and the covering kept flicking up against itself. Somewhere behind me a wind chime was playing a maniacal symphony. I threw the backpack over my shoulder and hurried over to Chase. I crouched down and touched her with my fingertips. She was wet. I looked her up and down. She’d had her entire body waxed. I began to giggle and then covered my mouth.     Taking the Slim Jim from my bag, I noticed the weight of it. The goddamn thing felt like a dagger in my hand. I thought: I’m sorry to have to do this to you, baby. Plunging my tool into her, I began jabbing away frantically. Suddenly I felt a release. My head became light and I could feel the blood surging through me. I opened the door and tossed my bag on her Milano leather seat. Taking out my penlight I checked under her steering column. They were right there; a bundle of multicolored wires bound by a plastic band. Pulling out the red ones, I put the penlight in my mouth. I snipped off the plastic band. I began stripping away the thin plastic coating. Putting the two wires together, I felt her roar to life.     I sat up and took the wheel. The warmth of Chase’s 428 Cobra Jet engine entered my shoulders and back like a hit of Jack Daniel’s. I put her in gear and let up slowly on the clutch. She rumbled and began to move. The porch light came on. The front door flew open, and Mr. Santos came running out in his boxer shorts followed by some fat mess in a Disney T-shirt. Chase was shaking so violently, I worried she was going to seize out. The fat mess had her phone out and was trying to tape me. “Kick his ass,” she yelled from the middle of the lawn. “Kick his ass!” Mr. Santos was tugging at the door and punching her window. I shifted into second and tried not to look at him. He ran along beside us for a half block or more before he finally disappeared from the window.     I fishtailed around the corner and was headed toward the gate when I saw a young couple jogging together up ahead. I pulled Chase up onto the sidewalk and caught them just as they were turning around. The way they went under the car, I’m not sure anything even happened to them. Chase was hiked up so high, she was like a low-flying plane.     I must have caught the edge of a wet lawn or something because when I tried to turn the wheel, I spun out into the side of a house. I could hear sirens getting closer, and I thought my heart was going to pound right out of my chest. Something was banging underneath me, but I couldn’t tell what it was. And while I was lying there with my head split open on the steering wheel, every looky-loo in the neighborhood had walked out front of their place to watch a free show.     My head was getting lighter, and I felt I’d melded right into Chase. They’re going to have a bitch of a time separating us, I thought. Then I started to laugh and coughed up blood all over the speedometer. “Sorry about that,” I said.     I could hear trucks pulling up and doors slamming. Radios. Guys were gathering around, dragging things across the cement. * * *     Everyone is always saying, Well, that dude’s a pothead or that guy has a gambling problem or whatever, and I always come back with, Well, wait, can he still function; can he stop if he wants to? That always makes people uncomfortable. That’s because it’s all relative. Because everybody does stuff that is unhealthy. Everybody has a few bad habits. Everybody says reach out to your family or reach out to your friends, but ninety-nine percent of them will never know what it’s like to pick up the phone and have no one to talk to. You’d think people would quit doling out advice about shit they’ve never experienced.     I can feel something clamping down into Chase, next to my head. The rescue guy close to me stinks like he hasn’t showered in a week. He’s saying something to someone behind him about black smoke. They don’t have much time. I push my head harder into Chase, trying to bleed. I don’t know what I’ll do if they separate us. I don’t know what I’ll do if I live. There is this one part of Frankenstein that always stayed with me. The entire class is crowded around the burning mill. I am trapped under this giant Styrofoam beam. Naturally, all the townsfolk are pissed off and waving their torches like nuts. It is then that the monster realizes he loves his creator. He reaches out and howls for Dr. Frankenstein. But it is too late. A voice says, “And soon the monster was borne away by smoke and lost in darkness and distance.” And Dr. Frankenstein looks up from his stretcher and says, “Good riddance, you twisted soul,” which the audience always ate up. And I remember thinking, Who’s the real monster here?

Open Door Allan Onik     When Alice reached the top of the Ferris wheel, she could see the carnival in the dark. A shirtless man blew some fire from a stick, and a clown sat on the ground crying. Striped tents littered the landscape and dust blew in the air from the dirt ground.     “You know I’ll always love you, right Alice? We’re friends. That never ends.” Tab lit a cigarette and puffed. Its embers fell to the ground below them.     “With pancreatic cancer it does.”     “Maybe we could find a world famous specialist or something? A new treatment maybe? There has to be something you could do. How long did the docs say you had?”     “Five months tops and the last two are agony.”     “This little shit town wont be the same without you. I can remember when we were kids, playing in the back yard of your mom’s house. No older than 5 years back then. Video games. Sand box. Don’t forget tea time.”     “Oh yeah. With imaginary tea.” The moon was almost full and cast a dim light on the carnival. The wheel hit its bottom.     “And how pretty you are Alice!” Alice wore a long red dress with a red flower at its collar. Tab lit another cigarette. In the tent, a strong man lifted a bronze box. He was a giant and from the box, a dwarf emerged. A clown stood in the corner of the tent, happily juggling. “I can remember all the boys in our little white trash high school loved you. Thought you were the best in the school. You talked to everyone.”     “That was ten years ago. Time flies.”     “It sure does.”     “For me it’s about to end. I didn’t think I’d be gone so soon. Next year you’ll have to go to the fair alone.”     Tab hugged her. “It’s not like that. There has to be something we can do.”     “Not for this the docs say. I’m pretty much dead already.” The curtain closed and the crowd clapped.     The magician emerged from the boards in the floor of the stage. He held a golden hoop. He threw the hoop in the air and disappeared within it. When he reemerged at the entrance of the tent, he was holding a white python, smiling. A clown in a black gown blew balloons for children. Tab took a swig of some beer.     “Are you enjoying the show? I know the doctors told you to have fun. And be with your friends.”     “I suppose so,” Alice said, “But I have to tell you something. I’m not waiting until the end. I met Pieto.”     “The dealer from New York City? Are you crazy?”     “I knew that he makes his rounds in town every second Tuesday of the month. I want to go out pain free.” Alice lifted a needle and dime bag out of her purse. Tab cringed. “I’m gonna OD. I want you there when I do it.”     Alice and Tab held hands as they walked. A woman lay covered with live rats in a glass coffin. A lizard man licked his forked tongue on a double-edged sword. Fire dancers caught sight of the two and did tricks around them.     “Just friends,” Alice said.     “Of course,” Tab said, “as always. That’s how I’ll remember you. My friend. The beautiful Alice.” Tab stopped walking. “Look there.” Tab pointed. A small boxcar ahead of them had a sign posted on it: Free Psychic Readings. The door to the car was open.     “Alice. I knew you would come. I can see everyone that’s coming years before they come in. That’s how it works you know. For me at least. All of us are different. And some of us are fakes. Though I can assure you I’m not.     The web of this cosmos is far too intricate for any nervous system to fully grasp. Even Einstein said: ‘Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods.’” The oracle had white hair, and wore a blue tunic. She was thin, with dark eyes.     Alice walked up to her and was hit by a soft blue glow emanating from the seers body. “So you know about the....”     “Yes, darling. I know. I can feel now where you’ll be going soon. My state allows it. And I’m here to help. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Its just love. You’ll be going to a place that’s nothing but love. A gap is what I call it. In fact, everyone that comes through my door is headed to the gap soon. Some are not ready to accept it. When faced with the change, some deny what is happening to them until the end. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, child. It’s just love. You’ll be going to place that’s nothing but love. Just as I love everyone.”     Alice backed away. A tear rolled down her cheek. “And my friends?”     “With you. Always.”     Alice took in the lights of the carnival from a hill above. Tab lay next to her sleeping. She could hear him snoring. Next to a lit tent below Alice could see a clown sleeping with a chick pecking on his top hat. She took the needle out of her purse and prepped.     Alice poured some tea in her mother’s back yard. It was a sunny day, so bright she had to squint—but pleasantly warm. Tab took a sip.     “Sweetheart, playtime’s over.” Her mother’s voice came from inside the house. The backdoor was open, and she ran to it. When she entered, the door closed behind her.

Vacation at the Gator Gate Inn A. C. Lippert     You are one of Dale’s five groomsmen. Dale is standing at the altar with Father Pratt and you are stacked-up behind the other groomsmen, awaiting your sister’s procession down the aisle. Everyone except Dad and Anne has already taken their seat. Mom sits in the front row with several tissues laced between her plump fingers. Her eyes are clear and dry at the moment. You can’t picture her sniffling with tears, but your guess is that the tissues are meant to mask her normal indifferent demeanor. The church is a shack surrounded by dense woods and only holds about fifty people, but there must be a hundred present. Friends and family squeeze together to fit into the pews. You spot Uncle Tom, known as Rascal, and his third wife Ellie in the crowd of faces. Rascal wears a faded blue suit that desperately needs ironing and draped over Ellie is a faded green dress that is frayed near her cleavage.     The church is humid. There are no windows or fans to alleviate the Virginia heat. The church’s walls are wooden, but they’re chipped and rotting and the floor hasn’t been refinished since the church was built in 1908. There is a sparkle everywhere you glance, not from dabbed-on glitter or expensive jewelry, but from sweat drizzling across everyone’s brow. They must be miserable scrunched so close together. You’re thankful Dale asked you to be a groomsman and saved you from the claustrophobic sauna of family members nearby, but you still despise his existence. You were immediately threatened when Anne described her first date with Dale over the telephone when you were at Virginia Tech. This was almost a year ago. And your hostility toward him was justified when you came home for Christmas and saw the seriousness of their relationship. You knew your sister Anne was slipping into another man’s possession. And your hatred heightened in the summer when Dale laughed at the way you fished. You would kill him if you had the chance.     The organ bellows as if instructing the church to turn around. The doors in the back creak open. Dad and Anne enter. Anne’s dress is amazing. White ruffles and a white veil make her an angel. The church gasps in unison, stupefied by her beauty. Her blonde locks fall to the side as she cants her head close to Dad’s shoulder and giggles in the cutest way. Her azure eyes journey up the aisle and seize you. There is a huge grin carved into Dale’s flushed face that makes him look like a jack o’ lantern. His breath offends your soul. You wish your sister nothing but happiness, honestly. She deserves a husband that will kiss her goodnight and cherish her every day for the rest of her life, but those kisses before sleep and hugs at the breakfast table should be provided by you.     You remember the first time that you felt romantic feelings for your sister. It was on your family vacation ten years ago. You were thirteen and Anne was almost twelve. Your family had driven down to Orlando in Dad’s wood-paneled station wagon. The car ride down was pretty uneventful. Dad smoked cigarette after cigarette while he drove. Mom slept or read fashion magazines. You and Anne rested your heads on the rough, crimson upholstery. The car’s red interior glowed as if you wore blood-smeared glasses and the fabric felt like someone had scrubbed it with a boar bristle brush. You and Anne played card games or took turns listening to your portable CD player or just stared out the window at the trees whipping by. The trip was mind numbing, but you loved family vacations. You loved driving somewhere new in that old station wagon. It was exciting to see something different than the same thick trees and the same trickling creek and the same kids at school who had apparently never used a toothbrush. The whole experience of traveling got your legs jittery, even if the car ride took forever and there was barely anything to do.     You and Dad played the dead game while driving through Georgia. Both of you tried to find dead animals on the side of the road and whoever found the most mutilated animal won. There were only three road-killed animals to be found, though. The two that you spotted looked like they had died of old age instead of a car collision, but Dad discovered a good one. The scene was horrible and gruesome and breathtaking all at once. A great smile erupted over your face and you pulled yourself up on your knees to get a better look.     “Oh, man. That doe really got it, huh?” Dad said. He had slowed the car to about twenty miles an hour so your family could digest the scene. People honked and zoomed by in the fast lane, but Dad didn’t care. This was his version of a Picasso. There were gallons of blood splattered across the road, intestines lay on the pavement like a pink, coiled rubber hose, and the doe’s legs were cracked into angles that you thought were only accomplishable with mirror tricks. You glanced over at Anne when the luggage in the trunk blocked the deer from view. She buried her eyes in the floor mat and rested her head in her hands. Her arms were shaking. And her breath came in quick bursts as if she were hyperventilating. The radio covered any trace of Anne’s hectic breathing, but you could tell by the way her chest hitched. You directed your eyes out the window after seeing this. You sank into a pit of shame.     “Wish we had a camera,” Dad said. “A snap of that’d go great above my workbench.” Dad was a car mechanic. He owned the only shop in town, but the thing Dad loved the most was hunting. He closed the car-shop for the first two weeks of hunting season every year. Dad looked forward to hunting season more than Christmas, Thanksgiving, and even his birthday. He took a picture of each deer he’d shot as it lay in the grass next to a buzzing pile of its own organs and intestines and stuck the picture above his workbench in the garage. He had named the collage: the blood gallery.     You only remember asking are we there yet a few times during the car ride. A heavy scolding from Dad and a light swat on the cheek from Mom changed your mind about whether that was an accepted question. The car reeked of cigarette smoke, even when the sweet Carolina or sticky Georgia air rushed in from the open windows and flooded your face. Other than that, the only thing memorable about the ride down was that Anne complained of the car’s seats making her butt hurt.     “Shut your yap, or I’ll really make your ass hurt. It’ll hurt so bad you’ll miss out on every ride in Disney World,” Dad yelled without taking his eyes off the road. Anne didn’t complain again because he had meant every word.     Your family stayed at a motel called the Gator Gate Inn. Nature had chipped away most of the Gator Gate Inn marquee’s black and sludge-green paint. The only sun-faded letters left clinging to the sign said: liV gAT Rs uT bA k iN gAt s. There were no other cars in the weed-eaten parking lot. Not even an employees’. You wondered for a split-second if the town had been abandoned.     That motel should have been condemned. The railings on the second and third floor were rusted and brittle, missing in some areas. A few of the rooms on the third floor were missing doors. The entire squatty building was painted alligator-green and trimmed with black paint that the Sun had faded into a grey. The motel’s office was no bigger than a child’s tree house, but it was surprisingly luxurious. It contained a squeaky leather couch, a dark oak coffee table, lush carpet, and a golden lamp. The furniture occupied most of the office. There was just enough room for Dad, Mom, Anne, and you to fit inside when Dad checked into the room.     “What can I help you with?” The employee standing behind the waist-level front-desk asked as you entered the office. He had a shaved head and wore glasses that were too big for his face. His voice was dull and whiny like a six-year-old’s.     “Where do you keep the alligators?” Anne asked before Dad could answer the man’s question. Fear of Dad’s punishments kept you quiet, but deep down you admired Anne’s brazenness. You also wanted to know where they kept the gators, but had figured that you and Anne could search for them later while exploring the motel’s grounds. Anne was much more adventurous than you, but you always managed to gather enough courage to agree to explorations without appearing weak or scared.     “Anne,” Mom said. “Don’t just blurt out anything that pops into your head. Your father is doing something. You always do that. How many times do I have to tell you: that’s not lady-like.”     “It’s no problem.” The worker said. He leaned on his palms. “See the door right behind me? Well, that leads back to the gator pen. They’re all dead though. Last one’s been dead about eight months now.”     You clenched your fists and thrust them toward the floor in silent protest. Dead? But you wanted to see them. You thought it’d be awesome to watch one of those suckers chomp down a live goat or chicken. Before you left home, Dad had pulled you aside and promised that the motel had live gators out back, but he didn’t act surprised when the office attendant told you the gators were all dead. He didn’t even scratch his short beard in puzzlement. You almost thought that Dad had known the gators were long dead and had done this purposefully to watch the disappointment smear across your face.     Dad checked you into a room without any more interruptions. The office attendant assigned you to room 113. The room wasn’t as battered as the motel’s exterior, but it looked like everything was coated with a very fine layer of dust. The next few hours were boring, but nice. Mom ordered Dad’s favorite pizza, pepperoni, onions, and pineapple, and had it delivered to the room for dinner. After dinner, Dad stubbed cigarette after cigarette while all four of you sat on one of the beds and played cards. The family played Bull-Spit. You weren’t very good at that game, but it was Dad’s favorite, so you had to play. Mom had pushed her strawberry-blonde hair back in a ponytail and Dad had changed into his West River High gym shorts and a plain grey T-shirt. Anne wore the same jean shorts and pink shirt as she had all day. Her shirt fit tightly, revealing the little lumps that would one day attract Dale. Her wood-hued brown hair floated around her face and neck. And her teeth were dazzling when she giggled at one of your jokes. Dad left the TV on for background noise and he craned his neck to watch it between turns.     “I have two kings,” Mom said as she laid down two cards. She smirked as you fanned your cards to check how many kings were in your hand. You had accumulated almost the entire deck.     Dad was next to go. He only had one card left and he took his time before laying it down. He looked you in the eyes, then Anne, then Mom, challenging anyone to call him out. The tip of Dad’s cigarette flickered to life as his lips pulled on it like a straw and he kinked the corner of his mouth to puff smoke into your face. The gator incident returned to the forefront of your mind. Dad had deliberately deceived you, just to watch as the excitement drained from your innocent face. You believed this from the bottom of your soul. Shut your yap, or I’ll really make your ass hurt. It’ll hurt so bad you’ll miss out on every ride in Disney World echoed in your head. And you recalled the way Anne had curled and shivered and how her breath became scarce when Dad had slowed the car to gawk at the mutilated deer on the side of the road.     “I am laying down one ace,” Dad said. He glared at you as if hearing your thoughts.     “Bullshit,” you said. “That’s bullshit.”     Dad’s mouth gaped. You were playing Bull-Spit, not Bullshit. You were still a boy, just thirteen, but you had had enough and decided to avenge these injustices without considering the consequences.     “What did you just say?” Dad said.     Mom lashed her arm and slapped your cheek.     “Oh, no dear.” Dad said as he scooted off the bed. “He doesn’t need something cute like a swat on the cheek or a bar of soap in the mouth. This requires an iron fist and stitches.”     Dad leaned forward and cocked back his arm. He had beaten you before, but nothing too serious, just a few swats on the ass or a quick jab to the gut. But this time it looked as if Dad were set to fight Mickey Ward. You sat there, stiffened like a deer in headlights. Your pants suddenly felt hot and wet and your mouth started to tremble and tears welled up behind your eyes. You tried to fight the tears, but eventually failed and little rivers fell down your cheeks. A dam of fury had broken somewhere inside you and you had done your best to confront Dad about being an unfair, abusive, mean bully to you and Anne, but you were only thirteen. No match for your father.     “No,” Anne wailed. “Don’t. This game was stupid anyways. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. We hear you say that word all the time when Jean and Bob come over to play. And they say fuck and shit and damn too. And talk about sex. Don’t hit him. If you smack anyone, punch Jean and Bob right across the goddamn face.”     You were older than Anne by a year, but for some reason Anne stuck up for you like an older sister. She took over your job. You looked at her in awe, forgetting that Dad threatened to blacken your eye. Anne’s azure eyes stared and she pursed her lips, waiting for Dad to transfer his rage.     In that moment, your heart jumped as if you had done cocaine. You just wanted to flash a smile amidst the dysfunctional family violence. The first time you ever felt romantic love was in room 113 of the Gator Gate Inn, as you sat on the bed in a puddle of hot pee, with Dad ready to pummel your sister, and the TV muttering in the background. Anne became your protector in that moment and she had created a bond so intense that you knew could never be duplicated with anyone else.     Your face buzzed like a rattlesnake’s tail from Mom’s slap. She reached over and hit Anne even harder. The noise of the impact bounced throughout the room.     “I won’t have my children talking like that,” Mom said.     “You little bitch,” Dad screamed. “I’ll teach you to open your filthy slut-mouth.”     Dad punched Anne in the gut. He slapped her on the face repeatedly and spanked her on the ass. You didn’t say a word, even though you desperately wanted to. At the time, you felt like Anne’s efforts would have been wasted if you’d tried to save her in return.     The rest of the trip was without any more physical abuse. The entire family went to Disney World the next day, even though Dad wanted to cancel. You and Anne sat next to each other on every ride. She was able to sit down, but not without a visible wince. Her cheeks were red like a drunkard’s and bruises shadowed her right eye. You reached over and held Anne’s hand when you were on Splash Mountain. Anne turned, smiled, and squeezed your hand back.     Anne now stands at the altar with Dale and holds his hand. Dale is still wearing that stupid fucking grin. Of course he’s happy. He should be. He’s just another dumb asshole car mechanic like your dad, marrying the most beautiful girl in the world. You are a senior at Virginia Tech, studying to be a high school History teacher. Anne should be yours. You could take her away from this dumpy town and give her all the love and affection and babies every girl fantasizes about. You could provide her with all the things she deserves, while Dale can only duplicate your childhood and deliver permanent anger and failure. This is all wrong!     You look over your shoulder at Mom. The tissue is twisted in her hands and still unused. Dad stares at the altar blankly as if watching a football game. Would they disown you if you object to the marriage? Would everyone in this church shun you? How would Anne react?     “Does anyone have a reason why these two should not wed?” Father Pratt says.     Your mouth trembles as if chewing glass. You love Anne, more than anything. You directed envious rage at all the boys in high school that took her on dates and kissed her in the movie theater and danced with her at prom, but every moment you believed that Anne would one-day shrug social standards for a life filled with bliss and love. You clear your throat to make sure it’ll work and glance back at the familiar faces of the audience. What would everyone think? What if Anne doesn’t love you back?     Your words are too heavy for your jaw. And Father Pratt’s droning voice continues the ceremony. Your chance at marriage, and eternal love is gone.

Chain Letter Jon Brunette     When the package arrived, I couldn’t possibly have realized how much it would change my life. It wasn’t like I had expected anything to come, either; in fact, I rarely checked the mail anymore, and I never really cared about the letters that I’d get anyway. I’d only go out to the mailbox so that I could drink, because my wife didn’t allow me to drink inside the house anymore. I never expected anything except bills and those anonymous fliers that everyone got. Still, it came just the same, and I did what I should have done, and, then, I mailed it back out in the same manner that it had been mailed to me.     I had been arguing with my wife for quite a few months. We rarely spoke anymore except to yell at each other. I drove her insane; she drove me to drink. Yet, we still felt jealous around each other. I hated her; she hated me. And, yet, we understood each other—we would never leave each other because neither she nor I could stand to see the other one with someone else. Naturally, I had to fix the problem. And the package that came mailed to me anonymously did fix the problem. Then, I mailed the package back out to someone else in the same manner that it had come to me.     After too many fights with her, I pointed a small caliber pistol at her head, told her to shut her mouth, or I would pull the trigger. She would die, and I could finally live with the girl who bagged my groceries at the local supermarket. I had no interest in her, and, yet, my wife thought that I did. And I wanted her to think so, too, because it would make her easier to kill.     I didn’t want to quit drinking, so I shot her, after I had aimed the gun at her like a small boy might shoot a laser pistol. She slumped forward like she had gotten stomach cramps, and, finally, dropped down onto the floor. Naturally, I had to dispose of her body. Before I did so, though, I had to dispose of the pistol that had killed her. So, I did what the first owner had done.     I rubbed my prints off it, put it inside a small box, and mailed it out just as anonymously. I realized that the first owner had put a fake address in the upper left-hand corner, gotten out of the telephone book, killed his wife, which I also had to assume, and, then, had mailed it back out to some other address in the book, which happened to be mine. I did the same thing, and found two numbers that I shouldn’t have been able to recognize later, and brought the box to the post office to mail. The mailman didn’t require ID, so, naturally, I figured I’d be safe. That was how it came to be in my possession in the first place, and, so, I simply mailed it back out to someone else.     Only, I did one thing the previous owner didn’t do: I put a letter around the barrel filled with newspaper clippings to be found by the recipient. It read, “Kill your wife. Then, mail this back out to someone else in the same manner. Otherwise, you will have a lifetime filled with bad luck,” which would have been true in my case.     Three weeks later, I reread the letter that I had put together, not as a copy (I had made no copies), but the original; I reread the letter out of the Star Tribune, exactly as I had left it tied around the barrel. Apparently, the new owner had taken my advice: he did shoot his wife as my letter had told him to do. Only he had gotten caught. Apparently, he had mailed the .22 caliber out to an address where a cop lived. He’d left the same note tied around the barrel that I had left; only, he had also told the cop how the letter worked, including the gun, and why it could work as it should, but the real surprise had been that he had written his real address on the upper left-hand corner before he’d mailed it back out. Some people really were too stupid to live!     At least, I was not.

Her Mother Before Her Elly Moore     The young girl sat in the yard, content among the choking weeds and the spiders catching their struggling prey. She dreamed and hoped and wasted the day with pointless imagination. Her mother watched. She knew.     The child pretended to be a fairy in a magical land. The weeds fell away, replaced with flowers and beauty. She twirled and twisted, waving her stick wand as though it could mend the world. Her skirts danced in a colorful swirl and her face maintained a broad grin of pleasure. She rode the clouds, feeling the sun on her back and the wind at her cheeks. A quilt of flowers greeted her as she fluttered to the ground. Her eyes closed. When the lids unfurled, the quilt was a thorn bush and the clouds were dirty with pollution. The girl’s smile disappeared. And time went on.     The child pretended to be a cat. She searched for mice among the weeds and purred as she lay in the sun. She drank milk from the sky and contented herself with sleeping. When she opened her eyes, the rain pelted her face and the rocks jutted out from the weeds like blades. Still, time went on.     The girl pretended to be a pirate. She sailed her ship through the ocean and felt the sea spray tickle her skin. She gave orders to the crewmen and she bathed in her gold. Her songs echoed across the ship as she danced. She closed her eyes and she was back in the yard. The wind brushed weeds curled like eerie waves and the crash of the thunder formed a harsh rhythm on the grey earth. Time went on.     The girl pretended to be a superhero. She flew, her blood-red cape flowing behind her. She saved people from the hatred of the world. Her powers surpassed all other heroes. She closed her eyes. When they opened, she was alone. Leaves tumbled off her back and the fire of lightning ripped across the sky. And again, time went on.     The girl pretended to be her mother. Her surroundings became devoid of color. She wandered along feeling the crushing weight of the world. The girl sensed her weighted frown and heard her own heavy sighs. She felt no happiness; the world was tinted only in shades of grey. Her body felt tired and worn with use. She felt anger, but it was not directed at a particular source. She felt hopelessness, but there seemed to be no solution. She felt unhappy, but happiness was out of reach. The girl closed her eyes.     When she opened them, the world was still dull. No longer full of possibilities. No longer full of imagination. She tried to be a fairy. A cat. A pirate. But she did not change.     And just as her mother had, and her mother before her, she melted into society, fully becoming what she had pretended to be, while secretly wishing to be who she truly was.

Heal Thyself Don Massenzio     Ray woke up feeling like he had been run over by a truck. Wait a minute. He remembered that exact event or something very similar. Actually his last memory was riding his vintage Harley down Route 9A on his way home from work. He had worked late and traffic was light. He was behind one of those Buick land yacht type cars; the kind with a little tuft of white hair that is barely visible above the steering wheel. One of Florida’s elderly who still insisted on driving at 30 miles per hour below the speed limit in the left lane with the left blinker on perpetually. As Ray changed to the right lane to pass the Buick, the elderly driver, not seeing him in her mirror, changed lanes as well. Ray remembered flying through the air and thinking to himself, this is gonna hurt. He remembered fits and spurts of consciousness after that. The ambulance; frantic voices in the ER. People were poking and prodding him, but he felt nothing; No pain or sensation at all.     Now he struggled to move his head, an unknown appliance attached to him held him motionless. He sensed various needles in his arms and sensors taped to his chest.     He felt the powerful need to urinate. Just as he was about to feel for some kind of call button, a somber nurse came into the room. She seemed startled when he met her gaze and asked, “Where am I?”     “You’re in intensive care at Mercy General Hospital,” she said.     “Am I hurt badly?”     “Let me get the doctor to answer that for you.”     Ray thought her response was strange. How bad could it be? He felt no pain.     When the doctor came in 30 minutes later, he had the same grim look as the nurse.     “Mr. Manning, I’m Doctor Phelps. It’s good to see that you’ve regained consciousness.”     “How long was I out?”     “About 36 hours. We sedated you due to the severity of your injuries.”     “The casts on my arm and leg, did I break them?”     “You did,” Dr. Phelps hesitated. “There are other, more serious injuries, however...” He trailed off.     “How serious? How long am I going to be here?”     “Mr. Manning, when you were struck by the vehicle, it caused you to be thrown from your motorcycle several feet in the air. You landed head first on the road. Had you not been wearing a helmet, you would not have survived. The impact was severe enough that you crushed several vertebrae. The bone fragments damaged your spinal cord just above the T1 vertebra at the base of your neck.”     “Does that mean what I think it means? Am I paralyzed?”     “Yes sir, from the spot where the spinal cord was damaged.”     “Are you sure? I can still feel my limbs,” Ray said.     “Many times there are phantom feelings in cases like this. I assure you this is what you are experiencing.”     “Well I must have phantom feelings in my bladder. I really felt the urge to pee which has now disappeared.”     “Interesting. We have inserted a catheter to drain the urine from your bladder, but you should not have feeling their either.”     As if challenging what Dr. Phelps had told him, Ray attempted to move the toes of his unbroken left foot. He could feel the rough sheet against his toenails. His foot felt stiff, but the feelings were real. The doctor had a startle look as he watched the sheet move. He tentatively pulled it back.     “Can you move that foot again? I want to rule out spontaneous muscle spasms as the cause.”     Ray moved his toes and the doctor looked puzzled. He took a ball point pen from his lab coat and moved the tip back and forth across the sole of Ray’s foot. The foot reacted with perfect reflexes.     “Let’s check your hands.”     “They seem to be fine,” Ray said as he scratched his nose with the hand of his unbroken right arm.     “I don’t understand,” Phelps said. “This is impossible. I saw your x-rays.”     With this, the doctor left abruptly leaving behind a cloud of frustration.     “Well, he seemed very unhappy with my improved condition,” Ray said to the perplexed nurse.     She gave him an uncomfortable smile and fled the room.     An x-ray technician wheeled the bulky portable x-ray unit into Ray’s room. She positioned the lighted square over Ray’s neck, chest, arm, and leg, pausing to take a shot of each area. Ray could feel the weight of the lead apron over his lower torso and groin area. If he was, indeed, not paralyzed, he was glad for the protection of that area.     As time went by after the x-ray session, Ray grew restless. He felt fine. Finally, Dr. Phelps returned with an older doctor who appeared to be from India.     “Mr. Manning, this is Doctor Suraj. He is the head of our Orthopedics Department. I brought him in to consult on your case.”     “That sounds serious. What’s going on?” Ray asked.     “It is serious, Mr. Manning,” Doctor Suraj said. “But in a positive way, from what we can tell.”     Ray was confused and getting frustrated.     Suraj continued, “I have never witnessed anything like this. I have only heard of occurrences like this anecdotally and dismissed them as myth.”     “Excuse me,” Ray said. “Can you get to the point? What are you talking about?”     “Mr. Manning, as Doctor Phelps told you, you experienced severe injuries as a result of your crash. You crushed multiple vertebrae, broke several bones, damaged several internal organs, and, most severely, damaged your spinal cord. It is a miracle that you survived. The overwhelming miracle, however, is that you seem to have healed.”     “You mean no paralysis?”     Suraj chuckled.     “No Mr. Manning. I mean completely healed. Your spinal cord is intact, your vertebrae are restored. Even your arm and leg are healed. In fact, there is no evidence they were ever broken.”     “How could that be true? It’s only been a couple of days since the crash.”     “I know Mr. Manning. It is a case of spontaneous healing.”     “So I’m completely healed?”     “Mr. Manning, did you break your left wrist as a child?”     “Yes. How did you know?”     “We could tell from your original x-ray. The x-ray we just saw shows no trace of this injury.”     “How could that happen? Is it a mistake? Did you misdiagnose me the first time?”     “I checked and double checked. Skeletons are like fingerprints. I am positive the two x-rays are of the same person and the first one showed extensive damage.”     “Then what caused this? Is it permanent?”     Dr. Suraj hesitated.     “I just don’t know. There is no incident to compare it with. I would like to call in some colleagues on this.”     After being poked and prodded some more by just about every doctor at Mercy General, Ray was cleared for physical therapy. His first session, also his last, left the therapy staff baffled. Not only could he walk normally, he was able to lift more weight with his arms and legs then a man his age should have been able to despite the lack of a workout regimen prior to the accident. His muscle tone and reaction time were the equivalent of a 20 year old. Ray noticed that the knee and back pain that had plagued him for the past ten years had vanished.     Ray spent two months being examined by specialists from around the globe. None of them could find anything unique about him other than his incredible healing power. It continued after the accident. When Ray cut his finger badly fixing dinner about a month after the accident, the digit healed before he could find a bandage for it in the bathroom.     Finally, after extracting more tissue and bodily fluid samples than he could count, the doctors were ready to let him go. Just one more visit to Doctor Suraj. Then he could get back to normal. Doctor Suraj had a much different demeanor for this last meeting. He had ordered an elegant lunch to be served to them in the executive dining room at the hospital.     “Well this is quite a goodbye lunch,” Ray said as they were finishing their salads.     “It’s the least I could do to thank you for your cooperation,” Suraj said.     “I did feel like a pin cushion, but if my inconvenience can help someone else, it was worth it.”     “Speaking of helping others, I was hoping you would allow me to publish your story as a medical study”     “That’s fine as long as I remain anonymous. I don’t want to become a guinea pig for further research.”     “That’s one option, Mr. Manning. I have enough corroboration that would result in getting a study published, but think of the big picture. You have gone through a truly life changing experience. With your personal journey and your body’s regenerative abilities, you can bring great benefit to yourself and have a positive impact on many others.”     Ray considered this. Since his childless marriage ended in divorce four years ago, he had taken his considerable computer skills and moved to Florida to make a new start. He made decent money, and had a few friends, but still felt like he lacked purpose. He tried to put some excitement into his life. The Harley was evidence of that and look how that turned out.     Ray felt inspired when he left the lunch with Doctor Suraj. Many ideas for how to share his story were emerging. He could write a book, become a motivational speaker, or many other possibilities. As he was lost in his thoughts, a familiar face appeared in the hospital corridor. It was Valerie Warren, the nurse from the ward where Ray had spent four weeks while they tried to find something wrong with him. Something about her looked different. She looked frail and thin.     “Hey Valerie. Are you working on a different floor?”     “No I’m off. I’m actually a patient on this floor.”     “Oh. I hope everything is OK”     At this comment, tears formed in Valerie’s eyes. For whatever reason, Ray felt the overwhelming need to hug her. When he did, his body took on a strange feeling. His lower abdomen felt like it was on fire and he collapsed.     Once again, Ray woke up in a hospital bed. He felt fine, just a bit tired. His watch read 2:05 PM which meant he had been out for about an hour. He sat up on the bed. Almost immediately, Doctor Suraj came into the room.     “What is it Doc? Is my healing starting to reverse?”     Suraj lowered himself into the chair, smiled and shook his head.     “Quite the contrary, Ray. This is truly unbelievable.”     “What are you talking about?”     “Did you know that Valerie Warren had terminal ovarian cancer?”     “I didn’t. I thought she looked sick, but I had no idea. How long does she have?”     “She had about three months. Now, she has at least 50 years.”     “OK, now I’m confused. She’s cured?”     “Apparently she is and it appears you cured her.”     “That’s ridiculous. How could I have cured her?”     “She said you passed out right after you hugged her. At the same time, she felt an intense sense of warmth and then nothing, No nausea and no pain. We did an immediate sonogram on you. The technician thought something was wrong with the machine. When she examined your abdomen, a faint pair of ovaries appeared and then vanished. I reviewed the recording and confirmed it. Two ovaries in an advanced cancerous state appeared and then disappeared. Valerie’s sonogram was completely clear of cancer. Ray, this puts our earlier conversation in an entirely new light.     Ray’s life changed from that day forward. Any hope of anonymity was taken out of his control. The media frenzy was in full effect. He was sought and attacked from all sides. Religious groups wanted to claim him as a divine presence. When he resisted, he was condemned by those same groups as a fraud or a demon.     Ray wrote a book with the help of a ghost writer which sold quite well. The numerous unauthorized biographies and tabloid stories diluted Ray’s first-hand account of his life changing journey. He tried public speaking, but instead of drawing people in search of inspiration, it became a parade of broken and battered humans looking for a miracle cure for a variety of maladies. The resulting circus caused Ray to withdraw. He wisely invested the money earned from his book, movie options, and speaking engagements. He was able to build a fortress in the North Carolina Mountains where he could retreat from public attention.     Over the 20 years since his transformation, Ray learned some key things about his healing ability. He could only heal others for whom he felt genuine empathy. Total strangers could not benefit from his power. He had to know the person or have resonance with their history. Each instance of healing caused Ray to temporarily manifest the symptoms and illness of the patient. He could not heal afflictions that existed from birth. Once a person had been healed, Ray needed a period of time to recover. This time varied based on the severity of the illness. He could require anywhere from an hour to a couple of days. Another phenomenon that was a byproduct of Ray’s condition was his apparent lack of aging. Over 20 years, Ray had barely aged visibly. He was now 55 chronologically, but he hadn’t changed much since his accident. Whatever aging he observed seemed to take place after curing a particularly advanced illness. He would suddenly notice a gray hair or fine wrinkle.     Ray did not completely stop using his abilities to alleviate illnesses. He focused his efforts on children. He would identify children with compelling stories with the help of Doctor Suraj. The children with the direst prognoses or those facing the most prolonged and painful treatments were brought back to health by Ray. Parents resisted at first, believing Ray’s abilities were too good to be true. Eventually, with the full weight of despair that only parents of a dying child can experience, they relented and allowed Ray to save their children.     Then, even this strategy hit a significant snag. The child was Jeremy Mason. He had childhood leukemia and his body had rejected two bone marrow transplants. He was brought to Ray’s attention by Dr. Suraj.     “Jeremy is truly a tragic case,” Dr. Suraj told Ray. “His older sister died of the same disease and he has developed the same aggressive type that has been resistant to all treatment.” Ray met Jeremy’s parents and immediately felt strong empathy for their circumstance. Their daughter had died two years earlier at the age of eight while in the midst of treatment that had left her frail and vulnerable to infection. Jeremy had been diagnosed about three months after her death.     “We are at the end of our rope,” Bob Mason, Jeremy’s father, told Ray. “My wife is blaming herself. We just can’t watch two children die like this. Do you really think you can help Jeremy?”     “I can try,” Ray had told them.     This was the truth. Ray had to feel true empathy and, in this case, that was probably not an issue. Ray was now ready to meet Jeremy who was in isolation in the hospital ICU to protect him from infection. He immediately noticed how delicate and small the seven year old was in his bed. He had lost all of his hair and was severely underweight from the aggressive treatment. Ray pulled a chair up next to the bed and as he did Jeremy opened his eyes.     “Jeremy, my name is Ray and I’m going to try to help you feel better.”     Jeremy’s nod was barely perceptible. A weak smile formed on his lips. Ray put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and immediately felt a burning sensation flow through his body. He suddenly felt weak and nauseous. He had felt this sensation many times before, but this time it was stronger. He knew that he would black out soon and then awake fully recovered. Right before blacking out, however, disturbing images passed before his eyes like a music video full of quick cuts. He saw a small dog, a white puppy, happily wagging its tail. Next, he felt the sensation of kicking the dog and felt his own hands around the dog’s neck choking the life out of it. Then darkness. Ray woke two hours later feeling drained but otherwise OK. He sat up on the edge of the hospital bed and slipped on his shoes. As he was in the restroom splashing water on his face, a nurse came in to check on him.     “Mr. Manning, are you alright?”     “I am. I’m actually ready to leave.”     “Before you go, the Masons would like to see you.”     Ray usually tried to avoid this. He didn’t want recognition and hated the attention he received from those that benefitted from his abilities. His abilities were due to a freak occurrence. He didn’t earn them or work toward having them. He was just in the right place at the right time. Somehow being recognized for the outcomes he provided seemed wrong. In this case, however, he remembered the vision of the dog. That was something new and it pushed Ray to meet with the Masons.     When Ray arrived at Jeremy’s room, Mr. and Mrs. Mason were sitting on either side of his bed. Jeremy was sitting up eating a cheeseburger and fries like someone who hadn’t eaten in days. When they saw Ray, Jeremy’s parents immediately brightened. They looked ten years younger than when Ray had first met them nearly three hours before.     “Mr. Manning, what can we do to thank you?” Jeremy’s mother said.     “I take it things look encouraging?” Ray asked.     “The initial blood test after you...saw Jeremy shows a normal white blood cell and platelet count,” Bob Mason said. “The doctors are very encouraged. They just want to keep him for a couple of days to be sure.”     “And Jeremy is hungry,” Mrs. Mason added. “That’s the most encouraging sign of all.”     “That’s great,” Ray said. “Jeremy, how are you feeling?”     Jeremy looked up from his ketchup soaked fries He had new life in his eyes.     “I feel good. I want to go home.”     “You will soon sweetie,” his mother said. “Can you thank Mr. Mason?”     “Thanks,” Jeremy said through a mouthful of cheeseburger.     As Ray was getting ready to leave he decided to ask about what he saw in his vision.     “Mr. Mason, do you have a dog?”     The Masons exchanged a quick look.     “We had a puppy. Jeremy’s grandmother thought a dog might help Jeremy take his mind off his illness,” Bob Mason said.     “You said you had a puppy. What happened to it?”     Another exchange of looks took place between the Masons.     “I went to let the puppy out one morning and found that he had died during the night. Jeremy was too sick to pay much attention to him. I guess we all were so focused on Jeremy, we neglected the little guy.”     As Bob Mason was telling this story, Ray noticed a disturbing smile pass across Jeremy’s face. Could he have killed the puppy? Is that what I saw in my vision?     Ray eventually put the encounter with the Masons out of his mind until a dark day in September eight years later. While watching the morning news, a disturbing story from a small town in New Mexico caught his attention. It was yet another school shooting. Ray watched the story, like many others, waiting for the body count and the gory details. Seventeen students and five teachers, along with the principal, had been gunned down at a high school. The gunman, in typical cowardly fashion, had put a bullet in his own head before the authorities could get to him. When the fifteen year old gunman’s picture and name were put on the screen, Ray’s heart sank. It was Jeremy Mason. He was older now, but that same devilish smile that Ray saw as Bob Mason talked about the death of the puppy was on Jeremy’s face in the photo.     Ray was in agony. What had he done? Instead of saving one life, he had allowed the premature end of 24 other lives. A long period of depression followed. Ray reached out to Doctor Suraj, now retired. He was very matter-of-fact about the situation.     “Ray, as a doctor, I have learned not to judge the patient. I never agonized over the moral character of those that I saved. My job was to fight their ailment and move on to the next patient.”     “But I had a premonition into this boy’s character and ignored it.”     “Ray, you cannot blame yourself over this. If the boy had these tendencies at an early age, any people, including his parents and teachers, also missed it.”     Ray felt only marginally better. One thing was certain. He would not be saving any more lives until he sorted this out.     As the next ten years passed, Ray sank deeper into depression. He became an alcoholic and began a three pack a day smoking habit. In spite of his behavior, his body recovered. He would drink and smoke all day and wake up the next day hangover-free ready to do it all again.     He came to hate his very existence. At a chronological age of 70, he was still in the physical shape and had the appearance of someone just over 35. He began to attempt suicide on a regular basis. Cutting his wrists resulted in a mess, but the wounds healed before he could bleed to death. Hanging was no good He just hung from the rope fully conscious. He tried shooting himself in the head. It hurt like hell, but all of the damage repaired itself and he woke up on the floor with another mess to clean.     He became more isolated and reclusive. At the age of 95, virtually everyone Ray knew had died of old age. Doctor Suraj was long dead. Even those he had saved had passed into their 60s and 70s and were beginning to die off. Even with all of his alcohol abuse and suicide attempts, Ray had aged only slightly.     On his 96th birthday, sixty one years after his accident, Ray was ready for one last grand attempt to take his life. He had tried individual suicide methods, but he had a theory that combining multiple methods might be too much for his body to recover from. He had planned it out carefully ordering the highest strength sleeping pills available through several online pharmacies. He had filled several containers with gasoline. On the night of his 96th birthday, he would go out in style.     Ray soaked the entire first and second floors of his house with gasoline. He saved the last gallon for his bed. He trailed gas up the stairway to his room and then soaked his bed. Ray purchased a remote control electrical outlet and plugged it in downstairs. He stripped the wires of an extension cord and plugged it into the outlet. All he needed was a spark to start the gasoline burning.     Ray settled on his bed. He smashed nearly 80 sleeping pills into a powder and funneled the powder into a bottle of scotch. His plan was to drink the mixture and, just as he was on the edge of consciousness, trigger the fire downstairs. The amount of drugs in the liquor was enough to kill ten men. While Ray’s healing abilities would be fighting off the drugs, the fire would burn him to a crisp. His theory was that his body could not possibly recover from the dual assault.     Ray drank the liquor/sleeping pill mixture and began to feel the wave of artificial drowsiness wash over him. Just before closing his eyes for what he hoped was the last time, he hit the remote’s on switch. A he drifted off, the last sound he heard was the high-pitched squeal of the smoke alarm.     Ray saw a blindingly bright light. Was this it? Had he succeeded? He had read many accounts of near death experiences where patients reported seeing a bright light. He saw faces hover around him. Were these other souls that had crossed into the afterlife? A wave of euphoria washed over Ray. Had he actually accomplished what he set out to do so many times without success?     Then he heard voices murmuring. Then a single authoritative voice.     “Welcome back Mr. Manning. You are in the hospital. You’ve been in a terrible fire. You’ve suffered third-degree burns over 95% of your body. You’ve been fighting off the burns, however, and new skin has formed. It’s quite miraculous. We believe you are going to fully recover with no visible effects from the fire. You are one lucky man.”     One lucky man indeed.     All euphoria faded away and Ray could feel the tears flowing from his eyes.

Army of Evil Fritz Hamilton     Army of Evil/ Jesoo leading his troops/ crucifixion of the animals/ screaming thru their lungs/ Muhammed leading the charge/ his balls turn black & fall into the garbage/ line of crucifixions goes round the world/ setting it afire like marshmellows & weenies/ schizophrenics & paranoics/ skin torn asunder leaving only bone/ the dead screaming, tortured in the frozen pools/ then heating back up, skin boiling off.     Himmler’s head falls off into Heydrich’s lap/ dick dissolved in white acid/ Whitey Bulger terrorizes Boston, strangling his sisters, decapitating his brothers/ laughter from the pope/ slipping down the mountain over slimy rocks/ penises pissing thru the clouds/ flooding out Colorado/ drowning Bolder/ the soul of Asama bin Laden afire with the devil/ ARMY of EVIL/ ARMY primevil/ great balls afire !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!///////////////}}} the eyes have it/ ALL are BLIND/ sightless sightless/ all is dark . . . . . . !     “What’s the matter, Fred? U have no eyeballs. Yr nose is electrified in its socket/ yr nostrils ignite/ U have nothing to lose but yr pupils/ students run rampant/ Jesoo is a barking dog/ the bark is up the wrong tree, which is the root of agony/ butterflies lose their wings, as the fat lady sings/ mares eat oats & little lions eat ivy, & tigers carry the barnyard asunder.”     Rain floods Colorado. Jesoo drowns in the mud/ muckamuck be dead . . . !

How an Artist Brightens a Dull Room David Hernandez I’m in an Econo lodge lobby waiting for my interview with the manager, gray painted walls mixed with brass painted frames doesn’t help to lighten my mood. If I were hired, I would add my paintings composed of abstract techniques, from blending of colors to creating different shades, except the hotel would become an art museum, losing its quiet leisure time. I would play violin music or Chinese music to keep the body active and cheerful, play different movies centered on family and fun, but visitors want to rest and stay updated on current events. I could save enough money to put three fish tanks, of koi fish and salt water fish, in the lobby. This isn’t a zoo though, and I don’t have the time to take care of the fish. Maybe I’ll stick to welcoming guests and giving them the keys to their room, if I get hired.

How to Keep Your Mind Occupied? David Hernandez I wonder which one the truck driver will pick for his trip to Ruidoso, NM: chocolate donuts or white donuts, Paydays or Airheads, M&M’s or Recess? Circle K is known for its various sweets, and not just for its hot dogs and potato chips. Three bags of white donuts and a case of purified water is what he was supposed to pick, except he went to use the restroom. After zipping his fly, he proceeded to his trip, his gasoline tank already full. It gets boring, standing by the cash register. To pass the time, I make guesses on what customers decide to buy. If I am wrong, at least I get a good laugh, especially when I’m standing outside the store without any money only an “Anything Helps” sign.

Into Someone Else’s Shoes David Hernandez Autism—a brain deficient disorder, affected me at the age of three up to my twenties. Life was easy, I didn’t have to worry about finding a job. I lived with my parents who cared for me, preparing my meals and sometimes treating me to a restaurant. It’s not safe for someone like me living alone. I played with my puzzles three to four times and watched cartoons on television for long hours, without any concern for employment. Except, I had to review my alphabet and English each day; though I still have trouble forming sentences. My parents gave me coins because I couldn’t afford any finances; although, I couldn’t learn the value of money, only mooching. I always had cartoons on my mind, never learning a trade. If I wasn’t treated to a restaurant or any fun activity, I would demand it, sometimes in rage and aggression. This is the kind of person I was forced to be each day. Maybe if I was in a wheelchair and not on autism, I could qualify for employment.

Living on a Prayer David Hernandez Strapped down to my hospital bed for fear I might attack the nurses after losing my sanity’s control, my eyes gaze at the barred window. My ears can’t hear the cars. I ask if I will ever leave past those far buildings. I still ask, even without a response.

The Meek Shall Inherit the Asphalt Robert Crowl     The black asphalt scorched beneath us as the man atop the marching tower thundered through a megaphone. A football field painted the parking lot, hash marks and yard lines brightening our destinations. Pimply preteens and puffed chests surrounded me. To my right, a young man stood, thumb hooked just above the crotch of his soccer shorts, a white t-shirt draped over his manicured chest. He half listened to the marching god’s booming speech and half examined his muscular chest and stomach for hairs he’d missed. His auburn hair was short and pushed back, a modern day James Dean. He smirked at a girl several rows up with hair the color of the hash marks. Her head tilted to the left, irises scanning their edges for the hairless boy’s attention. Her white top hung off one shoulder revealing a brown curve of skin. My eyes could have lived in that curve. Her blue eyes resembled the veins that showed through my skin; her soft brown cheeks begged to be danced next to. Other awkward emaciated boys and girls in front of me eyed that shoulder, the girls longing to be her, the boys longing to know her.     My attention returned to the optimistic tones descending from the tower. Upperclassmen placed us in successive rows, a few yards separating new recruits and old. The marching god’s tone changed.     ““BAND,” means at ease, your chin falling to your chest, hands and arms flat against your side.” The taller and less pimpled youth snaked through the rows, demonstrating the god’s directives, molding recruits like malleable statues. Most of those being shaped resembled me, frail and translucent, eyes retreating from the eyes of the tanner, shapelier molders.     I kept my face glued to the asphalt; sweat moistening the blonde mop of hair on my forehead. My hands clung to my side like someone mimicking a fish. Everyone was silent except for the upperclassmen correcting freshman form. The director looked down on his creatures, our heads bowed in service.     God wore black cotton shorts and a white polo. His tucked shirt revealed pleats and a braided belt. Hands gripped the metal railing of the marching bunker, as he looked through lenses and frames at the chess pieces bending below. His cheeks were chubby as if he stored his next directive. His socks crept up his ankles from sneakers reflecting the sun, a deity walking on clouds. When he looked at us, he saw geometry, like the choreography of clouds above him. His computer bent our numbers across yard lines, expanding and condensing us into forms that pleased him.     We learned several other directives, beneath the unforgiving star, the sun climbing higher than our new god, preteen flowers wilting as they tried to maintain attention and pantomime themselves holding imaginary horns, fearing the choreographer’s judgment.     My arches pressed tightly together, spine straight as a yard line, hands overlapped a foot in front of my lips, as I waited for the tan molders. God wanted our hands to be the tip of the triangle, forearms the sides, elbows the points of the base. Our triceps paralleled the asphalt.     We held our imaginary brass and woodwinds as the heat reminded us we could glisten. The freshmen revealed themselves, eyes widening, hands drooping and shaking from fatigue. The boy on my right sputtered, bending at the waist. If his horn had been real, his notes would have been hitting the blistering asphalt. I started to hear groans from his direction of varying lengths and degrees. Then, out of the corner of my frozen position, I saw my pale neighbor’s hands fall to his stomach and his head bend toward the black sea. The vomit was a chunky white consistency like cottage cheese. One of the molders ushered the frail boy to the shade beside the school, his face as pale as his skin. There were murmurings of the cardinal sin of freshman dairy consumption. I’d been too nervous to eat anything.     God held us at attention for what felt like a sweltering, wet eternity. I was starting to hallucinate. I swore I saw an angel appear in front of my imaginary horn, her wingless shoulder exposed. Her ponytail was precise, not a single hair askew, her light eyes contrasting the hellish floor. Her lace blouse reminded me of the clouds on which the director was walking, and I thought heaven must be in those clouds. I wanted to sleep on those clouds, far from this giant hotbed of acne and the sour stench of cottage cheese.     “Pull your elbows further apart. It will feel more comfortable.” Her soft hands took me, gently widening the base of the triangle my arms were creating. I breathed easier, my chest less constricted.     “Thank you,” my voice cracking like the split pavement beneath my feet.     “GLIDE STEP SECTIONALS!” My arms went limp at my side. The chess pieces scattered into groups of those who imagined similar instruments as themselves. I played the trombone, my previous three years spent immobile on carpeted risers, my god beneath me at a podium covered in music notes and staff paper, not hash marks and geometry.     I found my group and fell in my new line. My new god was James Dean’s clone, soccer shorts pulsating as he barked at the underclassmen. He began demonstrating the way we were to move on his father’s chessboard. Like the felt bottomed pieces of ivory, we were forbidden to walk. Instead, he taught us to glide, assuming attention, extending his heel to the asphalt in front of him and rolling to his toe. I was amazed at the fluidity of his stride, the gravel hardly disturbed beneath him like he walked above it.     “It’s like driving a stick. You ease the gas with your front foot, your back foot letting off the clutch.” His analogy fell on felt-green ears, brows furrowing at his foreign analogy, hairless lips curving into grins.     He told us the god demanded our upper body remain still above our traversing hips and feet to prevent the sound from being disturbed. I felt clumsy taking those first steps, like relearning to walk. We practiced the directive until our feet rolled like clouds, two sets of clouds rolling above us.     The chess pieces were summoned back to the board; our final directive of day one was to aggregate our training. The Director stood on his tower, the megaphone pinned to his lips. The afternoon sun blistered the skin of the green recruits, enriching the skin of the seasoned.     “BAND!” Heads fell and feet spread, a choir of shame. God smiled.     “DETAIL ATTEN-TION!” The arches of sneakers snapped together, heads shooting up like morning glories at dawn.     “BAND HORNS UP!!”     “TSSS!” The pieces responding to their director in aspirated praise, hands being married in military unison by each recruit. Every piece was a carbon copy of his neighbor, hands folded before faces, arms descending like the sides of mountains to parallel arms, an invisible line connecting elbows.     They’d trained us well, most of us. I looked around without moving my head. With each order from the tower, there were recruits stumbling, forgetting their training. Heads would snap up, instead of tending to chests or arms would fling up prematurely. The molders had returned, ridiculing the miscopied carbon. I feared their scorn, my ears tuned to the director’s words.     The curve of skin winded the crowd, her jean shorts hugging shapely hips, her blouse almost too short, yielding her tan stomach to the lesser recruits. I swallowed her with my eyes. I wanted to digest her, absorbing the nutrients of her. My ears lost the tune of my marching god, plunging themselves wholeheartedly into that curve of skin. Unconsciously, my head had turned toward her, dissonance in the ranks. Her eyes were scanning her master’s subjects. Her eyes found mine. She acknowledged me, her hand rising then tracing the lace neckline above her breasts.     “RECRUIT!” My face misted with spit as I woke to the manicured chest and dimpled chin of my section leader screaming in my face. Our faces were nearly touching as he attempted to shame me with his smooth, puffed chest.     “WHY AREN’T YOU FOLLOWING YOUR DIRECTOR’S ORDERS?” I started to remember where I was, the angel retreating from my mind. The other chess pieces were quiet and still, but I knew they were searching the edges of their eyes for me. I sensed the marching god’s eyes burning my scalp like the midday sun.     “I GOT DISTRACTED, SIR, BY THE BEAUTIFUL GIRL AT 3 O’CLOCK! IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN, SIR!” The light refracted off his nylon shorts as he stumbled over the audacity of my comment. I heard the angel laugh, other chess pieces joining her chorus. James Dean sucked in air, preparing to unleash more spit into my irritated pores.     “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THI-“     “JOSH! LEAVE THE KID ALONE!” The megaphone squeaked as the Director’s finger released the amplifier. Josh snapped his head toward the tower, his fists as tight as the fresh shave on his chest. He looked back at me, my body held at full attention, arms in instrumental pantomime, and then stormed toward the shade of the school. The chess pieces were chattering over James Dean’s taking. I looked ahead, my stomach holding the queen as tight as the denim held her hips.     “FORWARD MARCH!” The musical army stepped forward, heels rolling to toe to heel. The gravel crunched beneath us as we glided. My upper body floated as still as some unquantifiable cloud, where merciful gods destined angels to sleep with pale princes.     My chest puffed beneath the proud eyes of my maker. The black asphalt had cooled in the early evening fade and cars were gathering near the concrete field to take home recruits. There was a slight breeze meeting my face as I marched heel to toe to heel... Meanwhile, a bare shouldered woman stood on the fringes of the marching crowd, her light eyes fixed on the elbows she’d set right, his stomach still absorbing her in long deep draws.

Things Made Scarce Robert Crowl     He kept on putting his things into the suitcase: button-down shirts, t-shirts, socks, jeans, etc.... He was methodical, filling the spaces like a game of Tetris. The mesh pouch on the back of the suitcase was stuffed plump with socks folded like tentacles and crumpled briefs.     He hadn’t folded them.     There were empty and half-filled boxes around the house, resembling tiny, cardboard freight cars. All that could be heard was the hsss of the coffee pot as he tread from room to room. He had no need entering some of the rooms, although some of their occupants and fixtures he had wrought. He breathed out, turning toward his dresser, picking up two crude napkin holders. The inside of the fired clay bore a troop number and his son’s initials. He carefully wrapped them in stiff packing paper, depositing them in a nearby freight car.     Outside, a car door slammed; he lifted the blinds to an empty driveway.     He returned to the dresser and retrieved an 8x10 picture frame clumsily covered in seashells and dried clumps of hot glue. Inside the frame was an awkward man in a palm tree print shirt the color of a sunset. His stance was deliberate but feigned. His arm was weakly extended to his right, disappearing behind a young girl in a grass skirt and sandals. The bottom of the picture read, “Father Daughter Dance 1994.” He collected another two sheets of newspaper, wrapped the frame, and eased it beside the napkin holders. It tilted and fell pushing the other contents in the box aside like a man with whisky induced motor deficits. The man winced.     The house was as quiet as the boxes’ destination would be.     He walked toward the kitchen. Before turning left down the long hallway that opened to the faux tile floor and dining room, he stopped in front of the two doors that led to their rooms. He went left; the brass knob was cold.     His son’s room was strange, like somewhere he didn’t belong; yet there were traces of him everywhere: the wicker shelf, neatly packed with jewel cases and VHS tapes had been a wedding gift and bore his obsessive neatness, the shirts that hung in the closet, assorted by color, the bed made with military care, and the picture frames hung with leveled precision, as if he was trying to hide something. He looked at the mattress. He pictured his frail boy’s face squished beneath his palm, his knee digging into his son’s squirming spine, the comforter darkening with tears.     He walked across the hall. There was a dollhouse on his left, occupied by Barbie’s and Kens of every season, an ironic army of perfectly sculpted people. The girl’s no longer played with dolls, innocence fading like the rhodium plating on his wedding ring.     The kitchen tile was cold on his feet, as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He looked out the window at the grass he’d spent countless hours mowing. He had a ritual: a blue bandana folded neatly and tied snug around his forehead, the paisley border darkening with sweat as the sun ascended, frayed jean shorts, and tennis shoes stained as green as a Heineken label lit beneath a blinking neon. He remembered raking the cropped blades into soft mounds, his son and daughters pouncing on his work. His brow would furrow at these moments of innocence like a man trying to hide something. He’d labor in the heat, his body bright with sweat, chest hair hanging dark and heavy, until every blade was bagged and edge of yard trimmed flush with the concrete. The grass had since crept onto the concrete and toward the sun.     Outside, he heard the low hum of an idling engine and bolted for the door. The hinges squeaked their irritatingly familiar song, and when he looked through the glass screen, his shoulders sank. Two portly men in black back braces awkwardly hopped from their 26' freight car on wheels. The buttons on their shirts were strained against their stomachs. Their back braces looked like cummerbunds held by suspenders; dressed fine for the great departure.     He taped up the remaining boxes as they escorted reminders of his presence from the premises. With each box and chair removed, the stranger he felt in those walls. The house was becoming something new.     The truck door closed with a clink. He was pinned against the window, the two rotund conveyers moist and sour in the small cab. The reverse beep sounded in long, slow tones as the truck eased into the street. The pregnant freight pulled from the station, the packing paper and sweaty escorts hugging things made scarce.

Too Smart? Eric Burbridge     Carlena Jaster stabbed at her keyboard. “You need a thesis theme and title today, it has priority,” her mom said. Ten minutes later she walked into the kitchen and handed her mother the title. She closed the oven, sniffed at the air and expelled a sigh of pleasure. Carlena’s frustration translated into:     Totalitarian Authority Infused into Domestic Situations.     Her mom’s pleasant expression turned into a frown. Carlena anticipated that and stepped back. Elsa Jaster, a petite woman of fifty still maintained exceptional strength and agility for her age. She balled up the paper and tossed it in the garage. “What does that mean, young lady?”     Carlena’s lower back muscles tightened. “I respectfully disagree, I’m tired and this thing isn’t due for weeks...disrespectfully; you’re wrong and if that makes you mad, try this.”     “Try what?” Her mom snapped and stepped closer.     “Sean and I want to get married.”     “What? You’re ten years old...Oh; I forgot ten years and six months...I want to get married.” Elsa mimicked. “You wish.” The oven timer beeped, Elsa hurried and removed her last batch of cookies. She dropped the pan on the oven’s electric eye and shook her fingers. “Woo! That’s hot.” Carlena moved to the opposite side of the kitchen island. “Going over there won’t save you if I want to snatch your smart butt!” She sighed. “You know what...”     “OK, mom...I’m going to my room; save me a cookie.” Carlena avoided her mother and walked pastthe row of Sub-Zero refrigerators to the servant’s corridor and elevator. She turned a corner and stopped. One, two, three.     “This is Elsa Jaster, put attorney Miles on the phone.” Carlena heard a cabinet door slam. “What do you mean he’s not available?”     The elevator door opened; Carlena stepped in. “Nice try mom, you’re so predictable.” When things got rough she put Miles on standby. What would be his reaction to a ten year old who wants to get married? “Now stay calm, Elsa,” he’d say. “She’s bluffing.” Her mom knew she was serious. Carlena’s gift of academic genius, her father’s logic and her mom’s cunning worried the hell out of her.     The old folks in the family said, “She was ten going on fifty.”     She waved at Maria polishing the sculptures at the other end of the hall and kicked open her bedroom door. She flopped on the bed and called her fiancée.     “Hello.”     “Hi honey, you busy?” Carlena asked.     “No, Jamal left after I mated him in four moves.”     “Guess what?” Sean Berden sighed, “You were right as usual.”     “We were right; she called Miles sooner than I thought. He might think I’ll call him for advice, but we’ll consult with our own lawyer.” She looked out her window when her dad’s limo pulled up. “Sean, I’ll hit you back.”     “OK.”     She slipped on green denim shorts and a white blouse. She ran her fingers though her blond streaked hair and tied it in a bun. She whisked pastthe maid and slid down the handrail on the spiral staircase. Leon Jaster picked up his little girl and twirled her around. “Hello, princess, how you doing?”     “Good daddy.”     Leon kissed her on the forehead. “I got to grab a bag and turn right around and fly to Europe. It’s an emergency.” He didn’t know what she told her mom. If he knew he would’ve drug her into his study. Why didn’t she tell? She didn’t take her seriously; Nathan Miles convinced her she wasn’t serious. Sean said that might happen. Their parents would hear their position through an attorney. *     “What in the hell do two ten year olds want with an attorney? They got any money?” Ephraim Collier’s long legs and size sixteen shoes slid off his cluttered desk. The former 6'6" NFL wide receiver buttoned his beige blazer and walked up to his secretary and kissed her. “Before this interruption I had plans for those beautiful legs.”     The shapely young Latina blushed. “They’ll be here in a minute, they’re on their way up.”     “You know anything about these kids?”     “Yeah...They’ll love the décor,” she pointed at the stacks of files spread everywhere.     “Seriously, Tina.”     “They’re the youngest daughter of the billionaire Jaster family and the youngest son of the equally rich Berdens. Jaster & Berden Financial, Inc. big time Wall Streeters, I thought you knew; sounds like money to me. God knows you need it. They’re kid geniuses, probably crazy, but don’t under estimate them.”     “Why me, their family can buy a law firm?” The buzzer sounded.     “You’re about to find out, Attorney Collier.” His secretary went to the door. “Ready?” He nodded.     Collier towered over the two rich kids. He shook their little hands and smiled.     They dress like rich kids, rich professional kids, whatever that was, they’re it. “How are you kids doing?”     “We’re fine Attorney Collier,” Sean said. He unbuttoned his suit coat. “Mr. Collier, with all due respect please don’t refer to us as kids; please. Can we sit?”     Collier cleared his throat and pulled the chairs away from his cluttered desk. “Yeah, yeah, have a seat.” Arrogant and rich, what a combination.     Sean guided Carlena in her seat. He sat and crossed his legs. “My name is Sean and this is Carlena. You know our parents or should I say you know of them. I hope you don’t have any reservations about interracial harmony whether it’s intimate or not.” The youngsters focus intensified on the lawyer.     “Uh...no, none whatsoever.” Collier said. Look at Tina, you little bastards. “Why you ask?”     “Good, being the dark one,” Sean giggled. “Of the adopted crew of the Berdens sometimes people don’t recognize my intelligence.” Carlena nodded, smiled and adjusted the strap on her dress.     And he’s conceited. “Well, it’s not every day young people come to see me.”     “We’ve done research Mr. Collier and you are a bit of a maverick.” Collier nodded. “We also know we cannot hire you being minors, but we need a rep and consultation.”     “OK.”     “We figure, well we know,” Sean looked around the disorganized office. “You need the money. Money our parents will pay and you don’t tolerate intimidation.” Flatter me kid, I love it. Whatever you want it must be good! “Mr. Collier we want to get married,” Sean said.     “Jesus! Married, you’re kidding, right?” Two stoned face kids...they are serious. “Sorry those looks say it all.”     “For your information, we are not sexually active...we have not reached puberty.”     Thank God for that. This is great, tell me more. Collier covered his mouth and coughed. “Well, uh, I don’t know what to say, but I’m glad pregnancy isn’t involved. I’ll be blunt, what’s the angle?”     “The angle? Well you could call it that, but it will make a lot of sense to a lot of people when they hear us. When we sit at the table opposite our parents we need counsel. What do you think?     “Well, Sean and Carlena, I’m in.” They shook and sealed the deal. *     Sean and Carlena held hands in plain view for their parents and Nathan Miles. They wore matching grayish suits that Carlena made in her spare time for a special occasion. Everybody walked in the conference room of Miles and Associates and sat opposite each other. Carlena salivated at the upcoming dogfight. The Jasters and the Berdens kept it simple and agreed to use Miles only. The billionaires weren’t competitors, but the contempt for Collier was apparent. Elsa dressed semi-formally for all meetings. The Berdens were the exact opposite; khaki’s and t-shirts were their style.     Collier avoided the hateful stares of his client’s parents. Collier cut his eyes at Miles, “Nice office, Mr. Miles; love that view. Polarized glass filters the sun and still displays the vivid colors of the horizon and the skyline, must have cost a fortune I should be so lucky.”     Nathan Miles lips tightened and his nostrils flared, “I’ve never heard of you or your legal skills, Mr. Collier.”     “So much for being gracious, Miles, you’re supposed to acknowledge a compliment.” Collier opened his battered attaché case and placed a file on the mahogany table. “You don’t need to hear of me...you know I’m only here to counsel these young people; got that? And, if you or your clients don’t like it, well that’s too bad. This isn’t about us, right? So let’s get on with it.” Collier leaned back, tossed his pen on the table and nodded at Sean.     Sean stood, adjusted his slacks and smiled. “Mom, dad and Mrs. Jaster I want to marry your daughter. This is ridiculous for two ten year olds to ask, but I’ll let my fiancée explain in a way for more eloquent than I so you’ll understand our position.” He sat and scanned the room.     “Whoa...you are serious.” Mr. Berden shot to his feet. “How in the hell do you ask something like that?”     Carlena felt the stare when she stood. “I’ll explain,” and cleared her throat. “Both of us have genius IQ’s, something you are proud of and something you’ve made sure everybody knows. How many people our age are licensed air car operators? Not many, no matter how much money they have.” Carlena got those ‘you arrogant little bastard’ looks. They hadn’t disappointed her yet. They’ll love this next one. She sat and bumped her fiancées knee and smiled. “You, the country and most of the world do not think kids can deal with the responsibility of matrimony. And, what’s that anyway? Making money babies or argues half the time like our parents.” Sean nodded.     “Wait a minute, young lady!” her mom screamed.     “Let me finish. You all overlook us because we’re kids, but we listen and observe. Look at the country’s divorce rate, it’s ridiculous. Why get married? People twenty to a hundred go through the ceremony and two years later they go their separate ways. What an example; we can do better.”     “No, you can’t!” Everybody gave Elsa that ‘you’re being rude look and shut up.’     “And, before I forget, we’re not sexually active; no lust involved in our decision.” Carlena said. “At the least you should consider our request. Remember when me and my fiancée innovated various financial products that made your friends tons of money? We didn’t hear ‘no’ then.” Carlena looked in each one of their eyes. Their clueless expressions pissed her off.     Let’s see if they like this.     “We know you have to sign off on this, but we’re still too young to marry in any state. But, we need you to OK a lawyer.”     “For what?” Sean’s mom asked. The short obese blonde ran her hands along the table’s mirror shine, but she didn’t take her eyes off Carlena.     “To sue you and the state,” the couple said in unison.     “Ha, ha...very cute,” Elsa snapped.     “We know it’s hard for old people to keep an open mind, but listen for a minute. Here are our suggestions for what we call ‘Revitalize Marriage by Increasing Participation.’”     “This is bullshit.” Elsa said.     Nathan Miles got up and cleared the hall. Nosy associates tried to get an angle to watch through the transparent partitions.     Carlena pushed copies to everybody. “Well first; the legal age of consent should be between ten and fifteen. The human body evolved in the last two decades, more kids reach puberty sooner. And, with hormonal change, in some cases, comes an increase in mental maturity. There’s plenty of research to substantiate this so your politician friends might listen.”     “Our politician friends?” Elsa asked.     “Yes, you know the laws have to change.” Carlena said. “In the early part of the century look at the gay rights and immigration rights passed. If nothing else it will give the politicians something to debate. One percenters invested billions to shift more money and power from the mid-classers so the exceptional can enhance society. Just think you can revitalize the institution by including more people with IQ matching.”     “Wait...wait, IQ matching?” Mrs. Berden asked and paged through the folder looking for the info.     “Yes, IQ matching, couples should have the same mental capability, without it they will not make it.” Carlena watched their heads shake. She expected that, but they still paid attention. “Look at our schools, idiots go to school with idiots and the others have done well. Opposites don’t attract and stay married. Look at us; you did a good job and there are others like us.”     “Don’t try to patronize me, Carlena. I hate that!” Her mom shouted.     “I’m not; I’m pointing out the plans of the elite worked. Good breeding, good education, good health care and superior technology produce those offspring, so give us more respect.”     “That sounds like that crap my mom told me the hippies said a hundred years ago. That and end some stupid war,” Elsa said. “I can hear the masses now, “One percenter’s kids can marry at 10. We got enough trouble keeping the mid and low classers in check, now this.”     “Mom, you’ll be hearing about the others who want to get married.”     Silence, was all she got. Well, take this.     “We plan on cohabitating until the law passes.”     “You want to shack,” Elsa laughed until her eyes watered. Everybody cracked a smile. Carlena didn’t know if it was funny or her mom’s weird cackle. “No, and don’t ask again. Jesus, you got gall young lady.” Elsa looked at Sean. “I never thought you’d go for this Sean.”     “Surprise, Mrs. Jaster.”     “Have some respect, Sean! This meeting is over, let’s go.” Mr. Berden said. “You’re leaving with us one way or another.” Sean hugged Carlena and followed his parents. *     Ephraim Collier filed suit and issued various petitions and complaints to the proper agencies. The politicians laughed, especially the enemies of the Jaster & Berden owned financial institutions. Against their attorney’s advice the couple brought the media into it. The thought of their proposal generated mixed reviews amongst the progressives, but the conservatives hated it.     Carlena thumbed through her tablet at the hatred of the mid and low classer’s blogs.     BILLIONAIRE BRATS BEG FOR ATTENTION FROM MOMMY AND DADDY.     ONE PERCENTERS USE KIDS TO TRY TO CHANGE MARRIAGE.     GENIUS KIDDIES HAVE HIGHER IQS THAN GOD?     JOIN THE ARMY, GO TO THE MEXICAN FRONT AND THEN GET MARRIED!     ADULTS MARRY NOT KIDS!     The late night comedians disrespected them more than anyone when they declined to appear on their shows: “THE ONE PERCENTERS STOLE EVERTHING BUT PUBERTY...GIVE THEM TIME THEY’LL MESS THAT UP TOO.     Good the media didn’t know about their cohabitation plan. If they did they’d put a contract on their parents.     A wave of depression hit Carlena like a gust of wind. She needed to talk to Sean about an alternate solution. The hologram lit up, Sean bright smile warmed her heart. “Hi honey, how are you?”     “Good and you?”     “Better.” Carlena said. “Let’s elope.”     “Elope?”     “Yeah, we can stay at the house in the Hampton’s for a few days. We can have a private mock ceremony with friends who think like us. You can get your brother to drive us over there for a beach party then we do it. What do you think?”     “Sounds good, but I got a better idea an idea that will be good for me too.”     “You too?”     Jamal, Sean’s buddy stuck his face in the projection. “Hey Carlena, what’s up?”     “I didn’t know you had company, Hi Jamal.” Carlena said, dryly. “Explain Sean, I’m confused.”     “OK, we elope I got that, but let’s have a tri-marriage ceremony.”     “Tri-marriage! That’s for the frickin’ LBGT people; two guys and a girl and vice-versa.” Carlena clinched her fist. “Sean, you better not be gay! And don’t tell me it’s Jamal.”     “Why not Carlena, it’s true?”     “You haven’t reached puberty yet or have you? I know he hasn’t he’s only nine.”     “I have not,” snapped Sean. “But I have compulsions and fantasies. This could be good for us.”     “Go to hell, Sean!” Carlena picked up a glass vase and threw it at the projection. It shattered in a million pieces and electrical sparks crackled and popped from the holographic phone. “You lying son of a bitch...you made a fool of me!” Her arms sweep across her dresser; all her jewelry and accessories flew everywhere. The maid ran in the room.     “You OK, Ms. Carlena?”     “Get out, get out!” She jumped in the bed and buried her face in the pillow. “I hate you, Sean!” She cried herself to sleep. *     Elsa Jaster stepped over and around the debris field left by her baby girl’s tantrum. She sat on the bed and brushed the golden strands of hair from her face. She cried until her eyelids were swollen. She kissed her forehead. Poor baby, she had all the answers at ten years old. God help them when she becomes a teenager.     Carlena stirred from her grief induced slumber, turned over and looked at her mom. “He lied to me mom. We planned what was supposed to be a good life different from everybody else.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I should’ve listened to you, I’m sorry. My life is over.” She embraced Elsa and cried.     “Don’t say that, you’ll be alright in time. Lay back down, I’ll go fix us some sandwiches.” She paused at the door. “Welcome to the real world.”

Choreograpy William Masters     As soon as Albert Andrew Fischer’s wife died of cervical cancer, after a final, twenty-two day hospitalization, he felt relief. Such relief derived not from the end of his wife’s suffering, but from Albert’s release from the grip of marital misery. Albert would never have to listen to Alma Lucille Fischer, nee Cooper, again.      The pulse of Albert’s life had beat, unrelieved, for thirty-five years to support Alma Lucille and their two children. Actually, very early on, Albert had got into the habit of thinking of them as her children. No affection remained between him and his progeny who had been spoiled by his wife’s indulgence. Since she hadn’t loved Albert, she channeled all her affection into her children. She raised her children motivated by a keen sense of selfishness; since she cultivated few interests, she derived her only pleasure from her vicarious enjoyment of their successes. As the children grew to maturity with neither distinction nor achievement, they carried the burden of their mother’s disappointment and sensed the emptiness of her affection, feeling only her claim on them for obeisance. The bond between mother and children diminished to a whisper. As grown-ups, the children were polite, but aloof and only communicated with their mother when they needed money.     When Albert got home from the hospital he alerted the undertaker. Weary from the innocent guilt of welcomed relief, Albert fell asleep. The following morning he was awakened by the noise of his children in the kitchen.     The children had come to discuss the very peculiar will their mother had left. She had tried to leave the house to the children (in a living will arrangement), but had failed (through lack of documentation). So instead, she had left all her insurance money, jewelry, clothes, and her share of stocks for division between the children. Albert had bought her the new car, but for some reason the pink slip listed her name alone. The car was left to the son. Albert still owned the house and would receive a modest amount of money from selling his share from a partnership in a jewelry store located in a Daly City mall, receive a monthly social security check and there still remained some shares of stock in his name.     “I want you to take whatever you want of your mother’s possessions after the cremation,” he began, “and leave your house keys on the kitchen table after you finish.”     The following week after the service and presentation of ashes, the children returned to the house to remove their mother’s possessions: her clothes and jewelry, her new, 46” flat screen TV and stereo, her loveseat, (the good china), sterling silver flatware for twelve and crystal wine glasses.      In her eagerness to finish quickly, the daughter dropped the platter, (belonging to the good china) while the son smashed in the left tail light of his mother’s new car as he backed it out of the garage because the patio rocking chair (his mother’s favorite) loaded into the backseat, obstructed his view. By six o’clock Sunday evening, the children were gone, but neither child had requested the ashes nor left their house keys on the kitchen table.     That night Albert had the first dream he could recall in 30 years.     He dreamed that he sat chained to a giant recliner located on the floor of a cafeteria. Next to the recliner stood a TV tray with lunch still uneaten on the plate. High above, he could see light from an unidentified source. So vast was the cafeteria that Albert could not see where it ended. He saw only an unending floor cluttered with dozens of tables covered with trays laden with dirty dishes.      Suddenly, the chains on his wrists crystallized, leaving only a trace of powdered remains, like fine ash, covering his hands and wrists. Free, Albert rose, unsteadily walking to the only door and turned the knob, eager to see what lay on the other side. Opening the door he saw before him a giant staircase. Up, up climbed Albert, fifty steps, then 50 more steps and still no end in sight. And then no sight. An opaque blackness suddenly replaced the light. In a moment of panic, Albert almost lost his footing, but regained his balance. After climbing another 50 steps the staircase abruptly ended at a lighted, padlocked door. Albert’s heart pumped a steady 100 beats per minute. A sign on the door read —USE KEY — Instinctively, Albert reached into his trouser pocket. His hand found a key. Albert pulled the key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. The door opened into his bedroom and Albert stood fully awake next to his bed, wearing his blue and white polka dot pajamas and a look of studious concentration. He loosened the grip of his right hand which bore the impression of a key. His knees ached.     That morning Albert called a locksmith to change the locks to the house (to prevent accessibility to his children) and a realtor (for an appointment to put the house on the market) and his attorney (to advise him about finances).     These were not moves Albert was accustomed to making and he began to feel the rhythm of his life inexorably changing beneath his feet.      Two weeks later the realtor found a buyer for the house. Albert endured a few anxious moments before the bank qualified the buyer, but in the end, Albert sold his Daly City rowhouse for $594,000 in a 90 day escrow. He still had a lot of furniture and yard equipment to get rid of. He made a game of giving everything away (no newspaper or internet ads, no garage sales) for free to whomever he considered an appropriate recipient.     On a morning three days before his scheduled appointment, his attorney called Albert to ask if could drop in as soon as possible. That same afternoon, Albert arrived, well rested and attentive and without a whit of negative anticipation.     “Mr. Fischer, as executor of your wife’s will, I just received a lien against the proceeds to the sale your house from the California Pacific Medical Center, the hospital in which your wife died, for $392,417.72 to cover the cost of her hospital stay and final twenty-two day admission in ICU. After checking the status of her insurance, I discovered that she had not paid the premium on her health insurance policy for the last two months preceding her death. I don’t understand how the hospital failed to uncover her lack of qualification or how such failure may leave you at risk for the liability. According to your information, you wife typically paid the household bills. You are on Medicare parts A&B plus an AARP policy with a drug plan while your wife remained on the insurance from your business.     I don’t feel qualified to handle medical payment litigation. I recommend a specialist.” He wrote down a name and phone number and handed the piece of paper to Albert. “I think you should call this person immediately. You won’t have to drive into the city because her office is only half a block from the Embarcadero Bart station,” he said, smiling in anticipation of a possible referral fee.     Faced with an unexpected medical bill and a meeting with another attorney, Albert decided to take a little trip (to get away) and look at some new scenery (to invigorate his senses).     The travel section of his Yahoo account offered numbers of packaged tours to some exotic destinations and two pages of cruises to the popular destinations of Mexico, Alaska, a six week trip around the Cape, or a week’s tour of the Fjords of Scandinavia.     In a gesture of undiluted grandiloquence, Albert booked a Holland American $27,144.10, thirty-nine day South Seas cruise (San Diego to Sydney and return) in a deluxe exterior suite with a sliding glass door and balcony.      Normally, Albert’s wife had chosen his clothes and packed his bags for any trips or vacations. For substitute assistance, he called a friend’s travel agent for advice and made an appointment for a consultation with the Adriana Berkshire Travel Agency.     “How old did you say you were, Mr. Fischer,” Adriana asked?     “Sixty eight,” he replied.     “You look in good shape, Mr. Fischer.” She thought to herself that he could pass for fifty-nine. “How are your legs?”     “White.”     “After three days in shorts on deck, you’ll begin to tan. My guess is that you’ve got good legs, Mr. Fischer. It’s one of the male body parts remaining in fair shape, even at 68.” She said this with the greatest good humor and tact.     “I’ll take your word for it.”     “Do you have evening clothes?”     “You mean a monkey suit?”     “This time of year a white dinner jacket and...”     “Oh yes, black trousers with a stripe down the side.”     “And a dress shirt, with black bow tie and dancing shoes. Do you dance, Mr. Fischer?”     “I haven’t danced in many years.”     “You wouldn’t believe how significant dancing has become on cruises, especially for the chronologically challenged. While all those forty-five year olds are playing shuffleboard, swimming, holding in their stomachs as they walk around the pool deepening their tans, working out each day so they can still fit into the latex undergarments worn beneath their evening clothes to camouflage their sagging stomachs and uncontrolled appetites, people our age do a lot of dancing in the evening. As a single man, I guarantee that if you can still move around on a dance floor, you will be in great demand.”     “Thank you for the information.”     As he turned to leave, wearing a pair of khaki cotton trousers, Adriana noticed the definition of his butt had remained somewhat youthful and she thought it would still look good in a pair of boxer shorts.     Albert followed the travel agent’s sartorial advice and three days later boarded the SS Exploria with a pair of sore knees, mild expectations of enjoying some comfort and rest for the next thirty nine days, two suitcases and a mild case of curiosity regarding the impression of a key.     The first day at sea provoked only mild nausea. By the morning of the second day, Albert’s body had joined the rhythm of the ship as he explored the abundant shipboard amenities, but applied restraint to the extravagance, nee, overabundance of food.     Food, always presented as an event, began with a 6:00 AM pre breakfast offering of coffee, teas, juices and assorted, freshly baked goods like croissants, baking powder biscuits with jam, followed by the regular breakfast buffet at 8:00 AM which included, of course, a full menu from which any passenger could order then continued with luncheon offerings (seatings at noon and 1:15 p.m.) followed at 4:00 PM with an English High Tea. A dinner snack at 6:00 p.m. preceded the main event: Dinner at Eight each evening in the main salon followed by dancing.     After dinner, there were, of course, some passengers who played bridge all night; others gambled in the game rooms and a few who practiced F&F (flirtation and fornication).      Nevertheless, it is a fact, universally acknowledged, that nothing can compete with dancing to a live band with a good partner while cruising a body of water.      Almost any observer could predict the dancers; it was they who skipped the appetizers, ate very small portions of their dinners and only looked at the trays of desserts. They drank a little wine, but not enough to intrude on their balance. And when the band began to play, it was they, clear eyed and unencumbered by a full stomach, who sat upright in their chairs, without dance cards, eager to flirt with Terpsichore.     The band played a foxtrot. Most of the trotters hadn’t seen sixty for a decade. They danced briskly, somewhat too vigorously and moved around a lot on the dance floor. Some of the older women who danced wore very high heels and lots of jewelry some of which, no doubt, was real, while the men looked sharp in very expensive looking dinner jackets and clever toupees. These hairpieces were, of course, gray or white. Most of the women presented cases for the latest advances in haircoloring: luxuriantly chestnut brown tresses framed one 70 year old face; while another sixty-nine year old woman, with a healthy, but sixty-nine year old face, balanced a head of youthful looking blond tresses wound into a bun while another woman simply wore a platinum wig (to rest her hair) for nights in the salon.     Albert noticed that one of the men went around asking various women for dances. This danseur was quite the best. Several women approached Albert the second night and asked him to dance. He surprised himself with his shyness and declined, but with such genuine modesty and restraint, that no one took offense when Albert responded, “No thank you.”     “It’s my loss I’m sure. One unable to dance blames the unevenness of the floor,” replied one of the rebuffed women.     On the third evening a gray-haired woman in her mid sixties asked Albert to dance. She reached for his arm with her left hand, pulling him out of his chair. Except for a ring with a 3.24 carat yellow diamond, a double string of pearls, and a bracelet on each wrist, she wore almost no jewelry.     The band played Night and Day (Cole Porter: 1932). Albert proved that he was no Hermes Pan; he moved clumsily. He jerked his partner, bumped into several other pairs on the dance floor and stepped on his own feet. Feeling extremely self-conscious, he stopped before the music ended and led his partner back to her seat. He thanked Esther and returned to his single table. Almost before he recovered his breath another woman, wearing a silver wig and long, dangly diamond earrings and looking at him through a pair of blue sapphire colored contact lenses, introduced herself as Emily, and asked him for a dance.     “I’m really not at all a good dancer.”     “I know. I just witnessed your efforts. All you need is a little guidance and some practice.” Emily gently pulled him out of his seat and back to the dance floor.     “Let me show you a few moves.”     There followed on many nights a succession of bejeweled dance partners. Albert danced so much that he actually worked up an appetite and found that he needed to eat something (on those nights at sea when he danced) at the midnight supper thoughtfully provided by the kitchen for those who earned their appetites from various late night physical activities.      One night, at the end of the second week at sea, one of the women who asked Albert to dance invited him back to her table for a nightcap. He accepted.     “You know,” Lisa began, “at first I thought you were one of the professionals this line hires to dance with us old broads until I realized that you were a terrible dancer and had a first class, exterior cabin. The professionals can really dance, but have second or third class interior accommodations.”     “I don’t get it,” Albert said.     “Cruise lines like this typically hold auditions for old guys like you to hire as dancers to push around old broads like me who take these cruises without husbands or boyfriends. If you haven’t noticed, besides Arron Mendelstein, who is a professional escort hired by this line, you are the only single male... of a certain age aboard this overpriced floating hotel.”     “Really, I had no idea. This is my first cruise.”     “I believe it. Are you a recent widower?”     “I am. What’s your status?”     “Longtime widow well fixed with good cash flow. Neither seeking another husband nor bankroll.”     She made a good natured laugh at herself accentuating the wrinkles around her yes. Though probably on the shady side of sixty-five, Albert noticed that she still had a trim figure, a beautiful smile and her silver-blue dress enhanced her natural, long wound-grey hair circling her head. No jewelry adorned her body.     “I am traveling with my grand daughter.”     Just at that moment a young woman in excellent shape, athletic rather than voluptuous, kissed Lisa on the cheek, sat down at the table, saying, “Grandmother, please introduce me.”     “Mr. Fischer, meet my grand daughter, Karen.”     “How do you do, Mr. Fischer?”     Karen, seated at the opposite end of the table from Albert, wore a single rope of white diamonds and a pair of matching diamond earrings. Noting Albert’s appraisal like stare at the jewels, she asked, “Do you like this jewelry, Mr. Fischer? It belongs to grandmother. She let’s me wear it every once in a while whenever we travel together.”     “Well,” began Albert, “I remember your grandmother wearing the same earrings and necklace the second night out. I would expect them to be insured for at least 350k. Of course, I can’t be sure without my other pair of glasses or use of my eyepiece.”     The two women gave each other an uncomfortable glance.     “Are you some kind of jewel expert,” asked Karen?     “I am a retired jeweler.”     “Really dear, I doubt Mr. Fischer cares what they cost or when you wear them.”     “I wear them to attract rich, handsome men. Alas, the only good looking men near my age on this cruise belong to the crew or bat for the other team.”     There appeared a slight constriction in Lisa’s face: the lips slightly tightened; her eyes, like a laser beam, aimed for Karen’s mouth.     “I guess I should return these to the ship’s safe before I go to bed, all alone,” she said teasingly.”     “Good night my dear,” her grandmother said.     Karen boosted herself from the chair, and with a wobble or two, left the salon to return to her stateroom.     “She had cocktails with me in my stateroom before dinner, then she probably stopped at one or two of the five bars before sitting down to eat dinner with me, followed by a snifter of brandy instead of dessert. I warned her that this cruise would probably not carry any eligible, rich young men, but she insisted on accompanying me. I regret she subjected you to so much of our personal business. Such a lack of discipline and patience. Today’s youth just can’t hold their liquor.”     “Well perhaps at one of the ports she will find a rich young man who will love her for her neck alone.” Albert gave a little laugh and said his good night to Lisa.     As soon as Karen returned to her cabin, she locked the door behind her, sat down in front of her dressing table and removed the jewels, storing them in a rather plain leather container. From a silk bag she removed another set. After securing the 2nd set to her ears and neck, she walked to the purser’s office, and following established procedure, took off the jewels and gave them to the purser or his assistant, to put in the safe. Tonight, the assistant, a young man who, alas for Karen, was not the kind of man who would respond to the tap of a lady’s fan, gave Karen or, on other evenings, to her grandmother who returned the jewels, a time stamped receipt.     As soon as Albert returned to his stateroom, he poured himself some French brandy from the bottle he had impulsively purchased from the duty free store. For the first time since the funeral, he donned his professional hat, so to speak. He had gotten a close look at the earrings and necklace on the second night out when Lisa wore them. The jewels impressed him with their beauty and value: about 15- 20 carats featuring a number of cushion, square and pear cut diamonds with a clasp featuring a 14 point diamond of exquisite clarity.     Albert valued them closer to 375-400k, but hadn’t inspected them with his eyepiece. The jewels that the grand daughter wore that evening were paste, a fake copy of an alarmingly high quality. He knew of places in Singapore that specialized in copies of such quality. Such copies themselves cost several thousand dollars.     As soon as Lisa left the salon she walked to her grand daughter’s stateroom, next to her own. She knocked, and then knocked again, finally hearing the door unlock and open. She stepped inside and immediately sat down on a chair next to the open sliding glass door of the cabin. A calm sea rolled beneath as a welcomed breeze found its way into the cabin.     “You might have blown our chance tonight wearing the copy. What the hell happened?”     “I had too many martinis before I left and accidentally chose the wrong set. Sorry. Think any damage was done?”     “I can’t be sure. But just in case give me the copy now and I will keep both sets with me and stick to our plan: two nights from now, after I retrieve the real set, I shall return the fake, you will steal it from the safe and we shall test our theory about the cruise line’s handling of the theft.”     Three days later, just the day before the ship docked in Sydney, two ship’s officers approached Albert at breakfast.     “Please sir, we need you to speak with you, urgently and in private in your cabin.” The two crewmen looked a bit embarrassed. Inside Albert’s cabin, Charles, the first officer, explained to him that some jewelry belonging to a passenger “has gone missing” and they had to search everyone’s cabin.     “Gone missing? Do you think the jewels got up and left because they felt bored hanging around the neck of their owner? Perhaps someone kidnapped them?     The crewman looked at each other uncomfortably, apologized profusely and let him remain while they took a full half hour to perform a thorough search, including a full body search of Albert himself. Finding no jewels, and looking exceedingly embarrassed, they left, but not without offering another apology.     Before Lisa and Karen disembarked, Albert gave them each a gift, a packet of postcards. Each card bore the picture of a famous ocean liner or pictures of the latest luxury liners recently launched and ready to further pollute the world’s oceans. Impetuously, Albert wrote his e-mail address on the back of Lisa’s package. Alone in her cabin with Lisa he asked, “And where is your next stop?”     “Here, in Sydney. We are leaving the cruise”     “Where is home?”     “Somewhere on the west coast, in America.”     Before Albert could say another word, Lisa kissed him full on the lips and gently escorted him to her cabin door.     “Good bye and good luck my dear,” she said slowly, and politely closed the door. ****     Six months later, now living in a new condominium in San Luis Obispo, Albert received an e-mail from Lisa inviting him to join her for luncheon at a tony new restaurant for which Albert, as a new resident, had received an invitation to attend the grand opening. He had ignored it since he didn’t like to dine alone in restaurants. Nevertheless, he felt some curiosity and excitement as to why Lisa wanted to see him and e-mailed her his acceptance. He had speculated about possible scenarios, but had seen nothing in print or on line regarding missing jewels aboard an ocean liner.     When Albert arrived, the host led him to a table on the patio. Lisa, already seated, rose from her chair, kissed him full on the lips before he could demur and sat back down in her chair.     “Well, don’t pass out Albert,” she laughed.     Albert sat, staring at Lisa whose entire look had changed from her shipboard appearance. Her long gray hair, formerly coiled around her head was cut quite short. It was curly and blew even in the slight breeze on the restaurant patio. She wore no makeup save a small application of ruby red lipstick accentuated by the sleeveless grey and white dress she wore. Looking considerably younger than she did aboard ship, her bare arms could have passed for those of a 45 year old.     “My dear,” she said, “I am so pleased to see you again. And of course, I want to thank you.”     “Thank me?”     “Yes, encore thanks,” she said and then, sotto voce, “for not giving me away aboard ship.”     “How did you know? I mean why did you think I knew about the jewelry?”     “I recalled what you said about Karen’s neck, remembered you were quite pleased with yourself for making the comment, and realized it had nothing to do with vampires. I also remembered you looking at my jewelry on the second night out, disappointed that you didn’t make a pass at me instead.”     Albert felt himself relax. He motioned for the waiter. They both ordered one of the specials. The sommelier appeared with a bottle of wine, opened it at the table, poured some into a wine glass and gave it to Lisa.     “Lovely, yes, please serve it,” she said, and then switching her gaze to Albert, “I brought this champagne from Paris. I even had to declare it to customs and pay a duty.”     They both sipped the wine.     “Let me bring you up to date. Give me your hand Albert.”     He obeyed. Lisa kissed it quickly then let it drop on the table.     “First, some background. My husband owned a locksmith business and I taught high school math in a private school in Glendale, California. When the mortgage bank/insurance scam hit in 2008/9, we lost over 40% of our retirement savings. Although we owned our house in Glendale, a 3 bed 1.5 bath Spanish bungalow, it lost 35% of its value in the housing market. So, piff, there went our retirement! Instead of retiring in our early sixties, we faced years of continuing work if we didn’t want to run out of money.      Furious, my husband went a little nuts and began to consider methods for replenishment of our fortunes. He began attending estate sales to look for items of undiscovered value which might be worth something. He found the diamonds at such a sale. They were advertised as costume jewelry, along with several other pieces, but still tagged at $500 because of the copy quality. My husband’s friend, a jeweler who had accompanied him for the possible purchase of estate owned jewelry bargains, urged him to buy the set. Astounded, his friend told him the jewels were genuine. After purchasing them, he took the set to other jewelers for appraisal.     The first appraiser looked carefully at the set and asked Albert if he had proof of ownership. If so, he offered to buy the set on the spot for $200k. Suspicious, my husband took them elsewhere for another appraisal, this time for $300k. After asking for proof of ownership, a third jeweler also offered to sell them, on consignment, retaining a 35% fee. I was all for selling the diamonds and splitting the proceeds. However, two days latter, his friend experienced a cerebral hemorrhage and dropped dead.     My husband remained unsatisfied with the idea of merely selling the jewels and keeping the money which would only constitute about half of what we had lost. And then, out of the blue, he explained to me that many years ago he and another locksmith, now dead, had devised a special kind of safe not using tumblers or needing a combination to open the safe, but instead used a key. This electronic key fitted into the safe’s lock. Any other kind of key or instrument violating the airspace of the lock set off an alarm. The keys and safes were designed so that only one key would work. However, my husband designed a master key that could read and duplicate the necessary calibrations and open the safes without setting off the alarm. Of course, fewer and fewer hotels and cruise ships still use such safes, but my husband had saved the list of those safes that remained in use and their locations.”     “Then he put a hole in $7500 by flying, round trip, business class to Singapore, and paid 5k to have a copy made of the jewels and insured the original set for $375k. Then he outlined a plan to me to use the diamonds to recoup our lost savings, plus a...bonus amount”     “Even with such a key, how did you manage to open the safe without being seen,” he said finishing his glass of champagne? “Even if it worked as described, how can you remove the fake copy that you deposit one night without being caught?”     “That will remain confidential. Cruise ships never complain about the use of their safe for jewels, but I usually encountered resistance from hotel managements whenever I made a request to use the hotel safe to store my jewelry. The more expensive suits in hotels have their own safes, but not the junior suites or even the most expensive rooms. I simply complain that if I am already paying $900 per night for a modest suite or a room, there is no reason for me to pay $2500 per night for a more expensive suite just to have a safe. Usually, the hotel relents. If it didn’t, it would face some very bad word of mouth and risk losing repeat business from what is politically referred to in America as the one percent, plus the snooty, corporate clients that usually arrive and behave like spoiled and demanding guests willing to change hotels for even a perceived slight or refusal of service from the management.     After the hotel or cruise ship agrees to keep the jewels, a professional appraiser examines the stones to confirm their genuineness. The hotel or ship agrees to keep them in the safe and I reach first base. Then I insist seeing the location of the safe. Some lackey shows me the room where the hotel safe is kept and I look around for any cameras placed on or in the ceiling.     After Karen and I stay a couple nights, we determine whether or not the late shift person who would accept the jewels when I return, say at 1:30 a.m., is able to detect whether or not the jewels are genuine. This has never been a problem, since 5 star hotels, like banks and insurance companies are cheap and pay their staffs poorly. They wouldn’t hire a professional jeweler to be on duty 24 hours a day. If Karen and I return at 2: A.M, it’s easy to cause some distraction. I trip or faint or simply yell for help. While the night shift person comes from behind the desk, Karen performs her duty, always careful to remove the jewels and any other cash or valuables from the safe to make it look like a theft.”     “Hotels that size must have several on duty personnel, even during the night shift,” Albert added with disbelief.     “Oh yes, but they only come out if called by the person actually manning the desk. The lone hotel employee is frequently playing some game on the hotel computer. You know,” she continued, “cruise lines, banks, insurance companies, high profile corporations and especially snooty, five star hotels, fear bad publicity. It’s akin to a hotel having a guest contract some contagious disease that would frighten away all the guests. The empty hotel would suffer huge financial loss and a possible quarantine of the city would bring financial disaster. The powerful and those in control feel entitled, especially when it comes to preserving their fortunes.     After the ship’s security had conducted a search, including my cabin, it apologized profusely and offered to pay me the amount for which the jewels were insured if I promised not to report the loss to the insurance company. Apparently, the cruise line had a special rider attached to its burglary insurance that would cover my loss. The cruise company promised that if I signed an agreement promising never to reveal the event, it would pay me, within 30 days, the full insured amount, $375k. Fifteen days later while the cruise line paid for my 5 star hotel accommodation at the Westin Hotel Sydney, I received the check.     I flew to Luxembourg and deposited it in an account I had already opened and made a five day reservation at the 5 star Dolder Grand Hotel in Zurich, Switzerland. I had ascertained that the safe used for guests’ valuables was similar to that aboard ship. I invited Karen to join me. After my jewels were checked by the hotel expert and confirmed to be genuine, I ascertained the same information about the persons accepting jewelry late at night and Karen, noting that the men on duty at the desk were more susceptible to her charms than those on shipboard, located another exit from the location of the hotel’s safe that wouldn’t bring her out to the desk area.     The hotel had never suffered such a loss in its 42 year history.     The hotel management asked me if I would allow them to try and recover the jewels themselves before I contacted my insurance company. I demurred.     “Who knows?” I asked, “If I would be breaking a law or nullifying my insurance policy if I failed to report the theft immediately? I refused to wait.”     Then the hotel officially made me the offer: it would pay me the insured amount if I signed an affidavit promising never to reveal to anyone (including my insurance company) that the jewels disappeared while in the hotel’s safe.     “All you have to do is to cancel the policy when the renewal date arrives.”     So I agreed to receive a cashier’s check for $375k within two weeks.     “I certainly don’t want to stay here,” I told them darkly.     The hotel offered to pay for my reservation at another hotel.     “Then please make a reservation at the Hotel Le Bristol in Paris for me immediately so I won’t have to spend another night under your roof,” I said protectively covering my wedding ring with my fingers.     “Is that your wedding ring,” Albert asked pointing to the diamond band she wore.     “Oh no, my husband couldn’t afford an engagement ring or diamonds in the wedding band when we got married. I wore only a 14 carat gold wedding band. I bought this one in New York City at the diamond market several years ago. Wearing a wedding band saved me from a lot of unwanted attention after my husband died.”     “I received the check on my 9th day of stay (and a note from the hotel management that, should I choose to stay, I would be responsible for payment beginning the next day). I deposited the check in a new account I had opened in Paris.”     After ordering dessert, Lisa took a medium sized package, wrapped in emerald green paper, from her amethyst colored, straw handbag, and placed it on the table next to Albert.     “Don’t open it here Albert. It’s $25k in 100 and 50 dollar bills. I hope you will use it to take yourself on some vacations while you still retain your mobility.”     After finishing dessert, Lisa paid the bill, in cash, and rose from her chair. She walked around the table and gave Albert what he would always remember as her goodbye kiss.     “I’ve moved to Monaco, permanently, where banking is friendly and... discreet.”     “Wait, what happened to the real necklace and earrings? Surely you didn’t keep them?”     “Oh, no,” said Lisa, “I located a jeweler in Antwerp who took the diamonds apart and sold them as lose diamonds for cash to the Russian mafia. The jeweler kept 35%, and now I am diamond free with an improved cash flow and still not looking for another husband.”     “What happened to your grand daughter?”     “Karen isn’t my grand daughter. I never had any children. She was the grand daughter of my next door neighbor. Recently fired from a Canadian soap, she was just another out of work “actress”, but she had spunk and aplomb and I felt I could use the fearless streak I sensed in her.”     Lisa removed the wedding band from her finger and placed it on the table in front of Albert.     “A remembrance,” she said. “Keep it as a good luck charm.”     Lisa held up her left hand, wiggling her empty fingers.     Then she walked serenely out of the patio, through the restaurant to the front door and out into street.     Albert never saw or heard from Lisa or his children again and he lived happily, happily ever after.

The Sneeze Liam C. Calhoun I’m inspired, To crawl outta bed, But only to smash the alarm clock. I’ve aspired, To hide under blanket, But only encounter my monsters. I’ve expired, Smoking a first and final cigarette, But continue to burn atop my demise. I’ve admired, The people that can get up, But I only punch the fridge. I’m fired, Late for the last time, But only to break a cycle. I’ve tired, Listening to the music, But hear a ticking clock; A clock, the clock, Tick-tock and If time’s running out, I notice in between – Two more tracks, Four more cigarettes, The fridge regurgitated beer And a whole New day of, “me” Happening to me, But, I assume this happens To You Too; If not, after reading this, It will soon enough.

A Quiet Wall Roger G. Singer A drifting of the hand, like a language, moves to the tables edge, slipping over as if it were the last autumn leaf to fall; fingers point downward, surveying the floor. A one sided quarrel, a half opened window, the heart is failed, loosening the waters of the soul; a deep gulf separates between hearts. The trailing end of a voice is reduced to the ashes of another’s flames. A quiet wall forms in a desert of thirst.

Warm Water Roger G. Singer A picture formed to the frame, burns revenge from the eyes of the hungry. She took back the end of the story, breathing a new start without anger and minced oaths. Neon lights find favor on fallen angels. Whiskey feeds the jazz of soulful men as their words melt into smoky air. Walking words mark the path. Lazy legs and dusty shoes bless anxious spirits. Hands with dance slip the bounds of water and wine, pressing full red lips into whispers. Sweat roadmaps the working face, falling onto shoes absent of rest or color. Lights exposes the crest of every hill; warm water makes everything right.

Blink Meredith Wilshere     She came into the world, blinking. They told her to keep her eyes open and to not watch the world go by her window. But there were sleepless nights and screaming that would keep her mom awake, and too many things to explore the next day. She would have to blink. She’d spend her days at the street fair that “polluted” her eyesight as prophesied by her mom, with her big glasses and curly hair extending past her shoulders. She’d go every day and with her face pressed to the sky, and eyes fixated on the sun, she’d blink.     She’d watch her brother grow, taller than the mighty oak that planted its roots at the house next door. She would move his army men around her head while she watched him move his boxes. “Don’t go” she would plead. “I have to.” She watched him go, leaving behind a life for another one dressed in green and prayed that if she closed her eyes, he would come back. She blinked until every last box was gone.     She met her husband in a big office building filled with promises and ambitions. As he brought her coffee in the morning and her coat at night she would stare into the swimming pools that lay on both sides of his nose, wanting to never break that gaze. She would shift her focus from the photocopied papers that she loathed to his visage, a much more familiar territory. His soft features juxtaposed his rough edges and she would have no other choice but to match his stare until she encoded every one of his attributes. Her eyes would dry and there would be no other option, no matter how much she would plead and beg in that instance, she would have to blink.     She had kids too. As day slipped into night and weariness grew on her children’s faces, as it often did, she would warn them not to blink. Their castles and pretend gun fights had them fast asleep at night and she would watch them grow as she did with her own brother. The pencil notices on the door frame were creeping towards adulthood as she would need a step ladder to make final impressions. They would move their boxes as she watched her brother do all those years ago and with tears welling in her eyes, she would blink. ***     It’s the moments that you never want to let go of. It’s your white shoes left by his chair as he leads you into the crowd of people all clapping their hands with their wide smiles. You feel the electricity run through you like a current as you feel your feet prancing across the wooden floor. Or it’s the time spent with someone lost, forgetting how keeping their company was less of an occupation for you than for anyone else, how their attention would follow you like a loyal dog, making what seems to be an impossible connection as they trail your conversation. It’s someone receiving your cues as they lean in closer to not only hear what you’re saying, but to listen. It’s these moments that you wish to collect as you did fireflies in glass jars when you were small, but somehow you lost your grip and your cupped hands released your treasures. Your hands were too big to hold those moments forever as they slipped through your fingers and you too, maybe without recognizing it or watching it happen, blinked.     She met her divorce lawyer in a big office building filled with dirty words and broken ambitions. Maybe it was the same building she met her husband. She wasn’t sure. Time had blurred the lines between the past and the future. She met his swimming pools with pools of her own, empty as if the scorching sun has evaporated all of their substance. Turns out, the offering of the coat and coffee weren’t hers to keep, and the papers she filed were now of a different topic. She returned to her house that night, and tried to piece together what her life had become. Enveloped in the empty sheets of her king sized bed, holding back her tears, she blinked so hard she wished to never open her eyes again.     She lost her sense of reality. The words she read became less clear, the lines that made up her house began to fade as the numbers on the clock blurred into one mess. Her sadness transformed into her sickness, the absence of love became her curse, and when she blinked her clarity became her obscurity. She heard arguing, scrutinizing over papers and placements. She blinked, and she was no longer home.     They visited her in the hospital, with her eyes wide open and empty; they held her hand and asked if she had any last words. In a moment of surprising clarity, look directly at them. “Don’t blink,” she said with one last breath. “Please don’t ever blink.” She blinked for the last time that day.

Another Timely Descent Allen M Weber It never occurred to me if Pluto should be considered a planet. I don’t remember the temper of your sun, let alone care to decide if a mouse will outwait the owl, or how a girl will judge an approaching vagabond. It’s all too much detail sometimes, such drama, even for me; I have galaxies to spin—they progress faster than you know. Yet through my absences, you remain so earnest— believing yourself to be a favorite child, so sure I must be in all things. I nearly believe such faith can delay the restarting of time, that you might follow the meteor’s arc, willing it to burn away until, a molten seed, it crashes through your waiting palm.

Cliffhanger Allen M Weber Atop this red-rocked shelf—Lucidity— with no jutting branch for a craven change of mind, the impact promises to be famous— a one-time splash while zombies line the edge to gawp. They’d have me tumble back like balsa on a whitecap. It’s expected to be so spurned, to be ordinary—I don’t much care for it: Nothing happens here that begs description. But really, I don’t like to complain.

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.

Punk on the Motorway Bradford Middleton     “Hey, do you know how to get us to the Rough Trade shop in Covent Garden?”     “Sure I do, it’s pretty easy until we get to the one-way system in town then it gets confusing but yeah I know where it is... why?     “Well me and the band have got to go up there later today and then off to Manchester... you fancy joining us?”     “Damn yeah, that sounds like a great time!”     It had all started a couple of days earlier at a dive club in one of the seedier parts of south-east London when Jack had been asked to turn up and play some records for a bunch of drunk punk rockers. He had arrived early as he wanted enough time to get into the spirit of the night before going on to play to this increasingly drunk array of bad mohicans and studded leather jackets with way too much paint on them. By the time he finally got to the stage for his first set he had been galvanised by a large quantity of lager, an even larger quantity of amphetamine sulphate that had been imbibed over the previous forty-eight hours and a chat with the two best looking women there - Katie, the promoter of the gig, and Suzie, the headline band’s manager of sorts, who looked exactly the part. Ramones t-shirt, black leather jacket, she was constantly smoking and either drinking beer or chewing gum in time to the punk-full jukebox that was blaring away building up to the start of Jack’s set.. Jack had met plenty of women like Suzy before but there was something about her that just really got to him. Maybe it was her broad New York accent and the swagger and confidence she had that made her stand out. The band she managed was big in their scene, they screamed 77 punk rock, and were drunk and obnoxious to order the minute it was called for.     Jack finished off his first set as the band took to the stage, Mike, the lead singer leant over the side of the stage and spluttered some vomit over an area of the floor right in front of the baying mob of an audience. They launched into their set immediately after and hammered their way through forty minutes of the grimiest, skuzziest pop-punk-rock Jack had heard for a long time. The crowd seemed to love them greatly and Jack thought their sound was pleasant enough, at the time he was mainly wired to his eyes on some form of amphetamine and into the harder, even nastier stuff such as the bands on Digital Hardcore or Slap-A-Ham record labels. He found the band quite fun and entertaining in all honesty and it made perfect sense to him that they would within the space of a week be playing with the legendary band The Misfits at their big reformation show in a big club in the heart of Soho.     By the end of the night Jack had ran out of records to play and it had finally died down to a dull roar with drunk punks out looking for like-minded souls with whom they could carry on the night someplace else. Jack wasn’t interested in carrying on his night anywhere, he had finally felt the gentle hand of sleep coming to take him off to slumber after over fifty hours of being awake and out of his mind for about the last twenty of them, and just wanted to go home. As he squeezed all the records back into his box Katie came over and smiling, asked “Hey, could you do us a big favour tonight?”     “Maybe, what you need... as long as it doesn’t stop me getting home and to bed as quickly as I can.”     “Well how about if I told you I’ve sorted you with a lift?”     “Ah right, what’s the catch?”     “Well we just found out that Suzy booked a few days off for the band in London and well, basically, me and Dave don’t have the space to put them up for longer than a night and we were wondering if...”     “You want that bunch of insane drunk American punks to stay at Shake? You think they’ll do an in-store? How long do they need to stay?”     “Just a few days really... they got to go to Manchester on Wednesday so they’ll be out of your hair by then.”     “I’ll have to check with the mad man but I don’t see it being any problem.” With that he was handed a mobile phone so that he could talk to the owner of the record shop above which he lived.     A few minutes later and Jack turned to Katie, “We reckon it’d be Ok as long as they don’t mind being cold cos they are gonna stay in the practice room and as long as they do a gig in-store. Turns out they’re on the cover of Maximum Rock’n’Roll this month so the mad man is actually quite excited.”     “Cool, I’ll go tell Suzy.”     “I’ll come with.”     Less than five minutes later and they were hurtling down Lewisham Way on their way to the suburban area where Jack lived above the record shop with the mad man who had practically saved his life a number of years earlier when Katie had thrown Jack out onto the street.. It wasn’t a normal record shop; it only stocked independently released music and was generally way too obscure for lovers of general music. It was designed as a hang-out for those who listened to music on the periphery that most people either didn’t understand or simply assumed didn’t even exist. It was common for there to be a show on most Saturday afternoons that would inevitably draw some confused or angry looks through the glass-fronted shop window from those not into the scene. It wasn’t a very regimented scene but pretty much everyone who came into the shop on a regular basis was into their punk rock and had, generally, been in a band or known someone who had been in a band who had played at one of the lunchtime shows. It was a close scene but with its key rivalries just to keep things edgy and interesting.     As the van pushed through the streets towards its final destination the band continued their act of the drunk, obnoxious American punks. Suzy seemed happy that they would have a fun big place to hang out for the next few days with potential for just about anything to happen.     Less than an hour later and they were pulling into the back parking area of the shop and the punks began to disembark. Jack walked up to the door and unlocked it.     He turned to Suzie, who was following closely behind, and said “You peeps need to store your gear someplace or are you gonna leave it in the van?”     “I think we’re going to leave it in the van as Steve,” the van driver it turned out she was referring to, “is going to sleep in here to keep an eye on things... I heard it can get a bit rough round here.”     “Yeah, it can get pretty horrid sometimes but trust me your better off staying here than at Katie and Dave’s, they live on the edge of a warzone!”     “Ah cool, so what now?”     “How about a drink? Don’t think we got anything to eat but at least the drink will help you sleep more soundly tonight. It’s probably going to get real cold in that practice space tonight.”     “A drink does sound good... we got some money so we could go out and get some if you guys don’t have enough to last the night.”     Jack felt a connection with Suzie that he hadn’t experienced with a woman since he had got together with Katie a few years earlier and he was pleased to see that she seemed interested in him to some degree. She sure was one cool person and he was pleased of the attention. The next few days passed in a haze of pot smoke and beer and somewhere in the intervening chaos the band managed to crawl onto stage and perform some of their songs, as it turned out they sold more copies of their CD than they had at the big show the previous Saturday. Wednesday soon came round and Jack woke with a new invigorated feeling off being part of a band on the road. All this and they hadn’t even driven a foot yet. After a spot of breakfast, Jack’s usual variety of a strong joint and a large mug of really strong coffee, they were in the van. It took a while to raise the band from their slumber but eventually, just before lunchtime, they were heading up London Road on their way off to Covent Garden first and the nightmare idea of trying to find a place to park up near the Rough Trade shop. Jack and Suzie sat up front of the van with Steve the driver whilst the band fitted nice and snuggly in with all their gear in the back. It wasn’t one of those big flash touring bands that a lot use now but a pretty ramshackle affair – no area for dedicated sleeping, just a row of seats down either side with all their gear strewn across the floor. The band sat there getting their respective heads together however they chose to, for Mike it was a red Marlboro cigarette and a can of exceptionally strong beer. The rest of them merely sat around looking for all the world as if it was just another day which of course for them it was, just another day on the road. It didn’t take long for the band to reach the city. The instantly recognizable tourist spots came into view and the band suddenly appeared to perk up.     Jack turned to Suzie and said, “This is the bit were it may get complicated... one of the upsides of being born in London is you never really need to learn how to drive so I never have, unfortunately in circumstances like this it doesn’t help that I know exactly where the store is but am not totally sure of how to get there. Baring in mind who I’m with though I think we’ll go the simple way I know for sure will work.” As the van pulled onto Whitehall Jack gesticulated at the upcoming Nelson’s Column, the dominant attraction in the Trafalgar Square, and said “... we need to go round to the north-east corner and follow Charing Cross Road up to Shaftesbury Avenue where we turn right and then go to Seven Dials. It should be pretty easy from there if we can get that far.”     The band looked like bemused kids, peering out the window like awe-struck kids on their first trip to a big city, staring up at the impressive buildings and the vast array of shops that the van made its way by. Jack’s choice of route was spot on and within five minutes they were parked on the road by the alley down which the shop rented its premises.     Suzie turned to the band and said “Go get yourselves some drinks guys, here’s thirty pounds, that should be enough for the time we got to spend in the shop and meet us back here in about an hour. OK?”     “Sure...” Mike said, and turning to his fellow band mates, continued “...we should get some booze for the road... Suzie told me last night it’s going to take about five hours to get to Manchester! I’ll need a drink.”     “I better stay here in the van as traffic wardens are probably right bastards in this part of town and the last thing we want is to get towed. If I see one of them about I’ll just drive round the block a few times. I’ll make sure nothing happens,” Steve informed Suzie.     “Makes sense, we’ll see you in a bit, OK?”     “Sure.”     “Want to grab that bag of records Jack?” Suzie asked as she dragged a box of vinyl from under her seat and proceeded to stagger down the alleyway towards the shop. It wasn’t just her bands records she had been told to deliver but a load of records from the label she’d somehow managed to get the band signed to. “Do you know a guy called Sean? He works here apparently and is the man to talk too.”     “Sean, yeah I know him.”     Less than ten minutes later and Suzie and Jack were back out on the pavement without all the records and with a large wedge of notes stuffed into Suzie’s incomprehensibly tight black denim jeans. She looked real good.     “How about we join the guys in the bar for a quick one?”     “Sure, could do with some crisps too. That’ll do for lunch, a pint and something nice to munch on.”     As they got back to the road they immediately noticed a traffic warden walking in their direction and no sign of the van so made their way over to the nearest pub. Suzie had known Mike for years and knew instantly he would have dragged the rest of the band in there at the first possible opportunity. Walking into the pub Jack noticed immediately that Mike was propped up at the bar, with a load of whisky glasses around a couple of pint glasses in front of him. The rest of the band was sat in the corner, a couple of them even drinking coffee rather than beer.     Suzie walked over to the majority and offered them a drink after informing them they had got a lot of money off the shop and the deal she had settled upon with the label boss meant it was to go into the bands touring costs. Jack hadn’t really interacted with these three much during their stay at the shop and stood in the background and Suzie took an order for a whisky, a beer and another coffee.     After about half an hour of sitting in their three distinct groups around the pub Suzie got to her feet and went over to Mike who by now was starting to feel the effects of the huge amount of whisky he had imbibed in the short time they had spent in the bar. He stumbled to his feet and with everyone else following him fell out on to the street. The fact it was only late lunchtime and they were still nearly two-hundred from their intended destination and the lead singer was already drunk it was best to get on the road as soon as possible.     The band stood out on the pavement for a few minutes, Mike opened another beer and Jack began formulating the route in his head and the band stood around looking bored. The van pulled round the corner and Jack was delighted to not see any traffic wardens about as it pulled over to the curbside. The band got in the back as Jack and Suzie climbed up onto the front seat. Steve barely needed to stop to pick the band up and before long they were hurtling through the main thoroughfare’s of suburban north London towards the M6 which Jack had worked out they could pick up from Kilburn. It was to be a long drive and not much time to do anything but look out the window as the van careered through the countryside. Jack relaxed to the state where he felt himself fall into a short cycle of snoozing and waking, it was one of his favourite states. After passing Milton Keynes Jack came too to discover Suzie’s head rested on his thighs with her legs scrunched up so that she fit snuggly into the small space between Jack and Steve. Jack felt his loins begin to stir and rested back in his seat. The band were relaxing quietly in the back of the van, even Mike seemed to have switched himself off for the drive.     Jack stared out the window at the passing scenery and began to remember driving through the countryside with his parents when he was much younger and all the adventures they had enjoyed. This was an all-together different kind of journey. The next sign on the road announced they were passing Stoke-on-Trent and were less than fifty miles from Manchester. The mood in the van changed dramatically as the band realised they needed to get into their stage personas. Mike immediately grabbed for the bottle of whisky they had bought in London and yet another beer. Jack was beginning to wonder just how Mike survived on tour what with all the drinking and the apparent lack of food he ingested and most importantly how he was going to get out of the van and perform that night. As they moved off the motorway Suzie checked her phone which read 6.30pm and turned to Steve and asked him if he knew where the venue was.     “Sure I do, this is my area... it’s just London I have difficulty in navigating,” and within twenty minutes they were parked up outside the venue. Jack had felt a slight put-down in Steve’s last comment and felt he needed to prove his worth. As the band stumbled out the van, Mike took a wrap out of his pocket and lurched off towards the toilet. Jack and Steve began unloading the band’s gear with the rest of the band. Within ten minutes they were set up on stage and they still had an hour to sound-check before the hordes would be allowed to enter. The sound was good, better than Saturday, and the venue seemed to have a bit more to it than a stage in a corner of a pub. As Jack sat down at the bar, Suzie came over and told him to follow her as she had sorted the band out with a rider of booze. Mike suddenly came into view and it was clear to Jack what had been in that wrap he had seen him make off with the second they had got out the van. Mike’s eyes were on storks and he seemed incapable of standing still for more than a second, Mike was on some primo amphetamine’s and Jack was a little intrigued to find out if he could have some.     As the first of the two local support bands went on stage the crowd began to enjoy themselves, dancing around, throwing their beer over each other whilst playfully battering each other senseless in the ensuing mosh-pit. By the time Mike got up on stage and announced the band the mob was huge and were ready to really explode in a cavalcade of chaos. Exactly on cue the band began with one of their pumped-up drunk punk tunes and the baying mob went ballistic with joy. Forty minutes later and it was all over and the crowd seemed to have enjoyed themselves. Mike had again been sick off the side of the stage during the band’s set and much beer had been shared around, generally through bottles being thrown in the air as the owner wanted more freedom to dance.     “Another good show, I think” Suzie said turning to Jack who had remained by her side throughout the show.     “It sure was, Mike is a great front-man and the band is pretty tight. Where’s the next gig?”     “Ah, that’ll be tomorrow... down the road in Birmingham. Got us a place to crash tonight and according to Steve it should only take about an hour to get there tomorrow so we can spend the day trawling the bars and shops if you want?”     “Nice, sounds like a plan. So where we staying tonight?”     “At the promoter’s flat. He’s apparently got a bit more space than your friends down in London had so it should be cool. He’s even got a spare bedroom!”     Jack’s mind began to wonder as to what she was inferring when she had told him about the spare bedroom. ‘What could she have meant?’ he wondered to himself.     A couple of hours later, after they had finished off their rider and driven back through the centre of the city they ended up outside the promoter’s place in the depths of Salford, probably the roughest area in the entire city. It became immediately apparent why the promoter had more space. This was not a nice area and the block of flats where he lived was practically empty and a lot of them had their windows boarded up.     The promoter, whose name turned out to be Sam, turned to the band and asked them, “You guys fancy staying in a proper punk squat tonight?”     They looked nonplussed by the situation, it was probably something they were used too travelling around on tour as much as they did, and agreed it would be a cool thing to do. Sam turned to Suzie, Jack and Steve and told them, “I got enough space for you guys to stay if you want but I thought they might enjoy hanging with some new like-minded people” to which Steve retorted that he had better stay in the van again due to the notorious nature of the area in which it was parked. He didn’t fancy waking up the next day to discover an empty lot with no gear to be seen.     As they got to the respective flats, next door to one another, Suzie grabbed Jack’s hand and asked Sam if it would be cool for them to share a bed that night. He seemed a bit pissed-off at missing out on the opportunity to stay up and chat with Jack and Suzie and see what he could develop with the sexy New Yorker in their midst. Sam showed them to the spare room and offered them a duvet and some pillows and moments later they were in bed. Jack could feel himself becoming turned on by the situation but it was Katie who he could not get out of his head. He lay there, awake for hours, holding on to her hand with her back turned to him and began wondering why he wasn’t ravaging this beautiful, sexy woman who was clearly up for some fun. He had to keep her at arm’s length once Sam had left them alone and she seemed pissed off by his rejection of her advances.     After a short few hours sleep Jack woke up again and still Suzie was lying next to him in her t-shirt and panties looking just as hot as she had the night before and still sound asleep. He decided to go into the kitchen and make himself some coffee if Sam wasn’t already awake. As he walked out the bedroom he was surprised to see his host already sat at the breakfast table, devouring what looked like muesli.     “Ah, morning Sam, any chance of a coffee?”     “Sure man, no problem. Instant alright? How do you take it?”     “Strong and black, just how I like my men!” Jack guffawed in response. “Seriously pour some milk in first and a few tablespoons of sugar and I’ll be fine.”     They sat around in a tense state of silence devouring their respective breakfasts. Jack pulled out a bag of weed and proceeded to roll his second course of breakfast as he took huge swigs of his steaming hot coffee.     About an hour later Jack turned to Sam and jokingly said, “Seems the band are enjoying their lie-in!”     “It sure does... what you guys got planned for today?”     “Not sure, all I know is we got to get to Birmingham at some point, then after that it’s back to London.”     At this point Steve walked into the kitchen and reported that the night had been eventful and it might be an idea just to get out of Manchester as soon as they could. He was to return downstairs straight after getting a coffee and a couple of slices of toast to continue his vigilant watch on his property.     “So what happened then last night?” Jack asked.     “A couple of incidents when I almost feel asleep... a gang of kids came round and were clearly interested in the van and its contents so I had to stay up to keep an eye on them. As it is Birmingham isn’t my favourite city, an ex lives there so I’ll just catch up on my sleep when we get there.”     “Sounds like a crazy night. I’ll go see what Suzie and the band are doing so we can get on the road as soon as possible if you want?”     Within an hour they were back on the road and Steve was driving with his foot to the floor. He was clearly desperately tired and couldn’t wait to get to Birmingham and then get some much needed sleep. The band had seemed to have a spectacularly debauched night in the squat and even Mike was without his usual perennial can of strong imported beer. Suzie was still a bit peeved off at Jack about last night and concentrated on the road ahead and ensured Steve remained awake. Jack merely sat there in his stoned stupor and stared out the window at the industrial wasteland that dominated the journey’s landscape feeling glad it was a short journey.     As they pulled up outside the venue Suzie looked at her phone and announced it was still only lunchtime and seeing as the band hadn’t eaten anything hot for a few days maybe they should all go out for some food. Jack hadn’t eaten anything of any real nourishment since the previous Thursday when the huge quantities of amphetamines had started to be ingested. These couple of days on the road had sure helped fire his appetite. They quickly found a place that specialised in deep fat fryer based food and Jack was delighted at seeing a true feast of a vegetarian breakfast served to him not long after they settled down and what’s more Suzie had said the band could pay for it.     After they had completed breakfast they decided to decamp to a bar that Steve had told them all about on the motorway that morning. It was the major punk hang-out in town. By three o’clock they had their feet firmly under the table of the watering hole and Jack was beginning to see why Steve had apparently raved so well about this bar. Unfortunately Steve was not with them as he had promised himself some sleep that afternoon to try and make up for the lost hours the previous night. The bar had a couple of really sexy barmaids and a jukebox full of punk classics which looked like it had been there since before most of the music on it had even been made. It sure was a pretty decent bar, even by Jack’s standard of the bars in London.     The gig that night seemed a bit flat, the band admitted later they had been too drunk to play as well as they normally would, and the crowd seemed not as into it either. Even Mike had seemed a bit subdued during the set. That night Jack thought to himself he would let Suzie do whatever she wanted with him and that he should let Katie finally go in his mind.     The next morning they were back on the road to London and Jack felt like a new man after letting Suzie devour his every morsel during the night. She looked at him in a new way too and was really loved up for the ensuing situation which was much to Jack’s disappointment about to end.     The van hurtled down the motorway as fast as it could, about fifty-five if they were heading downhill, and the scenery was beginning to look familiar again. It was the last journey that the six of them would share on the motorway but tomorrow night Jack was to meet some of his heroes in the form of the recently reformed The Misfits.

Home at Last John Grey After war, your mother’s kitchen. So the cabbage stinks of marshlands. At least it’s not the putrid stench of body parts. The simmering spoon stirs its way toward sauerkraut, not the next roadside bomb. And potatoes are mashed hard but not as hard as marching feet. There’s pork to be had, a dead meat without dog-tags. How succulent, a word that lost its way, now found again on well-laid table, in the midst of family conversation. It’s peace central. White curtains, half holding back the outside, half letting it in. Bedrooms upstairs, all dreams, all the time. And a parlor with a TV silent on the news. A piano in the corner, not played in years but such sweet music.

Liberation John Grey One fish swimming for every five floating dead ones... that’s the peace we offer you. A brown river, a green lake... the gifts keep right on giving. And just wait until the noise subsides, the smoke clears, the ambulances take away the bodies: a flat gray landscape will never say it better... this is your reward. Ruptured streets point the joyous way. Collapsed buildings welcome you home. More bodies in the beds but, don’t worry, the peacekeepers are just a cry, a moan, away. They’ve got the shovels, the Bibles. No mess is too deep for them to bury. In the meantime, go catch a fish. Or maybe just pick one up from where it lies. Believe us, life is good. And we’ll have one for you any day now.

Swordplay John Grey He boasts a sword from the Civil War. Souvenir of an ancestor, it takes pride of place in his den. No bodies of the dead, just the cold implement that someone wielded, others never saw coming. “Feel that,” he says, pointing to the blade. “That’s history.” The handle is immaculately carved. The edge is blunted by age. Once wielded in battle, now fastened to a wall between a family photo and a frame print of a landscape. Peace has to start somewhere.

A Little Misunderstanding Fred Miller     She lay on the kitchen floor, her limbs resembling hands on a broken clock. My breathing skipped into a chuffing jag. I needed air. And I wanted noise, conversation, and music. It’d been ages since I’d been to Louie’s, and I missed the crowd, the laughter, the bartenders, the give-and-take. Brenda never approved of the place.     I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, grabbed her purse from the floor and hurried toward the front door. A light rain had fallen and the autumn air felt good as I sailed through intersections. When I came to a four-way stop in the middle of “Nowhere,” New Jersey, I pulled all the cash out of her purse, tossed it into some high weeds by the road, and gunned the engine.     Ahead I could see the blinking lights at Louie’s and a gravel lot packed with cars, lots of people...what I needed. Behind some of the Saturday night crowd I shuffled through a humid gust at the door.     The place had changed. Well, not the high-backed booths or the concrete dance floor or the neon ads across the walls. But the crowd appeared much younger. Maybe that was because I hadn’t been here for years.     Brenda believed we were above all this. Louie’s didn’t fit with her social image or her dreams of an invitation to join the country club. Wasn’t going to happen and I told her. But that just made her more determined. The first time I brought her here was our last. “Miss Airs,” I called her. Made her mad. And when she got hot enough, she’d retreat to the bedroom to read and pretend she belonged in another world.     “Hey, Mr. Johnson, long time no see.”     “Hi, Cal. Great to see that some things haven’t changed around here. How the hell are you?”     “Fine, sir. What’ll you have?”     “A cold draft, Cal.”     “Comin’ right up, sir.”     From my perch I could see the room, now alive with people, typical for a Saturday night. Where I needed to be, not that stuffy house. Well, the house wasn’t so bad, but Brenda hated it. Said we belonged in one of the up-and-coming developments across town. She tried to get me to trade up for a nicer one over there even though she knew we couldn’t afford it. But she complained anyway.     “How’s this?”     “Fine, Cal, hits the spot.”     “Say, I wondered if you’d fallen off the face of the earth. Hadn’t seen you in three or four years, Mr. Johnson. You were with your new bride, I think.”     “Your memory’s pretty good, Cal, but it’s been five years, five years ago this week.”     “Yeah? I remember her as a perky little lady.”     “Who, my wife?”     “Yeah...um, I hope that don’t offend you, Mr. Johnson.”     “No, not at all. I suppose she was sort of perky, but she didn’t seem to warm up to the crowd here.”     “No? So that’s why we haven’t seen you around.”     “Yeah, that and the job I took in the city. Ninety minute commute each way. Too tired to go out week nights. And, of course, Brenda plans all our weekends.”     “Brenda’s your wife’s name?”     “Yeah, Brenda. She has us scheduled for dinner parties or bridge games or cocktails with her friends.”     “Sounds like it isn’t exactly your idea of fun, Mr. Johnson.”     “Nope, but my vote never counts.” We laughed.     “That’s the way it is with new husbands or so I hear.” He grinned. “Say, I’ve got to take care of some other customers, I’ll check back with you.”     “Sure, Cal.”     I wondered how it might have turned out if she’d liked this place. We could have had fun on the dance floor if she’d just loosened up a bit and gotten that social climbing idea out of her head. But it wasn’t going to happen, and I should’ve seen it.     Dad was a plumber and Mom took care of us four boys at home. And I was the first in my family to go to college. Mom had come to the city from an Iowa farm and tried to get secretarial work in the city. Ended up over here typing and filing for the plumbing contractor Dad worked for. Mom and Dad fell for each other at first sight. So I didn’t exactly come from a socially elite background. But Brenda’d never buy in to our social status. Not her.     “Another one, Mr. Johnson?”     “Sure, Cal.”     And Mom was adamant that all of her boys would have an education. She went back to work once I was in high school—I was the oldest. And she wanted to make sure there was enough money for me to go to college. Still wouldn’t have been enough except that a crane fell at a work site in the city where Dad was working. Killed him and six others. When the city and the general contractor settled, Mom got a huge annuity. But she wouldn’t quit working until all four of us were out of college, bless her soul.     “Here you are, Mr. Johnson. So, the little lady give you a break and let you out for a while?”     “Um, no. Actually we had a little misunderstanding, so I thought I’d get away from the house for a while. Say, let’s talk about you, Cal.”     “Aw, not much to tell. I still work six nights a week. On Sundays I go places with my girlfriend.”     “Been dating her long?”     “Three years now. Neat lady.”     “I can imagine. What does she do?”     “Has her own business, manicures and pedicures. Does right well, she says.”     “You two talking about tying the knot?”     “Yeah, talking, but that’s about all right now. We’re trying to save up to buy a house. Oh, I’ve got to jump now, people hollering for refills.”     “Sure, Cal.”     Perhaps it was the house. Maybe that was the turning point in our relationship. She’d been hell bent on a house from the beginning. She hated the apartment. And, of course, a mortgage specialist was happy to fudge a few figures so we’d qualify. Yeah, I suppose the house was our downfall.     My job as an accountant took me to the train station every morning at six. I didn’t get home until around eight. Brenda liked to introduce me at parties as “an accounting executive in the city,” anything to dress up our social image. But I wasn’t climbing the firm’s business ladder anytime soon. Too many Ivy Leaguers at the office. I’d graduated from a community college out here. And because of our mortgage payments I didn’t exactly look like a comer. I had three suits. Brenda harped on that too, pushing me to buy better clothes. “With what,” I’d ask.     On Saturdays and Sundays I just wanted to relax, read or watch sports on television. But she had us lined up for galas or other socials with folks out of our social class—professionals and such. It took a while for me to realize how she’d managed to get invitations for us into these circles. People would approach me and ask if I gave tax advice on the side, or if I took individual appointments, or if all my tax work was corporate in nature.     None of these, I thought. I was an auditor, but she’d weaseled us into these groups under the guise that I was a tax whiz. I quickly learned to say that all of my work was strictly corporate. And that was true, it just wasn’t tax related.     “Another, Mr. Johnson?”     “Well, just one more, Cal.”     “Coming up.”     The house was fifty years old when we bought it and in constant need of repair. So on Saturdays I’d either be tinkering with minor jobs or waiting around for some repair guy. Brenda would be out at some charity bake sale, a used clothing drive for the poor, or some such stuff—at least that’s what she said. About four in the afternoon she’d come strolling in and announce our evening plans.     For about three weeks Brenda had complained about an odor in the backyard. Since I’d continued to ignore her pleas, she’d finally called a septic service to clean out our tank. So I was at home this morning when the septic truck arrived. And I watched as they pried off the concrete cover.     “There’s your problem, Mr. Johnson.”     “Where?”     “Over on the side. See those condoms? They sink and interfere with the drainage process. Must be a bunch of ’em on the bottom.” He winked.     “Yeah?”     “But don’t worry, we’ll clean it out good. Just don’t throw ’em in the toilet, sir. That is, unless you want us back out here again real soon.”     “Of course, yes, I see.” But I didn’t. I hadn’t used condoms since I was in college. The septic man confirmed his suspicions once he’d finished the job.     “Musta been thirty or forty in there, but we got ’em all. It’s clear now. Should work fine, sir.”     “Yes, thank you, what do I owe you?”     After I’d written a check and he’d left, it occurred to me I should have saved some of the evidence. But that wasn’t necessary, I decided. I’d wave the pistol I kept in the bedside table in her face. No, I thought, I’ll just confront her with what I’d seen.     When Brenda walked in, she could see from my face something was wrong, but she pretended to ignore it.     “You need to get dressed, Honey. We’re due at the Bricknell’s at seven.”     I just stared at her, but she passed me and went to the bedroom. I sat at the kitchen table and waited.     “Honey, you need to come get dressed,” she said. I didn’t move. Ten minutes later she walked into the kitchen in her party dress and heels, fiddling with an earring.     “Honey, is something wrong? Did the septic man pull a no-show?”     In plain, straightforward language I calmly explained what had happened. She blinked and her face flushed.     “Well, there must be some mistake.”     “No mistake, Brenda.”     “Maybe one of our guests at last month’s party dropped one in the toilet. Surely that must be the case. Now please get ready, we’re already late, dear.”     “Not one, Brenda—thirty or forty. Who is he?”     “Who is who? Don’t be silly. Now please get ready.”     She turned and began walking back toward the bedroom. I waited. Shortly she returned and said, “Well, if you don’t wanna go, I’ll just tell them you had a headache.”     “Who is he?” I said again. Then I stood. She moved toward the door, but I blocked her path. She was trapped and she knew it.     The details of our set-to aren’t that important. Suffice it to say our voices got louder and louder until finally she screamed that she’d never tell me and she didn’t give a damn. Said I couldn’t choke it out of her.     “How ’bout it, Mr. Johnson. Another?”     “Um, no Cal, I’ve had my limit. Say, what time is it?”     “Half past twelve, sir.”     “Well, gotta be going, Cal. Great to see you again. Keep the change.”     “Thanks, Mr. Johnson. Hope to see you again soon.”     Maybe, I whispered to myself once I’d turned away from the bar and started toward the door.     My car sat at the edge of the lot and as I walked toward it, I looked up and down the highway to see if any cop cars were sitting in the shadows. Wouldn’t do to be picked up on a DUI. I eased down the wet road, obeying all the traffic signs. And pulled into my driveway. The house was dark     In the tool shed behind the house I picked up a hammer and a rag and smashed a glass pane in the kitchen door. I reached in and wiped the door knob.     I walked back around the house, unlocked the front door, shambled toward the kitchen, and flipped on the overhead light. No body. My eyes searched the kitchen floor. Nothing. But I sensed the presence of another and wheeled around. With eyes of innocence and the crooked smile with dimples that had once captured my heart, she stood there for a moment, sighed, and fired the gun.     When I awoke, tubes filled my mouth and throat. A detective stood over my hospital bed and gave me Brenda’s account of what had happened. It was so good, I almost believed it myself. The perp had entered through the kitchen, tiptoed into the bedroom, and found the gun before we were aware of his presence. He’d turned on the light and demanded money. Brenda had given him her purse and I’d told him my wallet and keys were in an ash tray in the kitchen. He marched us in there and when he reached for my billfold, I’d tried to wrestle the gun away from him and had been shot. He’d then accosted Brenda and choked her.     The cops had found my empty wallet behind the house, but her purse was still missing. And the police were looking for a rusty haired man with crazed eyes.     “I’ll be back to interview you when you can talk,” he said and left.     I must have dozed off for a while. When I awoke, Brenda was standing over me smiling. She looked around to assure herself we were alone and eyed the air hose across my chest.

Alarm Clock 4:48 Mike Brennan The paints of the poppy sculpt my health while the blood of fine wines ruin my rhetoric causing both hands to tremble as I type the final lines insisting I have maintained a satisfyingly chaotic life A crusade for reality in a carnival of gleeful sin and some different way in leaving the right expression, intact, & perfectly embalmed within The shark tank of my morning mind frenzied upon the discomfort of my appetite of memory churning itself around the remains of my rage repeating itself ad nauseam.

The Beatin’ Path Damian Sebouhian     I think it was Doctor Phil who said “Beatin’ is the same as cheatin’”. By “beatin’” he means masturbating, just in case there’s any confusion. He could have said “Masturbatin’ is the same as illicit conjugatin’”, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue so pretty. If you have a significant other and you masturbate – via the visual stimulation of internet porn, a nude magazine or your own imagination – you are essentially cheating. I don’t know how I came about this information. I don’t watch Oprah or the Doctor Phil show, if he even has a show. I just know that I know that that is a phrase and somehow I know that it’s affiliated with Dr. Phil. I probably overheard it in a bar, or as a bit from a stand-up routine, or most likely the internet. Anyway it’s part of the collective cultural unconscious and somewhere along the line I absorbed it. It doesn’t really matter how. What does matter, is that it’s in my head at all. Dr. Phil threw it out there for the nation’s mainstream couples to argue about and despite my considerable distance from that arena of the mainstream, the fact that I know the phrase “Beatin’ is the same as cheatin’” pisses me right off. Especially when I’m sitting in front of my computer with my jeans at my ankles while my girlfriend sleeps in the next room.     Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a load of crap. I know when I masturbate, I’m not cheating on my girlfriend, and Sabine – my girlfriend – would agree. As a matter of fact she’s asked on more than one occasion if she could watch. That’s not going to happen, I told her. Some things are private. The problem is, every time I go about my dirty little business, I have to battle Dr. Phil. I can see his balding fat head looking down at me from my thought cloud, shaking in disapproval. I can even see his fat index fingers rubbing in perpendicular shame-fashion as his grubby fat mouth makes tsk-tsk noises. You can’t get any more boner-deflating than that.     Please don’t misunderstand me. I recognize there are legitimate questions couples wrestle with regarding the definition of infidelity. It’s not a black-and-white issue. For instance, if you make out with a girl, but don’t have intercourse, is it still cheating? If your wife flirts with other men on a regular basis, is that a kind of cheating? Is a blow job cheating (remember that debate)? These are fair questions, namely because they involve another person, a person who could potentially upset the balance of a relationship. An outside threat, so to speak. But masturbating? The same as cheating?     Doesn’t our culture give us enough mixed messages as it is? A woman should look sexy and attractive, but if she gets raped it’s because she was wearing a whore costume. Say no to drugs, but here, have some pharmaceuticals for that mental disorder we just invented. Don’t abort that fetus, but kill the hapless dude on death row. Give to charities, but don’t feed that loser homeless guy. It’s wrong to abuse your pets, but just fine and dandy to use a chimp for scientific experiments. Hunters are asshole gun-nuts who kill for sport, but lets factory-farm the shit out of cows. No prayer in school, but the pledge of allegiance has the words “under god” in the fucking thing. The list goes on and on, and I can deal with the hypocrisy of most of it because I’m used to it and I’m not generally affected on a personal level. But when it comes to my dick, stay the fuck away! That’s what I tell the imaginary Dr. Phil when he tries to infringe on my solitary good-times. Then, I check out my favorite porn site, SexIsLove.com, and within moments Dr. Phil and any lingering shame resulting from his presence subsides. By the way, I mention SexIsLove.com, because I’m not turned on by most pornography out there; it’s sexist and borderline abusive, if not out-right rapey. “At SexIsLove.com we believe that sex is beautiful and endeavor to create unique and passionate pornography, capturing real feelings and genuine intimacy.” I’m here to tell you, they stick to that mission statement and my penis and I are very grateful for that.     There was quite a wait period between when I figured out what masturbation was and then how to incorporate it into my everyday life. When I say wait period I’m talking four years. Yeah. It was a rough four years. I started getting regular erections around eleven, and right around that time, I knew that to help alleviate the suffering an erection can give a young lad, I just needed to touch it in a certain way. Problem being, I didn’t know what certain way that was. Being the oldest and with two sisters, I had no one to teach me how to do it correctly. While my parents were both liberal folk, and rejected the tyranny inherent to most Christian values, they also never talked to me about sex. My father, as a political science professor, was too highbrow, too cultured a figure, for me to approach on such a primitive subject. It went without saying that as a boy, you simply did not go to your mom about how to satisfy the longing in your loins. Sex education, you might say. True, while our school had a sex education unit in health class, masturbation was not explored in any practical manner but to admit that it existed. Not very educational is it? The only other route for knowledge was my (possibly) more enlightened friends. The trouble there was, at that age, admitting you masturbated was tantamount to declaring yourself the hunchback of Pervertville. Or worse, gay. Nope, I was on my own. And while I was a wiz at taking a piece of graph paper, a straight edge and a well-sharpened number two pencil to design the most intricate of dungeons for our weekly D&D sessions, I just couldn’t figure out how to ejaculate into the toilet.     When I hit puberty at fifteen, things got worse. A prepubescent erection can be demanding, but it goes away eventually. Just think the right thoughts and it will fall into wrinkled, flaccid sleep. My default method in those days was imagining my father doing yoga in his underwear. It always worked then. Not so at fifteen. A fifteen year olds’ erection is a dangerous, unforgiving force of nature. If not flogged to submission, it will threaten one’s psyche with madness. It was rare that I was ever at home alone, but when I was I never wasted an opportunity scouring the house for something to rub my dick on. I tried towels, blankets, tablecloths, even my sisters’ panties. While those items would feel good for a short while, teasing me with the hope for a promised-land climax, the longer I rubbed, the faster the pleasure turned to chafing pain, and I’d be forced to stop, utterly frustrated. There must me SOMETHING in this house I can fuck, I’d cry to myself. I knew I had sunk into the well of moral depravity when I started trying ways to get the family dog to lick my hard-on. There was never enough whip-cream, her tongue was so masterful that she only needed two or three laps, and it was gone. After that, she wasn’t interested. And if I insisted she continue, she’d give me a look that said: “I might be a dog, but I’m not your bitch.”     Then, a miracle. It was the day I got my first pair of glasses, something I wasn’t looking forward to at all. If I was already considered a nerd, sporting a new pair of plastic, black-rimmed glasses wasn’t going to help my cause. My worries quickly subsided as soon as I saw the pouch the glasses were to be stored in and a eureka-light of awareness beamed through my skull. I had found my answer. It was a brown leather pouch with a belt clip, opened at one end, the inside lined with some type of soft cream-colored fur. I counted down the hours for night to fall, anticipation gripping my groin. I went to bed early that evening, explaining to my parents that I felt a cold coming on. Using the illumination of my nightlight I opened a D&D book to my favorite page: a picture of a female elf standing on a cliff and gazing triumphantly over the valley below. Her shimmering chartreuse gown had a slit that exposed her muscular left leg all the way to her upper thigh. Her blonde hair spilled over her back to caress her perfect ass. The gown also revealed impeccable cleavage. I was naked sitting up with my legs over the side of the bed. Fully erect. I entered the pouch and the softness of the fur did not disappoint. I moved the pouch slowly, squeezing it at the appropriate times. Unlike before, the faster I moved, the better it felt, until...my body tensed and a kind of void spread through my testicles, numbing all sensation for what seemed like an eternity but was more likely only a few seconds. Then... I heard a knocking at the door accompanied by my mother’s voice. “Ben, did you take your cough syrup, honey?”     I ejaculated at the sound of my name, feeling at once, intense pleasure and intense humiliation. When I answered it was during a spasm of release and the sound of my voice reflected it: “Ye-EHS!”     “Are you okay in there?”     My mother opened the door just as I grabbed a pillow to cover my crotch, the book still open. The light from the hallway spilled into the room. I couldn’t stop the tiny orgasmic aftershocks from twitching my body.     “Look at you, you’re sweating bullets.” She rushed to my side and put a hand to my forehead, seemingly completely oblivious to the act I had just performed. “You’re not going to school tomorrow,” she said with her patented concerned authority. “I’ll be right back with a thermometer and some aspirin.” She left, and I closed the book and tossed the pouch under the bed, flung myself under the covers and smiled.     Although it wasn’t the ideal start to a career that would last for three more decades and counting, I had learned two important lessons that night: how to finally jerk-off, and how to set up a perimeter of safety so that I would never (almost) get caught again. It didn’t take long before the fur in the pouch became matted down, crusty and useless. I went through three pouches in less than a month, until one day while raiding my parents bedroom for Playboy magazines that didn’t exist, I found a bottle of personal lubricant on their headboard. Turns out, that was the missing link all this time. Lubrication. I’ve been using it ever since, although now mostly in the form of Canola oil. Who woulda thunk?     I’m forty-three now and Sabine and I have a very healthy sex life. My libido hasn’t changed much since fifteen and I finally found a woman who matches me. She’s one of the few women I have never cheated on. I used to feel guilty for cheating, but it took being with Sabine for me to realize why I had been doing it before. As shallow as it may sound, in those relationships, I wasn’t getting enough. It was always the women who ruled our sex life, who controlled the when and the where. For me, it was never enough. Maybe after those four years of frustration, wanting so badly to “get off” and unable to figure out how, I subconsciously swore to myself that I would never let it come to that situation again. I don’t mean to rationalize my sleeping around. A committed relationship should involve loyalty. I should have broken up with those women instead of cheating, or at least communicated my needs more thoroughly. The challenge with that approach was the embarrassment I felt for having such a strong sexual drive. I should calm down, I’d tell myself. Sex once a week isn’t bad. Life isn’t all about sex. Quit being a jerk. So I’d shove my feelings into a box, hoping they’d stay there. But they didn’t, they’d manifest themselves Pandora style through flirting, then late-night parties, then sexual trysts. The lying I’d have to do was much more difficult than finding a safe place to masturbate. I usually got away with it, but then somewhere along the line, maybe when I knew the relationship had hit its peak, I’d confess. Instead of breaking it off myself, I’d force them to do it. And they always did. Until Sabine. I told Sabine about Dr. Phil’s declaration one night, expecting her to brush it off as bullocks, just as I had done. I was surprised with her response. She paused and looked to the ceiling for a brief moment while chewing on the pencil she uses for her crossword puzzles. “I could see a situation where that could be argued,” she said.     “What?” I exclaimed. “Where jerking off is the same as cheating?”     “Maybe not the SAME as cheating, but if you stopped having sex with me for a month or so and I discovered that the whole time you were wanking it to internet porn, yeah, I’d be pretty upset.”     “That would never happen,” I said. “I mean, yeah, I jerk off, but that’s when you’re asleep or not around.”     “But if you stopped having sex with me...?”     “Why would I do that?” I said, flabbergasted at the thought.     “That’s exactly my point. Why would you do that?”     “I don’t know. I wouldn’t.”     “You wouldn’t, but I bet if you watched the Dr. Phil show where he says...what did he say?”     “Beatin is the same as cheatin’”     “Yeah. If you watched that show, I bet you the guy he was talking about had stopped having sex with his wife and that she was feeling unwanted and unloved and then she caught him masturbating to some disgusting porn site. I’m just saying, there’s probably a lot more to it than what you’re talking about.”     We discussed the subject for some time. Sabine told me that there are a lot of men out there who lose attraction for their wives, but instead of putting the effort into an extra-marital affair, they simply use the internet. It’s easier that way and a lot more guilt-free. Dr. Phil was probably just using that phrase as an exaggerated spotlight. If you don’t communicate anymore with your spouse both verbally and sexually, yet you constantly seek out sexual release, albeit by your own hands, you might as well be cheating.     She had a point, and by making it, the shame that I felt while masturbating evaporated into the ether. I finally understood what Dr. Phil was talking about. He wasn’t talking about me. He was talking about those ugly fat losers who have thrown away all dignity and self-worth.     “If you ever feel you aren’t attracted to me anymore, you’ll let me know, right?” Sabine said. She was wearing tight Aero Postal blue-jeans and a v-neck, strawberry-colored bustier, her dyed blond hair done up in pigtails. We were in the living room both of us leaning against the couch.     “I promise you,” I said moving closer, my voice lowering an octave. “Senility would strike me before that ever happened.”     We embraced, we kissed. We touched foreheads and locked eyes.     “You’re beautiful,” I said.     “You’re beautifuller,” She grinned her patented scimitar grin.     “You’re the beautifullest,” I finished, and we laughed at our silly joke.     I grabbed her by the waist and squeezed. She gasped, pretending to be surprised.     “Now,” I said. “Would you like to watch?”

The Things I Wish Would Go On Without Me Holly Day I imagine the stories we’ll tell at each other’s funerals about the day I wake up and find him cold, how I imagine his face wonder how to talk frankly with him about love, and death, and what I want him to do the things I plan to do when he’s gone. how many years have to pass between us before I can tell him how I’d be dead without him beside me at night how I imagine the silence of the house without him?

Short Bio     Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai’i Pacific Review, Slant, and The Tampa Review, and she is the 2011 recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are “Walking Twin Cities” and “Notenlesen fü”r Dummies Das Pocketbuch.”

Janet Kuypers reads the Holly Day poem The Things I Wish Would Go On Without Me

See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading (C) the Holly Day poem The Things I Wish Would Go On Without Me (from the current issue of Down in the Dirt magazine (v123, the May/June 2014 issue ISSN#/ISBN# book, titled Home At Last) live 7/16/14 at Chicago’s open mic the Café Gallery

The Teacher Caleb Holbrook     This is bull. I think, writing down Mr. Brooks’ assignment. Thirty-seven algebra problems due tomorrow. Sure. Because there is nothing I’d rather do than spend four hours staring at a problem that makes less sense that a Chinese take-out menu. It’s bad enough the teachers don’t teach you jack, then they give out tests eight pages long. And Heaven forbid you fail the test. Then you get chewed out by some balding guy in a suit who ‘just wants to help.’ If Mr. Brooks thinks I’m gonna even look for the page number of my book, he’s got another thing coming.     Finally the bell knells and I shuffle out of class, slinging my backpack over my right shoulder. I walk into English seven minutes late. Oh well, I couldn’t care less my glare says to the teacher, Mrs. Houle. And she doesn’t care either. Mrs. Houle has been teaching for fifty-nine years, she’s retiring at the end of this semester and stopped giving a damn back in January. Thank God, because most teachers would be all over me, lecturing about tardiness, and the effect it has on my education. Here we both ignore each other. It’s worked out pretty well so far. I walk in late, sit down in my seat and tune out Mrs. Houle as she drones on and on and on about dependent clauses or some crap. I pull out the latest The Magic Treehouse book I’ve been working through for the past few days. I only have about thirty pages left, maybe I can finish it before tonight and start a new one.     These books are awesome. Each one takes place in a different place or time or whatever. My favorite was the one where they went to the Civil War. If Mrs. Maher could make History half as exciting as it is in The Magic Treehouse, maybe I could at least feign interest in her class.     I’m so absorbed in my story I don’t realize class ended ten minutes ago. I finish the last page and look up. Great, just me and the old bird. She’s grading papers, so I try to sneak out before I’m noticed and told off for ignoring her during class.     “Sam, a word please?” Dammit. My hand is on the door handle. Grudgingly, I about- face.     “Yeah Mrs. Houle?”     “I noticed that you were quite involved in that book you were reading.” Her voice is soft. Calming, not reprimanding.     “Yeah, I- ah- sorry. Good book.” I hide my right hand, firmly clasping the book, behind my back. She can’t know what book it is. Even teachers can be known to laugh at students stupidness.     “Why don’t you ever try in class? If you like reading, read my assignments!”     “Because” Because I can’t understand half the crap they say in those books!     “If the reading is too difficult we coul-”     “It’s not too hard I just don’t like it.” I lock eyes with a floor tile. Why does the old bat even care all of a sudden?     “Well alright then. Have a nice day.”     Without a word I walk back to the door.     “Oh, and Sam?”     I turn, reaching my hand for the handle, and raise an eyebrow to Mrs. Houle.     “I thought story where Jack and Annie visit the Titanic was very interesting”     “Titanic?” I ask bewildered. “Oh, yeah.” She means The Magic Treehouse: Tonight on the Titanic. I remember that one. The main characters, Jack and Annie, are sent to the boat the night it sinks. Because the iceberg tore a hole bigger than the engineers ever intended. That why the unsinkable ship sank. I take my leave and recall the story as I trudge to my next class. There was something cool about the fourth smokestack being fake or something. Cool story. But if she thinks she can ‘reach out to me’ through the books, she may as well talk to a wall.     I walk into History class and sit in my usual seat in the back corner. I can’t believe Mrs. Houle reads The Magic Treehouse. My mind wanders back to the story about the Civil War. There was some cool stuff in it, like some drummer boy who was too young to be in the army but was anyways. We’re actually studying the Civil War in class. Mrs. Maher is talking about the Battle of Fort Sumter. Boring stuff. Why does she have to ramble on and on about facts of death tolls and how many shots were fired. The Magic Treehouse is straight to the point.     After class I head to the library. I walk through the scanners that go off when you don’t check out a book before leaving, and dump my book into the returns bin. The librarian smiles at me.     “Looking for the next Magic Treehouse Sam?”     “Sure. Umm, do you have any books about the Civil War?”     “Well, yes, quite a few, there over on that shelf. We’re doing a feature of war books this month in honor of Veteran’s Day.”     I look to the shelf. A whole lot of thick books, yellowed pages, and tons of tiny words. I scan the titles. They all look like adventure stories but it would take me months to get through one. Finally I see a book on the bottom shelf tucked into the corner. It’s one of those big books with the glossy pages meant to highlight a few points. I know kids who used these for book reports way back in second grade. If somebody saw me reading this, they’d mock me for being the idiot I am. I take it.     “Did you find what you wanted?” asks the librarian.     “Yeah, I did, thanks” I reply as I hand the book over the counter. The librarian rings it up, and gives it back. I quickly put the book in my backpack, and head to the bus.     Later that night I pull out the book at the kitchen table. My mom walks over, and sees the cover.     “Oh, Sam, thats a change” she says.     “What? I can’t read other books?” I challenge. My God, why does she have to be such a bitch. I pick up the book and go downstairs to my room where I can read in peace.     I flip through the pages, glancing at pictures of forts, diagrams of guns, and descriptions of uniforms. This book looks pretty interesting. I open the first page and begin reading. I only stop when Dad call me up for dinner. The book is really cool, and its not hard to understand. Those history books are like the freaking Encyclopedia Britannica with all these fifteen letter words in places where a three letter word would work.     Later that night, after sorting through various web pages about Civil War technology, I see Mrs. Houle sent me an email. What the hell? What does the old bag want now?     It’s a link to a web page. I click, and the page opens up. Sparknotes for the chapter of the book we’re supposed to be reading tonight. I never thought to look them up. These are like a short version of what happens in the book chapter by chapter. I know kids use it to cheat on the little quizzes some teachers give out to make sure everyone read the assignment the night before. I usually hand in blank papers.     I scan through the paragraph, and the story seems pretty interesting. Some guy named George and Lennie working at a farm. The author certainly isn’t censored. I count like six curses. Cool, finally a guy who writes normal. I look over to my dresser, on top is where I tossed the book the day the class brought them home. I haven’t even opened it. Of Mice and Men the cover reads. Well the Sparknotes never mentioned any mice, but maybe its worth a shot. Tossing the book onto my bed I look back at the computer screen, and click on “Chapter 1”.

Requiem for the common individual Stanley M Noah A man was buried only yesterday in his birch wooden coffin from the same tree he seeded in the grounds of youth. A fresh white rose pinned on the cotton lapel sunday suit. Lip and lid tight like a locked door/inside the room of secrets.

Last Look Anna Maria Hansen One long last look memorizing all the complexities of you. As if I needed to. One long last look where the escape of breath punctuated our silence, measuring the space between. Standing on the threshold of change, granted one look back. I saw you and me what we were, what we couldn’t be. A moment too fragile for tears so I laughed instead, as I always do, and when all the air was gone, lungs vacant and deflated, empty, needing new breath, I paused, took one long last look inhaled, and you were gone.

A Little Angel Inside 2010 Janet Kuypers (poetry converted to prose)     it seems strange, that on the day the towers fell five years ago (where every television station and newspaper is praising our resolve for all of the death that has been forced upon us), well, it seems strange that this is the day the death certificates became available from Fuller Funeral Home. and this is the day we pick up my mother’s ashes.     seems eerily strange.     my sister is holding some ashes to be made into a diamond from mom, so they came to us with a small container for her and a larger cardboard box of all of mom. and Kristina from Fuller Funeral Home even handed me a small maroon bag tied tightly shut and she whispered to me, “these are your mother’s earrings”. I knew the dress we chose for her (the dress she wore to my wedding) would be burned with her in her cremation, but it never occurred to me that the earring would survive. and here they are, in a little velour bag for me.     like how people try to keep something from the fall of the World Trade centers who lived through that horrendous day, well, I think, maybe this is what I’ll keep. if anyone argues about them I’ll say, I lost her dress from my wedding for the cremation so these earrings are a gift to me now. sorry. I know, they’re clip-on earrings and they’re not real diamonds but they are three pretty little stones today, tomorrow and forever, and they look so dainty and delicate and they’re a good way for me to remember her.     when we left Fuller Funeral Home dad carried the paperwork, the death certificates, and I carried mom with us in her little containers. I think I held that little red bag like there was a little angel inside, and I had to be delicate to make sure nothing happened to it because I was it’s keeper now. I’ll treat it well and treasure it always. I promise.

Watch this YouTube video cc&d magazine from Scars Publications, in the 12/10 v215 issue, which was also released as the 6" x 9" ISBN# book Entering the Ice Age, live 12/07/10, live at the Café in Chicago

Watch this YouTube video live at the Cafe in Chicago 9/29/09

Watch this YouTube video live at the Cafe in Chicago 09/22/09

Watch this YouTube video live at Waiting4the Bus at Jak’s Tap in Chicago 3/4/13

Watch this YouTube video live at Waiting4the Bus at Jak’s Tap in Chicago 3/4/13 (Edge Detection filter)

Watch this YouTube video live at Waiting4the Bus at Jak’s Tap in Chicago 3/4/13 (Posterize filter)

Watch this YouTube video live at Waiting4the Bus at Jak’s Tap in Chicago 3/4/13 (Watercolor filter)

Watch this YouTube video of Kuypers reading All I Can Capture and Momento Mori live at Waiting4the Bus at Jak’s Tap in Chicago 3/4/13

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