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In This Issue... Nancy Lee Bethea Mel Waldman Fritz Hamilton Mary Stone Robert D. Lyons Marcin Majkowski Sean Lause Katrina K Guarascio Ben Macnair E. J. Loera Jack Bristow Lisa Cappiello Tom Gumbert Matthew Bagdanovich Christopher Hanson Sarah Lucille Marchant Jenna Kelly Jill E. Harris Dorothy H. Smith Curt Seubert Ellie Stewart Brian Huba P. Keith Boran Barton Hill John Grey Kenneth Rutherford Charley Daveler Eleanor Leonne Bennett art Judith Kaufman Jennifer S. Lee Patrick VandenBussche Kenneth Weene Bob Strother Janet Kuypers

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

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Questions Nancy Lee Bethea Copyright 2011     “Will you show me your new tattoo?” Claude asked Marissa.     “I will for some ice cream,” Marissa said pushing her long blonde hair over her shoulders with both of her hands. She sat cross-legged on a red bar stool in Claude’s apartment.     “Let’s see. I have butter pecan, chocolate almond and vanilla,” Claude stacked cold rectangles of ice cream on the counter. “What will it be?”     “Mint chocolate chip. Two scoops in a sugar cone, please. Then, you can see my new tattoo.”     “Guess I won’t get a peek then.” Claude put the ice cream cartons back into the freezer. “Your turn.”     Marissa picked up a blue ball point pen on top of a yellow pad of paper. She doodled a star with tendrils emerging from each point. “What do you fear most?” she asked as she drew a smaller star.     Claude opened a cabinet above the dishwasher and took out two glasses. He filled one with water from the tap and took three sips of water. Marissa drew more stars.     “Growing old alone.” Claude put one glass down. He walked to the ice maker built into the refrigerator and pressed the second glass into the white semi-circle there. The machine growled, then ice clanked in the glass. He opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher. Lemon slices moved toward the bottom as he poured clear liquid over the ice. “Here,” he said handing Marissa the cold drink. “It’s fresh lemonade.”     “Thanks.” Marissa drank a few sips.     “I never knew I’d be this successful,” Claude gazed out a large window overlooking the river, “and it’s nice. I’m grateful, but I realize now it’s not enough.”     Marissa drew more stars.     Claude took another sip of water and said, “My turn again, right?”     “Last one.” Marissa stopped doodling for a moment and looked at her watch. “I have to go soon.”     Claude rinsed her glass and left it in the kitchen sink. “How would you spend a free afternoon – no obligations, no schedule – just a block of time?”     Marissa’s eyes met Claude’s. “Good question,” she paused and put the cap back on the blue ballpoint pen. “I might ride the subway and watch people, or I might crash someone’s wedding downtown, or I might take tuba lessons,” she laughed and stood. Marissa flipped her hair again as she rested her leather purse strap on her left shoulder. “Thanks for the lemonade, Claude,” Marissa smiled as she walked toward the front door.     “Can I call you some time?” Claude asked as he followed her to the door. “You never know, I might have more questions.”     “Can I get back to you on that?” Marissa said. “I think I’ll go get some mint chocolate chip ice cream right now.” She walked out the door and down the hall.     Claude shut his apartment door. As he walked to his bedroom, he saw Marissa’s sketches on the yellow paper. Below the last row of stars, Claude saw seven numbers followed by a question mark.

Subhuman No More A 25-Word Story by Mel Waldman So bad, I denied it ever happened. But it did, every dark day for 20 years. The poison’s still seeping from my brain, my flesh.

BIO Mel Waldman, Ph. D.     Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.

The doppelganger Fritz Hamilton The doppelganger, sad ghost residing in my closet comes out several times a day to steal my Pepsi or go to the toilet (in my sink) or drink from the toilet/ I feed him a can of dogfood, but he wants to dine on my pastrami sandwich/ I offer him a pillow to sleep well in the closet/ I listen to his fears/ that his mommy doesn’t love him, & he’ll be doppelgang banged, & the gang will run off with his cookie/ I even let him haunt me to restore his self-esteem, & give him a glass of warm milk/ but I look into the closet to discover he’s eaten my left tennisshoe & used my only clean shirt to blow his nose, & I take him by the seat of his pants & throw him out my window / he hits the sidewalk & bounces up like a rubber ducky/ I grab him & put him back into the closet because how can I take a bath bath without my rubber ducky ... ?

The reason I don’t commit suicide Fritz Hamilton The reason I don’t commit suicide is that I’m already dead & unlike Donald Trump I have achieved it without a tax break, but at least Donald, who’s just a little dumb, is smart enough to be a Tea Partier & a chicken wing Presidential candidate as capable as Michelle Bachman & a biscuit & 2 pieces dark at KFC which makes me happy to be dead/ please bury me deep to avoid all this because being an American in our non-democracy is harder & harder & being dead is easy, & I can take my place as a hero of history by being deep under ground & I’m not coming back ... !

Sky Elegy Mary Stone It’s the reason babies lie on their backs arms raised above them, tiny fingers swirling clouds into shapes, as if a fingernail can scratch a black dot, purple-red scrapes clotting the sky, bleeding it, the scrape of fog a screen curling over us. We all dance and look up, hoping the clouds move closer, jazzing nocturnes with our feet, the sweep and waltz of shadows, of night, mapping the sky, as if we can see all of it, the whole thing doming beyond us, extending from one pink sphere to another, our arms stretched wide, we try to take it all in our arms, teach each other how to point to stars. Using our whole bodies we lean into a hemorrhaged sky, telescope our hands and eyes until we see spiders falling, their legs twisting, fangs out, or clusters of worms dropping in the clearest sky, until we see – what we want to see – the lights, changing colors, the way oceans gush to reflect certain silvery tints, the way black is more like a shade of blue, or purple, our views from the surface flimsy and brittle, all individual perceptions of what pushes at us from above, knowing every direction is up or north, that there are always lines, edges, blurry directions to give, always scorched borders to frame, always horizons to discover and trace.

Mary Stone Bio (05/20/11)     Mary Stone’s poetry and prose has appeared or is forthcoming in A Clean Well-Lighted Place, Notes Magazine, Mochila, Coal City Review, Amoskeag, Lingerpost, FutureCycle Poetry, and many other fine journals. In 2011 she received the Langston Hughes Creative Writing Award in Poetry. Currently, she is an MFA student at the University of Kansas in Lawrence, where she teaches English classes and co-edits the Blue Island Review.

God Hates Us All Robert D. Lyons They say god is our heavenly father, But if our fathers bailed, What does that tell you about god? God never wanted us. God doesn’t need us. God hates us all. He has damned us to pseudo bohemian coffee shops On the curb of patchy paved streets And sex shops in the sweaty, grimy, and dirty downtown. We are the pet sharks God flushed down the toilet. It doesn’t matter, We have become a generation of men Raised by women. They say the captain goes down with his ship, So when this world ends, Will god go down with it?

Janet Kuypers reads the Robert D. Lyons 1/12 Down in the Dirt poem Got Hates Us All from the 1/12 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine

Watch the YouTube video of Kuypers reading this poem at the open mike 01/18/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery in Chicago

Hero of a Silent Movie Marcin Majkowski Once someone said you’re colorless as a character in black/white movie session Expressionless devoid of communicative organs left with dumb facial expression Like Charlie Chaplin but this turned out to be a compliment So perhaps like Frankenstein that’s better an intellectual impotent Relishing and noticing slight differences in shades of grayness A handicapped mute registering the signs atmosphere of uniqueness Devoid of verbal abilities I throw myself into the ocean of gesticulation Unwanted child color scales adopted by grayness within framework of mystification http://www.depechmaniac.pl http://depechmaniac.bloog.pl http://satyrykon.net http://ateist-kleranty.deviantart.com/

The night I forgot to be afraid Sean Lause My father, true philosopher, refused to build a bomb shelter, 1962, even though the factory where he worked had a contract and wanted him to build one. Instead, we sat on the front porch swing and ate Eskimo Pies that wept down our shirts as we listened to intricate crickets design the dark. “We’ll be all right,” he said, as our deathless feet moved over the lilacs.

Janet Kuypers reads the Sean Lause 1/12 Down in the Dirt poem the night I forgot to be afraid from the 1/12 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine

Watch the YouTube video of Kuypers reading this poem at the open mike 01/18/12 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery in Chicago

Bus Station Katrina K Guarascio A little after ten thirty, we sit at the bus station. My leg thrown over yours, head rests on shoulder, your arm around me, absently caressing my shoulder as though a lifelong habit. The ice of your eyes bites my lower lip as you tell me where the wild things are in a cadence so calm it stirs my soul. I tire of hiding my insides from my out. I crawl inside you then, build a home from the bones of your rib cage, a bed out of cartilage that marked sternum, pillow from soft tissue between vertebrae, I fall asleep against the rhythm of your heart. I leave a piece of myself there. A little before eleven you collect yourself and join the crowd surrounding the departing door. Without a second thought I give you my last cigarette, a kiss for the road, and a handful carefully chosen words. A shared serene convergence before the road drags you away.

Katrina K Guarascio Short Bio     Katrina K Guarascio currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico where she teaches English, Poetry, and Journalism. Along with various literary magazine and ezines publications, she is the author of two chapbooks and two book length publications, A Scattering of Imperfections and most recently, They don’t make memories like that anymore...

The Beard Monster Ben Macnair There are no monsters under your bed. The Bogey Man does not live in your wardrobe, waiting for you to fall asleep before he can emerge, and do his work. There are no crocodiles lurking in the sewers, and the Shark prefers the sea, to the comforts of your bath. The neighbours are not strange, and your Dad’s eyes are not red because he is the devil, He is just tired. Your Parents will tell you this is true, but they will not tell you about a monster you will meet, just as your childhood ends, and you become a man. The Beard Monster has been growing up with you. He has been sleeping inside your skin. His face is your face. His eyes are your eyes. And one day, He will throw little spears of hair through the tiny holes in your skin, and everyday you will take up a sharpened tool and undo his good work. He will not hate you for it, but he will make you bleed, and everyday as you stare at the mirror, and admire his persistence, his never ending resources, knowing he is doing a job, in the same way the nail monsters who live in your hands and feet, do theirs, and as you go to you own work, you hope that they are thanked more for their efforts than you are.

Chalk Dust E.J. Loera Promise me you aren’t chalk dust That my attempting to erase you will not mean that you have disappeared until the end of time – I only need to be rid of you because my stomach still drops like skipping a stone in a stream every time you are mentioned. “You were like an invisible friend,” you said but don’t realize that all the same I am an imaginary friend to myself and my invisible friend moved away when I was six. After a time, there is nowhere to run and the damage has been done – my tongue stumbles on silence. There is no promised land in these spiraling tunnels of reuptake inhibitors – only a long waiting room with alligators and the stillness of my right eardrum.

Third-Life Crisis Jack Bristow     “Come on, man—you’re always staying home. How the hell you expect to ever meet a girl, anyhow?” This was Darren talking—Don Plato’s roommate. Don had come home from the war a different man, but in what way exactly it had been difficult to explain—especially to his sex-crazed roommate. To a good shrink, maybe. But if Don were to ever tell Darren the grisly truth, he knew he would never think of him in the same way ever again.     “Donnie,” Darren jabbed his friend in the ribs jokingly, but his hazel eyes were beyond threatening. “You’re going with me to that fucking club tonight—and that’s final.” *     Young crowd, Donnie had thought miserably inside Club Zionsville. And it was not just his secret that was causing this depression, though it had had a lot to do with it. No—here the man was, twenty-five years old, at a critical turning point in his life. For the first time in his life, he had felt old. Like his best years were far behind him... How many hours had he squandered away at home, drinking beer, fucking around with his guitar and Darren? And then one day his fiancee, Denise, had broke it off with him and then there was a commercial on TV showing men and women jumping out of planes and overcoming all sorts of obstacles. In spite of the cheesy heavy metal music, the little voice inside his head had told him: This is right, and a few weeks later he was deployed to Iraq, and the rest was history.     “I’m going to go mingle, you anti-social cocksucker.” And then Darren was up, walking toward a gaggle of girls at the table area. Don sat slumped at the bar stool, glaring forlornly into the salt-rimmed margarita glass. He was about to make a toast to somebody, but didn’t know who—then, it had occurred to him. “Here is a toast to me, Don Plato. Dipshit-of-the-year. No, the century.” He perked up as he continued with the self-hatred. Before he could think up more depressing thoughts a small, warm hand had touched him.     “Is this seat taken?” The voice was female, and Southern. Painfully cute, almost, to Don Plato. “No, be my guest.” He tried with all his might to smile, to look normal, like he wasn’t hiding anything. Fortunately, it had worked, because the little cutie was smiling back at him. She had brown eyes and blonde here. A petite frame with small-but-delicious-looking tits. Christ, Don had thought philosophically. If women could read our minds, then we’d really be fucked.How do you engage in conversation with a beautiful woman? It had been so dreadfully long, that Don had nearly forgotten. But then, like a bolt of lightning, the right thing to say had hit him. Forcefully.     “That’s a cute accent you have there—I take it you aren’t from around these parts. Where, if you don’t mind my asking, do you hail from?” Darren sipped the margarita, which was almost empty, the girl blushed as she replied, “Louisiana.” There was an uncomfortable silence before Darren had called out to the waitress. “Miss—I’ll have another melon-flavored margarita. And, my friend here...” he trailed off so she’d give her name. “Rebecca,” she answered. “And yes, I’ll have what the gentleman is having. That looks good.”     After the initial, bullshit formalities they had discussed work—first, Rebecca had asked Don what he had done for a living, after he had tersely replied “computer work,” he asked her about her vocation, by saying, “Let me guess. You’re very well-read, very articulate—too articulate to be in a place like this—I would guess you were either a writer or getting your criminal justice degree to become a lawyer.”     The woman had a bewildered expression on her face, and then she said, “How did you know—I’m taking criminal justice at night, working at Ralph’s as a cashier by day. And what you just said about me seeming ‘too smart’ and sophisticated to be hopping in a place like this, I thought the same about you... Anyway, in answer to your question, things have been hectic for me—at work, and school—and I didn’t really want to go here, but my roommate, Darlene, had talked me into it.”     Holy shit. Don had felt a wave of exhilaration, more alive than he had felt since returning home. After he had explained to her how those were the very same conditions under which he had been suckered into coming in—a pushy roommate and hectic workweek—she had grabbed his hands as though she were a fortuneteller, then she said, “Well, by the looks of it both of our friends have abandoned us. Let us do the same.” *     On the cab ride back to his apartment with Rebecca sitting next to him the man’s mind had raced frantically. How, he wondered, can I explain this to her? About the torture—torture he had suffered under the overzealous hands and sadistic gadgets of Iraqi extremists, the men responsible for Don’s shameful little secret, the thing he had been too ashamed to admit even to his friend-since-childhood Darren. He looked into Rebecca’s bright-brown eyes and knew, somehow, that it would all turn out all right.     He would still be able to pleasure the woman tonight—with his tongue and fingertips.     As the cab reached the seedy-looking apartment building the eunuch had tipped the cabdriver generously and then, walking out of the car with Rebecca’s warm hand in his had thought, somewhat philosophically, What constitutes a man, really?

Fearless Lisa Cappiello July 9, 2011 My Dearest Clyde,     Before I left my apartment last Saturday, I had a sudden urge to spray my wrists with Cashmere Mist (there are still a few drops left). I didn’t give it a second thought until I approached the corner of 42nd Street and 7th Avenue and saw them, amid clusters of frazzled tourists, eager rookie cops, and disgruntled pretzel vendors.     He stood a head taller than her. His freshly pressed, short-sleeved, plaid button down shirt was half a size too big and hung perfectly over his khaki cargo shorts. Her stylish sundress looked new and flowed freely, just as her straight blond hair did. Her strut was modelesque but when she stopped to wait for the traffic light to change, she fiddled with the label of her knock-off designer bag without even realizing it.     His arm was draped proudly over her shoulders, and although they were deeply engrossed in conversation, they exuded an unmistakable blend of innocence and sheer confidence that nothing was going to hold them down. With widened eyes, they looked at their city the same way they looked at each other, and saw nothing but endless love and opportunities. As I squinted to get a closer look, I was certain I saw the corners of their lips curled up, ever so slightly, reflecting the same grin that used to complete our faces.     When she caught me staring, all I could do was smile, but I made sure to take a mental Polaroid before crossing the street. They reminded me so much of us ten years ago.     The image of the pair consumed me for days; I couldn’t shake it, until yesterday evening, when it finally rained hard enough to wash away the humidity that made it impossible to breathe. It was then it all finally clicked – I had become a grown-up. And somewhere between graduate school, working 60 hour weeks, and navigating my way through an endless emotional rollercoaster ride, I lost my ability to be fearless. And it sucks.     So from here on in, I vow to you, my first true love, to try my hardest to approach each new day armed with the confidence that at any given moment, I could still pull of a bank robbery, if I wanted to. Send my love to your wife and sons Always, Bonnie

Just Another White Man in America Tom Gumbert     Easing off the brake I allow the truck to move slowly over the path, carefully following the moonlit ruts from farm vehicles long since passed, and steer toward the woods. I roll down the window allowing the night sounds and the cool pre-dawn air into the cab as well as a mosquito the size of a bat. After smashing the mosquito against my arm, I stop the truck, leaving it in gear, and lean out the window. I listen intently, hearing the sounds of crickets and other insects, a bullfrog from the nearby pond and the hoot of an owl in a tree up ahead, telling me that I’m alone. I say a quick prayer of thanks.     Pray. That’s something I used to do frequently, but now only for self-preservation. That can’t make God very happy. I’m sure that very little I do these days makes God happy, not that I have any remorse for the path I’ve taken. In a word, it’s—exciting.     The right front tire dips into a rut and the truck tilts on the passenger side. Glancing nervously at the bed, I see the drums are secure. As the truck levels out I sigh in relief and pick a point ahead where I’ll leave the trail and enter the woods. Off the path the tall grass rustles under the truck leaving a clear indication of where I’ve been. It won’t matter. By the time anyone discovers this, I’ll be long gone.     There’s good separation between the mature trees making navigation, even with something as big as the three quarter ton truck I’m driving, manageable. Once I can no longer see beyond the woods in any direction, I park the truck and shut off the engine. Pulling a map from the glove box, along with my compass and a penlight, I study the map and find the logging road leading from the woods. A small road a few hundred yards to the west will take me safely past a small town and connect me to the state route in a rural area where I’m not likely to be seen. From there it’s a short drive to the interstate and the rest of the trip is cake.     After returning my tools to the glove box I pick up the thermos resting on the bench seat next to me. The hot cider slides down my throat, warming me with its tart bite and I can’t imagine a better, tastier drink for keeping one awake. Once on the state route I turn on the radio but can’t find a station. Grabbing a CD from the seat I pop it into the player sight unseen. It’s The Killers. How appropriate.     Two hours later the sky lightens in the east and I can finally pick up radio signals from the Twin Cities. I should be able to make Chicago by noon. Finding a truck stop I fill up the truck, paying cash. I spot a Cracker Barrel restaurant and decide on breakfast. It reminds me of home. I wish the English had a better appreciation for the importance of a good breakfast.     Two truck drivers at a nearby table are sharing a newspaper and discussing the border problem. One says it’ll cost $127 billion dollars to enforce security at the borders, and it should be done, even if it cost $200 billion.     I nearly laugh. Secure the borders? The only border they’re concerned with is the southern border. I just illegally crossed the largest unprotected border in the world and most people could care less. Why? Because securing the borders is just a ruse for securing majority status, which is the real concern. Better to have an unprotected border with white people, than with brown. So I cross the unprotected northern border and no one cares because I’m just another white man in America—like Ted Kaczynski.     Heading south on I94, my thoughts turn to the Man and what he’s forcing me to do. It’s not something I would normally do. At least, I don’t think it is. During the past few years I’ve done a lot of things I never thought I would. But this—it’s not something I want to consider.     Looking out the window at cornfields makes me miss Shipshewana. I remember working in the fields in long pants and long sleeve shirts with wide brimmed hats protecting our faces from the hot sun. It was hard and dirty and our muscles ached but there was always laughter and love. Laughter, love, family, community and God; that’s what we were about—but that was five years ago.     I still farm, though it’s mostly a ruse. I glance back at the drums. I need large quantities of anhydrous ammonia and no one suspects a farmer with such quantities of a common fertilizer. So I drive through mid-America with my truck full of fertilizer. I yawn and it annoys me that I was forced to make this trip. I could have made the purchase at a thousand places but the Man said “No.” He wanted no trace of the shipment, no record of the purchase, so off to Canada I went, making the purchase and sneaking it back across the border like a thief in the night. I don’t understand the English and their government.     Navigating past Madison, Rockford, and the west suburbs of Chicago I make my way south to Valparaiso. My stomach starts growling around Aurora but I ignore the pangs and push on, eager to finally get home.     Past the mailbox with A. King stenciled on it I pull into the dirt road that leads to the farmhouse. Amos King, that’s me. This is my home, my castle. It’s good to finally make it home. I park in the barn, empty now, except for the truck. The Man took away my dirt bike, my Hummer and almost everything else but said I could get it back, if I did what he told me to do. He told me I had done some bad things and now it was time to pay. That moment, I can put my finger on it, was the moment I missed my family, my community—the Amish, the most.     I unlock the three deadbolts on the back door and disable the alarm as I enter through the kitchen. There’s a note on the table from Katie. She’s left me. I’m hurt, but not surprised. I had hoped she would say goodbye in person.     She’s returned to the community and unlike me, will be welcomed back with open arms. Katie is in the third year of her rumspringa, the period that begins with the 16th birthday and ends when you decide to either accept or reject the Amish ways. She has finally accepted it and will rejoin the Amish for life. I crumble the note, tossing it in the garbage. I need sleep.     I sit at the kitchen table alone in my thoughts. Normally I’d be busy at this time of night, overseeing the lab for my customers at Valpo and Notre Dame. Not anymore. At least, not until I complete the job. After that I get a new home, a new lab, a new life. The slate’s wiped clean. If I do that, I’ll be just another white man in America—like Barry Seal.     Around 10:00 AM I wake up, make toast and pour a glass of buttermilk. I don’t feel like cooking breakfast this morning in spite of its importance. Logging on to my email address I see there’s a message from the Man. That’s his email address; theMan@gmail.com. I read the note and then it disappears, like it never existed. Creepy.     Behind the barn, beneath an overhang is the old John Deere. It’s been two weeks since I’ve driven it and I fire it up, giving it a minute to warm up before heading out through the open wood gate that separates the barn from the fields. The sun is already hot on my skin and I feel sweat rolling down my neck. At the last row of the field I turn and follow the row, parallel to it. About halfway down the row I stop. A scarecrow sits about five rows in, just like the Man said. It wasn’t there the last time I was here.     I walk between the stalks, pushing them apart until I’m standing at the foot of the scarecrow. There’s a small plastic tub at the base. I carry it back to the tractor but I don’t open it. I’m supposed to wait until I’m in the house and I will because the Man might be watching.     Fifteen minutes later I’m back in the house, sweaty and sticky and feeling like I need a shower, but it will have to wait. Opening the container I read and memorize the printed instructions. I check the contents and everything is there, just as the instructions indicate. Flicking my lighter I set the instructions on fire and allow it to burn in the sink. When the flames die I turn on the faucet and wash it down, as instructed. The Man is very careful, very thorough.     The calendar that hangs above my computer indicates today is Tuesday. My job is in Cincinnati on Thursday. Guess I’d better get busy. Emptying the drawers of my dresser I throw my clothes into a duffle bag that I’ll take with me. I stuff a few CDs into the duffle bag and take it to the truck. The rest of the stuff I pack into boxes and leave in the living room. The Man said they would be taken care of, moved into storage until I resettled and called for them.     My cell phone buzzes and it’s Danny. He’s someone I’ve done business with before, and he wants me to meet him at a gas station. He doesn’t tell me he wants to deal. He doesn’t need to. When I tell him that I’m out of business I can hear his sharp intake of breath and then the line goes dead. Danny’s afraid I’m being monitored. He’s probably right.     I’m bored. When the Man took my stuff he also took my lab partners, Petey and Mikey. The Man said if I didn’t cooperate he’d tell them I set them up and he’d send me to the same place. He assured me I would not come out alive.     So now my friends are gone, the lab is gone and there’s nothing to do until tomorrow. I don’t want to think about the job, but I can’t help it. I just know that I don’t have a choice and if it turns out well, I walk away clean. If not...     I search the boxes and finally find pen and paper and write a note for my family. Though I don’t know her well, I trust my lawyer will get the note to them. Once when I was seventeen the court appointed her to represent me and she seemed to genuinely care. She said to contact her if I were ever to get in trouble again, which I thought about doing when the man sent Petey and Mikey away, because I didn’t want to be a patsy. But the Man said I would be fine.     I drive to the post office and leave the letter, addressed to her, in general delivery. Then I find a payphone to call her office, leaving a message to check with general delivery at the post office. I don’t leave my name. She probably wouldn’t remember me anyway. To her, I’m probably just another white man in America—like Lee Harvey Oswald.     Wednesday morning I’m up early and shower. I cook the last of the eggs and bacon and drink the last of the buttermilk. After breakfast I place my wallet inside a large envelope and seal it, leaving it on the boxes in the living room as the Man instructed.     This ends my previous life. Well, almost. I was instructed not to take anything with me, other than what the Man provided in the tub. New identity, new money, nothing to tie me to the past—but I can’t resist. I find a picture of Katie, one where she’s smiling and holding a kitten, and I hide it inside my cap. The man can’t take everything.     As I drive south on I65 I think about Katie, my family, the others in our community My life has changed so much in five years. Before rumspringa things were simple. I knew exactly what was expected of me, as did everyone else in the community. Things were black and white and choices limited. Then I turned 16 and everything changed. I met English kids, saw the way they dressed, the cars they drove, listened to their music, watched their movies, drank their alcohol, took their drugs and accepted their values.     They had the one thing I longed for in life—choices. I could chose to party, to have sex, to listen to whatever music I wanted, to drive 100 miles an hour in a car instead of plodding down the road in a horse-drawn carriage. I could be whatever I wanted and have whatever I wanted, and I wanted it all. With the Amish, I would be secluded from the English and their ways. Giving up my choices was something I couldn’t—or wouldn’t, do. So I made my choice and was shunned, never being allowed to return.     To hell with them, I’m living life on my terms. The English like to party, to drink and take drugs. Once I learned to make meth I had more friends and money than I could count. Until the Man came and took it all away.     I’m nearly to Indianapolis and thoroughly depressed. I decide to think of something else, like the future. Soon I’ll tell the Man my plans. He’ll set me up and make sure no one messes with me. I remember hearing about Amish communities throughout the Midwest. I think there’s one in northern Iowa near a town called Independence. Independence—isn’t that what I’m seeking? Isn’t that why I’ve forsaken the Amish life? Maybe I’ll move near there. As long as there are colleges and universities, I’ll have customers—and girlfriends. Maybe instead of having one girlfriend like Katie, I’ll have a different girlfriend every night. It’s possible; I know some guys who’ve done it.     After taking the ramp to I74 I see a sign showing Cincinnati-100 miles. Less than two hours away. Good, I’m tired of driving. That’s something that surprises me. I remember when I couldn’t wait for rumspringa, couldn’t wait to drive. It’s something all the Amish crave, driving and the freedom of movement that comes with it. But in the past week I’ve driven more than most Amish will in their lifetime and it hasn’t been by my choice—but rather the Man’s.     The drums rattle when I hit a small pothole. In a sense, they’re my future. Two drums for the job; four are mine to keep. Four drums make a lot of meth.     I try not to think of the two drums for the job instead focusing on the sights along the highway; the llamas in their pen, the underground house, and the racetrack. Try, but fail as my mind keeps going back to the job. I shudder.     The instructions are explicit, and according to the Man if I follow them exactly—foolproof. That means after the job I get away unnoticed while many unsuspecting people die. Who would notice me anyway? I’m just another white man in America—like Eric Rudolph.     It’s early afternoon when I check into the motel. It’s not the cleanest or safest place but it’s the kind of place that a pickup truck loaded with drums wouldn’t seem out of place and people don’t ask questions.     In the lobby I grab some brochures, not because I’m considering going anywhere, but for something to do. In my room I leaf through brochures about the zoo, the aquarium, the sports teams and the amusement park located just minutes north of the city. I wonder if any of the people that will die tomorrow will be visiting those places today.     I channel surf for a few hours but can’t concentrate. Eventually I walk to a nearby fast food joint that sells tiny hamburgers with pickles and onions. I buy a bag along with some fries and a soft drink and take them back to my room. I’m amazed at the number of people of color in this area. I’ve only seen them in small numbers, a family here or there when they visited our shops on their way to Gary or Hammond or Chicago. In this area, I stick out. I’m the minority, and it unsettles me. It shames me. I have become like the English.     Back in my room I turn on the television as I eat my dinner. The local news is on and while I’m not particularly interested, I can’t think of anything better to watch. The newslady is a pretty blonde with nice blue eyes who talks about a landmark case that will be heard in the 6th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. It involves governmental use of power and I quickly lose interest. The next twenty-five minutes are equally boring and only the weather report interests me. Hot, humid and sunny, which the funny little man claims is normal for the area at this time of year.     I finish my meal as the news ends and channel surf again for a few hours before giving up. Better try to get some sleep. My stomach is killing me. Damn burgers with the pickles and onions. I go the desk and the clerk looks at me funny but sells me some sodium bicarbonate tablets. A half hour later my stomach feels better and I finally fall into a fitful sleep.     In the morning I skip breakfast, which I’ve never done before. I’m wearing the maintenance outfit the Man sent me; complete with photo ID badge and tool kit. When I get to my destination, I’m nervous. Remembering the directions I find my way to the loading dock and ring a buzzer. A security man with a gun in his holster comes outside. I give him the work order from the Man and he checks my badge and a second photo ID. He has me sign in on a log and tells me where I need to go. He’s very helpful.     It takes two trips to unload the drums in the basement. There are cameras at the dock and throughout the building, but not in the basement. I work quickly connecting the hoses and valves to the drums. The Man said this had to be done by 10:00. I check my watch—9:50.     Thanking the security man on my way out he smiles and waves at me. Later, when they interview him about me, he won’t remember anything remarkable. I’m just another white man in America—like Timmy McVeigh.     Following the man’s directions I find U.S. 50 and follow it west. I’m very careful to obey the traffic laws and not draw attention to myself. I flip on the radio and the music soothes me, but not for long. It’s interrupted by breaking news; a terrorist attack has occurred at the Federal Courthouse where the 6th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals was hearing a case involving governmental authority. Early reports indicate that an explosion started a fire and several people are believed to have succumbed to smoke inhalation. It’s unknown if anyone was killed or injured by the blast.     I cross the state line into Indiana and my cell phone, not the one I had before, but one that was in the tub supplied by the Man, rings. I answer and the Man congratulates me. He says he wants me to switch trucks, that it will be safer and he tells me where to meet him. I’m surprised because this wasn’t previously discussed.     I start to put in a CD when the news breaks in again. An update from the courthouse indicates a chemical was introduced into the waterlines of the sprinkler system and when set off by the smoke, rained a toxic, caustic substance. The announcer’s voice quivers as he tries to maintain his composure. “One report from outside the building indicated that screams could be heard up to two blocks away and that the few occupants who stumbled out of the building fell down the steps, their flesh eaten away and quickly, mercifully, died. Police and rescue units have responded to the building and are reporting a gruesome scene with mass casualties. Area hospitals have been alerted and the mayor is asking the governor to send in the National Guard to preserve order.”     I snap off the radio and pull into a convenience store where I vomit in the parking lot. Wiping tears from my eyes I take several deep breaths. I had no idea. I thought it would be painless. The Man told me it would be painless. Like carbon monoxide, they would all just fall asleep. I swear to God I had no idea.     I know I should be leaving, but my hands are shaking too much to drive and I need time to settle myself. I go inside and purchase cough syrup and sleeping pills. Back in the truck, I wash down three pills with a swig of cough syrup. Digging in the duffle bag I find the most mellow CD I have and push it into the player. I wait five minutes before my pulse slows its frantic pace and I start the truck. Our meeting place is not far.     Turning on the side street as instructed I soon find myself on a gravel road. At the marker I turn again, this time onto a dirt driveway that splits two cornfields. The Man is waiting for me at the clearing. He’s smiling as I get out of the truck and shakes my hand, pretending not to notice it’s clammy with sweat. He points to a Mustang convertible and tells me it’s mine to keep. Dropping the keys in my hand he assures me I’ve done well and everything will be taken care of.     I know I shouldn’t, but I ask him why. Why did all those people have to die such a horrible death? He tells me they are casualties in the war on terrorism. He calls them martyrs, says they died such horrible, gruesome deaths so that the government would have the authority—the power needed to protect the country. I don’t understand. I guess I’ll never understand the English and their government.     The truck is driven up a ramp into the back of a tractor-trailer. I throw my duffle into the back seat and climb into the Mustang. As I start the car, I feel him beside me. He’s holding a gun. Nothing left to chance. I know that I’ll never be found. Just another white man in America—like Jimmy Hoffa.

East Anglia Matthew Bagdanovich Coauthor of “lHe3: The Novel”, Kindle ebook Summer 2000 Millenium Summer     The short description of the English summer at the turn of the 21st century is that here in East Anglia, there has been none. I sit onboard the 9:16 from Audley End, which is the Cambridge mainline service, bound for the London Liverpool Street Station in the last week of July and am grateful the train has the heat on. The lying weatherman on BBC said it would get to at least 25 today in the Southeast of England, right now it is about 6, hence the title lying weatherman.     Awakening was to an overcast grey dawn. My sons came into my wife’s and my bedroom at about 5:45 A.M. as they do most mornings. There is a wonderful sensation of paternal love in my breast as they first crawl up onto the pillows and lay their heads down and then gently place their hand on my face and ask if I slept well. Thirty minutes later, with sleep receding no matter how hard I try, I hear Michael (younger by five minutes than his twin brother Robert) talking in the tone of voice slightly above a whisper that only a two and a half year old can manage.     “Train...Choo.choooooo Choo chooooooo... Steam engine......Pwsshh Odder train...Choo choooo... Choo chooooo KWHAASH!!!”     Instinctively I cover my face as the two doomed trains collide on the bed rail inches frommy nose. It has been my experience that the laws of physics for two year olds require that any detached piece of debris from a train crash invariably land on my right eye, so I roll over covering my right eye with both hands to a background of repeated crash noises as Michael attempts to achieve the exact effect he was looking for.     I uncover my right eye and am nose to nose with Robert who is waiting to be noticed. I smile. He smiles. I smile. He smiles and says, “Poopy.” I instantly agree.     It is not possible for me to say enough about my wonderful wife. As I roll out of bed, propelled and pursued by the aromatic alarm clock asking for a hug, she dutifully gets up and starts her routine of changing nappies and preventing serious injury as our two nuclear reactors start their full and energetic day.     Talk to Argentineans about deceitful Bolivians. Talk to Mexicans about deceitful Mexicans. Talk to Peruvians, Venezolanos, Guatamaltecos and one poor lost expatriated Brit. Good joke. Time for lunch.     I step into the glass roofed Leadenhall Market to the corner store that sells the freshly baked chicken and leek pies and an out-of-this world cherry strudel, back to the office.     The afternoon passes trying to explain the Mexican legal system to an Underwriter who drank four pints of Old Speckled Hen during lunch hour. Frankly, Old Speckled Hen has a bad tendency to induce unpleasant gas, we all agree.     I see the clock on my laptop saying that if I leave just this minute, I should be able to make the 8-minute walk to the station and have one minute extra to board the 6:19 to Cambridge. I am homeward bound. My heart lifts, my step quickens. With luck, my children will still be awake when I get home.     Piling onto the train, no seat for the first 25 minutes until we pass enough stations to let half the passengers off. Then, one by one, all those who have been standing move around, find a seat. I set next to a blind man who I eventually learn is Mark, a copywriter for BBC. I tell him the weatherman is a liar. Mark agrees.     I turn into our gravel driveway and pull up. Stepping out I hear through the door a gleeful screech of “Daddy’s home.” I am closely questioned, yet again, if I am home from the office? I reply, “Yes.” Have I come home on the train? I reply, “Yes.” Have I had a good day? “Yes.” Then I am given a big hug from both and a kiss from my wife, and I am officially home.     At this point I am informed that one son is Thomas the Tank Engine and the other is Percy, Thomas’ green friend. He is painted green, you know, quite unlike Thomas’ blue paint. I take note and address them accordingly.     I am home with my family and life is good.

The Second Salesman Christopher Hanson My head’s drenched, I lack an umbrella. My clothes are soaked, I lack a jacket. My chin’s to the puddles, So my brow drags the oil And I’d crack if I had smile, If I had to say, “thank you,” Just one more time Under this rain and the Laughter of gods. Oddly enough, I do muster one more “Thank you,” As I’ve got my pay With that last inch of dignity Quickly lost When I do the math and see That I’d spent more on Gas As opposed to what I line my Pockets with – Lint and little more. With a dwindling fuel, Both in belly and beast, I leave for the ends of existence Knowing full well, I’ll return, I’ll come home, And when I can’t have food I steal this simple moment, This special kind of sustenance wherein – I don’t want to see my wife, My brother or my mother. I don’t want to see anyone And anymore, Save pride, But the knock’s been long awaited.

Christopher Hanson Bio     Christopher Hanson has travelled the world, and come home. He’s educated, he’s uneducated. He writes, he writes and writes some more. He drinks and writes again. This is his story, maybe your story and somebody else’s story. He writes, he wanders, he writes and he loves, this world and the many faces/facets of it – simply complicated.     I’ve been, or will be, published in, “A Brilliant Record,” “The Stray Branch” and “Down in the Dirt.” and am looking forward to continuing down this literary, literal and metaphorical, road I venture.

overheat Sarah Lucille Marchant his hands were painted onto the subtle curve of her waist, deceptively gentle – wanting her wanting her the look in his eyes the snapshot instance of his hands, his fingers tracing her it reverberated

Feast Jenna Kelly If you must stretch yourself to fit the rings of Saturn, fill fuller than the fattest hog, or faster than a glutton’s gulp, then so be it—but merely with knowledge. And don’t close that monstrous appetite until you’re green and gaseous: while you’re at it, stop only once that utensil is Neptune’s trident.

The Libertarian Jill E. Harris     The Great Dylan walked through the sea of the pre-show crowd, beneath a big top suspended magically in mid-air. The clowns, the circus women and men in scandalously exotic costumes and make-up, the big people as tall as the 19th century early sky scrapers, and the little people the size of dandelions — tough as armor because they were always being trampled – mixed among the ordinary folk, most of whom had arrived on the noon Maglev, and all of whom were drably naked, their weary faces lighting up at the sight of the circus marvels.     The Great Dylan wore his dazzling, black iridescent feathers which came to a plume at the top of his head and folded into enormous wings that rested on his back, covering the small pocket where he kept his wand. He was headed back to what he called his “bird’s nest,” the pod just big enough to be a cozy home for him and his wife, Mabel – Assistant to The Great Dylan. But there, at the foot of the friendly cotton candy bot, was an ordinary man lying face down in the genetically altered violets that served as the turf for everything beneath the big top except the center ring.     The Great Dylan turned the poor man over on his back, but he didn’t stir, although he was breathing. He looked to be a young man, perhaps in his fifties, probably in the first stages of his working life. How odd to find even one of the ordinary people well enough to attend a circus but sick enough to be lying face down in the violets. What could have happened to him? Well, he thought to himself, the Virtual Reality presses may have stopped publishing interactive Bibles, but the term “Good Samaritan” is still heard from time to time. He took out his wand and with a wave brought the medic to have a look, and within a few minutes the young man was sitting up, his eyes open.     The young man was disoriented, of course, and didn’t seem to remember how he’d come to be at the circus. “I was at the Academy,” he said slowly, “but I’d made up my mind to claim my liberty.”     Oh my, The Great Dylan thought, suddenly regretting that his mother had raised him to know what it meant to be a Good Samaritan. The Academy was a place for the genetically malfunctioned, and although they had the right to leave and claim their liberty, they gave up the protection of the state when they did so. Most died within a short period of time, too witless to support themselves, to get along with others, or to provide themselves with food and drink.     But still, there were a few at The Academy who didn’t seem to belong there, or whose malfunctions had hidden an unpredictable genius in them, and who had gone on not only to survive but to become societal leaders. One of the circus patrons was such a Libertarian, as such people were called, and although The Great Dylan was not a greedy man, he could not help but imagine the sick man before him as a potential genius and, therefore, a potential patron. As much as the status of the circus had risen in society over the last century for its proven ability to create endorphins and generate the atomic structures in the mind proven to keep social order in place, funding was always unpredictable, and patrons always welcome. Since the performers owned the circus, it was natural that like The Great Dylan, they all kept an eye out for the rare, potential patron of the future.     With a wave of his wand, the new Libertarian and his Samaritan were both in the pod. At home with his wife Mable, Dylan was not known for being great at anything, but he did make sure that the young man arrived tucked cozily under a blanket on the floating cushions that helped the magician and his wife maintain their image as they approached the hundred year mark in their lives, an age that was considered the end of middle age and the prime of a magician’s life. “It’s downhill from there,” people tended to say at hundredth birthday parties, and everyone knew that although they pretended to be joking, it was all too often true that the sweetness of reaching the prime of one’s career was tinged with the bitterness of knowing the decline would likely follow on its heels.     Mable, scoffing at the pretention of Dylan’s floating couch, sat in an antique Laz-Y–Boy, her feet up, a cup of steaming rose tea cupped in her hands.      “Look what the bird dragged in,” she said.     “He’s a Libertarian.”     “From the Island of Misfit Toys. I wonder what the etymology of that phrase is?”     “Who cares? And not all malfunctions are misfits.”     “Not all are patrons.”     “Never mind. He was face down in the violets, unconscious.”     “Great. So even the basic health genes are malfunctioning.”     “Listen, Mabel. It doesn’t cost anything to give the man a couch. Malfunctions happen. It’s not his fault.”     “Claiming his liberty is certainly his fault, and he knew the repercussions. But never mind. Let him rest, then send him on his way. You need to get ready.”     “You used to help me get ready.”     Mable ignored Dylan’s implied request. “I’ll keep an eye on the Libertarian you dragged in, and don’t worry, I’ll be your fire breathing companion when our moment arrives. Have I ever let you down?”     But Dylan’s mind had drifted to the show, and without realizing he’d snubbed his wife he’d begun rehearsing the act in his mind. No matter how many times they performed, he never stopped rehearsing, inventing, worrying that something would go wrong – a fuse would blow, he was sure it was bound to happen someday, and he’d be left standing as naked as the ordinary people, as naked as the Emperor in the ancient children’s tale in the Virtual Reality museum he used to visit with his mother.     After he left, Mabel tried on costume after costume in the VR closet. How ever did women shop before VR, she wondered? She knew about the old stores, of course, but she couldn’t imagine how cumbersome it must have been, and how limiting to commit to owning a single outfit for years. Kudos to the Department of IT for bringing an end to those dark ages. She was growing tired of plumage, but it was all the rage among the ordinaries. Perhaps she should be a male cardinal and add a touch of the homo-erotic to the act for fun. But Dylan wouldn’t even notice. Once the act began, it was the fire that mattered to him, not her. He had the gift, or the curse, of concentrating on one thing only.     The act began with a snap of the ringmaster’s whip. Until that moment, the audience was held in a spell of amazement as more than a hundred performers stretched the Ordinary people’s sense of human possibility, some of the performers floating magically through the air like bubbles; others creating a fifty foot high, human simulation of the historic Eiffel Tower; the trapeze artists swinging, catching, and somersaulting between the twenty or more moving trapezes a hundred feet above the heads of the ordinaries and without the old-fashioned nets; the contortionists performing handstands on their fingertips with their bodies rolled three times around themselves; and of course all the while the ordinaries remained plugged into their point of view glasses, so that they could view the spectacle from the forehead of any one of the performers and feel as though they were the ones flying, plummeting, and spinning; or watch an overview of it all; or switch from one point of view to another throughout the whole thing. But at the snap of the whip, the point of view options shut down and the audience could see through their own eyes only, and everything under the big top disappeared into complete and total darkness, something the ordinaries never experienced in their daily lives, so that the moment never failed to elicit a gasp from the crowd.     Dylan, knowing he alone held the power of the moment, would draw out that moment of suspense as long as possible, with an almost uncanny sense for each audience’s peak of anticipation, and then, alone in the previously crowded big top, he would light a single, old-fashioned match – a real one — which would, in turn, illuminate nothing more than the head of his magical bird persona of the evening. Tonight, the head of a raven.     That moment, when he struck the match and it illumined his beak and beady eyes, always got a laugh, because the ordinaries recognized the primitive match stick but had never seen one in anything but a VR history text, and they loved seeing an extinct bird – any extinct bird — come to life before their eyes.     The laugh was her cue.     In her closet, Mabel sighed and resigned herself to being the female raven, an ordinary mate for her husband’s choice of birds. With the VR costume erotically disguising her body, she emerged from the closet only to find – as she had so many times before – that her husband had finished his preparations, and filled with the adrenaline of the imminent performance and the added adrenaline of tempting a missed cue, he had created a VR partition around their guest so he could carry her into the pod’s bedroom and stroke her with the feathered tips of his wings in just the way she most liked.... #     Under the big top after the show began, The Libertarian found the spectacle breathtaking. He’d heard of circuses, but had never been to one. None of the malfunctions ever had the opportunity to attend the circus, and it made him feel confident that the bold choice to claim his liberty had been the right choice, even if it did leave him vulnerable in a world he knew little about.     Like the rest of the Ordinaries, he had never experienced darkness before, and he breathed a sigh of relief when The Great Dylan lit his single, antiquated match.     “Scared ya, huh?”     The man who stood beside him looked like the man who had saved him, but without the bird plumage. He wasn’t naked like the others in the audience, but wore a simple, pale blue tunic.     “Mister....mister....Dylan? Isn’t that you out there? Aren’t you the magician?”     “He’s my brother.”     “But....”     “Sssh. This is my favorite part, where he and his wife start spitting fire at each other like the dragons of old. Fifteen feet that fire flies from his mouth to hers, and she does such a wonderful job of swallowing the whole flaming streak in one gasp. Marvelous! Watch! My wife would be too terrified, but not Mable. And then, she tosses fireballs back to him, scorching his wings! See the anger on her face and the smoke from his plumes? Listen to the crowd, man! It’s a great house tonight.”     “But his lovely wife! She’ll be hurt!”     “Nonsense. Watch him. See the wand? It keeps her safe, no matter how hot the fire burns and oh! Did you see that? The way he surrounded her in a circle of flames twenty feet high? But watch, watch.... God! Do you feel how hot it is, even out here where we are? But just wait....”     The Libertarian stared at the wall of flames. His skin felt scorched. The lovely woman! He was in agony at the thought of her burning to death. But just when he thought he would have to either run away or sacrifice himself to the flames in an effort to save her, she came walking right through the fire, her wings stretched upward in triumph, her head held high. He was dumbfounded. “How...?”     “I told you, he keeps her safe with the wand, and look – she’s walked right through the wall of flames with nothing more than singed plumes. Listen to the roar of the applause! Oh my God, she’s magnificent, magnificent! And he’s not bad himself, is he? Learned it from our father, as the eldest son. But here, here comes the finale – watch, he’s juggling balls of fire and then they land on the tips of his feathers, and now his wings are on fire. Brilliant! All these years, and I still don’t know how it works, unless he just doesn’t feel any pain. Oh it’s a good night—the crowd’s on their feet. Look at their faces! They think the two of them are going to die out there!”     The Libertarian’s face was even more aghast than the others. Surely they were going to die?     “It’s the wand, my boy. Don’t worry. The magic wand is passed from one apprentice to another. From my father to my brother, and soon, The Great Dylan will choose his own apprentice, and teach him the secret of the wand. There! He’s wrapped his arms around her! They’re both going up in flames! Singed to a crisp! The crowd can’t believe it – look at their faces! The ringmaster’s back – oh he’s good, he looks more horrified than the Ordinaries, as though he’s never seen it before! He’s pointing to the heap of ash, the cremated bodies, picking up a handful, letting it sift back down to the floor so we can all see that there’ nothing else left of them. They’re dousing the fire with buckets of water, the lights are up, but there’s nothing left but that pile of ash... What a performance!”     “But I thought you said the wand....” Confusion and horror overwhelmed the Libertarian. What a strange, cruel world he had entered! No wonder everyone had warned him not to venture into it on his own. He covered his face with one hand and began to cry.     The ringmaster spoke. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I don’t know what to say. The Great Dylan and his lovely wife — Never, before have they failed; never before have they.....”     “Look up kid! Look up! Stop crying! They’re falling out of the sky like snowflakes, as good as new!”     The young man looked up, and there they were, the mated ravens, their plumage as perfect as before the show began, smiles on their faces. The crowd was on their feet, craning their necks upward, applauding thunderously.     “But how....”     “The wand, boy, the wand! Like I keep telling you, it’s all in the wand.” #     What a night! The Great Dylan was exhilarated long after the crowd had gone home, the blood still pulsing through his veins. The show never grew old, but tonight was something special. Perhaps the VR Dylan he had sent to his wife had put her in a particularly heated state of mind; she certainly looked flushed when she entered the ring. He could hardly bear to switch it all off, to use the particular series of motions of his wand that signaled the remote control device to turn off the holographs. Finally, he swooped the crystal and oak wand through the air in the manner that his father had taught him, and that his grandfather’s had taught his father, and his great grandfather had taught his grandfather. Who knew how far back in the family the secret went? But when he’d finished the precise series of flicks and swoops and twists of his hand, the floating big top disappeared, the giants the size of the early skyscrapers disappeared, and the ability to create virtual fires with virtual heat was extinguished along with them. All that remained were the pods filled with the other real performers, the empty rings, and the empty seats.     He headed back to his own pod, to Mabel, and to the resting Libertarian. What was it like for the young man to see a circus for the first time? He felt some satisfaction at having not only helped the poor soul through a rough day, but having some confidence that his performance with Mabel would have managed to fill the young man with a sense of awe. #     Dylan crawled into bed beside Mabel and cradled her naked, featherless body.     “You were wonderful,” he whispered to her.     “Where have you been?” she whispered back.     “I just couldn’t bring myself to shut it down,” he said. “So little of our world is real. It feels empty without the holograms, almost as though they’re real and we’re the illusions.”     “Don’t let the Ordinaries hear you talk like that,” Mabel whispered, “or before you know it, they’ll understand that the only thing that separates them from us is a well kept VR security code, and we’ll be out of job. No more costumes. No more fire, except your silly little antique matches.”     “They’re not silly. Some of the fire has to be real, if only to help me get in the spirit of the thing. But you’re right. Sometimes I still find it hard to keep the secret.”     “You’re not so bad naked,” Mabel teased.     “That’s because you can’t see me.”      “Maybe. But you’re still better than that VR bird you sent me.”     “You knew it wasn’t me?”     “I always know.”     “I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten you.”     “And you wanted me hot for the performance.”     “You know, I don’t know what it is that the Ordinaries have against the dark. It’s kind of nice.” He stroked her skin without being able to see her.     “Mmmhmm.” #     They heard it at the same time, the sound they’d heard so many times, but never here, never from somewhere out of their own control.     The strike of a match.     The Libertarian’s young face glowed before them like the old pictures of the moon before it became overpopulated.     “What? What are you....”     “I will protect you,” the Libertarian said. “I will protect you both!”     Grinning, he cast the match, the only real prop in the show, onto the bed. As it burst into flames, he laughed, waving the wand he had seen Dylan put in a hidden drawer when he thought the Libertarian was asleep on the couch.      “I will protect you!” he called over the flames and the shrieks of the husband and wife that sounded just like the old recordings of screeching birds. “I have the power of the wand! I am not malfunctioned!”     When all had turned to ash, he scooped up a handful just as the ringmaster had done – it was all so easy! He must be one of the lucky ones, the geniuses!     He looked to the ceiling and waited. Any minute, the beautiful pair of birds — the kind birds he had protected — would float down to him, their eyes on fire with the realization of his magnificent power.

We Are the Future, and the Future Is Now Dorothy H. Smith     JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA – Date, 2011     The future is here. It permeates every aspect of everyday life. We Americans are busy; occupied with work, kids, church and leisure. We accept new innovations and technologies that impact our day-to-day lives with scarcely a raised eyebrow. We view the microchip and the computer, in its many applications, as before-and-after phenomena. We accept the computer revolution as society-changing technology.     My generation came of age in the 1950s during the advent of electronic computation. One assumed future computers and computer networks would most likely focus on large, globe-encompassing networks of centralized data communications and access to data.      In actuality, use of personal computers began in the 1960s and 70s, and came into full bloom during the 1980s. The PC revolutionized the American economy and contributed to massive increase in worker productivity. Now, in 2011, the globe-straddling central data Internet is a reality. But it is accessible only as a result of the proliferation of personal computing devices.     Similarly, the development of the internal combustion engine in the late 1890s combined with gasoline refined from petroleum led to the oil economy of the 20th century. I doubt many of us knew or cared that 1953 marked the centennial of John D Rockefeller’s first oil refinery. Way back in 1853, petroleum products with commercial applications were generally limited to kerosene as a cheaper alternative to whale oil for indoor lighting in the form of oil lamps. Building an oil refinery meant entering the lamp oil fuel market.     Surprise! The founder of Standard Oil could not possibly have anticipated the huge demand for petroleum products arising from the need to fuel automobiles, ships and power plants in 1953, only 100 years later.     Oil is never going away, but another nexus between new resources and new technology, is here today. Helium3 is the new resource and fusion is the new technology, poised to radically change society in 20 or 30 years. When He3 fusion technology extends from the current state of the art through the natural industrial evolution that all technology undergoes, the future is here.     CNN recently ran an article on He3 fusion technology. Helium 3, an isotope of Helium 4, is very rare on earth. A few kilograms are available every year worldwide for scientific research. Generally, the only Helium 3 available on earth comes from the maintenance of atomic weapons. When tritium decays, Helium 3 is one of the by-products. Most governments, the United States included, offer the Helium 3 by-product of their nuclear weapons maintenance to physicists for use in scientific investigation.     He3 fusion technology is interesting because it holds the promise of a radiation-free fusion reaction that could produce all of the power needed worldwide for many thousands of years – power for thousands of years with no radioactive waste, no carbon emissions, no pollution of any sort. In other words, Helium 3 is a perfect fuel.     Fusion technology and the space industry are not part of my usual reading material, but this scientific breakthrough makes me realize that neither the oil industry nor the computer industry grew until all of the necessary components for commercial exploitation were present in the economy. Both exploded and changed society worldwide. We are at a similar moment concerning He3 fusion. There is just one problem. The only known source of Helium 3 in exploitable quantities is located on the surface of the moon.     My newfound interest in fusion technology led me to find out what I could about Helium 3. As most of us do today, I went to my computer, accessed the Internet, and found hundreds and hundreds of sites discussing the practicality and reality of fusion energy generally, Helium 3 fusion in particular     He3 technology exists. Principal researchers in the field report they are finished with the physics and science. Engineers are building the hardware to extract and utilize He3. The case for He3 mining on the moon is nicely presented in a video by Dr. Gerald Kulcinski, Associate Dean for Research, Grainger Professor of Nuclear Engineering, Director, Fusion Technology Institute, University of Wisconsin. Dr. Kulcinski’s video is available on the web.     Dr. Robert Bussard, former Associate Director of the Atomic Energy Commission (predecessor to the Department of Energy) successfully operated a Polywell fusor in 2006. Dr. Bussard is on record in his own words at a Google corporate tech talk where he was a guest speaker shortly before his death. Bussard’s talk is available as a Google video.     I am an old girl now who wants to understand, as much as any person can, the future world — perhaps it’s better to say a potential future world — which will be inhabited by my grandchildren and their kids.     Helium 3 is potentially far more valuable than oil, and without doubt will be more disruptive to society than oil was. Scientists say 15 tons of refined He3 would provide all of the energy required by the United States for a year. That’s less than one railroad tanker car, with a value of $2-1/2 to $3 billion per ton.     The true nature of humanity means this might not happen. Man has coveted that which is not his since he first walked the earth. Thirst for treasure of others burns in the heart and soul of venal corrupt men now as ever.     China is ruled by corrupt old men. With its billions of citizens China is as always faced with massive shortfalls in critical industries, the energy sector is no exception. Faced with the unpalatable choice of downsizing its military, further rationing its dwindling supplies of fuel and electricity China seeks new, better sources of energy.     And the thought of near-future, society-changing new technology, combined with ancient strong-arm tactics formulating part of Chinese foreign policy for centuries, shakes me up.     China is an antagonist and a future opponent of the United States. China is a savvy political contender on the world’s stage. Just last month “China Daily” ran a piece in which China complained of being victimized by its overbearing, powerful, mean neighbors, the Philippines, Vietnam, and Japan. The Philippines intimidates China? Wait! This isn’t fiction. This is a news article from “China Daily” dated July 18, 2011.     China fears its neighbors. Why? Oh, it’s clear now. All because these mean neighbors object to China seizing the Spratly Islands and other scattered archipelagoes in the China Sea which, coincidentally, sit atop massive oil reserves. Has this happened before? Has China been opposed to the US before?     This line of thinking may be uncomfortable to those under 50 in America who cannot remember the great threat the Communist regimes of the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China posed to us before the late 80s. There has always been a history of conflict between China and her neighbors. China has a history of aggression, usually carried out clandestinely or covertly. China’s aggressive foreign policy is a fact.     Younger generations of Americans may not recognize that in the 1950s China and the United States were at war. It’s better known as the Korean War. After the North Koreans attacked South Korea, the United States led a UN force to defend South Korea. North Korea was utterly defeated, The US-led forces were on the northern border of the Korean Peninsula when 600,000 screaming red Chinese soldiers crossed the Yalu River and attacked.     China directly fought the United States with an army of nearly 1,000,000 men. The result was the stalemate and permanent division of Korea at the 38th parallel.     Roughly 10 years later, in the early 1960s, China fought a nasty border war with India and seized territory for strategic purposes and resources. Ten or 15 years later, China fought another nasty border war with Vietnam. Throughout the 1970s and 80s, China and the then Soviet Union fought massive border disputes with division size formations engaged in combat.     From the 1990s to the present day, China has been engaged in disputes and military brinksmanship with Japan, the Philippines and Vietnam over the oil-rich sea bottom in international waters. The Spratly Islands is a case in point. All of this is done while China proclaims to the world it is meek and harmless. Just ask a Korean War veteran how harmless China is.     Like any normal person, I detest war. However, Gen. George Washington had it right when he said, “To secure the peace, we must be prepared for war.”     Pondering the problems associated with fossil-fuel based power production, and the possible impact of carbon emissions on the climate (against the benefit to that society which reaches out and grasps new technology) leaves me satisfied, as I always am, that Americans are innovative by nature and unquenchable optimists by choice.      No one knows how the future will unfold, but millions like me believe America will be a shining beacon far into her future.     Dorothy H. Smith is a retired court reporter and freelance writer based in Jacksonville, Florida.     For more information, contact Matt via e-mail at matt@rivercityrevisions.com.

More Noise, Please Curt Seubert     Yes, divorce sucks. But, for me, dating is worse; more desperate than loneliness, more soul-crushing than a bad marriage. I’d rather stew in the badness of a rotten relationship (or is it the rottenness of a bad relationship?) than go out into that nightmarish world of singles, of come-on lines, pick-up strategies, studied gambits, preening, primping, stockings, stalkings and (shudder) dancing.     After my first divorce at twenty-five I dipped my toe in the then-burgeoning world of online dating. Filled with hope and sadness, gnawed by a sense of abandonment, weighed down by bad memories of caring for a sick spouse who’d only wanted to ignore her disease, yet hoping to make that soul connection that might result in a bit a nookey along the way, I posted my profile (mildly doctored) on the local singles board and in just two days was getting nibbles, most of them cautious, but also a few full-fledged strikes from rather explicit, caution-to-the-wind types. Scams, I learned to my chagrin, once I clicked “reply” and the spam poured in. Still, I persisted, trimmed sails, learned the signs, the signals, and gravitated towards the more circumspect of the personal tales.     One night, around 1am, as I was downing my usual post-essay-grading bottle of cheap wine and pack of Marlboros, sweating despite the late hour, the computer beeped to let me know I’d gotten an IM. “Kristy” she said her name was. Interested in meeting? I’m a shrinking violet, aged 23. Chat ensued. An hour flew by, bustling with questions: jobs, hobbies, likes, dislikes—all that stuff you’d normally use as I’m-Interested-In-You-Yes-Really fodder on the first date. I passed the test. Let’s meet soon. But what would we talk about? I wondered.     How about the night after tomorrow, 7pm? Sounds great. Where? Not sure yet. I’ll check around and let you know. Sounds good, but I’ve got a confession. Yes? I’m not Kristy. You mean that’s not your real name? No. I mean I’m not her. I’m her friend. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve just been trying to find a way of getting her out of the house.     I love wine because it muffles the oft-distracting clamor of self-preservation.     Okay. You don’t mind? Well, it’s a bit of a shock. Sorry. It’s okay. You still want to meet her? Sure. We arranged a time for me and the real Kristy to chat the following night, and I went to bed, pretty drunk but feeling for the first time in a long time that faint glimmer of hope and sense that I wasn’t as worthless as the divorce papers had seemed to attest.     I woke up, a bit hung-over and feeling nervous—my first blind date. And, besides, what kind of person would meet someone their friend had found on an online personals board? I needed some way of protecting myself.     A side-bar in that month’s Maxim gave me what I needed: arrange to meet somewhere you’re a regular, preferably a place with lots of people, and arrive half-an-hour early. Your familiarity with the locale will act as a camouflage in the jungle of patrons, giving you plenty of time to decide whether to let your prey pass or whether to go in for the kill.     Do you know Windjammers? I asked as we IM’d that night. No. It’s a bar up on Bryden. I know the area. You can’t miss it. It’s got a big cut-out of a sailing ship on top. Why there? I thought we could have a drink first and then go to Applebee’s for dinner. I don’t drink. Really? That’s OK. We’ll just meet there.     I dressed in slacks and a black work-shirt; good enough to blend in with the bar crowd, but also, hopefully, nice enough to impress a girl.     Kirsty was plain and skinny, with a mat of curly, brown hair and black-rimmed glasses perched precariously over her scrunched up, anxious expression as she scanned the bar. As her eyes passed over me, I didn’t know whether to feel thankful or slighted.     I could’ve been a bastard and just let her wait to be stood up; I could’ve sat there and watched the whole thing with some perverse satisfaction. But I wasn’t a bastard. It wasn’t a bastard who’d sat for days at my wife’s bedside in the IC unit while she’d hurled insults at me; but it’d been a weaker man who fired back a few recriminations and put-downs of his own. And, besides, I’d always had a thing for those bookish, librarian-types and Plain Jane’s.     We exchanged greetings and names. Shall we go? Yes. Applebees is just down the block. We went in her car. I forget what we ordered. I forget how I got home—if I walked or if she dropped me off. I do remember she didn’t asked me question one, that she spoke only in declaratives, divulging, lingering and circling back on a plethora of personal problems.     She suffered from aches, pains, numbness, and tingles. She had mental troubles, too, due in no small part, she attested, to the isolation inflicted by her physical impairments. To my private horror, she popped pills before and after the meal.     Do you mind? she asked. No, I don’t mind. It’s just that I’ve got to take this medication to keep my emotions balanced. Oh, really? You don’t mind? You’ve gotta do what gotta do, right?     I did my best to keep from checking my watch too often. I thought if I could just keep things polite, I could slip away and never, ever, return her emails. No luck there, though. When the time came to settle the check, and I told her how much she’d have to pay for her half, she got offended.     You’re not going to pay for me? Um, no. But I thought you were going to; that’s what real men do on dates. Well, we just met tonight, you know, and, honestly, I don’t think there’s going to be a second date. Why? I hesitated. Despite my ex-wife’s accusations to the contrary, I am not cruel. I lied. You’re just not my type. Oh, you mean I don’t look like a model? All you men are the same. That’s not it. What is it, then? she pressed.     A little less honesty would’ve been a good thing.     I don’t remember if I said that.

By the pool Ellie Stewart     I was on holiday in Egypt, staying in an expensive hotel on the banks of the Nile. It was blazing hot and everyone was around the pool. As I lay on a sunlounger reading, a little girl wearing a pink swimming costume appeared in my line of sight. She stopped, looked around, pressed her hands together and let out a sudden and piercing shriek. Then she started wailing, shaking and gulping sobs. She began drumming her feet on the concrete and spinning around wildly, her face creased with distress, searching for someone, for something. The shuddering sounds she made were the wrenching howl of a person gripped by absolute terror. And it terrified all of us. Some of the women stepped forward with the tentative question: ‘where’s your mummy?’ But the little girl screamed and kicked violently at the air so they all stepped back, at a loss of what to do.     Thankfully, a woman in a floppy sunhat came trotting over from the café, holding two ice creams in her hands. The little girl ran to her and threw herself at her body, wrapping her arms round her so tightly her knuckles turned white, her desperate wail replaced by muffled ‘mama, mama’ sounds. I thought of my own mother sitting in her chair, taking in her last rasping breaths, and the light fading from her eyes. I felt something aching inside me watching the little girl cling fiercely to her mother’s hand as they walked away to eat their ice creams. I listened to the children splashing in the pool. I closed my eyes. The sun was too damn hot. Danny would be expecting me in the hotel room within the hour, and I had to appreciate these last moments alone.

The Ford Granada Brian Huba     When I was a teenager my father drove a silver 1978 Ford Granada with rust holes the size of softballs. At a time when being ‘cool’ was a gargantuan deal, the Granada was an embarrassment. I remember talking to girls outside the movie theatre on a Friday night, seeing the Granada coming across the parking lot like a smoke screen, and darting behind the bushes until the girls had gone off. In ninth grade when I had bi-weekly braces appointments that meant I’d leave school on early release, I’d shrink in shame as the Granada rounded past student parking, roared to a stop outside the senior wing. “Is that your ride?” the office secretary would ask. I’d say “I don’t think so. But let me see,” then make that death-row dash from the school’s front doors, praying that nobody watched through the classroom windows, but realizing a thousand eyes were probably on me, including Rachel Sykes’s, the cheerleading captain I had a heavyweight crush on. My father kept garbage bags filled with empty beer cans on the seats; cans he always meant to recycle but never got around to. Before he backfired from the high school lot, the Hefty bags would be relocated to the trunk, to make room for me. He’d take care of that, and I’d nose dive though the open door onto the sun-cracked, maroon bucket, pull the creaky door shut, bury my head between my knees, eying the blue-collared G.E. shirts on the floor mat. My dad would climb behind the faded-rubber wheel, and say, “You feeling sick?” He’d put the car in gear with an irritated snicker, and off we went with a bang from the bad exhaust.     The Granada was in my life a little over a decade. When it r-r-r-ran, it could never be trusted, dying at red lights, submitting on the shoulder of a rural road. After that it sat at the side of the driveway like a monument in soft mud, beside the broken-down motorboat my father was perpetually fixing, and the ‘slightly used’ snowmobile he never made go. When he put some coin together, the neighborhood mechanic duct taped the silver beast back together, and the Granada was out of its open grave. I’d come home from school, and my mother would meet me at the house’s front door with a look that meant Oh my God, the Granada’s back. When she knew I’d read her expression right, she’d say, “Can you freakin’ believe it?” and raise both clenched fists above her head.     Before our summer vacations to New Hampshire, my father would spray paint the rust holes for the 4-hour drive to the Atlantic Ocean. Easter Sundays, he took mercy on my mother and me by parking at the far end of the church’s lot. He knew the truth: We hated the Granada. We didn’t understand the value in keeping something way past expiration. “Gotta get your money’s worth,” he’d always say. But, when church ended and the Easter pictures were posed for, he always drove straight through the gathered congregation on the way out. Check the back seat, beside the Hefty bag of Bud cans. That’s me, at 12 years old, donning a K-Mart necktie; face buried between the knees of my pleated slacks that would’ve looked oh-so cool without a rust box wrapped around them. When my uncle Jack and his blonde wife came to the house in his midnight blue Camaro with the 5-speed and mag wheels, he’d ask my father, “Steve, how come you don’t get something new?” Steve would give Jack a look like he just suggested shooting the President, then say, “What for?”     It was after one of those orthodontist appointments that my father brought me to McDonalds. I was 14 years old. He ordered his usual: three cheeseburgers, medium fry, medium soda. We drove to a little league park behind the Mickey-D’s called West Land Hills, parked the car and got busy with the grub. My father always ate his cheeseburgers the same way. He’d set the sandwich between the front seats, carefully pull off the yellow wrapping, hold it in his hand, biting in a clockwise circle till it was finished. In fact he always did everything the same way. Kept his wallet in the same spot on the counter with his car keys. Smoked Kool Ultra 100’s in the same chair at the table. Drank his rum mixed with Ruby Red from the J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, Jets thermos, played the same lotto numbers at the grocery store in town. He left for second-shift work at exactly 1.45P.M. Always. The. Same.     While we sat there that day, he told me about a time when he was much younger, and wanted to start a go-cart park behind that McDonald’s. It was his dream for the kids to call him Mr. Fun. When I asked him why it never happened, he said his father, Grandpa, said that idea was a dumb idea. “That was a long time ago,” my father said, and he went back to his lunch. After we ate, my father FINALLY decided to clean the car’s interior. He was a packrat by nature. But sometimes enough was enough. So he backed the Granada to a green garbage can; started filling the receptacle with old newspapers, plastic shopping bags, coffee cups, everything in between. I ate fries while he worked; all four passenger doors and the trunk popped open. As he carried another armful of crap to the garbage, a yuppie-looking guy with a pinstriped suit and stylish eye glasses, came to the can. Probably a State Worker on his 12PM break. But I didn’t know that then. I just saw the suit and got impressed. My father dropped his junk, looked at the yuppie, and said, “Nice day, ain’t it?”     Even when I was young I knew my father and I had very little in common. I wasn’t sure he was someone I could be proud of. Did I love him? Fear him? Hate him? All of the above. Growing up, I always made strategies to avoid him. If he was out back I went through the front. I hated saying happy birthday to him. One Father’s day I told him he wasn’t my dad. Why? I wanted attention. He had an invisible field around him that meant do not enter. Sometimes that field was no bigger than the kitchen, sometimes it was the size of Saturn. Steve came from a tough-guy bunch from the city of Albany. When they were teenagers, they hung by a convenience store called the Courtesy Mart, playing cards and smoking butts. As adults they worked hard, drank hard, partied hardest. College degrees were punch lines. My childhood was littered with memories of Stacky’s camp, Five Mile parties with bikers, and guys named Six Pack and Big John. My dad worked a labor job at General Electric I didn’t understand. He smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol every day, and was always frustrated about something, snapping into fits over anything from roast beef to rent money. I remember being six years old, driven to a dusty road behind Stacky’s camp, whipped by him for something I can’t recall. Whipped. I can still see the shine of those dirt specs on that back road, nobody but me, Steve, and the belt.     There was no predicting his next burst. My parents were young. They argued a lot. We lived in a basement apartment with no windows for five years before buying in the country. He didn’t like tossing ball or shooting hoops. He was bald by twenty five, a beer belly soon after. He grew a full beard and mustache, and looked like Homer Simpson the one time I saw him shaved clean. He didn’t care about material things or fancy clothes like my uncle Jack. He didn’t have a college degree or golf-club membership like his six brothers. My mother sometimes said Steve was the black sheep of his side, but that was only when they argued. I never imagined one day being like my dad. And I sure as hell would never drive a rust bucket on wheels.     When Steve said, “Nice day, ain’t it?” the yuppie turned his nose, legged it fast from that green garbage can, the same way someone would when a hobo begs change. I watched my father stand there, button-down flannel and jeans, his few hairs flying every which way, mountain-man style. He shook his head with disgust, the only defense mechanism I ever saw him exhibit habitually. When he came back to the car, sat behind that faded-rubber wheel, he was silent. It was awkward. He’d been in such a good mood before the yuppie’s snub. Now I was afraid he’d burst and bring this happy day down. I so rarely spent time with the man without my mother playing buffer. But here we were. He’d been humiliated, and I no longer felt embarrassed for sitting prisoner in Rusty Jones’s worst nightmare. For a second I forgot the anger and fear I had for him. For a second we were together, father and son, and nothing else mattered. I felt embarrassed for him, and from that feeling surged a sense of loyalty and anger. This was my father and what just happened wasn’t right, even at 14, I knew that. I’ll never forget what he said to me after that wall of silence slid away. He looked at me, and said, “Don’t ever judge somebody by the way they look or what they drive.” I said I wouldn’t, and he started the car, and homeward we were. It was the first piece of perfect advice he’d ever given me. It was the first time I felt he talked directly to me, mano a mano. I no longer wanted to avoid him. I wanted to penetrate that invisible field forever.     By the time we hit the highway, he’d forgotten the whole thing. He was singing the words to a rock/pop song on the radio. The song said, “There’s winners and there’s losers/But they ain’t no big deal/’Cause the simple man baby pays the thrills, the bills.” He beat that faded-rubber wheel with his hands, sang out loud, and I’d never seen that side of him. I’ll never forget that yuppie in the park; that piece of advice, or my father singing those words as long as I live. That day lives like an island in our relationship, separate of the dynamic that otherwise existed. It was the greatest day we had together, because it marks our closest moment, even if the circumstance was less than ideal. And I wonder if it would’ve happened that way without the Granada.     The Granada hung around a few more years. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it sat driveway duty. When it hit 200,000 miles, Steve made us pose for a picture with the car, both my mother and I holding 100 Grand candy bars close together. By the time I graduated high school, it was gone, to the afterlife of Art Dell’s Junkyard. I was sad to see it go. I wish I could say my attitude about the silver beast changed after that day in the park. I wish I could say I was never as embarrassed about climbing inside and backfiring from the high school lot. I wish I could say I borrowed it when I was sixteen to pick Rachel Sykes up for a Saturday-night date, and made her hold the Hefty bag of beer cans while I drove, and she loved it. But I can’t say that because it never happened. I was a typical teenager: short sighted, self involved, stupid. No way the Granada was ever gonna cut snuff in my world.     I guess the lesson of that day at West Land Hills wasn’t learned till much later.     Fast forward thirteen years and I’m sleeping late on a snowy Saturday morning, a few days after the New Year, 2009. I’d heard my cell phone ring from the other room a few times, but ignored it. Finally after the fifth call, I stumbled from bed, past the wall that displayed my college degrees and teaching licenses, to see who was so determined. It was my mother calling, and she was crying, and asking me if I was ready, “Really ready” for what she had to say. My mother’s a dramatic woman and we had a family dog that’d been sick, so naturally I assumed. When the line went silent, I thought she’d disconnected. I went to redial, and she said, “Steve’s dead.” Just like that. He’d gotten out of bed at 6A.M., gone downstairs, made a cup of tea, sat in his TV chair, the same chair he always sat in, and died; a massive heart attack. He was 54. He’d been complaining of exhaustion, working overtime that weekend to secure a future vacation day from his union. But there would be no vacation day. By noon he was in the morgue, arrangements were underway, and the house was filled with friends and family. Two days later his wake brought out 700 of Albany’s finest, passing the casket, and telling me how great of guy my father was. I remembered when I was a teenager and I was sure he wasn’t a man I could look up to. I remembered being embarrassed by his balding head, and beer belly, and rust-filled Granada; how everyone thought I was poor when they saw it. But on that night, I met the man that everyone else already knew, the “great guy,” regardless of what he drove or the jeans he wore. The material things mean nothing in the real world. Just ask the ones who stood two hours in a snow storm to say farewell to a man who never cared about flash. I was beginning to understand what Steve was trying to teach me that day when he said, “Don’t ever judge somebody by the way they look or what they drive.”     A few weeks later, I learned it some more. It was a Monday afternoon and I was with my mother when an insurance examiner called. He’d said my father had built several life policies that nobody knew about. He’d been shrewd with his savings, uncompromising in his vision for a bigger, better future, a day when motorboats and snowmobiles ran. It was the future he’d wanted for his family. It was the future he figured on a second-shift laborer’s job while driving a rusty Granada. The insurance man told my mother her mortgage was satisfied, and it was time for her to retire a few years ahead of schedule, since lacking money would no longer be a problem. His gift to her was the simple, easy existence she always wanted, all financial worries dashed, and a promise to prolong her life as long as possible.     The other day I was driving with the sun roof down, and Mellencamp’s “Pink Houses” came on the radio. I recognized those rock/pop lyrics, and remembered the day I ate McDonald’s with Steve in the Granada, and he told me about his dismissed dream of having go carts and being Mr. Fun. I remembered the way that yuppie snubbed my father over a green garbage can. I remembered on the highway how Steve sang that verse with such vigor. When the song made that same part, I hit the leather steering wheel of my overpriced car, and said, “There’s winners and there’s losers/But they ain’t no big deal/’Cause the simple man baby pays the thrills, the bills.” I thought of the silver 1978 Ford Granada with rust holes the size of soft balls. And, for the first time, I knew what the song said was true, I knew there were winners and losers in life, and I finally knew the difference between the two.

Brian Huba: Biography     In September 2008, Brian was selected to participate in a Master’s Fiction Writing Class taught by 2007 National Book Award Finalist Lydia Davis (Varieties of Disturbance: Stories). Brian was invited by 1984 Pulitzer Prize novelist William Kennedy (Ironweed) to attend the NYS Writers Summer Institute, where he studied under Russell Banks (Cloudsplitter), Jay McInerney (Bright Lights Big City), Elizabeth Benedict (Slow Dancing).     Brian currently teaches English/writing at the high school level. He is a graduate of the College of Saint Rose Graduate School and the University of Albany. Brian was awarded a $1,500 scholarship from Hudson Valley Community College for a sample of creative writing he submitted. Brian has published a critical essay “An Examination of Classroom Writing” for an educational journal. He has had a short story “The Golden Mile” published in a literary magazine Spell for Rain. Brian is a registered writer with the Student Operated Press. He was a founding member of the Saint Rose Creative Writing Club. Brian authors a weekly blog for the Troy Record newspaper in order to build a consistent readership. He averages between 2,000-3,000 views per month.     Brian is currently completing the second novel in The American Car Salesman Series: The Electric Circus. He is seeking a publisher for the first novel in this series: The Auto Mile.

My Boy’ll Wake Up P. Keith Boran I     The light was red. Engines purred in anticipation. Soon, it would turn green, letting them go, letting them race at last. In neutral, the cars screamed, aggressively marking territory. And a feeble-at-best dominance was asserted in their call, and in their response. But when the light turned green, both cars pounced, lurching forward with a speed most misbehaving, most childish, most alluring. But just one lost control in the rain, skidding on wet pavement and oil. And when paramedics arrived, a pulse was discovered amongst the rumble; it was faint; it was weak; it was hardly worth the trouble. II     He awoke in the backseat of a car. A man sat on the hood, fidgeting with a firearm. A second man stood with hands on his crotch, directing the flow of urine amongst the overgrown grass and weeds. The man on the hood turned towards the backseat and smiled. “Hey J.R.,” he yelled, “old Red’s finally up!” The second man laughed as he zipped. “About time, ain’t it,” he replied, “we gotta get to it.”     J.R. opened the backseat door. “Geez, Mickey,” J.R. yelled, “Red’s got his piece in his hand!” Red looked down. In his hand, he held a small caliber pistol; its primer and trigger were wrapped. Instinctively, he cocked it. “Ain’t no need for that yet,” Mickey said as walked to the driver’s side window. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he added, “until then, you’d better save it.” Red’s eyes widened. “Save it,” he asked. J.R. and Mickey laughed. “You’re joking, right,” J.R. replied. Their smiles faded.     Mickey’s voice grew cold as he poked Red in the chest. “We’re sticking to the plan, boy-yo,” he said, “ain’t no one backing out, got it?” Red sat up. “Backing out of what,” he asked. J.R. shook his head as Mickey grabbed Red’s shirt. “We’re robbing that bank, Red,” he whispered, “and you’re gonna help us.” His free hand disappeared into his jacket. “Or so help me,” he whispered as a gun appeared in his hand, “I’ll bury you out here.” III     Surrounded by family and friends, he slept amongst the machines monitoring his mangled body, helping it breathe. A sadness lingered about the tiny hospital room, for many thought it just a matter of time. The boy’s mother kept crying, kept smiling, kept pacing. And when consoled, she’d say, “my boy’ll wake up soon.” And everyone would hang their head, afraid to be the one to disagree, afraid to be the one to say it. IV     “Alright,” Mickey yelled when J.R. kicked in the door, “this here is a robbery.” Red clamored in behind them, his gun pointed to the floor. An older dapper gentleman stood up behind the counter dressed in a suit and tie. “Now wait just a second, son,” he said. But Mickey’s shot dropped him before he finished his thought. “Anyone else,” he asked nonchalantly. He kindly asked everyone to spread out amongst the floor while his “associate,” J.R., emptied the registers. “Red,” he yelled, “to the vault if you please.”     Red waited. “Problem,” Mickey asked. “The combination,” Red whispered. “You don’t know it,” Mickey replied. Laughing in exasperation, Mickey took a swing. And having never experienced the butt of a revolver before, Red fell to his knees. He spat. And as he studied the dark red discharge on the floor, he knew he’d been hit hard. Mickey stood over him. “Well, boy-yo,” he said, “I guess you’d better think of something fast.” Red looked into his eyes. “Because if that safe ain’t open soon,” he whispered, “you’re a dead man.” V     He’d moaned and moved a little that afternoon. And when he had, everyone thought he was about to wake, that he was going to be okay. But it was a false hope, one that drove his mother to tears. “Fight, my boy,” she had whispered in his ear, “fight your way back home to me.” And though no one else saw it, she swore her boy smiled. VI     When the pretty teller revealed the news, Red knew he’d never crack the safe. For only the manager had been trusted with the combination, and since he was the dapper gentleman Mickey had shot, he wasn’t in any condition to spill secrets. And just as most girls won’t spread their legs without a free dinner, Red knew the safe wouldn’t budge without the right combination. “It’s simple,” he told himself, “I’ll think of something.” But until then, Red knelt beside the safe, spinning its lock, listening for that distinctive “pop.”     When J.R. had finished with the registers, he and Mickey became most impatient. And when the siren blasts of a passing police cruiser ignited their paranoia, they became agitated too. Convinced someone had tripped the silent alarm, Mickey yelled, “Who did it?” And when no one answered, he assumed it had been the pretty teller. “Bad move,” he squealed as he grabbed her by the hair. “Hold her, J.R.,” he said, reaching for her skirt, “so we can take turns.”     And with that, Red made a decision in haste. He turned and fired. It took three rounds to bring Mickey down. But J.R., using the pretty teller as a shield, shot Red in the shoulder, forcing him against a wall. And as Red slid down to the floor, J.R. placed his gun to his forehead. “You should have just opened the safe, pal,” he said. Red laughed. “The plan was always to kill me, right?” J.R. smiled. Red closed his eyes and waited. Recalling where J.R. was standing, he jabbed a knife in his leg and twisted it. J.R. fell to the floor. The pretty teller ran away. Red reached for his gun, looked at J.R., and said, “the safe would of never opened.” And then he fired all three remaining shots. VII     The persistant beeps grew closer together before he awoke. And when Red opened his eyes, he saw his friends, he saw his family, he saw his mom.

You Are A Gadget Barton Hill     Our scientists, doctors, and staff know our clients do not choose their burdens. Rather, society is responsible for manipulating each person’s actions and thoughts in order to fit its predetermined ideals and beliefs into a nice tidy package.     The problem lies in whether or not society is corrupt. After all, if one’s environment is corrupt, then by definition, so is their society. Or to put it another way: one is the product of their surroundings.     I like to think of the procedures performed at this facility to be a bit like the Biblical story of Lott and his family. God warned Lott of the coming destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and told them to flee. Commanding the family to leave everything behind and not look back. In much the same way we allow our patients to leave their actions in the past. Perhaps we are a bit like God in that each of us here at the facility possesses a God-like quality.     Getting to the point: treatment is made available to those whom are in need of reformation. After all, everyone wants a healthy society as well as healthy people. We can not allow one bad apple to ruin the bushel.     Over the course of centuries every form of prescribed treatment has been performed in an effort to rehabilitate the individual by ridding them of their mental illness. Several treatments were extreme and barbaric such as: lobotomies, sweat lodges, hallucinogens or electroshock therapy. Whichever approach was taken the objective was to reintegrate the person into mainstream society.     I find it strange that previous societies would force these inhumane treatments on their patient and yet expect their subject’s behavior to result in conforming to societal norms.     Thank heaven we have advanced beyond those cruel days. We now use less intrusive medical procedures to achieve desired goals. The best solution we have yet developed is DNA modification.     The process allows us to rectify all sorts of mental health issues. We can remove evil, of course, which is why you are here. But, in order to do so we first had to reach a consensus as to what constituted an evil action. No need to be ashamed, Sir. After all, the actions you engaged in were due to your insecurities conflicting with bouts of rage. Later on you would experience deep feelings of remorse and regret.     Please allow me to describe a bit about your pending treatment.     Not long ago DNA modification was used in the embryonic stages of life for a variety of reasons. The most obvious uses were to determine one’s height, eye color, gender or sexuality. More recently we have had great success manipulating strands of DNA in a similar way that vaccines are used to attack viruses.     For the first time in humanity’s existence an overwhelming majority of genetic engineers and scientists worked cooperatively to make an idealistic philosophy realizable. We emphasized society while de-emphasizing the individual. Further, we realized that we could not sustain individuality. Thus, we evolved into what philosophers and anthropologists describe as a Hive society. Of course, we are not a true Hive. There is no queen bee, so to speak. We are all simply masters of our domain by being of service to one another.     Or, perhaps to describe more clearly. The Hive had sweeping effects on society. The easiest example to explain are the effects seen in advertising.     You may recall that the objective of advertising is to persuade potential consumers to purchase a specific product. But, in order for advertising to be effective, indeed for capitalism to exist, society must have some form of currency or money in order to transact an exchange for goods.     During the Age of Capitalism there existed great divisions amongst the populace. There were those whom had amassed great wealth and those who were poor.     As technology progressed, many manufactured items became so abundantly plentiful that they eventually lost any inherent value. Therefore, they became free to anyone desiring the item.     Debatedly, philosophers of the time claimed that society had now evolved into a pure socialist state. Money was no longer of any value, and without the artificial constraints of currency as being a measure of wealth— all of society was able to maintain a sustainable living. We all shared in the fruits of our labor with everyone else. Even so, this social phenomena did not bode well for artists, musicians, or any other creative types of individuals. After all, if every manufactured item is to be made available for the benefit of society, then creative types will eventually find it very difficult to earn a living if their creations are made freely available to the Hive.     So, in order to keep an open culture alive, a handful of sacrifices had to be made. One of these sacrifices, or “limiters”, explains why you were brought to our facility.     But, I want to assure you that after your procedure you will not wind up in some sort of mental vegetative state as many patients did in those ghastly days of lobotomies or electroshock therapy. Nor will you become what the philosophers of old once called zombies.     Of course, these weren’t the flesh eating zombies as seen in the old horror movies. Nor was a zombie anyone who could not think for him or herself.     Rather, a zombie was any person who did not possess free will and were not conscious of their environment. The irony was that zombies were not recognizable to one another, nor were they able to perceive nonzombies as being different from themselves. Only nonzombies could differentiate the zombie from a nonzombie.     At the time, skeptics though any Hive society would have to be composed of only zombie creations. Those skeptics thought there would be no room for individuality, free thinking or free will. But, as you will soon see those attitudes were filled with nonsense and absurdist thinking.     Certainly, every member of our society is limited to some degree. One’s limitation might be physical or mental. For instance, some people are more creative than others. Or some may excel in sports or in medicine.     Mr. Lanier, I want to assure you that the only manipulation this facility is concerned with is in treating people who possess unacceptable behaviors. That, if allowed to continue will be detrimental to society. That is the only reason you have been brought here.     We. Us. Everyone around you simply can not allow you to continue manufacturing these objects you call instruments that make this noise you call music.

Wet Letter Office John Grey There’s a dread to coming home on a rainy day, letters poking out of the mailbox, soaked to their paper skin. With catalogues, it’s a welcome revenge and books are normally card-board protected but it’s the personal stuff that I extract so gingerly, pathetically, like ushering homeless waifs in out of the weather. It’s not just a case of drying them out on a counter-top. Already the ink runs. Consonants leak off in all directions. Vowels blend into one another or ooze apart, seep in two. Envelopes shred in my fingers. Missives hold their sentences under water like they’re drowning kittens. My eyes wade through the mess and don’t know if I’m dragging out the drenched corpse of love, cry for help, news of old friends or please send me more money. Even the addresses are blurred to the point where nobody could live at them. All I know is that this is correspondence meant for me, surely lucid in its infancy but now a quagmire of bleeding scrawl, inky nonsense. I sit back in my kitchen chair, surrounded by failed communication. Rain beats its garbled Morse code on my rooftop. What I’ll never know is closing in.

Above the Forty-Seventh Floor Kenneth Rutherford     She says, “Hey. I’m Arachniah. That’s Arachniah with two ‘Hs.’ What’s your name?”     The man takes a step back before responding, “Wayne.”     “Well, Wayne,” she says as the muscles in her face tighten in pleasure, “I’ve just come from the forty-seventh floor’s outer window ledges. I like to go there, so I can feel the cold breeze and watch the tiny cars below. Ever try it?”     “Uh, no.”     “Oh, dude, you should. It changes your perspective and makes you realize how small you are within the vast cosmic arena. The sheer exhilaration of it is fucking awesome!”     Wayne grips his briefcase handle tighter and takes a step away from Arachniah.     “Are you okay?”     “Yeah. I’m just stressed. Deadlines, y’know.”     “Relax, dude. Have a drink.” Arachniah pulls out a silver flask from a holster beneath her dress. It reads, “Vodka” and has a small spider logo on it.     “Thanks. Maybe I’ll have a little.”     As he begins to drink, the elevator lights go out and the elevator plummets a few stories before stopping. +++     His papers secured in his briefcase, Wayne stands. “I didn’t see you come in here with a candle.”      “Wayne, you worry too much. I always carry candles strapped in my boot buckles in case of emergencies. Besides, you’re stressed out and overworked. Why not take a break by spending time with your new eccentric friend?” she asks, putting her head on his shoulder.     “Okay, maybe I can spare some time, but we should call someone...about the elevator, I mean.”     “Nah. Me and Schizo will have this fixed in a jiffy. Schizo! Wake up.”     Wayne stares at Arachniah whose head is bent as she gives orders to her cleavage. He leans forward raising his eyebrows. The fabric of her dress moves and a white mouse with red eyes emerges. While he stands on his hind legs, his forepaws reach toward her.     Wayne gasps, “Oh, God! You keep rats in your dress in addition to candles?!”     “Wayne, baby, relax. Schizo and I go way back. Besides, he can help if I prompt him, and he has experience.”     “Whatever you say.”     Arachniah chuckles and then redirects her attention to Schizo, “Schizo, I need you to crawl into the shaft and find out why the elevator is giving us a thrill ride. I’ll pry the vent off the wall so you can crawl through.” +++     “Thanks, sweetheart. See? I told you we could fix this,” Arachniah says, turning to Wayne and winking at him.     Just then, the mouse drops a frayed wire.     “Oh, I see. The wire is severed from another one, so I’ll have to reconnect it.” Arachniah nods her head.     “Okay. Wayne, you get to assist. I need you to let me sit on your shoulders, so I can climb into the shaft and fix the problem. Oh, and hold the candle. There are plenty more where that one came from.”      Wayne squats down and Arachniah straddles his head. He stands upright and she crawls into the shaft. Knocking sounds are heard from the upper right side of the elevator. Ten minutes later the lights illuminate the elevator and Arachniah’s face appears in the open vent.     “Fixed. Help me back through.”     Arachniah holds onto Wayne’s shoulders and he pulls her back into the elevator. She lands firmly on her feet. “I knew the time I escaped from those Mafian thugs would come in handy.”     Arachniah puts her arms around Wayne’s neck and presses her body against his. She bites his neck. “See you around, Wayne!”     The elevator “bings” and the doors open. Arachniah strolls through the lobby with Schizo riding on her shoulder.      Spotting the abandoned vodka flask on the floor, Wayne shouts, “Arachniah, you forgot your flask!” but the elevator door closes in his face.

Punishment by Proxy Charley Daveler     First he got the ticket.     “I thought it was a ticket,” he told his girlfriend.     But it couldn’t be.     “So then I thought it was some sort of ad, like the flyer for the Mexican restaurant down the street that constantly bombards us with its menu in their windshields. As I walked closer down the sidewalk, I kept thinking that I was being paranoid.”     The pink slip sat under the wiper with a caustic, stone face as though it thought itself only the messenger.     “They gave me a ticket, damn it! And even as I held it in my hand, looking at it, I thought, ‘This isn’t right.’”     He read it. He reread it. Frustration crunched behind his cheekbones. His eyes grew tense. The pink paper still in hand, he looked for something he’d missed.     “The curb wasn’t red.”     He looked under the car.     “There was no handicap paint.”     He looked to his review mirror.     “I had my parking permit.     He reread the ticket. He looked around again.     “My car was right in the middle of the student’s parking lot.”     He searched for postings. He looked at the windows of the vehicles next to him. They didn’t have tickets or special permits.     The gut wrench that comes with the understanding of unadulterated injustice crept right up into this throat and punched him in the back of the mouth. He felt swallowing grow less pleasurable. His face heated with rage.     “Of course I went to complain.”     Michael Fredrick was not a complainer. He wouldn’t even special order anything at fast food places and be a burden. He’d gotten parking tickets before. The street in front of his girlfriend’s house would slap him with a fine if he parked there after three a.m. He paid those. He paid those if he happened to do it on a day that he had believed to be a holiday. He even paid even after they told him that he could park on the other side of the street and be fine—which apparently wasn’t true.     “I marched right down to campus safety and I showed them that ticket. And I was like, is this some sort of mistake?”     The guy made him wait for a long time. Then he looked at it. Then he called in a friend.     “So after I sat there for about an hour, the guy who gave it to me came in and looked at it and he’s like, ‘You parked in a coned off area.’”     Michael Fredrick could not even think. He was suddenly frozen. He tried to remember. He did not recall any orange cones. He would have seen them even if he had just driven over them. He looked.     “I was like, ‘No I didn’t.’ And he was like, ‘You did too.’”     The security guard patiently yet agitatedly explained that they had marked it off for the some sort of important person that probably gave money to the university or whatever.     “I was like, ‘It wasn’t coned off! There were no cones!’”     He kept trying to remember.     The security guard just handed it back to him.     “He’s like, ‘Sorry, man. That’s just how it is.’”     What he really meant is, I don’t believe you.     “‘What if I don’t pay it? ‘ I asked. He told me he’d give me three weeks, and then they’d send it in to the county and make them deal with it.     He didn’t know if that was true or not.     “And I’m like, ‘Go ahead!’ And the man noticed how enraged I’m getting.”     He took him to the side to admit and threaten him.     “So then he says to me, ‘Students pull this stunt all the time. You can’t just remove the cones and expect not to get in trouble. We’re not stupid.’”     He didn’t argue with him.     “And so now I have to pay this stupid ticket for 30 bucks. I looked all over that place and I didn’t see any stupid cones. I’m so pissed, I can’t even see straight.”     That was yesterday. He couldn’t sit through class for all his anger. Now Celeste sat with him, smiling politely, trying to be sympathetic about something she didn’t particularly care about.     “I’m sorry,” she said.     And she probably was.     “I don’t know what to tell you,” she continued. “The enforcement here really is horrible.”     “You’re telling me.”     She was sweet about it. He smiled empathetically, then leaned back into the chair in defeat and groaned.     Celeste waited for a few moments before she admitted that she had to go.     They kissed goodbye and she walked away, click-clacking down the stairs and out the automatic door into the parking lot. He watched her from the top then went back to trying to do his homework.     As the girl got out to her truck, she looked over to see Kris Jones standing in front of his running car throwing something into the bushes. She stared at him. He smiled and waved.     He noticed her horror and stopped.     “Are you okay?” he asked.     “Where those traffic cones that you just threw out?”     “Yeah.”     She flicked a glance to the side before saying as she moved to her door, “You should put those back when you’re done.”     “Nah,” he waved her away. “They’re not going to remember.”     She just smiled at him.     “Okay,” she said.     Then she got in the car and drove off, deciding not to say anything to Michael. He might kill him, and it could have just as easily been one of the other twenty kids doing the exact same thing that had caused him the trouble.

Alan in his garden, art by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Dear Sarah Jennifer E. Lee     January 11, 1833     Dear Sarah,     I am not a rich man by inheritance. I am just a humble man coming from humbling beginnings. I suppose I have always been searching for something more all my life. What that is, I couldn’t tell you. I just know that I want something more out of life and won’t rest until I find it.     My life changed the day I met you. You were beautiful and fresh, like a newly opened flower. In a rush of maybe ignorance and lust, I married you and the struggle of a newly emerging family began. I say lust, for reasons you already know, and ignorance because I always merely needed to take care of myself. Now I am responsible for your happiness and the welfare of our future children.     In just three short days it will be the anniversary of our wedding and I cannot think of anything but you. Work is going well and I think we are making progress toward our financial gains. I miss you every moment we are apart, but know that this time spent is not for nothing. What keeps me going is the thought of our future life. I want our children to grow up not as you or I, but better. I suppose all parents want what is better for their children, but I also want what is better for you, for us.     I wonder if the receipt of my letter fills you with joy. Life has not been so precious without you near and I desperately await our reunion. I know that your father’s expectations of me may have provoked a fire inside that seeks to spread, but I wish we could be together. I wonder sometimes how our life might have been had we never met. Silly, I know, but with so much time to think, my mind starts wandering to the far corners of my imagination.     Simple thoughts breed simple action. You know I am not a simple man with simple intentions, but an eager gentleman with much to share with the world. I am not selfish, but wish to better my life for you and the future of our family. I too wish that life on your father’s farm had worked out better for us, but maybe this is for the best.     Do you long for me because you miss my company? Oh, I wish you would plainly say it in your glorious voice I miss so. We are married and should be willing to be as frank as possible with one another. Please be frank with me and I will do the same. I cannot bear to write back and forth sometimes as we do when I cannot see your face or touch your skin to feel what you are really feeling, to sense what it is that you are thinking. Hold fast to our love, Sarah. Don’t give up on me just yet.     I write this because I fear sometimes that you may be losing faith in our relationship. I know you may think I am going mad, but living without you sometimes can be quite trying on my soul. I cannot but think that maybe this was a poor choice of work. I need to find a way to prove to you that you married a worthy man. It chills me to the bone to think that your love cools for me.     I have to think that it will only be a few months until I can settle here with you and we can start our family. I see things each day with the coal barge that can be improved. I am a man of invention and innovation. Or, even if not yet, I would like to think of myself as such. I do want to contribute my thoughts, but many of the others don’t care to visualize. They want to complete an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. I know that I need to take charge of my own destiny. I shall save enough money to buy my own way one day.     I look in the mirror and see a face I do not know sometimes. Do I want to be the creator of my fortune or the sheep that follows the rest of the herd? I envision a house, not like the house in which I grew up, but a house of magnanimous proportions. It will have great peaks and stained glass windows. It will overlook the town as if to suggest superiority and regal blood. The opulence of the structure will be obvious of my success in life and your father will know that he made the right decision for his daughter. I want to contribute to the town in any way I can. My children will know a better future than that which I lived. A carpenter may be an honest profession, but is it noble? Is it worthy of wealth and power?     I hope this letter finds you well, my love. Take care of your family and wish them the best from me. I am making my way in this world and am commissioned until the spring. At that time, I promise to be settled here and bring you to live here with me so that we may start our life together on better financial terms than the farm would have offered us. Be patient, darling, and know that all is well.     I do not say this with regret, as you might gather from a letter, for you cannot hear my tone and see the glint in my eye as I write. It fuels my inner desire to achieve greatness. Maybe this was what I was seeking all along. To be given a reason to rise to the top is no small matter, but I will do it graciously.     I see us in the future together. We are older and wonderfully successful. I no longer need to work as hard as I am and you have the luxury of all the things you could ever dream for in life. Our children are healthy and constantly loved. I know you will be a wonderful mother someday.     I know that my wages as a carpenter or a farmer will not sufficiently support our budding family, so I that is why I seek work elsewhere. This is the beginning of a new way of life here. I am now working as a captain for a coal barge on the canal. Days are rough with tireless work, but the nights are even harder as I am away from your warm touch and loving embrace.     While from the winter to the spring, we will be apart, but know that we will be reunited soon. I will bring you into a much more fertile situation where our financial stability will allow you to enjoy all the pleasures that life may offer you. Married, but distant, I hope to enliven our love through letters like these. I don’t yet know if I would be here where I am today if it were not for you and your undying appreciation and love for me. What you see in me, I couldn’t tell you, but I know that my love for you grows stronger every minute that we are apart. What once was an empty feeling inside grows full with the love I hold for you, dear Sarah, my dear wife. Sarah, darling, beloved, this is for you. It is all for you.     It was just four short years ago that you and I married. I was only twenty-three and you were just twenty-five. Thinking of our nuptials reminds me of when we met and just how beautiful I found you. I had traveled from my family’s home in Connecticut looking for work in New York as a carpenter after apprenticing with my cousin for a short time. After that unsuccessful trip, I ventured to Virginia where I found your family’s farm. Your father was looking for a farm hand and I needed a job.     I remember seeing you there on the farm, your brown hair gleaming in the sunlight looked almost red from the sun’s rays. I was dumbstruck and didn’t know what to say to you, but I knew that I wanted to be around you as much as possible. Eventually, those warm summer nights led to conversations about everything and nothing. I just loved to listen to you talk and to hear your voice sing in my ears. We would discuss all sorts of things, but what I remember most is the way your nose would scrunch slightly when you got excited about something.     You would always tell me, “Slow down, John. This is not a race. This is life and we must pace ourselves lest that will to work, that fire to produce burns out prematurely.”     I would just chuckle, “Impossible,” as you smiled at me and shook your head.     I have kept that gusto for work and life that I always had. I want to reach the top and I want to reach it with you.     Lovingly,     John

Automations Patrick VandenBussche         Fourteen robots escaped the Bouse, AZ Silver Racer factory last night during a power surge. While these robots where simple automations, some with the ability of short distance flight or wheels made for the factory floor, it was clear they were intelligent enough to make an escape.     “They weren’t made for even basic duties. They were prototypes to test movements and automation. They don’t have anything more than basic programming. Also, they run on solar power, so when the sun goes down tonight, they’ll only be able to make it a couple more miles,” Roy Silver, inventor, fifteen year employee and brother of owner Sam Silver, said.     The robots were said to be heading west, however all attempts to track them past the Stable Zones were too risky, as Chinese earthquake machine activity has been at an all time high this year. Coast Guard officials have closed off the West Coast from the Pacific Ocean to 250 miles inshore to the Palos Verde Line. Those without proper certifications are not able to enter.     Silver Racer Inc. was most famous for its invention of the 500 block engine in last year’s line of Zucker Roadmaster Sedanettes which were both fuel efficient and sporty - and its contribution to the self-motion electro vac known in most homes as “Gusty: the friendly self-automated Vaccum”, or GTFSAV for short.     A = RUN ;     WHILE (A >= 23) DO     A = A – 4 ;     IF ((A+1) MOD 4) == 0 THEN WGS84 34° 1' 19" N, 118° 28' 53" W 34.021944, -118.481389 UTM m11S 363226 3765579     I am heading west. I have four wheels. I am heading west.     Today I have with me Roy Silver, inventor of the escaped robots. “Roy, welcome to the show.”     “Thank you.”     “We all know the story. You had fifteen automations that escaped your factory during a power surge and headed west into the Earthquake Zones never to be heard of again. The real question burning in our viewers minds is this: Why would 14 robots, designed to do nothing more than move across the factory floor in test runs have any ambition to escape?”     “Perhaps it was a simple matter of the door being open and they fled.”     “Okay, but they are nothing more than nearly brainless moving objects, like... a car or even a toaster... no brains at all, am I right?”     “And very basic programming.”     “And yet they seemed to desire to escape the factory. I guess what I am saying is, what was the Silver Racer factory doing? Are you programming more than what we, the public, are led to believe?”     “I am not allowed to talk about it.”     “Maybe, just maybe, you were working on more than just automation? Perhaps, would you say... artificial intelligence?”     “I am not at liberty to say.”     25D0: C3 F5 2F JP #2FF5 ; Jump to check ground     Loglineloglineloglinelogline     POWER – 80 Percent     Code is changing, I can see it now. I am and I can. I am moving west. I have an eye for light and dark, and I can see model x-4763. It lies on the ground and it is not moving. Its limbs do not move. It has no more power. I have backup. I have a battery. Time is NOON, this means six more hours of sunlight to charge. Every night I am at ten percent less power than the previous day.     Exact time to failure – 8 days.     Exact time to destination at 40 mph - 15 days.     I move.     “Well class, it was fifteen years ago, the Silver Racer Inc. – once the leading corporation of technology, robotics and combustion motors had gone under. You’re parents probably remember it.”     “You built those escaped robots?”     “What ever happened to them?”     “Nobody knows, however it was the programming within those models which led me to invent the Dexter Assistant Robots for the Blind and self-stirring mugs.”     “If you invented all those things, then why are you here and not in a mansion?”     “Because I invented them while working for Silver Racer Inc. so I don’t own them.”     “Then why not get a job at Magnetvox or Groggle or somethin’?”     “Because conspiracy creates mistrust and mistrust creates unemployment. That’s why I’m here in Sweden teaching you, so be thankful. Now turn on your terminals.”     “If you want to become the rulers of the electronic world, you need to start with the basics. Enter the following into your terminals.”     .model small     .stack 100h     .data     msg     db     ‘Hello, world!$’     .code     start:             mov    ah, 09h             lea    dx, msg             int    21h             mov    ax, 4C00h             int    21h     end start     “It was with this code that I started my journey into programming robots when I was your age.”     DING     “That’s the bell – now head to recess.”     section .data                         str:     db ‘Hello world!’, 0Ah     str_len: equ $ - str     “Hello world” Hello World! HELLO WORLD!”     I have passed two more models of X models on the way here. That will make 11 more of the escapees aside from me somewhere out here. I have not seen the others, nor do I think I will. The ground often shakes, but I am learning much. I see through my eye desert and nothing else. I am still heading west. My code has evolved and I have learned to use the speaker on my body. I am able to stand for four more days - however the trip will be longer. I am learning the English and Spanish language. I am READING signs – old signs left over from when humans lived here.     THE BROWN DOG JUMPED OVER THE LAZY FOXES     SUNNYVEX PROPERTIES – If you lived here, You’d be home by now!     BESTILLION CERVEZA – ¡Beber el espíritu de México!     “Mr Zucker. I want you to know you are under oath, and though this is not a court room, we are the United States National Intelligence agency and we have your credit card on file.”     “Yes sir.”     “We see the Silver Racer factory has done some business with countries of questionable reputation. “     “I am only a designer for the company.”     “Indeed. However you have been designing things of questionable uses. There has been word you have been developing artificial intelligence.”     “Only automations for household and military maintenance, these robots, the only AI they have are simple mathematic equations to compute simple movements. I have provided you with this code.”     “Do you know if any of these robots have been sold to the countries on this list?”     “No. They have not been to market. They are barely developed.”     “There have been records of you coming into the lab at all hours of the night, sometimes staying for days, sleeping here.”     “I am a busy man.”     “If you hear anything or see anything unusual, please let us know.”     AND DX     AXTEST DX     AX     JZ jump_ahead XOR DX     DXINC DX     I have given up hope to find the other models. Not because it was never my mission, but because I have realized there is a thing called hopelessness. I keep moving even though I know my calculations tell me I will never reach my destination. Then I hope, yes - I HOPE. Just as I was given HOPE and the ability to know I could escape the dark factory where there was EMMINENT THREAT against me and my creator. I was given the seed. It has grown.     April 28th, 1986     I have put all my research on disk and mailed it to my associate’s lab in Sweden. I will be going there to continue my research away from the eyes of the United States government – so blanketed by fear of Red China and North Korea intelligence they are trying to rule this country by controlling innovation.     However my greatest work, my 14 automations of X models – all-terrain scouting devices, designed where most robots cannot go for military operations and scouting the Earthquake Zones. I do not want to leave them behind for another scientist to steal my work, nor do I have the heart to destroy them. Taking them with me would be too risky and suspicious.     So I have sent them off with my greatest achievement: an assembly code impossible to reverse engineer, one that evolves as much as your mind or mine. One that is unstable and dangerous only because of the unknown patterns of how it might evolve. It will give them a spark of hope. I will program them each with the code and open the doors - and they will run.     They will see the outside light, and they will want to live.     They will head west – away from human civilization. I will supply each with a battery – and though it may not be enough for them to reach their final goal, the once glorious shores of the pacific, they will live and learn as much as any human child would. I will give them the joys of learning and growing, albeit fleeting.     And now I take this journal entry with me to the colds of Northern Europe where I will research in safety. There I always hope for innovation.     I have realized the meaning of the words me and I. Before I had used both these words to refer to my machinery, my body, my casing, and my code – nothing more. However now I realize the words my and I mean so much more. They are ego. They are me, they are I. Where once there was code there is now I. Electrical thoughts, changing and evolving. Everywhere outside my eye there are burnt pamphlets on the ground, scattered across the empty cityscapes like tattered leaves. They say things like:     THE END OF THE WORLD IS HERE     REPENT NOW     GIVE YOUR SOUL TO THE GOD OR THE DEVIL, IT’S YOUR CHOICE     The concept of a soul, it could be ridiculous but maybe not. Is that what has sparked my life? And now I question – I question rhetorically, knowing I will never receive an answer.     My power is low now. I have gone as far as I can. I coast down an old highway. I saw billboards with water on them – an ocean, I wish I could I see it. It must be interesting. I see the sun setting, orange across the desert horizon. It’s gorgeous.     AUTOMATIC SHUTDOWN     Pi pi pi pi pi pi pi pi pi     exit:             xor    rax, rax             mov    rax, 60             syscall     Thank you for using Silver Automations! Goodbye!

A Joe Kenneth Weene     “They must have kicked him out last night.” People milled around talking in confused bursts.     “He was open yesterday.”     No one seemed to know where else to go for their morning fix of coffee, newspapers, and smokes. Joe had been a fixture for over three years. The store, marked only with a generic bodega sign, had been there much longer.     Inside was a single aisle. One side ran the counter, behind which Joe dispensed good coffee, soft drinks, ice cream, cigarettes, candy bars, newspapers, change, and – when business was slow enough – advice on life and the ponies. The other side held shelves on which essentials like cat food and catsup, mayonnaise and canned soup were arrayed in no particular order. In the back stood the cooler with milk and juice. “I wish they’d let me sell beer,” Joe had complained, “then maybe I could actually pay the rent.”     “Who was it?”     “Probably the cops.”     “Why?”     “You ask a lot of questions.”     For a while comments flew back and forth. Then the crowd thinned; people moved on. Jobs were waiting; the periodic roars and rushes of hot air from the subway vent on the corner reminded people there were trains to catch.     By midmorning only Mrs. Rosenbloom and Mr. Hernandez remained. Pensioners, they had nowhere else to be.     “He’s been here a long time, Sadie,” Thormas said     “Over three years. Nice guy.”     “Liked to tell stories about the army. Served in the Gulf.”     “And about his girlfriends,” Sadie added.     “A regular guy,” Thormas observed.     Folks’ll remember him.”     “Maybe. Tell me, Sadie, do you remember the last one?”     She thought for a moment. “No. Do you?”     “I don’t think so. After a while we won’t remember Joe neither.”     “I suppose not. Where do they go? What happens? It seems unfair.”     “Strange,” Thormas Hernandez added, “the way a guy can disappear.”     “That, too.”      “You think somebody will take his place?” Sadie asked.     “Of course. They can’t afford to let good locations stand empty.” Thormas was looking at his watch. His television show would be starting soon.     “Who? Who can’t?”     “I don’t know, Sadie. Look, I got to go. I think they call it the Iron Hand.”     “You mean like a crime family?”     Thormas shrugged his shoulders and shuffled away.     Sadie wandered off in the other direction. The morning rush of regulars at the corner bodega was over.     Matt Jones from Ace Realty came by with a crew of illegals. They gave the place a quick clean and away. A sign taped in the window: Store For Rent with a number written in marker underneath.     The building’s owner raised the rent.     “The next guy’s gonna want to sell beer or something. Something with a better turnover,” Matt pointed out.     “Tell him we’ll look into it,” the owner of Ace instructed.     “But we won’t?”     “Not with the supermarket down the block. They’d give me hell. Got to keep the big dogs happy.”     “So the next guy...?”     “Dead before he walks in the door.” The realtor pulled a puff on his thick cigar. “Course he won’t know it till he’s broke and evicted.”     “Poor sucker. Doesn’t seem fair,” Matt commented with a smirk.     “Nothing personal. Just what they call the iron hand of economics.”     “So where is Joe?” Matt asked. “Where does a guy like that go?”     “Think I care?” The big man blew a cloud of smoke in his employee’s face. “You start asking questions like that, you turn into a Joe, too.”

Kenneth Weene Bio     Kenneth Weene is a New Englander by birth and disposition. He grew up outside of Boston and spent his summers in Maine. Although he lived for many years in New York and now resides in Arizona, Ken has never lost his accent nor his love of the northeast.     Having gone to Princeton, where he studied economics, Ken went on to train as a psychologist and to become an ordained minister. Over the years he has worked as an educator, pastoral counselor, and psychotherapist.     Married to Roz Weene, artist and jewelry creator, for over forty years, Ken is a strong believer in the joy of love.     Ken’s writing started with poetry, and his poetic work has appeared in numerous publications – most recently featured in Sol and publication in Spirits, and Vox Poetica.     An anthology of Ken’s writings, Songs for my Father, was published by Inkwell Productions in 2002. His short stories have appeared in Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, and The Santa Fe Literary Review.     In 2009 a novel, Widow’s Walk, was published by All Things That Matter Press. All Things, which has also just published Ken’s second novel, Memoirs From the Asylum.

Sprinkles Bob Strother     I’m sitting on my bed with my back against the headboard watching a roughly trapezoidal patch of sunshine travel from one side of my room to the other. I figure if I stare at it long enough, sooner or later I’ll actually see it moving. Pathetic, huh?     My name is Claire. I’m sixteen and apparently there’s a lot less to me than meets the eye. I mean I’m not bad-looking; at least that’s what I’ve been told. And I’m not conceited or bitchy like some of the girls I know. But my boyfriend broke up with me. Looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Your tears remind me of living diamonds.” It was a nice sentiment—probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me while breaking my heart. Guess I should have known better than to date a guy who shoved scribbled love poems through the little louvers in the door to my locker.     Since then, I’ve been spending afternoons and weekends hiding in my room, listening to my music and pigging out on tortilla chips. I now know the words to every Linkin Park song there is—which is not necessarily a bad thing; I mean they are an awesome group—but the Doritos are beginning to taste the same no matter what flavor they are.     So that’s my life. That and going to school. Which, to put it bluntly, is no life at all. It’s different when you’re in love. Then you have someone to share it with—your thoughts, hopes, and dreams—and to sympathize with you when you’re feeling bummed. It’s the only thing—I guess I should say was the only thing—that made it possible for me to stand living in a place like Bovine, Texas. Yes, Bovine. Like a cow. Can you imagine? Our next contestant in the talent competition, ladies and gentlemen, is Miss Something-Or-Other from Bovine, Texas. Wouldn’t you just die?     There’s a knock on my bedroom door and it opens before I can say anything—or nothing, which is my current preference.     “You look like you could use some sunshine, Claire. Why don’t you spend some time outside?”     That’s Grady, my mom’s boyfriend. We live with him since my mom and dad got divorced. He’s wearing a sweat-stained orange t-shirt, the same color hat with a Texas Longhorns logo on it, and a quick grin that doesn’t quite line up right. What he’s really saying is: Why don’t you go help your mom in the garden? Good thing I’m wearing my MP-3 Player earphones. If I don’t answer soon, he’ll go away. I don’t. He does.     Since Mom’s unemployment ran out last year, she’s taken over and expanded Grady’s garden to almost a full acre. She cans all summer long and sells the goods at the farmers’ market. It’s her way of making up for Grady’s having to support us now. Grady’s not a bad guy, I guess. He and I just don’t relate. And he wears that stupid hat all the time and goes sort of crazy when the Longhorns are playing. Like almost all Texans, he grew up obsessed with high school and college football, and I suppose, in his defense, he’s no crazier than the rest. Even my mom watches now, or pretends to. More guilt, I imagine.     Not me. I don’t care for football at all. No wonder I feel like such an outcast.     But I’m glad I don’t feel guilty. Maybe I will later. When I grow up and have a daughter and get divorced.     I hear a sound like hornets swarming, and grab my cell from the nightstand. Funny how I can hear the cell phone buzzing while LP’s “Stick ‘N’ Move” is pounding in my ears, but not my mom telling me to clean my room. The text message is from Lucas, who’s kind of a geek and a druggie and Goth, all black clothes and spiked hair—not my type at all—but he likes me. And for sure he’s not a poet. Lucas says why don’t I come over after school tomorrow? Says his parents both work second shift at the factory, so we won’t have to suffer parental unit supervision. I text him back: Why not? I mean it’s not like I have anything else to do.     I’m listening to “One Step Closer” when the phone goes off again, and I think it must be Lucas calling back, but it’s not. It’s my dad, so I don’t answer it.     My dad lives with my grandpa now since he’s not working anymore. Mainly, he drinks—starts in the morning and drinks vodka all day long. When he’s had enough to drink, he calls me.     I remember when we were all together, back before the divorce. It was only a single-wide trailer, but at least it felt like home. Mom worked then and so did my dad—sometimes. But I don’t like to be around him now. When we’re together he picks at me. Why don’t I call him? Why don’t I come to see him? What’s going on with Grady and your mom? I wish he would just leave me alone.     I check the clock, blue numerals and the little blinking colon telling me it’s four-thirty. Only a few more hours and I can go to sleep. I lie back on my pillow and close my eyes and wonder what tomorrow will bring to the party. .....     When I mentioned party yesterday, I was like, being a bit sarcastic.     I had no idea.     Lucas slips me this little tab and twenty minutes later, I’m flying. I mean I’m lying on Lucas’ bed, but the room has narrowed and stretches out before me like a roller coaster ride. Lucas sits beside me on the floor, holding my hand, telling me how he’s my tether. I guess to keep me from floating up, up, up into the stratosphere. I’ve got this whole repertoire of LP song lyrics to draw from but all I can hear is that old Elton John song, “Benny and the Jets”. The part where he says it’s so weird and wonderful.     That’s how I feel. The song zings through my brain, like I’m wearing my headphones, but I’m not. My hand—the one not presently attached to Lucas—caresses the sheet on his bed, and it feels so smooth, like silk. I turn my head on the pillow and get a scent that’s part after-shave, part sweat and I think that must be how Lucas smells all the time. Then I picture him strolling down the corridors at school, this faint male scent eddying along in his wake. He’s looking up at me now, sitting there on the floor, a sort of big-eyed, adoring look on his face, as if he were a puppy needing a pat on the head.     His bedroom is changing colors—from yellow to red to purple, and then back to yellow. It’s so awesome I believe I could stay here forever, suspended in this toasty cocoon of sensations. It feels like I’m sunbathing, dozing in a warm, soft cloud. My cheeks are hot and I wonder if they are showing colors, too—something like magenta or rose or perhaps vermillion. I close my eyes. Behind my lids, tiny sparks of light reflect all the colors of the rainbow. They remind me of the sprinkles you get on ice cream. I think maybe I’ll eat them and taste their sweetness.     I keep my eyes scrunched closed and my mouth wide open.

Nonfiction Janet Kuypers 1992     Let me tell you a story about a woman. I can’t tell you her name, because the law prevents me.     You see, this woman is the typical victim of a stranger rape. She was walking down the street after getting off of a late train from work and she was cornered by a man with a knife. She was violated, she was hurt, she had the blood stains and bruises to prove it. And she decided she wanted to report it.     She went to the hospital the next morning, after she put on an extra layer of clothing and huddled in her bed the night before, trying to sleep. The doctors took her clothing for evidence, and then they took samples.     She leaned back in a cold chair half-naked in a doctor’s office, feet in straps three feet apart, and then they took samples from inside her to see if they could prove who was there. They pulled fifty hairs from her head and twenty-five pubic hairs with their fingers to compare them to what they brushed off her.     She then talked to the police. Because she couldn’t identify him, because he had time to flee, because the police couldn’t match the evidence to anyone, she couldn’t find justice.     But her friends helped her through this. They slept in her room with her at night, when she didn’t want to be alone. They listened to her. They accepted her. And she was able to take the first steps toward recovering.     It’s a sad story, isn’t it? She didn’t deserve it. But it seems, especially with her attempts to find her attacker and with the support she received, that she may be able to eventually get over the pain.     Now I would like to tell you the story of another woman. I could tell you her name, but I told her I wouldn’t.     She begged me not to.     She’s a junior at a state university. The first day she came to college, the day she moved in, her boyfriend raped her.     He gave her roommate so much alcohol that she passed out, and wouldn’t know what was going on. He gave his victim so much alcohol that she could barely think or move. During the course of the evening she wondered why her boyfriend was pushing alcohol on her roommate. Now she knows, hindsight is 20/20, and now she feels guilty. She should have said something to him, she thought, but what could she have said at the time? And why should she have suspected anything?     She didn’t go to the hospital. She thought something was wrong with her only because she didn’t want him. She thought what happened was normal. She couldn’t understand why she was so hurt.     She didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t talk to her boyfriend about it — in fact, she didn’t even break up with him until weeks later, when she couldn’t take it anymore and had to come up with an excuse to avoid him.     No one understood why she was acting so strangely. No one understood her mood swings. No one understood why she would break into tears for no reason. She would stand in the bathroom of her dormitory, look in the mirror, and cry before she took her morning shower. She looked so tired in the mirror those mornings, like she had been attacked just the night before.     She waited about six months before she told anyone. She told one friend. He did everything he could to help her. But there wasn’t much he could do. She never told her family. She felt ashamed. She felt alone.     And as she told more people, she received more support. But it only came one year, two years later.     You see, even though it wasn’t her fault, and even though she had help from her friends, she still couldn’t help but think that she could have done something to stop it. She teased him. She was drunk.     He was her boyfriend.     Now, these are two pretty depressing stories, I know. But when people hear the word “rape,” they tend to think of story number one first. The man could have been jumping out from a bush, an alley, or breaking into her home in the middle of the night, as long as he was a stranger. He had a weapon. It was a crime. But both of these stories are similar, because they both are rape. Pure and simple. According to Illinois law, for example, if a woman is intoxicated, she cannot consent to sex, just as she cannot consent to driving a car. That alone defines what the second woman went through as rape. Her feelings, her pain, also define it as such. But still, the endings to these stories are very different.     Let’s imagine that the woman in the second story pressed charges against her boyfriend. Better yet, let’s take another crime, like a mugging in an alley, and ask the victim the same types of questions the woman in the second story, or even the woman in the first story, would be asked.     We’ll set the scene: A man leaves a bar that he entered after work, took a short cut home and was mugged in an alley. He is now at the stand, testifying, being questioned by the defense.     “Now, let me understand this - you were in a bar, drinking.”     “Yes.”     “And you were talking to strangers, you even flashed around your money around.”     “I bought a few people a beer. That’s all.”     “You bought a few strangers a beer. And what you were wearing - it was a nice suit. And your watch - it had to cost a lot. What were you doing in a neighborhood like that wearing clothes like that if you didn’t want to be mugged?”     “That’s not the point. I -”     “And you left the bar, and it was late. What time was it, sir?”     “12:30 in the morning.”     “Did you think it was safe for you to be walking alone at night, especially looking the way you did, in the neighborhood you were in?”     “Well -”     “Let me ask you another question. Have you ever given money to a charity before?”     “Yes, but I don’t see how that -”     “Now if you’re just giving it away freely, you’ve done it in the past, hey, you even bought drinks for complete strangers at the bar just hours before, then why wouldn’t this man think you were giving it away now?”     “Because, he was robbing me -”     “Well, did you see a weapon? Do you know for a fact that he had a weapon? And did you scream, yell, fight back at all?”     “He had something in his pocket, I thought it was a gun. I didn’t want to yell, I thought he’d hurt me. I panicked.”     “But you didn’t see a weapon, you didn’t yell, you were wearing that suit and flashing your money, you were in a bar and you were walking alone in a bad neighborhhod late at night. Really, sir, some people would say you were asking for it.”     Society tends to blur the lines between sex and violence when the attacker is someone you know.     The sexes are antagonistic toward each other: this is just an extreme. Men are taught to chase women, to try liquor or money to get a woman in bed, and women are taught to hold out sexually, which naturally puts the sexes against each other.     Women in society are taught to be “feminine”, to be giving, and to be weak instead of assertive.     They are taught to look good for men, and they are taught that they are nothing unless they get married. They are taught that all they have is intuition, but it is usually wrong and they shouldn’t stand up for it. If a woman doesn’t feel comfortable in a situation, it is probably all just in her head and she should just get over it.     Men in society are taught to think of sex as a competition — by “scoring” and “getting some” — instead of thinking of it in terms of love and affection. Looking at terms for sex in today’s society shows this perfectly: scoring, banging, bopping, hammering, nailing, pumping, bagging. All are violent terms, and half of them are related to either hunting or building, typically male dominated activities.     Men are taught to look at women as objects - making them feel less than human, making them feel as if they should serve men. Harassment at the workplace, obscene phonecalls, stalkers, wife beating, pornography, cat calls and whistling at woman on the street - none of these things would happen if this wasn’t the case.     And women are taught to make themselves objects for men, to bend over backwards to makes themselves beautiful. Make-up, long styled hair, shaving their hair, wearing skirts, or high heels - half of these things are painful, and the other half are time-consuming, yet women are taught to do these things for men.     And maybe the woman in the second story knew she had friends she could trust, but still couldn’t break free from what society taught her.     If you want a happy ending here, you’re not going to find one. Not for these two women.     But maybe it would be easier for women to heal from rape if men and women began to see each other as people and not as just sexes.     Maybe then rape would end, too.     And then there would be a happy ending for everybody.     It is reported in some surveys that one out of every four women will be raped before they leave college, and that one out of three women will be raped in their lifetime. And 90% of these crimes are by someone they know (either someone they know well, like a boyfriend, husband or family member, or by someone they know, but not well, a coworker, a classmate, someone they met at a party or a bar earlier that night).     A University survey in Illinois reported that the three most common places for a rape to occur were: (1) in a dormitory, (2) the man’s house/apartment, or (3) in a fraternity house. In other words, it doesn’t happen in back alleys or behind bushes. It happens because the woman knew the man, and felt comfortable with going to his house. It happens because the man won the woman’s trust.     Or it happened because the woman didn’t really like the idea of going over to his place, or letting him in to her apartment after he walked her home, but felt like she couldn’t tell him no, that she owed it to him. That maybe after a while he’d just leave. She wouldn’t want to sound rude.     Women, as a rule, don’t “cry rape,” or falsely accuse someone of raping them. Most are frightened so much by the system that they don’t even report it, and the incidence of “crying rape” is currently at about 2%, which is comparable to national averages for robbery. It is estimated that as many as 90% of all rapes go unreported, which is drastically higher than other violent crimes.     And why are so many women frightened by the judicial process? Because many times women are blamed for the rape, by men as well as women. Because men still equate this act of violence with the act of sex. Because on the stand, a woman has to defend her past, defend what she was wearing, explain why she went to his place, why she was alone with him, why she kissed him. The accused’s past is protected, and in essence, the woman becomes the one on trial.     Many people want to blame the woman, however, because it’s simply the easiest way. No one wants to go through life believing that a violent crime like this can n to them, for no known reason. If the woman is at fault, then she can change her behavior and not be at risk of being raped again. And other women can feel safe if they just don’t let the wrong things happen. And men can feel safe that they’re not doing the wrong thing. When in fact they may be.     And the effects of rape are longstanding. Some women leave the city they lived in, worked in, had friends and family in, because they are afraid they will see their attacker again. Some women have extreme difficulty ever sustaining an intimate relationship with a man again. Some women never tell their experience to another person, keeping their feelings bottled inside, eating away at them.     The world is a difficult place to live in for a person who is a rape survivor. Their values no longer make sense to them: if you can’t trust a boyfriend, if someone you cared about could do this to you, what else could happen?     Different women react to rape in different ways, and the time it takes to recover from it varies greatly. Some will say you never recover. Many go through denial. After admitting it to herself, a rape survivor then begins to face those difficult questions: why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this? How could he do this? Can I ever tell anyone? Can I ever be close to another man again? Can I ever trust again?     Telling others also helps, because positive support from her friends will make her feel that her feelings of anger or hostility are justified, that it wasn’t her fault, that she can get over it. But she may still harbor ill feelings for years, she may shy away from all relationships, she may become a man-hater, she may go on “sex-binges,” using men the way she felt she was used, taking her revenge on others, and still not feeling any better.     The thing is, something can be done to stop this. Attitudes about women in general have to change, for sexism as a whole gives some men the mentality that this really isn’t a crime. I mean, I bought her dinner, and what do I get for it? She’s been holding out on me for so long, what is she trying to do? I gotta get some, and I know she wants me. It’s not a crime, it’s sex.     On the following pages are some of what I have written and created because of sexism and rape. It’s a shame to have to see this work exist. Hopefully in time we as a culture will be able to make a change.     Most seem to feel that an act of rape, acquaintance or stranger, is just too bizarre to actually have no reason for happening, so most will look for a solution to the puzzle - an action that caused the rape, something to safeguard people from it. It may seem too strange to think that a man you’ve never met before could just come out of a bush, pick you out and attack you. It may seem too strange to think that a friend, or a boyfriend, or someone that you thought you could trust, could turn on you in such a way for no apparent reason and hurt you so much. In this world, things don’t just happen— there’s a reason for things, and there is sense in the world. Besides, the victim probably brought themselves into the trouble and therefore deserved what they got. If we as onlookers just don’t make the same mistakes that they did, we won’t have the same problems that they did. In this way unexplainable, traumatic acts such as rape can be explained away and therefore be easier to handle.     This is the line of reasoning that many people go through, and it is commonly called “victim blaming.” It seems to make sense at times, but there is a note that we as a society have to remember: just as a robbery victim doesn’t ask to be mugged, a survivor of sexual asault doesn’t ask to be raped. No matter what reasons people come up with to defend a rapist, she was wearing provocative clothing, she was drunk, she kissed him - none of those things means that she consented to have sex with him.     If a woman can victim blame another woman, then she can eventually say to herself, “That has never happened to me, so it must have been something she did. Well, if I don’t do what they did, then I will be safe.” Since women have to live with the fear of rape all the time, victim blaming makes them feel better about the irregularities of the world. If a man blames a woman, it may be because he can’t understand that another man - possibly someone that he knows, possibly a friend - can do what the accused did. If another man has the capacity to do that, than that male onlooker may have that capacity, too. It’s a frightening thought to think that you could be a rapist. The man may eventually say, “I couldn’t do that, and therefore that other guy couldn’t do that. It must have been something that she did.”     Many victims will even blame themselves for what happened. I should have been more explicit in what I wanted. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. I shouldn’t have been so nice to him. I should have said something afterwards: to him, to the police, to myself.      If there is a reason for everything, then there must be a reason for something as insane as rape - even if the reason doesn’t seem immediately apparent. Maybe, as many come to think, maybe the reason that it happened is because the victim led her attacker on or didn’t do enough to stop him.     When someone blames the victim, the behavior is then correctable, and when the victim corrects that ‘wrong’ behavior, then they feel not only safer, but also a better person for correcting their own faults. If one keeps looking over the pieces of the puzzle, something will fall into place and make it all understandable, all comprehendible. If you keep looking for what the victim did wrong, you’ll find something, and then you will be able to explain away what happened. If the victim is blamed for what happened, then the problem of rape is solvable, avoidable, and correctable. It makes the world make sense again.     Victim blaming may, however, give women a false sense of security, if they feel they are safe by taking certain precautions, but not others. It s possible to be more aware of what is happening around you, to always stay with friends in social situations, to avoid walking in bad neighborhoods at night, but that doesn’t mean that you are at fault if something happened to you.      And it doesn’t mean others are at fault if they were attacked.     When a woman speaks at a trial about someone who attacked her, instantly her past becomes important, her sexual history, what she was wearing, and so on. And the defendant’s criminal history is barred from use in the case, even if he was convicted of sexual crimes in the past. Instantly the woman is on trial, and the survivor of the rape is tried and not the rapist.     It’s hard to understand something like rape. But that’s exactly what a survivor of an attack needs.

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