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Spiraling Judith Kaufman Like methamphetamine I thirst for the high that is your voice your text. Like an undercover cop the phone betrays me denying my injection You are death to my self-esteem Yet I need a fix You’re not good for me You strangle my self-image with your lavish praise of others You choke my natural charm Yet I need a fix You know I’m better than you So you have to bring me down a peg or two I obsess I need my fix My obsession I spy I stalk You have to go I don’t know how to get rid of you You have to go My addiction I’m spiraling out of control You don’t love me You use me You prey on me You have to go I want to take a gun to you You have to go I stalk you You have to go my obsession my addiction You have to go I dream of meeting you On the road gun in hand you have to go Why not me? Why? You have to go I need my fix Obsession decrees my world I need my fix Addiction masticates me You have to go You have to go You have to go You Have To Go Every day I think I’m done with you No fix Today’s the day I’m done with you I’m in control And I drive down the road thirty minutes my Eyes glaze over I need my fix My resolve undone I need my fix My fix My fix My Fix You Have To Go

Discrepancies Kerry Lown Whalen     Trina Harman did hard labour at a pizzeria while she studied for a Master’s Degree of Business. After gaining her degree and employment at a city bank, she was ready to climb the corporate ladder. Periodically a senior position became available at the bank, but not one of her applications led to an interview. When she looked at the organisational chart she observed that all senior positions were held by males. Trina resigned. She would not waste her time in a place where attitudes belonged to another century.     She applied for a role in a large manufacturing company. At her interview she asked whether females held senior positions there. The selection panel chairman bristled.     ‘We take gender equality seriously here. We don’t discriminate.’     Heartened by his answer, Trina accepted a position in the finance department. It demanded high-level skills and a sound knowledge of the organisation’s operations. Over a two year period, she had opportunities to demonstrate her skills while acting in senior roles for absent colleagues. But Trina was never interviewed for promotions when they became available.     Her friend, Sally, worked in the United Kingdom and she emailed her.     ‘I thought the bank belonged to the dark ages, but it’s the same in manufacturing. What’s it like there?     Sally’s response was upbeat. ‘It’s great. I haven’t encountered any barriers. But it helps belonging to the City Women’s Network.’     ‘You’re lucky that employers are enlightened over there. Perhaps I should pack my bags.’     Despite the company’s unofficial policy of promoting only males to senior positions, Trina was determined to turn this around. She had her chance when Nigel went on long service leave. For six months she acted as Operations Manager. Towards the end of her stint, she received a letter from the CEO praising her efforts. Then Nigel resigned. At a meeting of senior staff it was announced that Andrew Pike would be appointed to Nigel’s position. The role had not been advertised nor had interviews been conducted. Trina sat stunned for a moment before slinking back to her desk, angry words collecting in her mouth like bullets.     The CFO, Langford Boyd, spotted her and lumbered over to commiserate. ‘Unfortunate decision, Trina, but I was outnumbered. No hard feelings I hope.’ His thick red neck bulged over the collar of his crisp white shirt.     She looked up at him. ‘The appointment was unfair.’     His florid face darkened. ‘Andrew is a neighbour of the CEO. Nothing I could do.’ A gust of whisky fumes was unleashed when he cleared his throat. ‘I’d be grateful for any help you can give Pikey. He’ll need it.’ With a pat to her shoulder, he headed to the board room for the celebratory nibbles and drinks.     Trina crossed her arms and gazed into space. How would she respond when Pikey asked for help? Her first instinct would be to lead him astray. She looked around her to discover that most of her colleagues had disappeared, knowing they wouldn’t be missed while the managers indulged in finger food and fine wines. Her mouth watered at the spicy aroma drifting from the board room. She wandered into the lunch room, recovered her Greek salad from the fridge and picked up a fork.     Robyn, a PA, bustled in. ‘Not joining the big boys for lunch?’     ‘Not today.’     ‘I’ve heard that Pikey got the promotion. It’s unfair.’     Trina sighed. ‘Nothing I can do about it.’ She stabbed the last olive, chewed it and tossed the container into the bin.     ‘You might have a case for discrimination.’     She shook her head. ‘The decision’s been made. And I accept it.’ She rinsed her fork and headed back to her desk.     She arrived at work next morning, eager to embark on a new routine. Whatever lay ahead, she’d be fit and ready for it. At lunchtime she planned to work out at the gym. Perhaps an aerobics class could dissolve the anger simmering in her gut.      That afternoon Andrew called her to his office.     ‘Afternoon Pikey,’ she said, and sat in the visitor’s chair.     ‘Call me Andrew or Mr Pike, Trina.’ His brow furrowed as he studied the order printout.     ‘What’s the problem?’     ‘An order from Sargents.’ He leafed through the pages. ‘We should’ve delivered a hundred boxes. Ten thousand arrived.’     Trina grinned. ‘Whoops! Show me the order.’     He clamped his elbows on the order book. ‘It clearly states one hundred. Not ten thousand.’     ‘Well, someone stuffed up.’ She stood, ready to leave.     ‘What’ll I do?’     ‘Ring Sargents. Tell them a truck’s on its way to collect 9,900 boxes.’ She chuckled as she returned to her desk.     Before lunch the following day she sneaked to the gym and forced herself to lift weights until noon. Despite aching calves and biceps, she breezed into the lunch room afterwards and made coffee while chatting to Robyn about her new black stilettoes.     Andrew interrupted. ‘A word, Trina. My office.’     ‘I’ll be five minutes, Pikey. I’m talking high fashion here.’ Robyn raised an eyebrow. Trina shrugged. ‘I’m at lunch. Who does he think he is?’ She waited five minutes before drifting into his office.     Lines creased Andrew’s forehead as he studied the computer screen. ‘The orders have gone haywire. Instead of two hundred boxes, twenty arrived at PK’s. And seventy-five arrived at Dawkins instead of seven-hundred-and-fifty.’     Trina nodded. ‘Do the boxes contain the correct items?’     ‘Yep. It’s only the volumes that are wrong.’     ‘Show me.’     ‘No need to check. The numbers are right.’     ‘There are discrepancies somewhere.’     His lips tightened. ‘There’s not. I’ve checked.’     She shrugged. ‘I can’t help you then.’     The days stretched into weeks and, like a machine, Trina carried out the mindless and repetitive tasks of her job while helping Pikey with his.     One afternoon she received an email from Sally.     ‘I’ve been appointed recruitment manager for the London area. I have several executive roles on my books. Come over.’     Trina emailed her. ‘Congratulations. It’s great news. I hadn’t thought about working in London but it’s appealing. Let’s see what happens.’      Trina had saved enough money for a leisurely overseas trip. Like a travelogue, the places she wanted to explore ran through her head. The highlight at the end of the trip would be catching up with Sally in London and meeting her network of friends.     Her phone rang. It was Pikey.     ‘Come and sort out the equipment. There’s a big mix-up.’      She strolled to his office and leaned against the door frame. ‘Why don’t you fix the equipment problem yourself?’     ‘I’m still working on the discrepancies in the orders.’     She sighed. ‘Have the storemen checked the numbers against the orders?’ It was a basic step.     He nodded. ‘And I double-check them.’     ‘It’s a mystery why there are too many or too few zeroes in the figures.’     ‘It’ll be something simple. I’ll get to the bottom of it.’ He sifted through the pile of printouts spread across the floor. ‘Take the equipment mess to your desk and fix it.’     She made a few phone calls before hurrying to the gym for a yoga class. To the tranquil strains of a haunting flute, she struck an inversion pose and allowed the music to wash over her. Pity for Pikey niggled, and despite her attempts to focus on the pose, a flash of insight suggested a cause for the ordering problem. She fidgeted until the class ended and rushed back to work.     Pikey wasn’t in his office so she sat at his computer, accessed the order site and identified the problem immediately. His clumsy fingers had lingered on the zero key so that an extra zero or two was added by mistake. Conversely, his finger didn’t always tap heavily enough to register a zero. This explained the discrepancies. In a few minutes Tina corrected the errors and solved the problem.     She scribbled a note telling Pikey what she’d done. As far as she was concerned, he could take the credit for solving the problem.     She returned to her desk and made several phone calls about the equipment debacle. As expected, the measures she had implemented before her yoga class had overcome the problem.     Trina now had time to focus on her own concerns. She emailed Sally asking for the position descriptions for a range of executive roles.     On Friday, an e-mail arrived from Langford Boyd summoning her to his office. She arrived carrying a folder containing an itemised list of all the tasks she’d completed for Pikey.     Smiling, Langford greeted her and pointed to the chair opposite. ‘Like coffee or tea?’     ‘Neither thanks. Why the summons?’     He leaned against the bookcase. ‘It seems young Andrew is out of his depth. Signs off on stock that hasn’t been ordered.’ He sank into his leather chair.     Trina nodded. ‘There was a problem with the orders. I believe it’s sorted now.’     She glanced around Langford’s office, her eyes settling on a gilt-framed photo of his wife and two daughters. Did Langford have aspirations for his daughters’ careers?     He rested his arms on the desk. ‘It’s a delicate matter, Trina, but Andrew needs help. He’s struggling. Has no understanding of procedures. Regulations. Policies. Of anything really.’     Trina sighed. An unsuitable senior appointment had been made. Rather than rectify it, the organisation wanted to bury it. With her help. The idea was both preposterous and unconscionable. She gathered her thoughts.     ‘I understand your position, Langford, but I can’t help.’ She met his eyes. ‘My performance as Acting Operations Manager was exemplary. The role should’ve been mine, but Andrew was chosen. You didn’t give me . . .’     Langford raised his hand and interrupted. ‘Naturally we’d pay you higher duties in your mentoring role.’ He straightened his tie. ‘Perhaps we could increase your salary permanently. It’s something we could consider.’     She chose her words carefully. ‘I’ve provided Andrew with ongoing help.’ She pointed to her itemised list. ‘And promotion isn’t only about money or status. It’s about ability and fairness.’     She watched his lips move as he defended his position, his jowls puffing up like a frog’s. But she wasn’t listening. Her mind was on other things – of how she’d travel the world before moving to London where Sally would find her a plum role in The City. There she’d meet business women from the networking site. Meanwhile Langford droned on, offering inducements to maintain the status quo. Trina stood and tapped her fingers on his desk. He stopped speaking.     ‘Despite assurances at my interview, this company has not complied with Anti-Discrimination laws.’ She paused as Langford squirmed, his face a royal purple.     ‘I intend to lodge a form of non-compliance with the Anti-Discrimination Commission today. My complaint lists every infraction. I don’t need to remind you that I am thorough and conscientious in everything I do.’     With a flourish, she produced her signed resignation, placed it on Langford’s desk and swept from his office.

Teddy Holland, Graphomaniac K.D. Alter     “Look, I agree that your husband may be a sick individual. But the policy doesn’t cover mental illness. No one wants to touch that anymore. In the end it’s an actuarial problem. Mental illness is the new tooth decay. Everyone’s losing their minds. And graphomania? Did you see the article in the Times saying that 81% of people think they have a book in them? What if we had to pay out medical for all those crazies—pardon my French—how would we make money? Hm?”     “Can’t you make a distinction between major clinical and mild graphomania? My husband is refusing to go to work. He’ll soon be out of a job,” Mrs. Holland pleaded into the phone.     “I wish I could help you, Mrs. Holland. Try Writer’s Anonymous. I understand they have a twelve hundred word program for breaking the habit.”     The last person Mrs. Holland wanted to call for help was Teddy’s older brother, Charles Wilcox Holland. Charles Wilcox was Chief Marketing Officer at Goldman Sex, the largest purveyor of pornography on the internet.     “Charlie, you know I hate asking you, but he’s your kid brother.”     “Last year it was root canal. Two years ago it was plane tickets to Dad’s funeral. Now this? Where is this going to end? I’m cash strapped. I can’t keep propping him up. He should have thought of this before choosing to become a—hard for me even to say it—a teacher.”     “You’re right, Charlie. But you have to help. There’s risk involved. Now it’s just a visit to the psychiatrist, but if this goes on he’ll be howling at the door for food—your door, Charlie. He’s been missing work. This can end badly.”     “Christ Jesus! This is why I vote Republican.”     “You’re a man of true compassion, Charlie.”     “Five hundred dollars. After that you’re on your own.”     “I would prefer not to,” Teddy said.     “This isn’t a joke. D’Arcy called to warn me that Pilsner is already recruiting for your replacement. You’ve got to go back to work, and you must get medical attention.”      “I’m not sick.”     “Well then why aren’t you at work? Who’s going to pay the baby, feed the rent, meet the insurance? We can’t on my income. You’re not being reasonable. It’s enough you ignore me and slink away to your computer to write god knows what all night and every weekend. But when an obsession gets in the way of making money, that’s mental illness. I Googled it. Please!”     Mrs. Holland wept.     “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I love you. I just—”     “You just what? Teddy, I’m frightened. Please go to the doctor. Just once. For me and for Ethel.”      “I prefer not to...but I will. You’re right. I am fixated, and I suppose I must be unhappy. I wouldn’t want to harm you and Ethel.”     The psychiatrist wore a lab coat. He had a fake tan.     “My checklist confirms it. You are suffering from Type II Graphomania. Fortunately, there’s a new medicine approved to treat it. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Holland. This pill will work so well you’ll not only stop feeling the urge to write, but you may even be relieved of the desire to read. Not bad, eh?”     “Are there any dangerous side effects?” Mrs. Holland asked.     “No, no, this medication has been around for 25 years and there are no reported side effects whatsoever.”     “I thought you said it’s a new medicine,” Teddy said.     The psychiatrist looked up from his adding machine.     “You weren’t listening. I said the medicine is newly approved for this condition, not that it’s a brand new medicine.”     “How long will it take to start working? My husband’s been refusing to go to work.”     “Oh, I didn’t know that. School Refusal Syndrome, hmm, let me see...”     The doctor turned to his computer and typed in a few words, clicked the mouse.     “Let’s add a mood stabilizer, shall we? I’ll sign a note to the principal. Anything else? Teddy?”     “I’m not so sure there’s anything wrong with me. I mean, I’ve wanted to write ever since I was a boy.”     “Ah, well, there you have it. It’s now confirmed. You’re suffering from two syndromes at once. It’s chronic, and you’re in denial. Trust me, Mr. Holland, you are a very sick man. Take these pills and you’ll be just like the rest of us, I assure you.”     “How long will my husband have to take the pills, doctor?”     “First we invent a cure, then we label it a disease, then we publish research, and finally we encourage compliance. The brief answer, Mrs. Holland is, for life. Call my nurse every three months to renew the prescription. Anything else? That’ll be six hundred dollars.”      Mrs. Holland stopped worrying and learned to love the pills. Within a week, Teddy was back at work, and he quit staying up late at night, writing. In fact, his lifelong insomnia went away. He flopped in bed soon after dinner and awoke only in time for work the following morning. On weekends he slumped in the couch and watched television.     The best thing about the pill was that sex was better than ever, at least for Mrs. Holland. Not only was Teddy no longer distracted by his writing, but when they made love the pills turned him into a kind of priapic superman. In the past he’d always gotten too excited too quickly. Now he stayed so stiff that it took all that Mrs. Holland could muster to tire him out.     She sent a handwritten thank you to the psychiatrist. She recommended the branded pills to all her friends. She called Charlie to thank him and she told him about the pills, too. He said he planned to start selling them through his website.     “Glad we could take his mind off that damned book fetish of his,” he added.     But Teddy was less convinced about his newfound happiness. True, he was sleeping better and had fewer obsessive thoughts about his failures as a writer. He’d written two novels, dozens of stories, a play, and a new libretto to “The Barber of Seville.” But he’d only ever published two stories, the ones that he thought were the silliest, and for these he received no pay and not even hard copies of the magazines that printed them. Those he had to buy himself. He kept them above his writing table as encouragement, but really they sat there and mocked him, more like.     In that sense he was relieved from a burden. But as the weeks passed he began to feel empty inside, the way he did when he was twelve and his mini schnauzer, Mitty, ran into traffic and got run over. To take his mind off his sorrow, he wrote his first short story. He called the story “Traffic”. There were no dogs and no cars in the story, but the souls of children who had lost their pets, holding hands together and floating through the streets of Pittsburgh looking for them.     He dared not tell Mrs. Holland about his decision to come off the pill, but he feared she might find out because he’d revert to his old habits of not sleeping and of becoming too excited too quickly when touching her under the covers. He solved the second problem by thinking intensely of sad things. Once she fell asleep, he’d get up and resume writing.     “Teddy. I know you’ve stopped taking the medications,” she said late one night, coming into his study as he sat at his computer.     “Oh? What makes you think that?”     “I counted the pills in the bottles.”     “I’m not a very good liar. That may be my problem as a writer.”     “Why did you stop taking them?”     “The pills took away my will to write but not the craving to express myself.”     “Why can’t you express yourself to me? I’m here to listen to all your problems.”     “I don’t write just about my problems, but about, about, I don’t know, just things running around in my head.”     “I won’t push you to take the pills again, but will you at least sign up for Writer’s Anonymous? Teddy, I’m afraid of what will happen.”     “Teddy Holland, graphomaniac.”     Thus did each person in the circle introduce him or herself. Many had the same disorder as Teddy, but it expressed itself in different forms. Others confessed addictions to musical composition, painting, or attending poetry readings. Listening to the others, Teddy thought he must be a mild case. There were people in the room who had composed hundreds of works for the stage or orchestra that would never in a billion years be performed. One screwball wrote a 215,000 word novel about a whale. The first sixty pages, he confessed, didn’t even mention the whale but only described the fishing boat that the whale would later sink. The man lowered his head in shame.      “Well at least yours was a whole whale. I wrote 30,000 words about an old man trying to catch a marlin,” someone else called out.     Everyone laughed.     There was a social worker at the head of the group who listened patiently to their introductory confessions. She handed out small notebooks of graph paper.     “I’d like you write four words along the side of every page in your notebook. Here are the words: Fear, Love, Anger, and Pain. These are the four emotions. Every time you feel one of these, I’d like you to place an X in a box next to that word. I want you to try to do that instead of writing or composing or drinking or whatever else you’ve been doing until now to express your emotions.”     Teddy quit Writers Anonymous and went back to writing. He kept his job teaching high school, but six months later Mrs. Holland divorced him anyway. She moved away from Pittsburgh and took their daughter with her. After this, Teddy wrote just one more story, called “Marriage.” He never married, or wrote, again.

Today I choose to be CUNT-tent Fritz Hamilton     Today I choose to be CUNT-tent as I awaken paralyzed in my tent/ a bug crawls over my eye & cheek & into my nose/ I’d like to sneeze him out but cannot, even though he tickles. I try to shake my head & move my arms but can’t. I blink my eyes, that I can do. I feel everything. My bowels move, & I mess my pants. It disgusts me. I pee keeping the filth wet. The bug climbs deeper in my nose. Still I can’t sneeze. Terror seizes me, but I can do nothing. I feel my heart attempting to beat itself out my chest. I hope to die, but only my eyelids move. I feel the bug turn & start to move out of my nose. A mosquito pierces my neck & another my ear. I hope I die of fear. Some animal creeps up & explores my body, I suspect with his nose. It doesn’t try to eat me, but I hear its grunting. I want to scream or even laugh but can do nothing. The bug leaves my nose & walks over my lips. I think I hear someone walking. Will he find me? & then what?...He seems to be walking away. But now he’s coming back. I think I hear two of them.     “Who is she?” a woman asks.     “How would I know?” a man responds.     “Should we try to get her to a hospital?”     “We can’t leave her here in this tent. Help me pick her up.”     “What if something’s broken?”     “We’ll be careful.”     She picks me up by the feet & he by the shoulders. My head aches. I’m glad I can feel. They start to carry me out of there. From somewhere I hear traffic.

I guess I’;m one of the lucky ones Fritz Hamilton     I guess I’;m one of the lucky ones. I got back from Nam alive. Of course, when I awoke in a hospital in Germany, I discovered I’;d left my arms & legs back in Da Nang. I got back home to a VA hospital in Los Angeles, & that’;s been home ever since. It’;s taken years not wanting to kill myself, but with no arms & legs that’;s not an easy thing to do, & nobody wants to help me out.     Now I’;m 66 yrs old. Another Vietnam vet, one with arms & legs & PTSD, a 64-yr-old black guy whom I met here in group therapy, is my loving assistant. He takes me everywhere, gives me a bath, takes me to the toilet & wipes my ass (his hand even gives me sex. I hope he’;s gay & loves me some) helps me eat, takes me to the beach, brushes my teeth, even holds me when I feel sorry for myself. He reads to me, even some of his own poems, & I recite mine to him, some of which get published, one in The Atlantic Monthly. Every day’;s a trial, but without Al I couldn’;t make it. I have a family back in New Jersey, I think, but they don’;t pay any attention to me, except my mom who sends me a card on my birthday, but it’;s Al whom I truly love, whom I live for.     Al reads to me. We’;re halfway thru Crime & Punishment & last month we got thru Alice in Wonderland. Al lives here too. He was a lunatic when he got out of Nam. Having me here helps to keep him together. I suppose when one of us dies, the other will die too.     So be it!

Contrary to Obama’s team Fritz Hamilton     Contrary to Obama’s team who wants him in prison, Edward Snowden should get the Nobel Peace Prize for revealing that the NSA spies on everybody, not just Myrkle but everybody everywhere, including me & U. People have already read this vignette, whether or not it gets published. Snowden & I may someday share the same jail cell but not before he gets the Nobel. Germany now wants Edward to show them how much the USA has spied on Germany, & I want to know how much they’ve spied on me, because I Fritz am German, & before I’m incarcerated for life, I gotta know . . . !

Why not nuclear Iran? Fritz Hamilton Why not nuclear Iran?/ there’s nuclear Israel & nuclear Russia, nuclear USA & Pakistan & N Korea ... & they’re all ready to nuclearize their neighbor so why not a nuclear Iran/ call it the depopulation bomb, & overpopulation is the problem/ we can’t wait for the next plague/ & the bombs are quicker/ it will solve another problem which is people/ only people set off these things/ get rid of them & turn the world over to roaches to bring on the real God’s kingdom, because the devil will be DEAD . . .

Bones of a cow lying in the field Fritz Hamilton Bones of a cow lying in the field, lying in the parched, yellow grass after years of drought, bent, discouraged farmer walking over it/ Jesoo hovering above like a spiritual vulture/ farmer beyond praying, like the vulture, empty beneath the burning sun, dead like everything else, like the air unmoving/ heart burnt black, depressed, dejected, dying, dead, nothing to be done, dead ...

August 1963 Don Massenzio     August 1963 was a pivotal month in American history. James Meredith became the first African American to graduate from the University of Mississippi. A costly first, his protection cost over five million dollars. The South was much slower to recognize the equality among the races. It had been nearly 100 years since the end of the Civil War, but some Americans south of the Mason-Dixon Line were still licking their wounds and holding onto traditional views that had been passed down from generation to generation.     Integration during this time period was a slow and painful process among adults. There were individuals among the more enlightened Washington politicians that believed racial harmony could be achieved more quickly among children. This harmony came in the form of mandated school integration which was adopted in slow drib and drabs across the south.     Just as James Meredith was receiving his degree in August of 1963, three young black children were venturing into the previously all-white Booth elementary school in the town of Indian Trail, Florida.     I remember that day clearly as I was one of the students in Mrs. White’s class when the students joined us. The names of these brave souls were Molly, William, and Isaiah. They were driven to school by the pastor of the local black Baptist church, and two policemen waited to walk them to the front door. As we all looked out the window, I could see the scared look on the children’s faces. Isaiah was a tall, thin boy and appeared to be the leader of the group as he bravely walked to the entrance of the school with the posture of a marine and the face of a frightened child. William wore glasses and looked small and bookish next to the much taller Isaiah. Molly looked somber in contrast to her multiple pigtails and colorful dress.     Once in the school, the new additions entered Mrs. White’s class and were seated at three adjacent desks at the front of the room. Sitting in front of the classroom was not desirable; in the rear of the room it was easier to hide from the prying eyes of the teacher.     As soon as the three were seated, the murmurs began.     Mrs. White cleared her throat and said, “Class, it’s time to begin our day.”     The murmurs stopped but the uneasiness in the class was palpable. The morning routine began with the Pledge of Allegiance and then on to mathematics. Surprisingly, the novelty of the new students wore off quickly as the routine of the school day took over.     As a transplanted ‘Yankee’ in the South, the idea of being in a room with black children was not a new experience for me. I spent my early years in Catholic school where integration had begun organically in the late 50s as common faith was a stronger determinant of equality than skin color. As I looked at these children, I felt empathy as they were uprooted from one school environment in which they felt comfortable and were forced into a new school where they felt out of place. This had happened to me three years earlier as I was ripped from the Assumption Catholic Academy in Syracuse, New York, and whisked away 1,200 miles south to a faraway land called Florida. In some ways, my situation was more traumatic than the “Booth Three,” as they would come to be called. When the school day was over, they could return to the comfort of their own neighborhood, family, and friends. I only had my mom and my baby sister Lillie. My Dad was in the Navy and spent months at sea. There was little common ground between me and the other kids in the neighborhood. They played tackle football, hunted, and fished. I read books, wrote stories, and played the piano. They were Southern Baptists and I was “one of them Roman Catholics.”     My best friend was my dog Rusty, a German shepherd mix my Dad given me before his latest deployment. I tried playing with the neighborhood kids, but the taunting I endured due to my lack of athletic ability, cultural common ground, and a common religion resulted in my quick retreat to my room to read under Rusty’s watchful eye. I tried to live a stealthy, quiet existence, with the hope that my Dad’s deployment to this horrible place would end and we would return to the more civilized North. This hope (and my obscure existence) both disappeared during 1963 thanks to the Booth Three.     Lunchtime at Booth Elementary School was always an ordeal for me. I didn’t fit in. According to my peers, I had three strikes against me. I was a Yankee, I talked funny, and I was one of those Catholics. I wasn’t sure why Catholics were treated as outcasts in the South. It was only later that I would learn about the Ku Klux Klan’s hatred for other groups based not only on skin color, but also other ethnic origins and religions. I was Italian-American and Catholic, which I later found out were two strikes against me. I often sat alone or with the special-education kids who, in spite of their so-called handicaps, were far less judgmental. When the Booth Three arrived on the scene, they faced the same precarious situation at lunch time and recess. They sat alone. They were blocked from the swing set and other playground equipment. Their only consolation was that they had each other. I had only myself. As a result of my ten-year-old logic, I assumed they would welcome me to their group with open arms. I was wrong.     Just as southern whites had their misguided preconceptions about blacks, the black community had preconceptions surrounding the motives of whites that reached out to them. They viewed these types of gestures as condescending, insincere, or downright dishonest. The Booth Three were no different. When I approached their isolated lunch table one September day, they eyed me with suspicion, curiosity, and fear. I gestured toward the remaining empty chair and said, “Can I sit there?”     Isaiah looked at me and in a quiet voice laced with anger said, “Why do you want to sit with us, peckerwood?”     I had been called many names since moving to Florida, but that was a new one and I had no idea what it meant. Isaiah’s tone, however, let me know it was not a term of endearment.     “I just need a place to sit, and this seat is open.”     Something in my pitiful voice stirred some sympathy from Molly.     She said, “Let him sit down Isaiah. Those crackers don’t like him either.”     Isaiah rolled his eyes.     “Have a seat peckerwood. Every garden needs a weed sometimes.”     Isaiah flashed a quick smile. I had no idea that all eyes were on us at the time, both adults and children.     We sat in silence and unpacked our lunches. My lunch was a salami sandwich in homemade Italian bread with provolone cheese. I also had some cookies that my mom had baked. The Booth Three unpacked fried chicken and corn muffins. They were as curious about my food as I was about theirs. I could see Isaiah glancing at my lunch.     “Do you want to trade?”     “Why, so you can poison us or make us eat something nasty?” Isaiah asked.     “No. I just thought...” I trailed off feeling my face and ears flush like they always did when I was embarrassed.     “I’ll trade,” Molly’s quiet voice piped up.     She offered me a chicken leg and a corn muffin, and I gave her half of my sandwich and a cookie. As I bit into the chicken, I felt as if my taste buds had died and gone to heaven. It was the perfect blend of crunch, spice, and juicy chicken.     “This is...” I was going to say delicious when a hand tightly clamped down on my shoulder.     “Mr. Rozzani”     It was Mr. Perkins, the school principal. He pronounced my name as “Rose Annie” with his thick southern drawl.     “That will be quite enough. You return that food, gather what is left of your lunch, and come with me,” Perkins said.     My face flushed again. I had done something wrong, but had no idea what. I followed Mr. Perkins to his office.     “Mr. Rozzani, just what did you think you were doing?”     I had no idea what answer he wanted, so I tried the truth.     “Eating lunch sir.”     “Eating lunch! Don’t get wise with me son.”     Mr. Perkins furrowed his brow, which disturbed his intricate comb-over that seemed to start from his sideburn hair.     “You were eating that other student’s food. That’s not acceptable.”     I was confused, assuming that he thought I had stolen it.     “But sir, we traded.”     “Traded? With one of those students? That just isn’t done son.”     “But sir, the other kids trade all the time and I...”     He cut me off.     “It’s not right to trade with those students. It just isn’t done.”     “I...I don’t understand sir.”     “Well maybe detention with Mr. Faber will help you understand. Now just sit there for a minute.”     While I sat, Mr. Perkins angrily scrawled a note, put it in an envelope, wrote on the envelope and handed it to me.     “I want this signed and brought back to me tomorrow,” he said with a dismissive wave.     Lunch was now over so I returned to Mrs. White’s class and took my seat. I could hear whispers as I sat down. Obviously word of my trip to Mr. Perkins’ office had spread.     As the day went on, I started to dread my impending trip to Mr. Faber’s detention session. It was where the bad kids went. If there was a group I wanted to be associated with, the bad kids were not it.     When the 2:30 bell rang, I slowly packed my books and headed down the hallway to Mr. Faber’s classroom. Mr. Faber was the 4th and 5th grade history teacher. The 4th grade was treated to his take on European history. His view somehow rationalized that Hitler was a misunderstood and benevolent leader. The Fuhrer was criminalized in World War II by being lumped in with the evil Japanese in their attacks on the allies. Mr. Faber also believed that Hitler was viewed as a malevolent dictator due to conspiracy theories perpetuated by a certain non-Christian religious group.     His 5th grade American History class revolved around a retelling of the Civil War, in which the South was persecuted for its beliefs by the arrogant North. In his view, the war was not over, but merely in a holding pattern until the South rose again. He prominently displayed the Confederate Flag alongside the Stars and Stripes in his classroom. I was only 10, but suspected that his teachings were skewed to fit his own beliefs.     His detention sessions were notorious for their usual participants and for the way he ruled them with an iron fist. He didn’t literally use his fists, but anyone who misbehaved during detention was subject to encountering what he called his ‘board of education’, a well-worn wooden paddle that hung from a hook next to the blackboard. It was about three feet long by eight inches wide and 3/4 of an inch thick. He had fashioned it himself and had drilled several holes in it so that it could be swung faster with reduced air resistance. Anyone dumb enough to be disruptive during detention would be asked to bend over and place their elbows on Faber’s desk so he could deliver a number of blows to their vulnerable rear end based on the severity of the infraction.     As I settled into detention, Mr. Faber handed each of us a blank sheet of notebook paper and a pencil upon which we were instructed to write the Pledge of Allegiance over and over until we were told to stop. He reminded us of the consequences of being disruptive during this exercise which elicited a barely audible snicker from the back of the room.     “Is there something amusing, Mr. Grant?”     Mr. Grant was Rufus Grant, the biggest 5th grader at Booth. Legend had it that he had failed every grade since kindergarten at least once. He was not only the tallest and heaviest student in the school, but it was widely rumored that he was already shaving.     “No sir,” Rufus answered. He was a frequent past recipient of whacks from the paddle.     “OK then, let’s begin,” Faber said.     The detention session only lasted 45 minutes. It felt like an eternity. As I sat their writing, my mind also wondered how I would explain detention to my mother who wielded a smaller, but painful version of Mr. Faber’s paddle in the form of a wooden spoon. I also wondered what information Mr. Perkins had written in the note that would explain my detention. Would it be “traded food” or “ate unauthorized fried chicken” or some other violation of an unknown school rule?     Finally detention ended. I grabbed my book bag and headed toward the front exit of the school. My rented house was about a quarter of a mile from the school and was an easy walk across an empty lot. While we were in school, the daily afternoon rain showers made the field muddy in spots.     As I crossed the field trying to keep my new white Keds clean, I could hear the sound of footsteps behind me. I was afraid to turn around and instead started to run to the other end of the field and the safety of my house. I wasn’t fast enough. I heard the unmistakable voice of Rufus Grant. Because of my repulsion for some of the terms used in those intolerant days, I will modify Rufus’ language to only hint at what was said.     “Hey n-word lover. Why don’t you slow down and talk to us?” Rufus barked.     I took a quick look behind me and saw Rufus and his minions chasing after me. They caught up to me and Rufus grabbed my book bag and threw it into a mud puddle and then pushed me to the ground.     “How was that fried chicken n-word boy? Are you and your n-word girlfriend going to get married and raise chickens?”     “Stop it,” I said foolishly thinking that this might work.     “What’s the matter? Aren’t your n-word friends around to help you? Did they go back to Africa?”     The words were ugly. I was raised to judge people by their actions, not their skin color or ethnic background. As the grandson of Italian immigrants that fought prejudice and poverty to make a life in America, I felt the sting of those ugly words almost as much as if they had called me a wop or grease-ball.     “Leave me alone you peckerwood,” I said out of desperation. I still didn’t know what the word meant, but obviously Rufus did.     “You even talk like them,” he said. “Maybe you should look like them too.”     Rufus grabbed my shirt and lifted me to my feet. He then pushed me toward a large mud puddle and shoved me to the ground again. I fell face-first into the mud. I tried to get up but he pushed me down again. This time he stomped on the back of my neck with his work boot. My nose and mouth were submerged in the mud. I could feel the gritty mixture between my teeth and I couldn’t breathe. Finally, he let me up. As I went to a sitting position I wiped the mud from my eyes and spit the filthy water from my mouth.     “Look at him boys. He looks just like one of them and smells like one too.”     As an exclamation point, Rufus lifted me up and punched me in the mouth splitting my lower lip which swelled immediately.     “That’s the last touch, big lips and all,” he said laughing sadistically as his minions joined in.     They left me sobbing and rubbing my sore lip. I rose to my feet once they were gone, grabbed my book bag and began the short walk to my house. When I opened the front door, Rusty ran to me and then stopped to survey my appearance. He apparently didn’t care how I looked or smelled as he began to lick my face removing mud.     “Dominic Francis Rozzani,” my mother said as she emerged from the kitchen. She only used my full name when she was angry.     “Where have you been and what happened?”     I started to sob. I was a good kid. I know it was hard for my mom raising us when my dad was gone for long stretches.     “I got detention and then some kids pushed me and I fell in the mud...”     “Detention! Fighting! What is wrong with you? I didn’t raise you to be a hooligan. Get out of those clothes and get in the bath. I have to feed your sister and then we’ll deal with what happened.”     As I soaked in the bath, I replayed my day since lunch. What did I do wrong? What had made the principal and “the bad kids” find common ground that justified punishing me? I got out of the bath, dressed, and went downstairs to receive the sentence from the toughest judge, my mom. I found her in the kitchen. The envelope from Mr. Perkins lay on the counter and my mom was reading the contents intently.     “Dommie, what happened at lunch today?”     Dommie was my pet name. Good sign.     I told her what happened at lunch, what Mr. Perkins had said and what happened on the way home. When I told her the names they called me, she angered visibly, but her anger was not directed at me.     “Dommie, you did the right thing. People can be ignorant and children can be cruel, but some, like you, can be wise beyond their years.”     As she tended to my lip, I felt a mixture of relief and confusion. How can something that I did earn me both punishment and admiration.     I had a few nightmares that night and woke feeling sore. I dreaded going to school. When I went downstairs, my mom was dressed in one of her nicer outfits and our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, was in the kitchen as well.     “Mom, where are you going?”     “I thought that instead of signing Mr. Perkins note, I would pay him a personal visit to discuss it.”     We left the house and crossed the field toward the school. I wasn’t quite old enough to be embarrassed by walking to school with my mom. I felt safe. When we got to the school Mom told me to go on to class and she went to the front office. I didn’t know at the time what transpired in the office between my mom and Mr. Perkins. After the meeting, however, there was a change. I later found out that Mom had threatened legal action against the school and negative publicity for how Mr. Perkins handled the situation. Whatever she said made a difference, at least until disaster struck.     The change started with my mom packing extra food in my lunch. I asked her why and she said it was in case any of my friends wanted to share. I walked to school with a heightened sense of awareness based on the beating I took the previous day. Rufus and his crew lived on the other side of town and likely wouldn’t pass the school to bother with me. The morning was uneventful and then it was time for lunch.     When I entered the cafeteria, the Booth Three were sitting at their usual table. Isaiah saw me and caught my eye. He motioned for me to come over.     “You can sit here if you want to,” he said.     I was too shocked at the offer to say anything other than “thanks,” and I sat down and started to take out my lunch of homemade meatballs and Italian bread.     “I heard you took a beating because you sat with us,” Isaiah said. “That’s messed up.”     He then passed me some juicy looking ribs and looked at me expectantly.     “You want some meatballs?”     “Well, yeah. You didn’t poison us the first time, so I’ll take a chance,” he said and then flashed me a radiant smile.     As we ate together in the days that followed, conversations began. We talked about our families, our churches, our classes and other things that children talked about in the days before cable television, the Internet, and video games. Like me, the Booth Three had few friends at school and at home. They were shunned by their friends for coming to an all-white school. They weren’t viewed as pioneers or heroes. They were viewed as traitors who forgot where they came from.     I became friends with William, Molly, and, especially, Isaiah. We had more in common than you would think. We were outcasts among our peers. We were fish out of water. We also shared a love for music.     I found out that Isaiah played the saxophone like his father, William played the drums, and Molly could sing. When they found out I played the piano, William said, “We should start a band.”     “We could go to my house,” I said. “I’ve got a piano.”     “I can bring my horn to school,” Isaiah said.     I looked at William and said, “We don’t have drums at my house.”     “Do you have buckets and pans with lids?” he asked.     “We do.”     “Then I’ve got a drum set. I’ll just bring my sticks.”     “I’ll bring my voice,” Molly said quietly.     We looked at each other and laughed so loud that we earned a stern look from Mrs. Yancy, the English teacher who had cafeteria duty.     We decided that Friday would be the day. It couldn’t come fast enough for me. My mom promised to make a traditional Italian dinner for my friends. When Friday arrived, we planned our musical session. They would walk home from school with me and we would play for a while. The pastor from their church would pick them up at my house at 7PM after we had a chance to feast on my mom’s cooking. It was going to be a great day. I had no idea then how magical it would become and how the magic would be replaced by tragedy.     After school we met in front of the building for the short walk to my house. All eyes were on us, but we did our best to pretend casualness. Molly and I were flanked by Isaiah and William as we silently walked toward my house across the field. Amazingly, we were not bothered. We weren’t even inside the house when the aroma of garlic, tomato sauce, and fresh baked bread hit our nostrils.     “Somethin’ smells good,” William said.     “It smells like a better version of those lunches you bring to school,” Isaiah added.     It was just food for me. My mom usually cooked three or four times each week and we had leftovers the other days, or occasionally went out. When Dad was home, we ate wonderful home-cooked meals ever night. My mom loved to cook, and was good at it.     We walked into the living room where the old Wurlitzer baby-grand piano stood perfectly polished and ready to go. Mom had also put some buckets of various sizes and some old pots and lids in one corner of the room. I introduced her to everyone and they nervously said hello, but my mom immediately put them at ease by giving each of us a slice of warm Italian bread slathered with butter. A lot can be learned by high-powered diplomats about the power of food to build bridges among diverse people. The Booth Three were instantly at ease.     I sat at the piano, William set up his makeshift drum set. Isaiah handed William the drum sticks he had stored in his alto saxophone case while he moistened a reed in his mouth. He then put his vintage Selmer horn together. Molly stood in front of us. We were ready to go except for one detail, what were we going to play? I knew the names of songs and composers. Isaiah knew the names of saxophone players. William knew drummers and Molly knew singers. This knowledge put us on incongruous ground.     “Do you know any Bird?” Isaiah asked.     “Bird? What’s Bird?” was my reply.     “You know, Charlie Parker.”     That didn’t help.     “Do you know any Cole Porter songs?” I asked.     “What does he play,” William asked.     “I don’t know,” was my reply to this.     We went on this way for a while and finally my mom came in and looked at us. “I don’t hear any music. What’s going on?” she asked.     “We don’t know any of the same songs,” I said.     “Come on now, I’m sure there has to be at least one song you all know.”     She named a few I know that drew blank looks from the Booth 3.     “How about ‘When the Saints go Marching In’?”     This resulted in nods of recognition from all of us. I had learned this song as a march from one of my piano lessons and had taught myself the chords. My dad played guitar and taught me about the role of chords in music. I started to play the song as a march. Isaiah fumbled to find the key and played along. William played a marching beat on the bucket drums which he made sound incredibly musical. Finally Molly joined in with a voice so clean and powerful that we all stopped playing and looked at her. She had a voice honed by years of singing in church that made her sound musically mature beyond her age.     We played the song again from the beginning sounding slightly less tentative than the first time. When we were done, Isaiah shook his head.     “What is it?” I asked.     “It’s too straight. We sound like a marching band. We need to put a little swing into it.”     My dad was a fan of big band music, so I knew what Isaiah meant. I just didn’t know how to get started. He played the song once through to demonstrate what he meant. When he was done he turned to William and said, “Start us off Willie.”     William played a masterful four bar introduction on his bucket drums and we were off. For a first try, it sounded great to us. When we were done, my mom came in from the kitchen and clapped.     “That was great. See you did know a song. And Miss Molly, how is that big strong voice coming from such a cute little girl?”     “Thank you ma’am,” Molly said quietly.     There was suddenly a noise on the porch and the front door swung open.     “Anyone need a guitar player in this group?”     It was my dad, still in his uniform and fresh off the ship two weeks early. I ran to him and jumped in his arms, not deterred by the smell of the sea mixed with perspiration.     “What are you doing here?” I asked.     “Our deployment ended early and I wanted to surprise you.”     “Mom, did you know?”     “For a couple of days now,” she said as my dad swallowed her in a bear hug.     “I had to warn your mom so she would have time to get rid of her boyfriend before I got home.”     My mom playfully hit Dad with a towel.     “So, about that guitar player? I think your group needs one, but first I want to meet everyone.”     I introduced everyone to my dad and he retrieved his guitar from the closet. It was an early model Gibson solid body electric. He had a small amplifier that went with it. Before long, he was tuned and ready to go and the magic began.     My dad was a gifted natural musician and teacher. Using our only song, he taught us different ways to make it sound better. Our newly formed musical combo let Isaiah play the melody the first time through and then let Molly sing it once. Dad then let us take turns making up our own melodies over the chord changes. It sounded much better. We then switched to the blues. Dad taught me the chords in a blues progression in E-flat which was the equivalent of the key of C Major for Isaiah’s alto saxophone. We took turns improvising runs over the blues chords. When it was Molly’s turn, she made up words about our group with references to our school, but not to our differences, which had been set aside that magical night.     At 6:30, my mom announced it was time for dinner. We sat around the table and the only sound above the chewing and swallowing was laughter and talk of the next jam session, which would tragically not take place. At about 7PM, the sound of a vehicle pulling up in front of the house stole my dad’s attention.     “That’s probably Pastor Robinson here to pick us up,” William said.     “Oh no. Dinner’s running late because of all of that great music,” Mom said. ”Italians tend to lose track of time when we’re eating.”     “I’ll talk to him,” Dad said as he rose from the table.     After a brief conversation, both men came through the front door.     “Are you sure about this Mr. Rozzani? I can wait for the children outside in the van.”     “I won’t let you do that when we have all of this extra food that will go to waste and please call me Francis. Mr. Rozzani is my father.”     Pastor Robinson chuckled at this.     “Well, Francis, may I use your phone to call the children’s parents to tell them we will be delayed.”     “Sure.”     My dad showed him where the phone was in the living room. We could only hear the pastor’s side of three short conversations, but we could imagine the similar questions after he told the parents that he was invited to stay for dinner. When the pastor joined us, my dad set the tone for the rest of the meal.     “Pastor Robinson, we have already blessed this wonderful meal, but would you honor us by saying a special blessing for this gathering?”     The pastor was only too happy to oblige.     “Dearest Lord,” he began. “Please look down upon this special gathering and help us to understand that it must be the first of many of its kind. Let the blending of these peoples serve as a model for us all and as the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. told us of his dream, let us be the waking realization of that dream. In Your Name. Amen.”     The three members of my family, being good Roman Catholics, made the sign of the cross at the conclusion of the blessing eliciting giggles from the Booth Three and a stern look from the pastor.     It was an enjoyable meal that night and a memorable night in terms of seeing my parents in a new light. They were truly caring, open-minded people. My Dad later told me that in the high-stress military environment, the only color that mattered was the color of your uniform. Everyone had families and loved ones they left behind regardless of what they looked like and where they came from.     When the meal was over, we begged Pastor Robinson to let us play one song for him. He agreed and we played a rousing version of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ with some surprise scat singing from Molly that brought a heartfelt smile to the pastor’s face. When we were done, William said, “Maybe we can play at church sometime.” We all joined in with “can we?” directed at my parents and the pastor. My dad and Pastor Robinson shared a look and the pastor said, “Now that would be something.” Unfortunately, it would never happen.     It was time for everyone to leave our home. It had been a great night and would have continued to be so had the church’s van not been vandalized sometime during the evening. The van’s letters had read West Indian Trail Baptist Church. On the driver’s side, the side away from our house, someone had crossed out the word ‘Baptist’ with red spray pain and had written the infamous ‘N’ word above it. The reverend told the children to get in the van, thanked my parents with a deflated look, and drove away. A perfect night had been soured.     The vandalism of the church van was representative of the thinking during that time period. Peaceful events like the March on Washington, Sit-ins at white only lunch counters and even dinner and music at my house were responded to with escalating violence accompanied by chronic ignorance.     On a warm early fall night, about a week after our dinner guests had left, the three of us were awakened by the sound of breaking glass coming from our downstairs living room. My dad told us to stay upstairs, grabbed his pistol, and went to see what happened. I noticed an orange-yellow flickering glow coming through our guest room window at the front of the house. As my mom and I looked out, I could see tense anger lines etched on her face reflected in the window along with the glow of the burning cross. I had no idea what the cross meant at the time, but would soon find out the hatred, intolerance, ignorance, and blasphemy it symbolized. My dad was out on the lawn dowsing the flames with our garden hose. They were quickly extinguished and he came back in. Mom was cleaning up the remnants of the broken window. Dad paused to pick up a large piece of paper that had been wrapped around the brick that had broken the window. He showed it to us. It said ‘Get out Rozanee, you n-word lover’. My dad broke into a bitter smirk.     “What is it Francis?” Mom asked.     “Ignorance and hate. So ignorant, they spelled our last name wrong.”     My dad called the sheriff. The officer took nearly an hour to show up at our house despite that the station was only a mile away. He said things like, “probably teenagers” and “What did you expect?” My dad pulled my mom aside after he left and said that it probably took him so long to respond because he had to change out of his hood and robe and into his uniform. I understood the meaning of this later and agreed with Dad.     This event at our home was only the beginning. The next weekend, a series of explosions was set off at the West Indian Trail Baptist Church. It took place during Sunday services when the church was full. News of what had happened was slow getting to our side of town, so I raced to school on Monday only to find out that none of the Booth Three were there. I approached Mrs. White before class and through tear-filled eyes; she told me that William and Molly had been killed as they sang with the choir. Isaiah had been badly burned, but would hopefully recover.     I left the classroom sobbing and ran home to my parents who had also discovered what happened and were there to comfort me. I later found out that Isaiah’s mom and older sister had also been killed by the explosions. Pastor Robinson had died from smoke inhalation as he repeatedly entered the church trying to save survivors. I felt incredible guilt wash over me. Had my loneliness at lunchtime led to this violence and death? My father, at hearing me express this, enveloped me in a powerful embrace.     “Dommie, you are a compassionate, smart, loving boy. Don’t let this change you and above all don’t blame yourself for the ignorance of others.”     It took me a couple of days to be able to go back to school. When I finally did, Mrs. White was very helpful and kind with helping me catch up. On Friday of that week, not quite a week after the bombing, my dad picked me up in our mint green Chevy Impala. This had me confused as we only used this car for trips.     “Hey Dommie, I thought you might want to go visit a sick friend today. I talked to Isaiah’s dad and he said that Isaiah is well enough for visitors today.”     I hopped in the car both anxious to see him and nervous about what I could say to make it better.     West Indian Trail Hospital was a rundown, neglected institution, but was also an enigma. Its doctors had left the South after being awarded scholarships at some of the top medical schools in the North. Although Affirmative Action had not been enacted yet, some of the more liberal institutions recognized intelligent black students as a type of academic and social status symbol. Many of those students returned to the South with visions of helping their communities and hospitals like West Indian Trail benefited from this.     There was no shortage of stares when we entered the hospital lobby. That was until a handsome, middle-aged woman dressed in black came to greet us.     “You must be Mr. Rozzani,” she said in a sad but dignified voice as she extended a hand to my dad.     “Mrs. Robinson. Let me say that I only spent a brief amount of time with your husband but I feel a profound loss at his passing. I can’t imagine what you are going through,” my dad said as he took her hand.     “The words ‘We shall overcome’ resonate with me,” she said. “Many others senselessly lost family members to this evil act. My husband died doing what he was meant to do, saving his flock. I will survive by helping others through this tragedy. And, you must be Dommie,” she said turning to me and placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “My husband told me of your kindness and hospitality.”     “Thank you ma’am,” I said.     “Isaiah is doing well. He is a fighter like his daddy. They have incredible strength in the face of tragic loss and are lifting each other up. He is looking forward to seeing you. I’ll just warn you that he was burned badly and is bandaged quite a bit. He can do little more than whisper.”     With that, she led us to the elevator and we ascended to the hospital’s third floor where the two bed burn unit was currently treating ten patients from the church explosion. We walked down a row of closely spaced hospital beds until we came to one that had a strip of masking tape on it with MERCER, I. scrawled on it. A tired looking man with familiar, yet older, features sat by the bed holding the patient’s heavily bandaged right hand. As the man looked up at us, I couldn’t help but see many conflicting feelings behind his sad eyes. Blame, empathy, loss, envy. All of these seemed justified given the situation. He rose and shook my father’s hand.     “Isaiah Mercer,” he said. His name was the same as his son’s.     “Francis Rozzani.”     That was the extent of the words uttered between the two men, but their eyes said a thousand words.     I slowly walked over to Isaiah. The top of his head and his right eye were covered. His mouth, however, remained uncovered and noticeably undamaged.     “Hey Isaiah, I’m so sorry.”     Tears began to flow from my eyes.     “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s a mean world and the nice people get hurt,” he said in a breathy voice.     “But if I hadn’t sat down at lunch with you...” I started and he cut me off with a sharp one-eyed look.     “You didn’t set the bombs off. That would’ve happened anyway. You think they care about you? This is about hate for who we are.”     I couldn’t argue his point. It was similar to what my dad had said. Instead of insisting, I took Isaiah’s other hand and for whatever reason opened my mouth and started singing quietly.     “Oh when the saints, go marchin’ in...” As I did this, Isaiah joined me in a slightly stronger voice, then our father, and then other patients, visitors, doctors, and nurses in the ward. After about four times through, the singing stopped and Isaiah said he was tired. I told him I would see him again soon and we would get together and learn some new songs. Our fathers exchanged a sad look when I said this. I found out in the elevator from my dad that the fire had taken part of two fingers on Isaiah’s right hand and part of three on his left. His saxophone playing was essentially over. Isaiah’s dad also mentioned they were moving to Atlanta to be with extended family and to get away from memories.     On the way home my dad was very quiet. Then he finally spoke.     “Hey Dommie, speaking of getting away from memories, what do you think of moving back up to Syracuse?”     “Did the navy transfer you again?”     “Not exactly. I’m thinking of leaving the navy. I have two cousins that are police officers in Syracuse and they think I might be able to join the force.”     We had relatives in Upstate New York and somehow the idea of getting away from this socially intolerant area seemed like a good thing to me.     Time passed quickly and in 2013, I’m on the back-end of a long career in consulting. I have a great wife, kids, and grandkids. It’s been 50 years since that time in Indian Trail with the Booth Three. I still fly more than I would like at this point in my career. One of those interminable layovers in Atlanta resulted in a coincidence I never could have imagined. Atlanta has multiple terminals connected by a train. When I have a long layover, I sometimes like to find a quiet corner in one of the food court areas to sit and read a book. One thing about the Atlanta airport is that they are conscious about keeping these areas clean. Attendants are always present to clear your table and sweep up any litter immediately. During one such layover, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what I at first thought was a ghost. It was a tall black man wearing a uniform vest worn by those that help diners find tables or that need directions. Something about his carriage, even after all of these years, was familiar. I had to walk over and be sure. His vest had a name tag that read I. MERCER. It had to be him.     “Isaiah?”     He looked at me with one clear eye and one that was not quite right, as though it may be a prosthetic.     “Yes sir. May I help you?”     “It’s me, Dominic Rozzani.”     I was sure he had no idea, but I had to try.     “You probably don’t remember me...”     “Dommie? Dommie Rozzani?     I hadn’t been called that name in years. There was no mistaking the smile.     “It’s me,” I said.     “How long has it been? Fifty years?”     “Yes it has,” I said. “I can’t believe I ran into you. I’ve been coming to this airport for years and sitting in this very spot and I’ve never seen you in all this time.”     “All this time? What do you mean, all this time? I’ve only worked here for a week.”     “A week? I just assumed”     “Just assumed? You just assumed the black man’s been working a minimum wage job in the airport for 50 years? That’s just racist.”     My face fell. Suddenly, Isaiah’s fake scowl turned into that famous smile again.     “Man, Dommie. After all these years, you’re still so easy to mess with. Let’s grab a cup of coffee and sit down if you have time.”     I had time.     “That would be great.”     We sat silently for a minute, not sure where to begin.     “So what have you been doing for the last 50 years, Dommie?”     “Oh the usual. We moved to Syracuse and dad became a cop. He made it to deputy chief and retired after 30 years without having a gun pointed at him. Then he dropped dead of a heart attack about a year into retirement. Mom was never the same. Physically she was OK, but she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and died about seven years after Dad. I’ve been married for 35 years with three beautiful daughters.”     I thumbed my i-phone and showed him some pictures of the girls.     “Are they musicians like you and your dad?”     “No. Sports. One of them graduated and is playing pro basketball in Germany.”     “Wow. Their mom must be athletic to explain that talent.”     “Funny, but accurate,” I admitted. “So, what about you? Have you been OK? It’s alright if you don’t want to talk about it.”     “Dommie, I get the feeling you think I just crumbled after Indian Trail and the church bombing. Believe me, I could have. Dad and I went through some rough times. He used to play his sax on street corners for change when we first moved here. One night a guy heard him playing and asked if he wanted to be in a back-up band for a singing group. Dad asked how much it paid and the guy said he thought it was pretty good. The group turned out to be Gladys Knight and the Pips just as they were hitting it big and touring. Dad got a great reputation as a dependable sax man who could read music, improvise, and show up on time. He was pretty sought after for recording and touring.”     “What about you? You were pretty talented, but the accident...”     “Oh, you mean these?”     He flashed his diminished hands.     “They were just a temporary setback. Dad found a saxophone company that made me a sax with special keys. I was never as fast as I could have been, but I was fast enough.”     “Fast enough?”     “Fast enough to get a full scholarship in music education. I was a music professor at Morehouse College and Emery University for over 30 years. I just retired. I was driving my wife nuts so I took this job to get out of the house and people watch two nights a week. The money I make goes to the church and I get to stay married.”     I was blown away. I expected a sad story of a down and out man. Instead, I saw perseverance.     “What about kids?” I asked.     “Four of them and three grandkids. The three oldest, Sophie, for my mom, Marie, for my sister and William for, you know, are out on their own. At 45, my wife of 22 years announced she was pregnant and we had another girl, Molly.”     My eyes started to tear.     “Dommie, that experience in Florida is not forgotten to me. In some ways it is a perverse blessing in that it convinced my dad to get me out of there and to what eventually become a better life. Do you remember when I told you not to blame yourself?”     “I do.”     “Well, I’ve thought of you over the years. You and your family reached out. You taught me that not all white people were evil or out to get me and hold me down. Sure, some were, but finding that common ground, like you did with us, can bridge enormous gaps of ignorance.”     It was time to catch my flight. I couldn’t describe my feelings, but my face must have been transparent. Isaiah gave me a strong hug and said, “Thank you Dommie.”     As I left, I found a business card and wrote my personal cell phone number and email on the back and gave it to him.     “What’s this for?”     “I don’t know. I thought maybe we could keep in touch.”     He just smiled and tucked the card in his pocket.     I trudged down to gate A33 at the end of the concourse. As I was boarding the plane, my phone vibrated. I stowed my bag and collapsed into the seat exhausted for many reasons. Once I was strapped in, I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw I had received a text from an Atlanta number. I pulled up the text and it read, “Oh when the saints, go marching in...”

February in Syracuse Aidan King     “Eight thirty-two,” said the tired shopkeeper, placing the pack of cigarettes on the counter and pointing to his outstretched palm.     I rummaged through my jean pockets, closing my hand around a few crumpled bills and flattening them out next to the register. I dug around again, pulling out a quarter and two pennies and slid them towards the man. I shrugged. It wasn’t enough.     “Eight thirty-two,” he repeated, pointing to the display on the register’s screen.     “Look, man. That’s all I got. I’ll pay the rest later,” I pleaded, “I just gotta run to my place. I’m good for it.”     “Eight thirty-two!” his gray bushy eyebrows furrowed, “Why even come in here if you don’t have the cash to get anything?”     I readjusted my hat, playing with the worn brim. Who the hell did this guy think he was? My father? He’s the one working at a convenience store. Not me.     I thumbed one of the several holes in my jeans, glancing down at the counter and then up at the man. He must’ve been fifty at least. He did sort of remind me of my dad, now that I thought about it. Those worn, exhausted eyes stared into mine. No, it wasn’t even a stare. It was weaker than that. It was a gaze. A foggy, tired gaze. I wonder if this guy drank as much as my pops too. Miserable twat.     “Pay or leave,” he demanded.     “Alright! Ease up, pal,” I snapped back, scooping up the bills and coins.     As I turned to leave, I made my move, closing my fist and relaxing my wrist. It was important that my wrist was loose. The impact would be absorbed that way, and I wouldn’t end up with a fractured joint. I swung towards his face. He reacted slowly; his old age had dulled his reflexes. There was a thud from the bone against bone, a loud grunt, and a crash as he staggered backwards into a magazine rack, collapsing on the floor. My eyes darted to the door, then to the man. The store was still empty, and he wasn’t moving, so I pocketed the butts and slid open the register, grabbing all the bills I could find.     I stopped just outside of the store and turned my back to the buffeting wind to light a smoke. Snow was thrown all over the streets, spiraling through the air. I took a few deep drags before walking south. Two squad cars sped by, their sirens blaring. The dingy brick buildings lit up in a storm of blue and red. It was February in Syracuse. The weather sucked, but all the pigs that weren’t busy avoiding the outdoors had other things to deal with: stabbings, armed robberies, rape. I was just a degenerate kid leaving a convenience store. It’s not like that old fool would report it anyway; there was barely even thirty bucks in the drawer. Fuck him. It was barely enough for a single dose.     I took a right at the end of the block and rested on a stoop to collect myself. I counted out the money – thirty two dollars exactly. I had my pack of smokes, lighter, and cell phone. I reached around my back and felt under my jacket. Chills crept up my spine – the gun was still there, snugly tucked behind my belt. The rigid hilt pressed up against the base of my spine. I loved the feeling. Cold steel against warm flesh. It almost stuck to my skin like a tongue on a frozen lamp post. It was powerful too; gave me a sense of security. I could almost smell trouble every time I held it. Evil. But safe.     I started walking again. My cig had gone out, and I needed to calm my nerves some more, so I flicked it down a sewer drain and lit up another. The nicotine filled my lungs and snaked through my bloodstream, making its way up to my brain. Smoke and frozen water vapor wafted out of my mouth, dissipating into the air. Was I still blowing out smoke? Or is that just my frozen breath? I was never able to tell when I was finished exhaling in the winter. The thought quickly left my mind. I passed a Walgreens with a sign in the front reading, “30% off all beer.” I really wanted to save what little amount of money I had for the smack, but it was too much to pass up. Maybe I could split a few beers with Slinky and get an extra half gram out of the deal. I stubbed out my cigarette and dashed inside, emerging shortly after with a twelve pack of Genesee and feeling several dollars poorer.     It was getting late, and I grew more and more impatient as I walked. The job at the store had been a failure: what was left of the cash would barely get me a single dose, but I was craving a fix, so I called Slinky.     The cell phone rang and crackled as it connected, “Yo Slink, its J.”     “Oh wassup homie? What’s it gonna be tonight? Lookin’ to get smacked? ” He always talked in code like that. If I wanted weed, he’d ask if I wanted to get a slice of pizza. Coke was always something about the snowy weather. Heroin was smack. The guy was a nutjob, but I loved him for it.     “Just a gram this time. My visit to the store didn’t turn out too well.” I would be at the corner of South and J in a couple minutes. It was one of our usual meeting spots.     “Those fuckers!” he shouted, “They should start carrying half a grand at all times, just for your sake.”     I laughed. Slink could always make me laugh. We never spent much time together. He was always busy filling the streets with drugs, but we had graduated high school together, and I saved him in a fistfight once, so he hooked me up nicely each time I called.     “Yeah, I wish, Slink. I just need a job. I can’t keep doin’ this shit.”     “YOU can’t keep doin’ it? I look prison in the face every day!” he laughed. He liked bragging about his success on the streets. “Ain’t never been caught, and I ain’t never will. I like makin’ money way too much to fuck it up now.”     “Yeah, but you rake in the dough. I’m –”     “You live at home with your moms and pops. And even if they hit the bottle every night, they still pay for all your food and put a roof over your head.”     “Yeah, well —”     “And you make money without some punk-ass boss tellin’ you what to do all the time. Sounds pretty nice if you ask me.”     I made sure he was done talking this time, “Dammit, Slink. Why you always gotta be right about everything?”     “Cause I always is right, J,” he laughed again.     “Whatever man, I’m here. Hurry your ass up.”     “Turn around, fool,” he whispered. The call disconnected. A red Crown Vic was idling by the curb across the street. How the hell did he creep up on me like that? He was smearing his face against the window, cackling.     I jogged over to him, smiling, and hopped in the passenger seat. The car shifted into gear and lurched away from the sidewalk.     “Tell me, Slink, if you’re such a big shot dealer—”     “Kingpin...”     “Right. Kingpin. If you’re such a big shot kingpin, why is your car such a piece of shit?”     “Awwww. Look what you did. You hurt her feelings!” he patted the fake-mahogany dashboard with his veiny hand.     “No. Really. Are you ever gonna, y’know, upgrade?”     “Not even gonna say sorry to ‘uh? Well, ya see, I don’t need to. It’s just a car. I use it to get places,” he paused, “Plus the nicer the car is, the worse I’ll feel when I crash it!”     I guess he had a point.     His apartment was dimly lit, but surprisingly clean and didn’t even smell all that bad. Especially for a heroin addict. It bummed me out, actually. This junkie could keep a six-room pad clean and I could hardly manage to take the trash out of my one room. I cracked open a beer and collapsed into one of his bigger chairs. It was one of those chairs that you sank into. The longer you sat there, the deeper you sank. It would have swallowed me whole, along with dozens of paperclips, coins, and chip crumbs it had already consumed. If you stayed really still, then sat up quickly, there would be a large indented outline of your body in the cushions. I always liked that part.     I counted out twenty from the wad of bills in my pocket, “Here ya go, man,” I said, handing him the cash, “Now gimme’ that dope!” He disappeared from the room and returned with a small Ziploc bag, metal spoon, surgical tubing, and syringe.     The small black rock bubbled and melted into a murky pool in the base of the spoon as the lighter’s flame licked at the metal. It was obvious why they called it “black tar heroin.” That’s what it looked like once it was melted down. Tar. Oil. Sludge. I took the needle and stirred the liquid, mixing in some water and drawing it up into the tube after it was mixed well enough. I wrapped the tubing tightly above my elbow. The rubber tugged at my hairs. I winced. Strangely, that was always my least favorite part. The veins in my arm pushed against my skin as all the blood stayed trapped below that line. A small prick as the needle pierced the vein, and a chill as the drug seeped its way into my bloodstream. I loosened the tubing, placed the needle on the coffee table, and melted into his chair. One of those chairs that you can just sink into, forever. It was perfect. I was melting.     An hour passed and I gathered my senses. Slink was passed out on a couch. I rolled him onto his side. Number one rule of doing heroin, never sleep on your back. That’s how Hendrix died, and that’s how most smack heads die too. I tucked the baggie into my pocket, threw on my jacket, and headed for the door. The room was still spinning slightly, and each step felt like I was walking on a cloud, or a pocket of air. I couldn’t tell when my foot left the ground, and when it landed. My legs felt weak and my knees would bend at unexpected times, but I kept walking, expertly navigating my way down the stairs and out into the frozen tundra that awaited me.     It was well after midnight. I wanted to cut down on time so I took a right down an alley that crept behind a small bar called Dudley’s. The fresh powder hadn’t been touched yet – foot-shaped imprints followed my every move. I quickened my pace, I think. I couldn’t really tell how fast I was walking. I was thirsty though, and it was too cold to open a beer, so I pulled out a cigarette again to keep my mind occupied. A door burst open in front of me; I could hear shouting from inside the bar as a man came stumbling out. He tumbled face first in the snow, making a sort of twisted snow-angel where he landed. “Get out of here and go home, Hank, you stinkin’ drunk!” shouted the bartender, slamming the door shut behind him. He clambered to his feet. It was dark, his face was hidden and I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or not. The alley walls closed in on me. Shadows danced along the bricks. This was my chance. Some piss-drunk jackoff. He won’t remember anything by the morning. I could mug him. Quick and easy.     I think I called out to him, “Hey gramps. You okay?”     His response was slurred, and everything echoed in my head, but I was able to make out “fine” and “another drink.”     I tiptoed through the darkness and approached him from the side. He reeked of cigarette smoke and liquor. Silence hung in the air. Only the sound of his drunken, heavy breathing could be heard. “Hey, pal, come’ere,” I added, trying to sound friendly.     He lifted his head an inch and turned towards me. His face was still covered in darkness. A large clump of snow crashed down to the roof. I whipped around, startled. He hardly noticed.     I said something about making sure he was okay, and then lunged at him, grabbing a hold of his collar. I tried smashing his head into the wall but he was stronger than I expected, and I was still doped up. He whipped around, grabbing at my arm, but was too drunk and lost his footing. We collapsed in a tangled heap to the snowy pavement.     He landed on top, and was much heavier than me. My arm was pinned beneath my back. I couldn’t move him. His hands scraped at my chest, then inched closer and closer to my throat. I jerked my head up at his, connecting with the brim of his nose. It dazed me, but hurt him more, and he rolled off with a grunt. I slowly clambered up to a standing position and turned, reaching beneath my jacket. He was already charging at me with his head down, in a blind, drunken frenzy.     The gunshot bounced off the walls. A dog barked somewhere nearby. He laid face-up in the snow, not moving. I stood bolted to the spot, afraid and in shock, staring at his still body. A small pool of blood snaked through the snow next to his torso. I sprinted from the alley and down the road. I was still gripping the gun as I ran. In the distance, I heard shouting. The blare of sirens followed soon after.     I passed dozens of blocks before I reached my street, pausing to think for the first time since leaving the alley. I just fucking killed a guy. Well, what if it grazed him? Or hit him in the shoulder, or ribs? Yeah, no way is he dead. I took a deep breath, gazing out at the sullen snow-covered street. My mind was racing. There was a shit-ton of blood though. Fuck.     I needed to get rid of the gun and find a place to sober up. I was far away from the pub and the cops would search the areas closer to downtown anyway. I eventually found a park. It was abandoned. I brushed the snow off a bench and sat down to light another cigarette and gather my thoughts. A small river snaked through these neighborhoods and past the park I was in, connecting to Onondaga Lake towards the center of the city. I hopped a fence on the far side of the clearing, walked up to the edge of the embankment, and reared back. There were large sections in the ice where the water was moving to swiftly to freeze over. I took aim and heaved. The gray pistol arched through the air and splashed into the water. A weight was lifted off my shoulders. My spine felt warm without the cold steel pressed against it. It was a pleasant feeling. I smiled at the thought and started walking home.     When I finally got to my house, the sun was just starting to rise. A light was on in the kitchen and I could see mom making breakfast. She probably thought I was upstairs sleeping. Dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. ‘He must’ve left for work already, I thought. I hope he didn’t go to work drunk again, like usual.’ The house was dainty, small, and run down. Chipped paint covered the sides and the gutters creaked under the weight of the snow, each snowflake seemed to make them bend more. The letters on the mailbox read “roix,” the first half had been worn away after years of crap weather and being ignored by the family.     I crept in the front door and slid up the stairs, tiptoeing over the creaky floorboards on the second, fifth, and ninth steps. My mom didn’t hear me. I was in the clear, and disappeared beneath my warm blankets. It was relieving to be home, inside, alive, and in my bed.     My mom woke me up, calling to get my “lazy ass out of bed.” It was four in the afternoon, after all. I lumbered out of bed, threw on some clothes, and walked downstairs. She was in the kitchen – the smell of grilled chicken snaked through the air. I slouched onto the couch and propped my feet on the coffee table. The TV set flickered white images on the walls, and I slouched down on the couch, “Hey, Ma,” I grunted, flicking through the channels. I needed to find the news.     “Honey, you look awful. Are you alright?” she asked affectionately.     “Yeah, just had a long night, that’s all.”     “Well at least you got a lot of sleep!” she teased, walking out towards the living room, “The sun will be going down soon!”     I didn’t answer. My mind was numb. “Honey? What’s the matter with you?”     I was frozen in front of the TV. “Syracuse man slain in alley shooting” the headline read, “Henry LaCroix found dead behind bar, alcohol suspected as cause of altercation.”     Tears filled my eyes. My throat seized shut and I couldn’t breathe. It all came rushing back; the splintered memories from the night before, the ones distorted by the heroin-fog. I remembered the way he shuffled towards me. The rank, rattling breath that smothered my face. The way he slurred his words. Dudley’s was always his favorite bar.     “Dad...” I gasped.     Behind me, my mother sobbed.

Trying to Stay Awake David Hernandez In order to stay awake towards an authoritative figure, like my parents, aunts, and cousins, and show them that I’m a good listener and an engaging individual, I need to: hit myself until I bruise the cheek, bite myself until I bleed from the finger, stab myself multiple times on the leg, and scream until the pain reaches their ears. I don’t want to miss anything they tell me. I want to show them that I’m a mature adult, even when the life slowly drips from me.

The Window is a Mirror Michael Andreoni     First thing Monday, Chessie— that’s really her stupid name—says get upstairs and check the windows in 403. I tell her get real; those windows are new, and I should know because I did the work since this cheap-ass company wouldn’t pop for installation. She gives me the look she’s so good at, that “I went to community college while you didn’t make it through high school, so shut the fuck up,” look, and asks if I’m happy with my raise. I have to say no ma’am, I am not happy with one percent, and Shelley my wife, who’s on her feet ten hours a night pushing drinks at Asia City, is also not happy, and let’s not forget Melissa, who barely sees mom and dad and didn’t get the bike she wanted for her birthday. She’s definitely not happy.     I don’t know. It’s like I’m a mime. My mouth opens and closes, I flap my arms, but nobody understands. Boss-bitch shakes her head while shoving the work order over the counter. Maybe the raise had something to do with your attitude, she lays on me like I never heard that before. Maybe your attitude toward cheese had something to do with your weight problem, fat-ass, I’m dying to give her, except my performance review wasn’t the best. Why the fuck are there four grades if they’re only going to check “Must Improve”? Anyway, I clamp the work order on the clipboard and get out of the office before she takes back my stinking one percent.     The thing I learned about working maintenance at luxury apartments is you need lip implants to fit in all the asses. We got PhDs who can’t figure out changing a halogen. I guess they need a grant for that, but it’s easier e-mailing Chessie to send over the monkey. Crown Heights Apartments, inc. loves putting you through webinars on kissing up to the tenants. I leave early. Let them try Angie’s List if they want somebody’s tongue up the tenants’ crack. I’m raising a kid on $11.62 an hour and the tips Shelley promotes by leaning over the bar in a low-cut top. They’re lucky I’m not taking hostages.     So, up to the fourth floor with my steel box of tricks. Ring the buzzer; ring it twice, three, four times. Not a peep from the other side of the door. Check the work order in case the tenant gave the ok to enter with a master key. Nada. I write No Response all over the order because Chessie doesn’t like it. 8:20 and one job already completed. That’s a good start on a shitty-wet fall Monday after the weekend separated me from part of the rent money when the Lions won a game everyone said they couldn’t.     Halfway down the hall to the elevator, and here’s what I should have done when I heard the door open . . . what the hell, everyone knows what the idiot in a story like this should have done. Thing is, if I hadn’t turned around and gone back, the tenant could have complained to the office and there’s idiot me, Danny Girolomo, getting written up again for poor attitude.     This little shit with a scraggle-beard is waiting in the doorway. Even worse, he’s looking at me, making eye contact. He’s not staring into his I-Phone, or whatever scraggle-beards are staring into this week. Months go by without a tenant looking at me. A woman answered the door last Thursday with a kid hanging on her, a Rottweiler’s ugly snout pushing between her legs trying to get me—and her eyes were stuck to a screen. I held up the toilet plunger and got a grunt that could have been from the dog.     This is bad. They only see you when you fuck up. I’m already figuring what to say if his windows fell out of the frames. Telling the tenant I’m not licensed on window replacement is the same as begging the company to fire me. The factory! That’s it. The factory fucked up and delivered defective windows. No problem, sir, I’ll replace them immediately, and no, really, you don’t need to call Chessie. I’ll take care of that.     The bastard’s smiling like he already knows everything. I give him my wage-slave grin even if I am scared. I need this job that doesn’t pay anything or my kid’s never getting that bike. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.     “You’re Danny?”     Oh man, he’s already got my name. “Yes sir. I have an order here . . . problem with your windows?”     “Come on in. Would you like something to drink . . . some tea?”     Tea. I’m working this job two years. Nobody ever asked if I want tea. I check him out for real— black shirt with a gold dragon flying across the chest, tight jeans nobody could do any work in. He’s around my age except my hair is already going gray and his still black. Christ, I hate everyone with money. He must be new here because I don’t remember him from the window job.     “Sure. Whatever you got.”     “Go on through and make yourself comfortable.”     He disappears down a hall. Sitting in a tenant’s apartment is against company policy, but screw it, I have to know how pissed he is about the windows. I go left from the entry into what the company calls the Great Room and what Shelley and I call the T.V. room, living room, screaming at each other when the rent’s late while Melissa tries to do homework room, in our three-room love nest. I open the blinds—officially, I’m supposed to say window treatments—and damn, the windows are ok, so I take a peek at what he’s done with the room. It’s way up there with the dream-house shows on T.V. Marble floor, crown moldings, granite fireplace, twenty-foot ceiling, the whole ruling class thing going on. There’s a giant leather couch; looks like it cost more than my whole apartment building. Feels like it too.     Dragon boy pops in with two bottles of something yellow. “Here you go,” he smiles and swigs. “Thanks,” I give him back and do the same. Holy fucking shit. I get it swallowed only because he’s watching. It’s piss in a bottle. I read the label . . . “Kom . . .boo . . .”     “Kombucha tea with goji berry juice.” Dragon piss boy swigs again. “I buy the Kombucha and add a little goji. It’s full of antioxidants.”     He’s actually proud of it. “Really . . . good,” I gurgle through the gallon of spit trying to bust out of my mouth. The price tag on the bottle says six-fuck me-fifty. I hate him for making me say I like expensive piss.     “I’m Phil,” he says, holding his hand out. That’s another first— me shaking a tenant’s hand. “I just moved in.”     The damn webinars are always spouting how we’re representatives for Crown Heights with the Community Members, so all right—“We’re really happy to have you. How’s everything going?”     He runs a finger along the arm of the couch with a little smile. “This place is definitely rockin’ it. I came from New York. Amazing how far your money goes in Michigan.”     Yeah, that’s a friendly little service we been providing rich fucks since the recession “That’s great,” I give him, because what else is there to say? “So what’s going on with your windows?”     Dragon boy gets comfy in a nifty twisted-metal chair. He gives me this look. Shit, here it comes, but he only looks, and after awhile he smiles. No way I’m saying any more until he does, so I smile, and we’re smiling like long-lost brothers re-united after winning the Powerball jackpot.     “Do you know you’re a perfect type?” he says after another swig of yellow death.     No idea what he’s babbling. I nod like when I’m going around the guy who sleeps in the alley behind my apartment and is always screaming “The snakes! The snakes!”     “Yeah, I get that from everyone.”     “Do you!” He leans toward me, eyes all shiny. “It’s really true! I’ve been noticing you around the building since I moved in. Danny, you own maintenance man.”     All right, he’s gay. I get it. No problems with that. I never did a guy, but if the money’s right . . . maybe daddy makes the rent plus Melissa gets a mountain bike.     “Thanks. I aim to be professional.”     “You’re way beyond professional, Danny. You’re perfect.”     He leans back in the chair as if it’s my turn to say something nice to him. I just watch the patterns in the marble floor. Things are moving a little fast. I’m not real clear about the mechanics of boy on boy. It feels like my first week of Intro to Boiler Maintenance. The great thing about that class was by week three the instructor was telling everyone I’m a natural. This is probably the same thing. I’ll start out slow . . . maybe say I like the beard—     “Could I photograph you, Danny? Just a few stills of you fixing the bedroom windows.”     Aww hell, so I did fuck up the windows. Now there’s no choice. I can’t have him complaining to Chessie. I swear my clothes aren’t coming off until we talk money.     “I don’t know about that. If the office finds out—”     “Don’t worry about it. You’re just working on the windows, right?”     “I guess . . .”     “And I’ll pay you.” A hand feels around in a pocket, comes up with enough cash to keep the Girolomo clan pain-free for months. My new best boyfriend plucks three, hundred dollar bills off the top like they’re lint balls he can’t get rid of fast enough. “Is that enough to start?”     It’s enough to start a riot in my neighborhood. Man, I love the rich.     “Yeah, sure,” I sing out while grabbing the bills from his soft hand.     He jumps up. “Great! Why don’t we get set up in the bedroom. Go ahead and bring your tea.”     Hell yeah I’ll bring the tea. I’ll even take another swig—Christ! At least the rent gets paid this month. Shelley doesn’t have to know about the Lions taking me down. That’s one ass-kicking saved. Anything more is all profit.     My place would almost fit in the bedroom. King bed with eight white pillows spread on an acre of blue blanket, or comforter, or . . . they got a lot of names for blankets around here. I try to picture myself under the covers with Phil. Might as well get used to calling him that. There’s like, a bunch of laptops sitting on top of a dresser almost as tall as me. Looks like he’s into . . . shit, I don’t know what he’s into.     He’s rooting around somewhere in the walk-in closet and that means it’s a perfect time to inspect the windows. Five of them and they’re all new and beautiful. I open and close the big one —no problems, so yeah, this was his scheme to get me in here. I smile. Long as the money’s good.     “Here we go,” Phil comes out with a camera on a stand. He looks me over real hard—kind of a weird feeling getting stared at like that, but I pretend not to notice. He’s paying for it.     “Where’s your tool box? Need it in the shot.”     I go get the damn tool box. Phil has the camera pointed across the bed at the windows by the time I’m back.     “Let’s see how pretty you are. Kneel to the right of the big window and open the box. That’s great. Now look at it like you’re deciding which tool you want. Good, good. Hold that.”     He clicks away. I’m still in my clothes, which I wasn’t expecting. I guess what we’re doing is getting in the mood.     “Ok, great. You have a drill in there? Ooh, that’s a big one! All right, stand up, and you’re drilling . . . you’re drilling . . . whatever you drill on a window.”     I jam the drill up against the wood trim. Phil gets the shot, swivels the camera, shoots again; he’s having a great time. “These are good,” he’s says real quiet to himself, and clicks another. “This can work.”     He sits on the bed. Shit, here we go. Maybe three hundred isn’t enough.     “Do you watch television, Danny?”     Stupid fucking question. Like we can afford to do much else.     “Yeah.”     “Have you ever seen Turf Pros?”     Gotta say I didn’t see it coming. Who would figure someone like him even knowing about Turf Pros?     “Hell yeah; love that show.”     He gives me this grin. “That’s my show, Danny. I developed Turf Pros.”     “Whoa. No way.”     “That’s what I do. I come up with ideas for new shows.”     I almost forget he’s a tenant: “So why are you in Michigan if you’re this big T.V. guy?”     “I was tired of New York. Michigan is real.”     “Shit yeah, it’s real all right.” I just don’t know if he’s real.     “All right Phil, last week on Turf Pros, they’re rushing around getting the course ready for Tiger Woods and the PGA Tournament, right? Davey’s son, Travis, gets busted for drugs. Tiffany gets assaulted on the number three fairway by that nerd caddy, Norman, and half the golf carts come up missing. How’s it end?”     Phil claps his hands like my kid. “Ha! You do watch it. I thought you were being polite. The PGA episode is my favorite from season two. Let me think, oh sure . . . the cops flip Travis to get the location of the Meth lab. Norman’s been selling the golf carts on Craig’s List. He’s also a registered sex offender and the golf club could be liable for hiring him. Tiger Woods is a no-show because he’s invited to the White House for dinner. I’ll tell you a secret. We wrote Tiger into the script before we knew how much he gets for appearances. We don’t have that kind of budget on a cable show so we wrote a Waiting for Godot ending.”     “Waiting for what?”     “It’s not important. What is important is the new concept I’m developing: Apartment Pros. I’ve been looking for an archetype, someone who embodies the entire apartment maintenance genre. You’re that guy, Danny. I want you.”     My boyfriend sure likes talking about stuff that doesn’t matter. He knows Turf Pros all right . . . and he’s got money. That’s all I want to know.     “You want me to be this ark—something?”     “Star, Danny. I want you to be a star.”     Gotta say that sounds pretty good. “We doing the show in . . . like, California?” I always wanted to see those tar pits.     He shakes his head no. “Right here, Danny. This is where it’s real.”     Fuck. “It’s your thing, Phil, but don’t you think maybe it’s too real?”     The door buzzes. Phil jumps off the bed. “You want to meet your co-star? Be right back.”     And I didn’t want to come in this morning. Man, this is sweet! Not even nine and I’m a T.V. star with three hundred bucks in my pocket. Even get a co-star. Got to be female, that’s how they do it. How gorgeous is she? I love that Tiffany on Turf Pros. If I ever got her alone on the third fairway . . . .     Phil’s voice comes down the hall, then a woman’s, and that turns me around because I know it. I heard it too many times— shit!     “Hey lover. Phil clue you in? I’m supposed to have a secret crush on you.”     It’s like I’m flying up by the ceiling looking down on myself. “No way,” I hear myself say.     Chessie’s filling up the doorway, in green pants that make me glad she’s usually behind the counter. I get the famous fuck-you look and a bonus: “I want extra for working with a moron.”     I’m shaking my head at Phil. “No way. She’s like, four thousand pounds.”     My ex-boyfriend spreads his arms out like come over here for a hug. “Guys, this is going to be killer! I’ve been checking you out since I moved in. Each of you has wonderful chemistry. Let’s get some shots and see if you’re magic together.”     I sit on the bed. It’s so springy I almost topple over. “How much is this show paying?”     Phil gets a face like I kicked him. “It’s Reality T.V. There isn’t a lot of money.”     I point to the bed, and dresser. “Looks like someone’s doing o.k.”     “You’ll get union scale for the time you work. But the way to visualize this is you’ll be famous! Danny, for the rest of your life people will see you and think maintenance man.”     “Dumb-shit is what they’ll think,” Chessie mumbles.     “I heard that. Hippo is what they already think of you.”     “See, that’s the trope I’m going for!” Phil lets out, all excited-like. “You can’t stand each other, but secretly you love him, Chessie. You give him the easiest jobs, bake him cookies, but he doesn’t see the beautiful you because of your weight. So we’ll have you doing the Weight Watchers thing, maybe we’ll shoot an intervention thing, then the gastric bypass thing. Oh yeah, and we’ll do a challenge thing. Every ten pounds you lose, Danny has to read a book.”     “Screw that thing. I already read a book on boilers.”     “Well, see? You have a head start. Now . . . I’d like both of you in front of the big window. Danny, you’re holding the drill, and looking at where Chessie is pointing as though she’s telling you what to do. Got it? Chessie, you point to the window and look at Danny like you want to eat him up, all right?”     “I think she already ate enough.”     “Just look at the window and leave the thinking to me.”     We do it. He has us switch around to different angles every few shots. I keep my eyes on the window so I don’t get sick when Chessie wants to eat me.     “Beautiful. Now I just need a few of you together in bed. Danny, we’ll have you on that side, and Chess—“     “Excuse me?” The problem with rich boyfriends is they get the idea they own you. “No way I’m getting in that bed with her.”     “I told you he’s a moron.” Chessie’s already climbing into bed, stuffing a pillow under her pumpkin head.     Phil makes this sound like a tire with a nail stuck in it. He comes over and puts an arm around me. “Look, you know how these shows work. We need some resolution. Our viewers want every detail of every question answered.     “Just imagine. Chessie’s tried everything, but you’re still clueless. She can’t live without you. She gets a bottle of prescription sleeping pills. She calls you to an apartment to fix a window. She’s there in bed, barely conscious. She tells you everything, her love for you, the sleeping pills. You’re devastated. You realize you’ve always loved her. The bottle of pills is empty. Did she really take them? You call for the ambulance, and then jump in the bed and hold her tight. Does she make it? Tune in next week. That’s how you make quality television.”     “Wow,” Chessie breathes. I don’t even care about the money. This is Art. People need to see this.”     “That’s why I get the big—er, an adequate salary,” says Phil, and gives us a little bow.     But I smell a screwing and you have to pay me for that. “How much is this union scale?”     He gets that pained face again. “I don’t know. I’m sure it’s a . . . good amount. What do you make now?”     I tell him. His eyes get big. “But that’s terrible! How do you live on it? Danny, we have to write that into the show! You’re a victim! The company’s taking advantage. We’ll do an episode where the employees stage a sit-in. Chessie sneaks information to you on how management is planning to replace you, and—”     “I don’t give a shit about that!” I’m waving the drill around and he’s backing away quick. “That’s not real! I want to know how much I’m gonna get for being the star of this show.”     Phil ends up by the door. He gives Chessie a look like why aren’t you helping? She waggles her head like she always does. “I told you he’s too stupid for the part.”     My rich boyfriend shrugs. “I’m not the money guy. I can get you a phone number for the studio. You have to join the actor’s union . . . there’s a fee . . .”     I knew it. I have to pay before I even know how much they’re paying me? I slam the drill down on the bed. It bounces out of my hand up into the air, right into the window, which cracks in a million places. We watch bits of glass rain down over the sill onto the carpet.     “You’ll pay for that,” comes from the bed. “That’s two grand.”     I take off. “My boyfriend’s good for it.” are my last words on that job. I drop the master key on the marble floor of the entry.     Down the elevator one last time; I’m not worried anymore. The great thing about making nothing is you can go anywhere and get the same. At the bus stop I pull out my bus pass and something else comes with it. It’s money! Freedom plus three hundred bucks—best deal I’ve had in a long time. I’m on the bus watching Crown Heights Apartments fade away and thinking about all this stuff that happened, when I remember it’s Monday. Turf Pros is on tonight, so there’s that going my way too. I always figured everyone on that show makes a ton, but I see what happens when Phil gets through with you. You just have to love the rich.

See You in Hell Mark Scott     Rico watched his opponent from across the ring as his trainer told him, “Clinch if you gotta, but stay off the damned ropes!”     The bell clanged and Castillo was still kneeling with his back to Rico. With his right glove Castillo touched his fore-head, chest, and then his left shoulder. Rico could have rushed him, after all the referee had just told them to, “protect yourself at all times.” But Rico waited until Castillo finished his sign of the cross and was en guard. They touched gloves and then Castillo came at Rico in a crouch, throwing punches like a buzz-saw.     Castillo had a sledgehammer left hook, old-school Mexican style, and Rico circled to his own left to keep out of range of that gancha izquierda. Castillo was a bleeder and this night should have been an easy-money six-rounder for Rico Mazzetti. But his people had put down some serious money on a fourth round knockout.     “He’s strong as a bull,” Rico said in his corner.     Tony Fucelli said, “Yah won that round easy, Rico. Just stay away from his left hook.”     Rico won the first three rounds easily but Castillo was nowhere near being knocked out. The bell rang and Rico said in his corner, “My left glove is too tight, it’s cutting my circulation.”     Fucelli said, “I taped ‘em like always.”     “Can you at least cut the tape? It’s wound too tight.”     “Turn towards me.” Fucelli cut the tape from around the glove’s laces, as Rico hunched his shoulders forward to shield the operation from the referee’s eyes.     The exposed lace was what Rico wanted. In a clinch, Rico used the old Fritzie Zivic trick of scraping the laces of the glove across Castillo’s eyebrows, turning him so the referee couldn’t see. A small cut opened over Castillo’s right eye and Rico peppered jabs at it. The blood poured and the referee stopped the fight with half a minute to go in the fourth round.     The next day Rico heard that Castillo had been hit by a truck when he left the Hungry Pussycat lounge over in the Bronx. The prognosis wasn’t good, and Rico felt bad about it, like maybe Castillo didn’t see the truck because of his hurt eye.     The telephone rang at the house in Bensonhurst that Rico rented and lived in with his girlfriend. “Yeah, I heard about Castillo. Horrible, just horrible.”     At the other end of the line Fucelli said, “Castillo wants you to go visit him in the hospital.”     “Me?”     “Yeah, he made a special request. It’d be real bad luck if you didn’t go, with a special request and all.”     “Damn,” Rico said. But he knew Fucelli was right. He tried to remember if he’d said a Hail Mary in the last few days. “I’ll go right away.”     Castillo had tubes coming and going, hooked up to a monitor that didn’t look too hopeful, as far as Rico could figure it from the irregular bleeps of light. Castillo had his left arm in a cast and his right cheek was so swollen it seemed like a grapefruit. “I wanted to tell you something before I go,” he muttered with difficulty.     “Where do you think you’re going all shot up and with those tubes in you?”     “The same place you’re going. To hell. You and your family cheat, steal, and even kill to get what you want. But el senor keeps score.” For a few moments Rico thought Castillo had taken his last breath. The monitor almost flat-lined, but then suddenly registered a sign of life. Castillo’s earthly race was not quite run. “I’ve killed three people myself,” the fallen fighter said. “And only one happened in a boxing ring. I thought I would have enough time for redemption. But no, Rico, I will see you in hell.”     It was a sock in the gut worse than Rico had ever taken in the ring. How the hell did Castillo know about his family, when he was barely on speaking terms with them himself? And the man upstairs, el senor, what does HE care about boxing or fixed fights? But still, Rico was spooked by what Castillo said, though not so bad that he didn’t have his girlfriend’s sister go pick up the money from the bet. It wasn’t like he threw the fight, he just picked the round.     Rico went home and tried to deal with his depression over his dead opponent. He was sitting in front of the television watching a Knicks game when his girlfriend got home.     “Now you gotta watch basketball?” Maggie said. “Are you all right, Rico?”     Rico muted the sound. “Yeah, it’s just weird to fight a guy then he dies right after.”     “What was he doing over in East Bronx after the fight? I thought he lived in Texas.”     “Guess he wanted another bite of the Big Apple, before he went home.”     “They ain’t got whores in Texas?”     “How would I know? Forget about it.”     “You fuggitaboutit. I’m not the one moping around.” Maggie paced back and forth between Rico and the television.     “Maggie, do you think it’s a sin to fix a fight?”     “Get the fuck outta here with that talk, Rico. You’re creeping me out. The rest of your family makes a living gambling and stealing, and you got an honest job beating the shit outta people in a totally legitimate manner.” Maggie stood looking at Rico, with her hands on her hips. “I’m real proud of you, Rico; don’t go fucking it up over what some Mex fighter said.”     “Don’t talk like that. Castillo was a good man.”     Maggie threw up her hands. “You and me don’t fuck for two weeks ‘cuz you’re training. And now...Now! You mope around like an old woman. You know what? I’m gonna go get myself a vibrator. And while I’m at it, you want me to buy you a black mourning dress?”     Rico gave Maggie a confused look and she came back to the sofa and straddled his waist.     “Come on, Rico, let’s go to bed. It’s going on three weeks.”     Afterwards, Maggie said, “Why didn’t you knock him out with a right?”     “Who?” Rico said sleepily.     “Castillo. The way he swings with his left, he’s wide open for a right.”     “Swung with his left. He’s dead now.”     Maggie let it sink in for a minute, how Castillo was now strictly past tense. “Why’d you have to fuck up his eye like that?”     “You got me cheered up, now you’re gonna bust my balls over how I take care of business?”     Maggie burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, Rico. You won fair and square, in the right round. His busted up eye ain’t gonna bother him now anyway.”     As they lay in bed Rico got to thinking about what Maggie had said. Rico thought she understood about boxers and abstinence before a big fight. When he wasn’t strictly in training they’d do it every night and sometimes in the morning.     “Were you serious about the vibrator?”     “Nah,” Maggie said. “I tried my friend’s Dixie Chicken brand dildo once.”     “Didn’t work?”     “It felt like, you know, like a piece of plastic and not like a hard dick.”     “Oh.”     Maggie looked at Rico’s face. Damn, for a fighter he sure got his feelings hurt easy. “Aw, poor Rico. You know I love you, honey.”     Rico had become a professional fighter because his father considered him too much of a sissy to be in the family business. He thought Maggie had been sent from heaven, the way she cheered for him at his fights and the gaga way she doted on his body. And yet despite Maggie’s angel face, her dimples and big doe eyes, Rico sometimes had the feeling that she was mean. If he had to, he couldn’t really say why. Maybe it was that sometimes when she got mad she would call Rico nothing but a wop from a family of gambling, thieving, murdering gangsters. Yeah, well, Maggie was just as Italian as Rico. So who was she to call him a wop?     Margaret LoBianco, Maggie, had met Rico three years ago just before the finals of the New York Golden Gloves. Everybody who knew about the tournament thought Rico’s semi-finals opponent had been paid to lose. Rico beat the guy without breaking a sweat even though it went three lop-sided rounds.     Maggie thought Rico was hot and if his father and brothers supposedly controlled the entire restaurant linen business in one of the boroughs, so much the better. When she heard that maybe they “disappeared” a guy now and then to keep out the competition, Maggie repeated the serenity prayer:     “...to accept those things I can’t control, and the wisdom to know the difference...”     Rico, she could tell, was a good boy, loved his mother, but not a momma’s boy. Maggie couldn’t stand creepos that bad-mouthed their own mothers. As for Rico’s father...What? Ain’t he gotta make a living?     Her own family took care of most of the gambling in the neighborhood. Once in ninth grade her teacher asked her what her pops did for a living.     “Bookie.”     That math teacher had laughed and said, “No, really, what does he do?” Maggie had looked around the room and one guy was rotating his index finger around his ear. You know, he’s a math teacher, kind of crazy.     “Maggie’s father is in the entertainment business,” a girl on the front row had said to break an awkward silence.     Maggie worried sometimes about Rico’s eternal soul and how long he’d have to be in purgatory on account of fucking up another fighter’s face to make a bet work out. As for him hiding guns and shit like that for his father, that didn’t really count because Rico had only been a kid and you gotta honor thy father; and do what he says. At any rate she kept her worries to herself as best she could. Rico was just too sensitive to burden with her concerns.     They were going to get married as soon as they had ten grand to put down on a house. Then the cocksucker banker said they needed a fifty grand down payment since boxing ain’t like a real job where you can get good credit. Maggie worked at her father’s restaurant but they did everything in cash since they used the place to launder the gambling money. For all their hard work, neither she nor Rico had a steady paycheck to show a loan officer. Thus her dilemma.     From the $2000 Rico got from the fight and the $10,000 they made on the bet, they had to pay expenses including the local cops that got a cut of all the bets. They had $6000 in cash under their mattress. Only Maggie’s mother kept a bank account. “Put money in a bank?” Maggie’s father always said. “You want the whole world to know how much dough you’ve got?”     Maggie figured they needed about another forty four grand before they could buy a house and she could finally be the blushing bride she always knew she could be.     A few days later Castillo got sent back to Texas and buried somehow. Maggie got a card and signed it for her and Rico, sent it to the woman at the address on the obituary. She didn’t know if it was Castillo’s girlfriend, or what. “I sent a card from the both of us,” she told Rico. “Flowers would cost too much.”     She had their money in stacks on the kitchen table, and was thinking things over when suddenly she said, “You could fight Patterson at 160 pounds.”     Rico said, “Patterson? Where’s that coming from? I go 154 at most. He’s a super-middleweight at 167.”     “Right. One sixty would be a catch-weight. Lots of money gets put down at catch-weights.”     “How do you know?” Rico realized that Maggie and her father had been plotting something.     “My pops is a bookie, remember? You punch-drunk already?”     “Patterson is a champ, and I just made the top ten.”     “Pops knows Patterson’s manager. It can be worked out. Come on, honey, don’t you want that house? Beat Patterson, or just fight him close, and you’ll be in line for the big-money fights.”     Rico mumbled, “Patterson at 160. I’ll think about it.”     They got it set up just like Maggie said, and Rico started training like hell. Frank at the gym always talked about oxygen in the blood, how it gave you energy. Rico never thought much about it, since he won most of his fights without a lot of effort. But now he wanted every advantage to win against Patterson, to get the money to buy the house. The deal was to go easy for ten rounds, let it be a close decision. Rico could picture the headlines that would come out if he upset Patterson.     Rico had been in the habit of just running two miles a day. But once he signed for the Patterson fight, he started adding a quarter mile every other day until he was up to six miles. It seemed like his vision was clearer and oxygen would rush into his lungs, instead of like before when he had to suck it out of the air like pulling parmesan cheese through a cheese-grater. It was, just like they said on television talk shows, a “runner’s high,” and Rico felt like a world beater. Maggie was doing her part to get his weight up, feeding him milkshakes and bananas after every meal.     A top professional fighter who weighs 147 pounds can beat up almost anybody just off the streets. The same guy can beat up, say, an amateur heavyweight most of the time. But a top professional who weighs a solid 167 pounds hits hard enough to seriously hurt one who goes 147 pounds. The increase in power with weight is exponential rather than additional. Maggie knew this in a vague way and Rico knew it well enough without thinking too much on the theory.     Maggie went to watch Patterson train and got worried. That night she asked Rico, “Having to lose weight to get down to 160, won’t that take away some of Patterson’s punching power?”     “Not much,” Rico said.     “What about your father or your brother Mike, can’t they work out some kind of arrangement with Patterson’s people?”     “Pop’s mad that I’m even taking the fight without talking to him first. Mike said Patterson agreed to go easy. It’s gonna be a close decision and then we’ll cash in on the return match.”     The day before the fight, Rico’s brother Mike called him. Mike and Rico had never really gotten along. It was like Cain and Able all over again. Mike felt like he always had to be the responsible one while his little bro’ got to fool around boxing and having all the girls look at him stripped down in his boxing trunks. And mama always loved Rico the best.     “Patterson agreed to let you win on a fifth round knockout,” Mike told Rico over the phone.     It sounded strange as hell to Rico. Now all of a sudden Mike was going out on a limb to help him out. “Agreed?”     “We’re paying him fifty grand. We’ll make it back on the second fight. So throw everything you’ve got at him in the fifth.”     On the night before the fight Rico and Fucelli got a hotel room in Manhattan a couple of blocks from Madison Square Garden. Rico found the statue of Joe Gans, “the Old Master,” who had been the first African American world boxing champion. You were supposed to rub the bronze gloves of the statue for good luck. When Rico had done that, he said another Hail Mary.     At the weigh in Rico gave Patterson a conspiratorial wink.     Patterson put on a damned convincing act that he didn’t know about the set-up. He got off the scales and told Rico, loud enough for the press to hear, “I’ma bust yo’ head, muthafucka.”     Fucelli tugged at Rico’s arm. “Ignore him, that’s his act, to promote the fight.”     When Rico climbed into the ring for the fight Patterson’s trainer came over and checked his hand wraps to make sure they weren’t “loaded” with plaster of Paris or any other substance. Fucelli looked across the ring at Patterson and said the worst possible thing. “He looks like he weighs 180.” Then he realized his mistake. “Don’t worry, Rico, that makes him easier to hit.” Patterson was a big black wall of muscle, staring at Rico.     The crowd cheered when Patterson was announced, and Rico heard the sound of thunder. He thought of the fourth horse in Revelations, riding Death and followed by Hell. Come and see, the beast said.     The bell clanged and Patterson began stalking Rico. For three rounds he just blocked Rico’s punches, driving an occasional hook into his ribs. In the fourth round they traded punches and Rico landed more, faster than Patterson.     In the fifth round Patterson threw two light jabs and Rico fired over a right cross with all he had. Patterson stumbled back but then steadied himself. He glared at Rico like he was cheating at cards. They traded hard blows and Rico felt a rush of blood in the back of his throat from a broken nose. The referee was counting and then asking him if he was okay. He nodded and then the crowd was cheering with Patterson on the canvass. Then Patterson was charging at Rico. His head was vibrating and he couldn’t see out of his left eye. Then he was looking up at the ceiling in his dressing room.     While they were stitching his eye Fucelli said, “It was all set for you to lose a close decision. What the hell were you trying to do?”     “Mike said they paid Patterson to go down in the fifth.”     “Jeezus! You’re lucky to be alive, with a brother like that. Next time your brother says he paid somebody, tell him you want to see a receipt.”      Rico had his head tilted back with cotton packed in his nose to stop the bleeding. “I wanted to do my best, and it sounded like a straight setup.”     “A setup, only they forgot to tell Patterson about it? Well, it ain’t all that bad. A donnybrook like that builds up your reputation. Patterson’s gonna be a heavyweight in a couple of years, and you scored a clean knockdown on him.”     “Do we still get paid?”     “Yeah, yeah. You’ll end up with just $10 grand. But they’re saying it was like Hagler-Hearns, a real war. Might turn out better this way.”     Maggie was waiting outside the dressing room. “I’m taking him home, Mr. Fucelli.”     Everyone wanted to shake Rico’s hand or pat him on the back on his way out. “Back the fuck off,” Maggie hissed several times at the throngs of fans.     Once they hit the Expressway towards Brooklyn Maggie said, “What the hell did you think you were doing, trying to knock out the dark destroyer back there? It was all worked out to be an easy payday.”     Rico told her about what Mike had said, that Patterson was supposed to go down in the fifth round.     Maggie was rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disgust. “I’m gonna tell you something, Rico. I prayed all week for you because I knew something was wrong.”     As they approached Bensonhurst, Maggie said she had a new idea of how to get the money for a house. “Because Plan A is FUBAR now. I ain’t gonna let you fight again for at least a couple of months.” When they got home Maggie got some hydrogen-peroxide to clean Rico’s cuts. “It’ll be all right, Rico. You scored a clean knockdown, everyone was saying. He was just too much bigger than you. Poor baby, you could have been killed.”     “I just felt like I ought to do my best.”     “Shhh.” Maggie kissed his forehead. “You did fine, baby. You fought a good fight.”     A few days later Maggie took the sports page with her to talk to a new loan officer at the Bensonhurst bank. She saw the one who had turned down their previous application and snarled at him. She felt a little dizzy and wondered if she might be pregnant.     The new loan officer slapped the newspaper with the back of his hand. “I saw that fight. Rico Mazzetti is your husband?”     Maggie re-crossed her legs, slowly, then leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands “Gonna be soon.”     “How much did Rico make for fighting Patterson?”     Maggie showed him the contract without mentioning the side deals. “Now he’s got a big name, so he’ll make a lot more next time he fights.”     The bank officer thought it over. “Boxing’s banker, or maybe, the champ’s banker. I definitely like the way it sounds. Have you picked out a house?”     A week later Rico and Maggie went to Father Ciccio to have him bless the wedding and see if they needed absolution for betting on Rico’s fights. The Father said it was only a sin if you threw the fight or didn’t do your best because that cheated the paying customers. Since both Rico and Patterson scored legitimate knockdowns, they were probably off the hook as far as it being a sin. As for Castillo, everyone knew he was a bleeder anyway so Father Ciccio said not to worry about it. And if somebody’s going to get hit by a truck, there’s nothing you can do about it.”     Maggie said, “See, Rico, I told you so.” But really it was a big load off her mind.     Rico told Father Ciccio about Castillo saying Rico was going to hell.     Ciccio looked off into the distance, and then seemed to wave the matter away. “I always like to see young people get married.” He rose from his chair, put an arm around Rico’s shoulder and escorted him to the door. “I need a word with Maggie alone.”     That night Maggie felt like Rico was still moping around. “What’s wrong?”     “I was just thinking...”     “Thinking about what? You did good—almost beat a champ.”     “No, I mean about what Castillo said. It was weird, like he was pronouncing my fate.”     “That he’d see you in hell?”     “I almost got killed. If that referee had been slow...”     “Stop with the worrying! Rico, baby, if Castillo is going to see you in hell, he’ll just have to wait his turn, because you’re gonna be with me in our big, new house for a long time.”     Maggie was thinking too, about what Father Ciccio had told her in private. Now she had to break the news to Rico. She went to the closet and pulled down her suitcase, then opened it and laid it out on the bed. She opened the dresser drawers and started taking out clothes and putting them in the suitcase.     Rico said through his still-swollen lips, “What are you doing?”     “I’m going to stay with my mother until after the wedding. I’ve been talking to Father Ciccio, and he says we’ve been living in sin. And besides, he says we probably shouldn’t fuck anymore until we’re married.”     “Living in sin?” Now Rico had that hangdog expression he always got.     Maggie had known he wouldn’t take it well. But now that they were about to get a house and get married, her conscience was bothering her about living in sin. “Okay, look, we can fuck, but we have to have a formal date. “     “A date?”     “Dinner and a movie, you know, a date. It’s okay to get a little nookie on a date. But living together in a rented house? I’m telling yah, God gets pissed about stuff like that.”     “Okay, I know. So I pick you up like—”     Maggie lifted her right foot and pointed it back and pushed out her breasts so that her nipples showed through her shirt. She put her hands on her cheeks. “Like I’m a prom queen.” She stood there on one leg and Rico thought she looked like Clara Bow.     Rico watched the muscles in the back of Maggie’s legs as she moved nimbly around barefoot on the carpet. She kept in good shape, worked out four times a week. When she bent over to empty the bottom dresser drawer Rico could see through her lace panties, into a mound of darkness and the infernal heat that he would live with until death did them part.

diogen22222, art by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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

The Tenth Day Alex Patterson     My name is John. I am a patient at St. Fredrick’s hospital, in the psychiatric ward. I was left unconscious outside of the hospital’s front door. I was stripped of my possessions, and a blow to my head stole my memory. It was a nurse, Cherri, who found me and brought me into the arms of my doctors. It was Cherri who gave me this journal. It is part of a new study to treat my illness (some unpronounceable Latin word) which meant that I couldn’t remember much of anything. My “Internal Memory,” as they explained it, resets every time I go to sleep. It is caused by a neurological “hiccup” of some form or another; Cherri tells me that I’ve been told many times what is wrong with me, but I’ve never understood, or, at the very least, I don’t understand it this time. But back to my treatment: I am a John Doe, a somebody who forgot how to be anybody. Because of that, I don’t have any insurance, and the only way I can get treatment is by partaking in medical experiments. Cherri found this one; it is the least invasive –or so she claims, personally I can’t think of anything more invasive. All I have to do is write how I’m feeling every day after my situation is explained, and then write about what I did that day before falling asleep –before forgetting. Today is the first day with this trial, day one of my attempt to remember...     Day 1: I was told by Cherri that I have to keep a journal, I don’t see how it will help, but at least it will give me something to do. This is the thing about being a John Doe, there really isn’t much to do. I don’t have visitors; there’s no point in reading a book that I’ll forget about when I close my eyes. All I can do is sit and watch the outside world. All I can do is dream of who I was, about what happened to me; if I was attacked, or if I somehow managed to injure myself. Cherri refused to tell me the extent of my injuries, and she refuses to say if I did it to myself, but I fear her silence confirms my nightmares. I worry that whoever I used to be wanted to forget their troubles, unknowingly committing me to the very hell that they hoped to escape. Cherri promises me that it doesn’t matter who I was before I became a John Doe, all that matters is that I am who I am.     Day 2: I reread these words knowing that I wrote them, the “A’s” are my misshapen “A’s” and the “R’s” have my embellishment, but I did not write them. The man I am today does not remember putting the ink to the page; I do not remember writing in this before, and I certainly don’t remember being such a drama-queen. (I mean come on, unknowingly committing me to the very hell that they hoped to escape. What was I thinking?) In what sense am I the person who wrote those words? Cherri assures me that I am who I am, but if that is true, I have to wonder. Do I die each night when I close my eyes to rest? Where does the man I was end and the man that I am begin? I fear that when I fall asleep I will not wake again. The body may rise, but what will happen to me? I do not want to dream; I do not want to die.     Day 3: I think I am a drama-queen when I write. I usually don’t speak like that when I talk, well –I don’t today at least. Today I received a visitor, a doctor. He arrived with several med students, all of whom were all too willing to get a look at my journal. I have only opened the journal for the first time, three days in a row now, but I am already beginning to feel protective of it. It is who I was, it is who I can become, and it is the one thing that I can call mine. It may sound childish, but I wanted to keep it to myself. The med students were able to read what I wrote, but I will not allow them the satisfaction of reading it again. This journal is my own tether to who I used to be, to who I could have been; with that reasoning I will defend it with my life.     Day 4: Cherri tells me that I need to be more detailed in my writings; I am “only writing enough to be seen” she scolds me. “You can’t expect to get any better if you don’t put in the effort to get any better.” So in honor of Cherri, and because I have nothing else to do, I will add more to my daily ramblings. I have come across the realization that I have yet to describe my room, a room that will sound familiar to anyone who has ever spent an expended amount of time in a hospital before. The walls are a plain white, a blue plastic handrail wraps itself around the room at slightly below waist level. A window is next to my bed, across from the doorway. A curtain divider is pushed into the corner, ready to be draped around the unoccupied bed to my right. Cherri, my ever watching nurse, would often stand outside of the doorway, far enough to not be within the room, but close enough that she can hear the scribble of my pen as I write these very words. I should probably also describe Cherri while I am detailing my surroundings. She is an elderly woman with white frizzy hair that perpetually ignores gravity. She wears thin, horn-rimmed glasses, and she favors scrubs with a floral pattern. She is a nice enough person, but she remains distant and impersonal. She would never admit it to me, but I think that she is distant because she doesn’t think I will live long enough to find out who I am.     Day 5: I slept in today, and after having my situation explained to me upon reading my journal, I came to the realization that I was no longer alone in my room. The curtain divider, which had previously been tucked away, was now fully drawn. “Hello?” I questioned the wall of cloth, while simultaneously trying to copy down this interaction. “Is anyone there?”     “Yes, I am here” a female voice replied. “My name is John, John Doe.” I hoped my introduction didn’t sound like I was flirting too much, wait –what is flirting? I recognize the word, but do I even know how to flirt? I feel like I was probably an awkward person before my accident. “Okay, double O” she laughed. “But you got the line mixed up. You should have said ‘The name’s Doe, John Doe.’ Wait, John Doe? You don’t know who Bond is, do you?”     “Not a clue.”     “Oh well, but no more talking. I have to finish this before the nurse comes back.” I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t have a new person to talk to. “Can I at least know your name?” I knew this was a mistake as soon as I said it for two reasons: 1) I would never remember it, and 2) “Felicia.” Who cares about reason two, I knew her name.     Day 6: I think that this journal is working. I still don’t remember anything; however, I am growing more accustomed to hearing about my condition. Well, at least as far as I can tell. Today I barely flinched when I heard the news. I may have always taken the loss of my identity lightly, but Cherri looked and acted as if she had seen an improvement. Felicia, my roommate (what else could you call the person that shares your room in the psychiatric ward?) was crying when I came back from one of my many tests. When I asked her what was wrong she pulled the curtain aside and asked, “You’ve never read anything by John Green have you?”     “No; although I might have, I can’t really be sure.”     “Oh. I was told that you just had trouble remembering. You have to be able to remember something about who you were?”     “Nope, nothing, except for instincts: I can read, write, talk, and walk, but I can’t remember where I learned to do them. “     “That’s not so bad. I don’t remember when I learned to talk, and forgetting about school –trust me John, some things are better left forgotten.”     “I suppose you’re right. I’d like to remember things, but I don’t want who I was to come back.” That was where our conversation ended. Cherri’s shuffling footsteps approached the door. Felicia quickly hid her book under her pillow and pretended to be sleeping. “Oh would you look at that!” Cherri exclaimed. “Pretending to sleep like that. I could hear y’all down the hall.” I don’t know why, but I felt like now was a good time to lie. “She’s not pretending. I’ve started to read my journals aloud. To help me remember.”     “Uh-huh.” Cherri muttered as she shuffled out of the room. “Thank you” mouthed Felicia. I don’t know why I covered for her. I don’t think she would have gotten in trouble. Maybe I –I don’t know.     Day 7: On the matter of Felicia. I have yet to describe her: Felicia is a woman in her mid 20’s; she has brown eyes, tears can be seen forming at, or falling from, the corners of her eyes. A sadness envelops her. Her anguish was caused by three things: her sickness, her husband leaving her because “He couldn’t handle the stress of the sickness” and because someone in Felicia’s novel died. Felicia had just finished reading The Fault in Our Stars, a novel about a girl, Hazel, who has cancer. Cherri has been trying to confiscate the book from her, and from what I’ve heard about it I can see why. It must be depressing to read that while in a hospital. Now is also the time to mention why Felicia is here, instead of in an ICU. She was diagnosed with cancer, and she did something that she wasn’t proud of. Felicia was moved here for her own safety.     Day 8: I never knew that one percent could make a difference. It’s a strange feeling to face your own mortality. I was given another test today; they discovered what is wrong with me. I have a growth, a tumor roughly the size of a golf ball in my head. The surgery to remove it has a 99% mortality rate; whereas, leaving it in and hoping I don’t have an aneurism only has a 98% fatality rate. I spent a majority of today settling my affairs and speaking to Felicia; she seemed to know what I was going through. When it came to settling my affairs, let’s just say I don’t have many affairs to settle. I decided to give my – this – journal to Felicia, and I would return the hospital pen –which I am currently using, to the gift shop from where I “Borrowed” it. With my affairs settled, all that was left to do was wait. “How are you doing?” Felicia asked. “I know it sounds cliché, but I kinda wish death would just happen... You know? I can’t stand this waiting.” Felicia giggled, an honest Tee-hee-hee, Felicia was trying to not laugh.     “What?”     “Oh nothing” She said. “It’s just, I think it’s funny how you can’t remember ever hearing that, but you know it’s an overused cliché.” She did have a point; that was the oddity behind my injury, my growth. I can’t say the ABC’s, but I can write all (abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz) 26 of them. “I think we all just handle death differently. Apparently, I’m not one to wear my emotions on my sleeve.”     “Yeah, I opted for the “Do something impulsive” approach to death.”     “What did you do?”     “I broke into an amusement park” I looked at her quizzically.“ Don’t judge me. I know that look. I broke into it because it was there, on top of the Ferris wheel where I was proposed to. I know that, all things considered, I shouldn’t remember my marriage as a happy one, but I remember the proposal as the happiest moment of my life. I guess I just wanted to relive that moment.”     “Is that why you were moved here? It seems a little harsh.” Felicia looked down at her wrists; I could see bandages around them. “Oh.” I muttered.     Day 9: It’s an odd feeling knowing that in roughly 24 hours your eyes will close for the final time. Felicia tried to be comforting; she had been told five months ago that she only had six months left to live, but it wasn’t much consolation. She still had time left. “What do you think Death is like?” I queried. “I don’t know; although, if I had a choice. I would end it like in Les Misérables: everyone singing, somber yet joyous, as you slowly slip away.”     “Huh, I am more expecting a cloaked figure with a scythe, but I like yours better.” Felicia remained silent. I looked over; her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. “Felicia?” She didn’t respond. Her heart rate monitor began to beep, faster and faster. Cherri ran into the room as Felicia began to convulse. Cherri hit a button on the wall. “Get a crash cart!” she shouted. Several orderlies rushed in carrying equipment. Cherri quickly pulled the curtain close, blocking my view of what was happening. Seconds stretched into minutes as I waited, hopelessly, for Felicia to be brought back. I waited for her to be safe.     Day 10: Felicia is okay. She went into cardiac arrest. After reviving her, Felicia was brought into the OR for emergency surgery. She will live. I spent the night outside of the OR, I couldn’t go to sleep. I couldn’t forget. I was planning on talking to Felicia when she woke up this morning, but after tonight –I will most likely not be here when she wakes up, so I will have to write what I was going to say. Felicia,     There are so many things that I wish I could have said to you. I wish I could’ve been there when you get out of surgery. Our time together was short, but it was the best time of my life. I love you. John.      Now all that I can do is wait for my time. Felicia will read my journal when she gets out of surgery.     Day 11: I must keep writing. I stayed awake tonight, hoping that I would still be alive for when Felicia came out of surgery. I stayed awake, waiting for the moment when either Felicia would be brought back, or I would close my eyes forever. I found the secret to remembering; I have been awake for two days now, and I can remember it all. That is why I must keep writing; that is why I must stay awake. I have to stay awake for her, for Felicia. I must stay awake, or I will forget. I will lose my memories of Felicia, and my memories of her are all I have left. Felicia’s surgery didn’t help. She didn’t wake up from the anesthesia. Cherri and the others tried to save her, but –she passed away while she slept. I must keep writing. I can feel a wall of anguish building inside me, I feel like I’m choking. I am drowning in my own sorrow. Tears flow from my eyes as I try, desperately, to keep writing; however, deep down I know that it is a losing battle. I will fall asleep –I will wake up to a tear stained pillow, not knowing why it is wet; I will forget, I will forget. I don’t want to forget her. This story was first published in The Legendary.

& With That I Pass Mike Brennan My voice is abandoned like a vacant lot Or a boarded house Imitating a victorious army barracks Or an emancipated slave ship Sailing solitarily After a triumphant mutiny along Ancient waters Tides determining the journey With supplies squandered long ago & weary lives passing under The rudders On this course set By exploding stars & irrelevant maps & as one & all Jumped overboard I quietly agreed Because I knew if I Accidentally discovered me I would be left treading water In a squall & a flash As every companion Has been both A cannibal & a magician Performing disappearing acts Before I even could pull the Rabbit out of my hat & this salutation Is not worth the price of ink But is an ancestral stamp An X marking the spot A swan song sung For the long gone dead With a music which I paid no mind Since everything is epitomized By the idyllic you I burgled once I had broken through Your confidential quarters simply to Ask for your company To the Saint Vitas Dance & you said... & with that I pass.

Hunger Liam C. Calhoun My Mother was sad – When I had walked, talked, And left the girl there, All alone in her bed, The bed I’d fled And cushion not my own As I’m now laying, Sheets up to chin And lying as well, at home, My mother’s home, But the home she said, “I’d always have.”             I roll over. My bed, my very own, Is hours away and if I were, “There,” I’d still hear her tears, My mother’s And those of the “others” I’d left Behind, left before, abandoned In that very bed that’s now And hers, only hers, Far from ours or ever will be; An “Eden,” becoming exile; Truth in prior trespass – an end.             I roll over. And as selfish as all this may sound, I saunter to the smell pancakes, Maple syrup, And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead; Up until the grief of a mother – Tears atop tabletops, A stream quite displaced from mad, Where my visits, become few, far And even further, Most importantly – Alone; For her, for me and it pains her even more, The solitude of, “I.”             I roll over. Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow, But something else awry. Awry or away, Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again, Snores intermitted renewed grin Under dreamt up birthday cakes, Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home. So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow And a small dog at her feet, She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied. The one left behind, probably not though, As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled Drink come reckless.             I roll over. And like her, I’m still awake, Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep, Because I’m – A little ashamed, a tad content, Still tired though and as odd as this may Sound, or not, Hungry for breakfast As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled Cries And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a Sacred long gone; Solace in only one of the two being happy, But one more than what was once before.             I roll over. and will again and again And again.

Relativity, milkyways, black holes and all other stuff Stanley M Noah Gravitation rules all. Emily Dickinson called it,    the flood suction. Next door neighbor believes life and          objects are mostly down to earth,        except the human mind.            He said, “we just go about mopping it up. I call it the theory of everything.  Stephen Hawking is still working on this symphony.” So I asked him,      “what about quantum mechanics                        is that sort of like a loud cantata like a car wreck                on a saturday night                        beneath                                                                                         falling stars? Or is it like string theory all wrapped up in tissue paper    tied with a pink ribbon    or like rooms connected by sun light going through opened doors?” Looking puzzled, he said,                  “I don’t know. Ask your barber or the bartender or the cook.                                                                         If anyone          should know                                it would be them.” I began peeling away zones of the inner mind     like one big history lesson. Searching about the hidden places.                        Turning all skeleton keys                Making darkness turn the other way.

Cave Woman / Cave Man Soliloquy I William F. Meyer, Jr. (for Gabrielle) When I awoke, sad, I could feel the pain between my legs—I was so young and he was so ugly and he kept riding me like an old horse until I died. And the blood ripped —I was bleeding when I stopped to pee and I saw the face in the river and I shall never forget —his face, my face turning the water red watching my woman’s blood like a wounded man.

poem and image by William F. Meyer, Jr.

From the ray of a candle in a dark jail cell. A confessional letter to his partner from a tennis pro that has lost his credentials. (names withheld) Dear xxxxx,     Did I ever tell you about the guys I grew up with in college and early adult days?     We had a saying that you had to “cack” somebody. That was the sound of your fist cracking their face.     My guys would get into fights at bars, grocery stores and gas stations. Literally all it took was a wrong look and these guys would full blown brawl. I had to be in the mood to even go out with them, because it was guaranteed fight night. No talk, no push, no name calling, it was just cacks and face blasting.     In Prescott, during a tourney, one night when out on whiskey row a guy comes up to my friend xxxxx, who got to the semis two years in a row in both singles and doubles at NJCAA nationals and he goes into a karate stance:     xxxxx says, “You better know karate motherfucker!”     He coldcocks him in one punch. The cop comes over and arrests him, and told him it was one of the best punches he had seen. This is a tennis dude.     I won't even tell you about the all state wrestler xxxxx, xxxxx the silent killer, xxxxx the Jack-Mormon, etc. Every one of these was a stone cold brawler. xxxxx moved from NY and the first night we met, we had a fight (he fit right in and joined the mad men)     xxxxx and I got into trouble when I hit him with a log that was on fire and he hit me back and we were brawling, when two tribes of police came up to us on Indian reservation land. (fairly typical with beer and fire)     I can imagine Oakland has to be like Phoenix, a real hell and gang town. (ASU is known as the party school of all time)     Bottom line, you ain’t playing with that kind of guys on the team and those other guys from that other team ain’t from Phoenix or Oakland.     I WOULD LIKE TO PLAY DOUBLES WITH YOU, WITH RESPECT, AND I WON’T CHOKE!     I also did an electrician’s apprenticeship with xxxxx who played tennis and owned his own company (I got ranked #1 with his wife in Mixed too) & worked on some of the baddest power generators in the army (they ran computer vans that required security clearance that I won’t go into)     Even my wife is a champion! We entered 7 events in Phoenix, Tucson, Sedona and Hawaii and made 7 finals, with 3 championships: Phoenix Open 40s, AZ Player’s Championship 35s, Sr. Olympics 50s. (They can’t figure out that xxxxx has heart and winner’s mentality because old school China was another hell town with the revolution)     Look forward to playing some of these Hawaii and division II school tough guys in March!     Some guys pretend bad, some guys fake bad, some guys just were. I used to drop gang kids that were on parole in gang town south Phoenix when I worked with them. xxxxx married into Mexican gang family in LA.     See you at the courts! Your partner, Ed “Tough Gut” Wilson

Ed “Tough Gut” Wilson bio     He took his first tennis lessons from a former pro Aussie player in Memphis, Tenn. at the YMCA. Continued to play in Texas, the Southwest and California under tough pros in the Arizona desert and the meat grinder where all age groups from 12-18 and beyond were inhabited with #1 players in the USA, top international seniors, UCLA All-Americans, former NJCAA National Champions. Stanford NCAA champs, Grand Slam finalists and champions abound, and Dodo Cheney’s son and grandson played. He learned his volleys at the Village in back of a Mexican food joint. You either fought or perished. He drinks hard, he plays hard, and he has 1,000 great tennis stories.

Nearing Shore Donald Gaither fishing boat sinking and rising on the sea riding waves

Things Anna Maria Hansen I’m a keeper: I cling to things long useless; pointless; valueless. Boots I grew out of years past a shirt of my mother’s from when she was younger then me holes in it from before I was born the smell of age and dust and good memories. A swimsuit I used to wear and hang on to as if some day I’ll wear it again and splash in the sparkling drops of cold lake water with you. I find things moth-chewed and feel anger at these little creatures who fill their stomachs on the memories of the past. A pair of sunglasses that were once a set of four it doesn’t matter any more still... I just can’t throw them out it feels I’d lose even more without their presence in my closet in the little box I wanted to give you and never had the chance. A doll I saved five times her lash-less eyes blink blindly at me as if she denies my foolish loyalty. A poster of horses so badly torn; even so, the spirit of their wildness still catches me and leaves me breathless in their hot, fragrant dust. The dust that lines our photograph seated on the old porch steps with that whole-heart smile splitting your face and the look that tells me you never saw it coming. Neither did I. Why? A long, leafy plant that dies and yet always comes back. More faithful than you; a potted palm plant. The words you wrote on the beam that supports my bed simple, three words was it just in my head? In your head? They are still there; silent words. Unerased. A sketch that I made with your name and mine the words all around it seem to entwine you and me; what we couldn’t be I cannot destroy it it was truth it is gone it was me. Not anymore. The things I keep are nothing more than what I was, or could have been, thought was so, I didn’t know. Someday they will be nothing more than things I can’t let go.

How I Would Like to Be David Hutt     I’m sat in a café at 6am trying to eat my breakfast but I can’t because there’s an old couple in the corner and I’m watching and listening to the man read the newspaper to his wife who nods or smiles or laughs in a way I have never heard an old woman laugh. He’s reading out loud an article about a man who was caught having sex with a dog, and he reads out the headline that goes something like, ‘man grooms dog for sex’ and she starts wailing away in the corner whilst my bacon and eggs gets cold. It’s like they haven’t spent the last sixty years together and are only now just discovering the nuances of each other.

Reminiscing David Hutt     I was working on a farm in southern France for food and lodging, no money, doing whatever needed to be done. Sometimes it’s working in the fields, sometimes it’s mixing concrete and laying brick. It was hard work but it allowed me to be unemployed and the time to write.     My clothes were damp and muddy and thick with cement and I avoided showering because I felt something with all that sweat over my body. Frank had come down from Paris to visit me, although I think he just needed to escape the city from some time, get away from the problems with his wife and some time to clear his head.     We sat in the garden out front of the farm talking about the last time we were together in Paris. “Do you remember the last conversation we had?” I asked him.     “No, I can’t remember.” He lit up a cigarette and I uncorked a bottle of cheap sweet red wine.     “I said to you, and I think these were my exact words: imagine going through your entire life without creating one masterpiece, without doing something that can be remembered.”     “And you said to me, like never fucking a truly great woman.”     “I remember,” he said. I drank greedily from the bottle. He lit up another smoke.     “You know, I’m not too sure of that anymore.”     “No?”     “No, mate. Maybe it’s better never to be remembered after you die, to never have someone write your biography.”     “Never have a wikipedia page,” he joked.     “Maybe the happiest men are buried in unmarked graves.”     I didn’t know what else to say to him. We both had our own problems. Women problems.     “Do you know how long you’re staying,” I asked.     “Maybe a week or so. If that’s okay?”     “It’s fine with me.” I passed him the bottle of wine and said it was time for me to shower. Can’t stay sweaty and dirty all the time. At some point you have to wash it off.

Legs of Streeterville Eric Burbridge      Working people love weekends, but retired people love weekdays. Derrick Mondae’s favorite; Tuesday.     For decades he worked in the bowels of the City of Chicago, a Water Department chemical engineer. The citizens had no idea the work that goes into delivering clean water to their taps. But, he enjoyed being part of the hidden elite. He promised himself when he retired he’d spend a bunch of time outdoors. He spent his final years at the filtration plant next to Navy Pier, met prominent city employees and acquired a special parking permit. Free parking in Streeterville without being ticketed or towed.     He loved it!     Derrick considered himself a people watcher. He wrote down his daily observations. He didn’t use a laptop; he kept his notebook in a quality black leather case.     This sunny Tuesday they predicted record heat and humidity. He relocated his point of observation from the seating outside the pier to the former American Medical Association Building. Huge shrubbery planters and small trees lined the property at the intersection of State Street and Grand Avenue. They provided the necessary shade to enjoy his pastime.     Officer Cecil Smith suggested a group of young Asian tourist smoke their weed elsewhere. Derrick settled in the vacated spot and flipped to a new page in his notebook.     “What you writing about today, Mondae?” the hefty size cop asked, sat down and lit a cigarette. “I’ll take a short break with you.”     “Well, I’m thinking attractive females.”     “Sounds good, there’s a bunch around today. Weber Grill is packed early.” He took a drag and plucked the butt toward the curb. “I’m going to quit those things, ten bucks a pack is a crime.”     Derrick fanned the cloud of tobacco fumes. “I hope you do it soon.”     “When I retire Mondae, I’m going to be just like you. Dress nicely casual, lose weight.” He patted his gut. “And get a hair transplant.”     Derrick pushed his cap back and exposed his receding hairline. “How many brothers get hair transplants?”     They laughed loudly and did a fist bump. “I gotta go Mondae, be careful.” Smith sprang to his feet, adjusted his gun belt and resumed his patrol.     “You too.” Derrick watched him fade into the crowd. Smith, a few local business owners and co-workers had no idea how they saved him from serious depression after Lannie passed. Mondae and his wife of twenty five years planned a good retirement, but her sudden heart attack changed everything. Four years later his rekindled interest in the opposite sex made people watching and analyst; wonderful.     His favorite lunch crowd stopped at the intersection and jumped back to avoid being hit by the 29A bus. The ABC’s of sophistication and grace: Angela, in her mid-thirties; Barbara in her late forties and Crystal a few weeks from turning sixty. All of them flaunted the most beautiful legs he’d ever seen.     Derrick bragged; I’m a leg man forever!     Several weeks of flirtatious grins, waves, and gestures to join him for lunch and one day they decided to introduce themselves. He ordered several hot dogs and tamales from Hector’s food truck. They talked and discovered they liked each other.     Today he figured they were headed for Weber Grill on that side of the street.     “Hey Derrick, how’s it going?” Angela asked. Barbara smiled and Crystal appeared inattentive as usual.     “I’m good ladies.” Derrick scanned their hips. “Better now, have a seat.” Angela’s oversized sunglasses sat on top of her close cut sandy hair. She tanned well being light skin, no blotchy areas, very uniform. Barbara’s long black pony tails reminded him of an Indian. Her arched eyebrows accented her wide set blue eyes. Crystal’s presidential demeanor never wavered. Her short silver blonde hair style with the conservative necklace and earrings looked great. Her complexion was flawless and her skin didn’t sag in the usual places for a sixty year old. All wore loose fitting skirts and blouses. “You’ve brightened my day.”     “You’re so kind, Derrick.” Crystal grinned and tried to disguise her sarcasm.     Derrick chuckled. “Don’t be so serious Crystal; it’s a nice sunny day.” He moved over on the marble slab and spread his newspaper. “Have a seat.”     She smiled. “Well thank you, but we’re headed to get a carry-out from Weber’s. I like those shorts.” Her girlfriends agreed.     “Thank you, ladies. Now all I need is some fancy heels and I’m ready for the runway.” They laughed and headed for their destination. Derrick’s school boy crush on Crystal came to a head. Tell her how you feel. You’re both engineers, but she didn’t get dirty. She didn’t seem bigoted. Being the chief software engineer she hired several minorities at that company. She’s heard it all, so forget the BS. Humor her. Write a love letter to those gorgeous legs. Childish? Maybe, but do it anyway. How do you give it to her, Derrick? Cross that bridge when you get there.     Dear Legs:     I love you, but you knew or least suspected it.     You’ve been told that before.     Why listen to me?     Appreciation; that says it best.     The glows surrounding the curves that start below your knees make me smile.     When you cross those long shapely curves it scares me to think about what lies north of your knee caps.     There are no flaws in their vanilla smoothness that transport you from point A to B.     If I massage them would the muscle jump at me for being moved from their perfect position?     A mosquito would not dare bite those two works of art.     If I caressed and rubbed them would I feel razor stubble? I think not.     Legs, my kisses and nibbles will be gentle and sincere.     Derrick.     He started to ball up the rough draft. Don’t get cold feet now, if she doesn’t like it. Screw her, but find out either way so you can move on with or without her. *     Derrick choice to leave town was right on time. It poured the entire week. His former colleagues blew up his cell needing advice on system analyst. Once a department engineer, always an engineer. He begged to differ, but still gave his advice.     He missed his spot and resumed jotting down his observations of passers-by. He hadn’t seen his friends all week. Surprise, here comes Crystal. She must be on vacation. He’d never saw her in shorts, sandals and a headband. She looked great. “Derrick, how are you doing?”     “Good and you?” Her usual icy demeanor warmed a bit. She smiled like she liked him.     “Fine...Can I ask you something?” Derrick nodded. “Why do old guys ignore women their age?”     “Uh...uh, I don’t know. I like women my age.”     “You do. You don’t act like it.” She scooted closer and crossed her legs. “Do you like...wait, let me get this right.” She hesitated and touched his hand. Her palms were spongy soft. “When you talk with the others you seem to ignore me...you’re indifferent.”     “No, I do not ignore you, you ignore me.” Derrick interrupted. Jesus, Crystal I’m crazy about you. “I like you, I have since we met. And, I don’t have a problem with your being White if that crossed your mind.”     She smiled. “Seriously Derrick?”     “Yes.” He flipped his notepad to his love letter then snapped it shut. Show it later; if this goes well it might make a good Valentine’s card or whatever. “You on vacation?”     “Yeah, I stopped by the office to save the day.” She shook her head. “I should leave town and take the battery out of my phone.”     “Tell me about it. I’m in River North area, let’s go over my place and have lunch. No strings attached.”     “Ok. I’m surprised and pleased.” Her eyes gleamed.      Derrick stood and held out his arm. “Let’s get started I want to see how far this will go.” They locked arms and headed for his apartment.

Next Time Eric Burbridge The early morning text read: Mandatory meeting 8:00am sharp. I tapped the snooze button too often. With mouthwash on my breath and a half buttoned shirt I rushed to a packed elevator. This will not happen next time. Ribbons of sunshine appear on the hazy horizon. The doors to the shuttle bus ignored my pounding palms and remained shut. A lone cab honked; the occupants smiled and waved, I hoped they saw my finger. A brisk jog to the subway relieved some of the pressure. It stopped in the tube under the river. Plan better next time. The A/C free car released its hostages. I maneuvered up the broken escalator like a running back. Uniformed referees stopped me at the turnstile for ID. They acknowledged there was no penalty and “enjoy your day.” I made it with fifteen minutes to spare. Cold water to the face, comb through the hair and deodorant; now I’m ready. No close calls next time. A colleague was recognized for my proposal. Rage flowed to my hands; they found comfort around the neck of someone twice my size. I sat at the bus stop and listened to the sirens approach. I cannot go backwards or stand still. All I have is next time.

Pain Matthew L. Hall     The coldness of the steel barrel radiated through his lips and into his skull. The tip rested painfully against his upper palate; the stock was positioned between two bare feet. The icy sensations brought back memories of childhood, where the overindulgent licking of popsicles on the front porch led to countless painful headaches on hot summer days. That was so long ago.     The only sound in the motel room other than his labored breathing was the faint ticking of a wristwatch, which was buried somewhere in a pile of dirty clothes. The crumpled note on the night stand was direct: “Taking the kids to my mom’s for a few days. Please be gone when we get back.” Little thought was put into it, the message scribbled on the back of a convenience store receipt. It was fitting, however, as it mirrored his lack of effort in their relationship.     He took the gun out of his mouth and allowed his mind to wander backward in time to happier days. Hiking through pine covered forests; a brunch at a local greasy spoon where she stole tiny bites of pancakes off his plate and then swore the pieces contained no calories as they were not part of her order; the party where she caught the eye of every man in the room but held close to let the vultures know she was taken.     And then the thoughts shifted. Watching football on Sunday afternoons with his buddies took the place of the once beloved hikes. Dinner was fast food at the drive through for no other reason than just to get it out of way. Parties meant getting changed and showered, and that was too much of an effort to have meaningless conversations with people who were little more than casual acquaintances. He realized, now, that he could have made more of an effort. The subtle clues she had dropped to gain his attention went unnoticed at the time, and her non-confrontational nature never allowed her to address her feelings head on. Her note enabled a quick and clean break.     The thoughts of the missed opportunities formed in his mind like a pitch black storm cloud. Slowly he could feel them creep down his body. Flowing past his clenched jaw, the memories squeezed at his neck. His gag reflex caused him to swallow instinctively, but there was nothing there - just the pain of having a seemingly sawdust filled throat. Slowly the tension descended to his heart and enveloped it like an iron fist that was slowly massaging the muscle to its own spastic rhythm. It felt as though it would burst through his breast bone.     Sweat rolled down his fingertips as he gripped the trigger. He pressed his forehead against the barrel as more thoughts invaded his brain. His trembling hands glistened in the late afternoon twilight, which blanketed the room with its warmth.     He could only imagine what she was doing tonight. At this very second, she was probably standing in front of her vanity, checking herself out in a new little black dress bought for a special occasion. Twisting and turning under the bedroom light, making sure everything fit just right. Or maybe she was in the bathroom, drying off after a refreshing shower, hair up in a towel, toe-nails being painted. No doubt she was getting beautiful for her new certain someone.     Although he had no idea what she was doing, he was pretty sure how she was feeling. It was the same sensation that he got as a child on Christmas morning as he squirmed in his bed waiting for his parents to get up and tell him it was OK to open the presents under the tree. It was the shear anticipation, the excitement of the possibilities ahead, the mystery, and the intrigue. At that very moment her heart must be racing, wondering what the night had in store.     He wasn’t letting his imagination run wild. In the weeks preceding her leaving, he thought he had noticed small changes in her behavior. She had appeared happier than usual, and he had caught her on a couple occasions just staring out the window, lost in thought and smiling. She was also obsessively checking her phone, but his quizzical looks prompted her to say that she was involved in a big project at work. And then, the day before she left with the kids for her mom’s, he found the message. A folded blue index card lay on the floor beneath her purse that was hanging from a hook in the foyer. Distinctive male handwriting stated: “That was fun! Let’s do it again.” A smiley face with little horns followed his phone number. He was slightly stunned at first, but not overly surprised, and he put the card back exactly where he had found it.     That night proved to be sleepless as he lay awake pondering the best way to approach her. He tossed and turned, but she never moved a muscle. Only an occasional snort betrayed her presence in the darkness. He finally nodded off just before sunrise with an outline of a plan, but the late night had taken its toll. By the time he awoke the spot next to him was empty and cold, and the note she left put a stop to any ill-conceived line of questioning he had formulated in his sleep deprived brain. Wandering back into the foyer he noticed both the purse and index card were gone. It was probably just as well, since he could not handle suffering further indignity. He knew that he had ignored her and pushed her away. Nothing for her to do but leave, and he would honor her request and leave before she returned.     The knuckles on his right hand were turning white from gripping the barrel so hard. The muscle in his forearm was throbbing, begging to be relieved of the pressure. His left thumb was nestled, comfortably, in the steel cradle, ready to oblige the bidding of the slightest contraction. How did I ever get to this? he thought. One more deep breath; fleeting thoughts of countless happier days; a brief scan for any regrets. He bit the end of the gun and squeezed the trigger as hard as he could. ***     Her cream-colored silk slip clung to the contours of her body. The slight fold in her midsection was not there twenty years ago, a reminder that she was a mom twice over, but she knew she looked good. The V-neck, which plunged delicately between her breasts, was trimmed in lace and accented by a tiny bow at the center.     The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes were reminiscent of twenty years of happiness and sorrow, anger and contentment, acceptance and denial. Lately the mileage had come from a feeling of trapped helplessness, a creeping loss of self that was making her slowly lose her mind. The note was crass, she knew that, but subtlety was a luxury she felt she could not afford. Write the note and get out, her inner voice had told her. Do it. Run. There would be pain, but there was no other way.     She remembered how they feel in love. The quick glances that evolved into constant eye contact; casual conversations about nothing that gave way to meaningful discussions about life; and the inadvertent brushes against one another that developed into passionate embraces. It started as storybook, but the daily effort had taken its toll on the promise of a happy ending. What lay in front of her, not behind, was all that mattered now.     The air conditioning kicking on startled her. She grabbed her dress from the hanger on the back of the door, unzipped the back, and then delicately stepped in one foot at a time. Standing in front of the mirror she thought she looked more than presentable. She had toyed with the idea of getting a new dress for the occasion, but her choice of outfit had wowed in the past, and there was no sense in experimenting with something new. A quick check of the hair and the makeup met with approving eyes and a wry grin. She picked up her purse and threw her wrap over her shoulders. A deep breath and a throat clearing cough were punctuated by an inner affirmation that she could, she should, go forward.     She checked her phone and saw no messages from her kids. They were settled down at sleepovers for the evening.     With a flick of the light switch the room was cloaked in darkness. She closed the door behind her. ***     He expected a bright light, but all he heard was a “click.” For some unknown reason the shotgun failed to deliver. Casting it aside, he slowly crumpled onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably. His sobs were interrupted only by his retching. The bile burned the back of his throat as he tried to spit any volume of the substance on the carpet. Nothing solid came up – he had not eaten for days. He let his forehead touch the floor. The smell nearly made him vomit again.     After what seemed like hours he slowly rose to his feet. First one hand, then the other, followed by knees warily brought to his chest. The night stand made an excellent crutch to help him make it the rest of the way. The room spun slightly as he tried to wipe away the tears in his eyes, and the mucus running down from his nose tasted salty in his mouth. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he rested his elbows upon his thighs and draped his head so low that his chin almost touched his chest. It was an ideal position to deal with the dry heaving that was wrenching his shoulders and back. The periodic spasms from his stomach produced strings of drool that hung almost to the floor.     The beer bottles strewn about the room were a reminder of the past few weeks and of what his life so quickly had become. Pieces of stale pizza crust littered the coffee table, and a half-eaten tub of salsa attracted a few flies around its moldy lip. A brown mass, hopefully chocolate, was driven into the rug by a careless foot. His obsession wondering who she was with had turned into a paralysis. For the first week after he moved out he got nothing accomplished at work, so he decided to just stay in the motel. He knew that missing three consecutive days without prior authorization were grounds for termination, and the message he received on his cell phone the previous day confirmed just that. Things had snowballed so quickly. First the stunning realization that he was an inadequate husband, and now he was faced with the fact that he could no longer provide for his children. It was a one-two punch from which it was impossible to recover.     As he sat there covered in sweat it occurred to him that the misfire may have been a sign to stop, to move on, but the optimism quickly evaporated when he let his mind start to race again. He could envision her at the gym with her friends, complaining and bragging to them that she could not ride the stationary bike because of the passionate events from the night before. The women giggle, she tells the story, and nobody exercises. Less graphic, but equally as painful, he thought of her and her lover meeting for a clandestine stroll near a moonlit lake, reminiscent of walks that they, too, took, only years ago. One thought melted into the next and back again.     A quick shake of his head helped remind him it was not a sign, merely a malfunction, and that could be remedied. He had suffered too much humiliation to turn back now. He popped the cartridge out of the chamber, examined it, and slid it back into place. ***     When she tossed her purse in the passenger seat, the index card popped out and landed on the leather upholstery. She smiled as she picked it up and turned it over and over in her hand, rotating it between her thumb and fore and middle fingers. “What a coincidence,” she said, chuckling to no one, “As if I need further encouragement!” Even though she had long since memorized the number, she still kept the card. It was the most thoughtful, and flirtatious, token of affection that she had received in ages. She remembered that day, a couple of months ago, when they met. It was at a work gathering, one massive team building exercise that the higher ups thought would make the company more productive. Her sales department was paired with the people in finance, and they were tasked with brainstorming a program on how to recognize, promote, and celebrate high achievers.     She sat near the back of the room; he walked in late and took a seat next to her. Within minutes his snarky comments about the whole thing had her giggling. After a half-hour her sides hurt from laughing so hard. At his suggestion they made it a game to pretend to take a drink every time the facilitator said “synergies.” During the break they introduced themselves and chatted, and at lunch they engaged in more small talk. By the end of the meeting he had given her the card with his number; the horns to remind her of his charming subversiveness. The attraction, if not instant, was there at the end of the day.     She hesitated a moment before putting the car in reverse and easing out of the driveway. ***     When he cast his eyes downward, the partially hidden flask on the bed caught his attention. He placed the gun on the sheet and reached for the shiny metallic object that lately had been a source of comfort. With both hands he carefully ran his fingertips around the smooth edges, the chrome finish displaying trails of perspiration from his fingers. He traced the inscription with his fingernail: “Happy 10th Anniversary. I Love You.” Flipping the vessel over, he continued with his outlining. He followed the cursive lines of his engraved initials, which were carved directly above hers.     He remembered the day she gave it to him. The gift was a surprise on the morning of their anniversary, and as if the present wasn’t enough, she had filled it with his favorite scotch. They were staying in a cozy bed-and-breakfast in a picturesque town, and he took sips all afternoon while they wandered in and out of shops, buying the occasional snack and trinket. By dinner he was feeling its effects, so she playfully joined him with some wine in a nondescript container of her own. They spent the remainder of the evening strolling beneath the lights of the lampposts and standing under the stars in the park in the center of town. They kissed for what seemed like hours in the gazebo, while the peeping frogs in the nearby pond serenaded their every movement.     Those memories are useless now, he thought to himself. Clutching the flask in his right hand, he reared back and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. The impact must have been audible in the adjoining room, but no protest was heard. Where it landed exactly he did not see, but the indentation on the wall validated his disgust. ***     The car timidly coasted into the motel parking lot and came to rest against the concrete barrier between the asphalt and the sidewalk. Butterflies fluttered throughout her stomach; hands trembled on the wheel as she turned the ignition off. The small beads of sweat on her forehead were amplified by the cool air streaming from the vents on the dashboard. She caught her reflection in the review mirror, her eyes staring back at her. The deep blue pools were sincere, reassuring, and nonjudgmental. Go on, they told her. You have permission.     She stepped out of her car.     Fast food wrappers hovered gently in the breeze, rising and falling like marionettes being manipulated by a skilled puppeteer. The clinking of a rolling soda can was audible as it passed under the few cars parked nearby. Half of the neon sign was dark; the rest of it flickered sporadically. Her body quivered slightly as she was standing next to her car in the twilight. Turning slightly she leaned against the fender to steady herself and clutched her purse with both hands to help steel her resolve. The voice in her head was telling her that she was doing the right thing, and she knew the voice was right. It was what she should do. She knew to find him in Room 16. ***     Once more, he foisted the 12 gauge upwards, thumb on the trigger and the other hand around the barrel as if drinking from a grotesque yard. The glaring overhead light, littered full of insect carcasses, formed an illuminating halo beyond the butt of the gun. A slight twitch of his left thumb and a glint of light travelled down the barrel like a comet screaming through the night sky. Thoughts of childhood, memories of happiness, despair; slight warmth, the smell of gun powder, a faint noise. Darkness. ***     The “1” on the door was straight as an arrow, but the “6” had drifted off-kilter from the years of slamming and kicking. She paused momentarily as she rocked slightly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She wondered if the inertia would send her back toward her car, but she quickly extinguished that thought. She was where she wanted to be; where she needed to be. Her fingers slowly collapsed into a fist as she raised her left hand to knock on the door.     The sound of the blast tore through her ears. She heard a shriek, but she was unsure if it had come from her own throat. Stunned and ears ringing, she instinctively flung open the door and stumbled across the threshold. As she steadied herself against the wall, her eyes darted frantically around the room until they came to focus on the horrific scene in front of her: a crescent moon blood spatter was cascading down the grimy yellow wallpaper, and the lifeless body of her husband was sprawled beneath on the bed.     Her limbs went cold and numb, and she dropped to her knees. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, just deep breaths. What if I hadn’t hesitated? What if I had gotten here just a minute earlier? she thought to herself. Her mind raced, partially from anxiety, as well as from the avalanche of emotions that accompanied the realization that there would never be any second chances, explanations, or apologies. The twinges of self-doubt she had felt in the car were rendered moot by his decisiveness. Catching her breath, her eyes widened as she slowly came to the realization that in death he had given her what he couldn’t in life: her freedom.     There was only one thing that she could do now. Reaching in her purse she pulled out her phone. Barely visible, but sticking out of the top of the zipper was the devilish little face on the edge of the blue index card, smiling at her as she dialed. The phone rang a few times before being picked up. “Hi there, Mr. Synergies,” she said coyly, drawing the word out twice as long as needed. “I’m free tomorrow night.”

Hunger Liam C. Calhoun My Mother was sad – When I had walked, talked, And left the girl there, All alone in her bed, The bed I’d fled And cushion not my own As I’m now laying, Sheets up to chin And lying as well, at home, My mother’s home, But the home she said, “I’d always have.”             I roll over. My bed, my very own, Is hours away and if I were, “There,” I’d still hear her tears, My mother’s And those of the “others” I’d left Behind, left before, abandoned In that very bed that’s now And hers, only hers, Far from ours or ever will be; An “Eden,” becoming exile; Truth in prior trespass – an end.             I roll over. And as selfish as all this may sound, I saunter to the smell pancakes, Maple syrup, And fresh coffee in sobbing’s stead; Up until the grief of a mother – Tears atop tabletops, A stream quite displaced from mad, Where my visits, become few, far And even further, Most importantly – Alone; For her, for me and it pains her even more, The solitude of, “I.”             I roll over. Alas, the clock’s ticking not only sorrow, But something else awry. Awry or away, Where mom’s finally tackled slumber again, Snores intermitted renewed grin Under dreamt up birthday cakes, Sunlit orange juice and dandelions; Whisps Breeding the only smile, her son’s come home. So with light whimper, fried eggs come ‘morrow And a small dog at her feet, She’s in a moment, she’s satisfied. The one left behind, probably not though, As she’s atop a pool of tears and drapery boiled Drink come reckless.             I roll over. And like her, I’m still awake, Dreams taunt, but sheep can’t sleep, Because I’m – A little ashamed, a tad content, Still tired though and as odd as this may Sound, or not, Hungry for breakfast As pancakes overcome pillow-muffled Cries And burnt bacon mirrors souls and a Sacred long gone; Solace in only one of the two being happy, But one more than what was once before.             I roll over. and will again and again And again.

Photographing Fireworks Ben Macnair We stand watching, hear the oohs, and the aahs, the click and the flash of the camera invisible against a night sky decorated by man made fireflies. In the same way that bloggers relive the monotony of everyday experience, hoping to make one lasting connection with a complete stranger, or poets hope to relive one moment for their reader, nobody really cares. All that wasted energy and noise. All this useless beauty. Time spent in the pursuit of an experience that shouts I was here. I did that. That was me. All we have to show is a shadow. Reflections, blobs of falling embers in a sky already full of wonder, and rather than living the experience, we collect it. These moments are gifts. They are not investments. Live them. Share them. Be them. Do not swap a shared experience for a talent for photographing fire-works.

Homesick S. R. Mearns A thousand miles from hearts Days from familiarity In a misplaced town Built of strangers Sweet sleep drown me In a rivers tear Carry me westward Where my blood beats To where my lover lies Where she wraps herself In my soul, and creates A home for two hearts

Burdock Paul Bavister She showed me the long thin spade her grandfather used to dig for horseradish. It looked more than strong enough to lift long thin burdock roots. We hoped to roast them with the few parsnips left in the garden. We found the raggy heart-shaped leaves and prickly seed heads. We smashed the spade into chalky soil to lift long thin roots. I was fearful of the coming weeks. When seedlings struggled in the garden we would have to sneak to the river for trout. Back home we started a fire and when the ash settled we laid the roots in it - they softened to the texture and taste of sour chalky earth.

The Mole Paul Bavister He pointed from the orangery door across lawns to his future vision of an uplit walkway of pleached hornbeam. I took notes, calculated cost, advised that saplings would suffer in the drying wind. His sneer implied I was lazy. I ordered anyway. When they arrived I split frozen ground with a pickaxe. He crunched across the frozen lawn to check I was on track. He tapped his clipboard, dissatisfied. The grass at our feet started shaking off frost. A slit appeared then a mole flopped into the light, baggy in its soft sack of fur. His pen indicated that I hit it with my spade. The mole dug down, lifting turf until it found a crack in the frozen ground. He raised an eyebrow and for a second I thought I’d hit him with the spade. It rang in the frozen ground. A door slammed.

Migratory Birds Lisa Gray     It was the day after the wedding. The hunting season had begun. Shooting, mainly migratory birds, had always been a tradition in Cyprus for as long as Vathoulla could remember and she’d always hated it. Like she hated all tradition. Her father Stavros Papadopolous was a man of tradition. That’s why he’d gone hunting. Vathoulla knew that when she saw the gun was gone.     Tradition had been the reason she’d left the island of her birth as soon as she’d reached the age of eighteen and moved to London.     Her parents hadn’t been happy.     “Why you move to London?” said her father. “London no safe. You stay Cyprus. We get you nice husband.”     Vathoulla sighed. Why couldn’t her father move into the twenty first century? There was more to life than marriage.     And there had been. For two whole years. Until she met Mark.     “He wants to marry me,” Vathoulla had told her parents over the phone.     “Of course he wants to marry you. You wonderful girl!” her father had said. “But first I meet him. You bring him to Cyprus.”     Vathoulla sighed. She couldn’t imagine what Mark would think of her father.     “He’ll like him, I’m sure,” Emma, her flat-mate and best friend had said. “And your father will like Mark. What’s there to dislike about Mark?”     Vathoulla wasn’t so sure.     And neither was her mother.     “Why you no marry nice Greek boy?” she said the first afternoon that Mark and Vathoulla arrived in Cyprus.     “I no love Greek boy. I love Mark!” said Vathoulla angrily.     And she’d told her father the same.     He hadn’t liked it either.     “I talk him round,” her mother had said.     And she had. But Stavros had still insisted on Vathoulla following tradition.     “He move in with us. You get pregnant, you get married,” he said.     Vathoulla sighed.     Mark hadn’t been too happy either. Till she told him about the wedding.     “Everyone will give us envelopes of money,” she said. “Then we’ll have enough to go back to London and set up home there. Far away from my father and his traditionalist ways.”     And so it was agreed. She and Mark had given up their well-paid jobs in London and moved into her parents’ house in Cyprus.     Vathoulla rubbed her hand over her distended belly. Everything had gone to plan.     The wedding had been perfect. Her mother and father had hired the local hotel for the evening reception. Emma had flown out from London. She and Mark and Emma had taken their places in the corner of the function suite in preparation for the envelope giving.     Emma could have worn something more appropriate, thought Vathoulla as she watched Emma bend down to place the large box with the bow that would receive the envelopes behind the wedding party.     Emma’s underwear was clearly visible from underneath the micro dress she was wearing. Mark seemed to have noticed too. He raised his eyebrows as Vathoulla caught his gaze.     Why does she always have to be the centre of attention? thought Vathoulla angrily.     This was her day. Hers and Mark’s.     People were beginning to file into the function suite. One by one they passed their envelopes to Vathoulla. Almost by slight of hand Vathoulla passed the envelopes behind her to Emma who placed them in the large box with the bow on it. All evening a steady trickle of people kept arriving. Vathoulla smiled, thinking of all the money she and Mark would have to take back to London. No more Cyprus. No more tradition. She rested her hand on her belly. Her child would not be like her. Her child would not be a victim of tradition.     “You tired. I take you home,” her mother and father had said when the trickle of guests had dried up completely.     “Good idea.” said Mark. Emma and I will tidy up here and join you in a little while.”     “No forget the box,” had been her father’s last words to Mark, as he pointed to the ribboned box containing all the money.     “There’s no way I’ll forget that,” laughed Mark.     And he hadn’t. He hadn’t forgotten Emma either. It was Vathoulla he’d forgotten.     Vathoulla rubbed her hand over her belly. No child of hers was going to be a victim like she had been. She thought of all the money her father would bring home. Perhaps she’d buy her child a house. It was the tradition in Cyprus.     There was something to be said for tradition, she thought.     Her father, Stavros Papadopolous was a man of tradition. She’d known that when she saw the gun was gone. She was glad. She laid the letter in her father’s spidery handwriting down. She’d misjudged him. He had proved he could move into the twenty first century.     After all, London was a long way to go to shoot migratory birds.

Rats, Cats and Bananas Lisa Gray     “No-one comes in here at night!”     “Bananas!” yelled the beefy guy in the short-sleeved checked shirt and shorts.     There was a peal of laughter.     Smart Alec, Ruth thought, ushering the group out of the plastic tent into the blazing sunshine. There was one on every tour. Big, beefy and bumptious. She zipped up the tent that enclosed the banana plantation, glad to escape from the humidity and hurried across the cobbled yard trying to overtake the group who were straggling in all directions.     Thank God, this is my last but one trip.     She reached the large outbuilding that housed crate upon crate of green bananas.     “Ola!” she called to Manuel who waved less than enthusiastically.     He’s tired of tourists, thought Ruth.     She didn’t blame him. Trying to run a banana plantation with troupes of tourists tramping through was enough to turn anyone off.     She plunged her hand into a crate of bananas lying on the floor of the building, pulled one off the hand and began peeling it from plenty practice.     “Try one!” she said thrusting her hand out to the first of the group who had entered the shed.     A young girl with burnt shoulders exposed by her strappy top grabbed the banana gratefully and began to devour it greedily. Within a few minutes Ruth had handed a banana to almost everyone.     Everyone except the beefy guy and his wife.     “Would you like to try one?” she said, extending an arm towards the woman.     “Bananas make you fat!” said her husband.     Why doesn’t he shut his face? thought Ruth. And let his wife enjoy the banana. She looked like she could do with it. There was nothing of her. Ruth could see that by her hand. A long, skeletal, bony hand, blue veins rippling like a silent river beneath the transparent skin. Attached to threateningly thin arms that reminded Ruth of the poles that had held up her mother’s washing line.     “I eat a lot of them at home,” whispered an apologetic voice by Ruth’s side.     Her husband had wandered off to the far side of the building.     “We don’t do a lot of cooking,” the woman said by way of explanation. “Jim likes to keep the electricity and gas bills low.”     A mean, controlling asshole, thought Ruth. Did she detect a degree of resentment in the woman’s voice? Why the hell did some women stay with men like that?     Some women needed help.     She knew all about men like him. She’d spent her whole life avoiding them. She’d kept the whole bus amused telling them how many times she’d been engaged before breaking it off.     “I got away just in time!” she’d quipped. “I’m strictly a party animal! I run with the pack!”     “The Rat Pack?” someone had chipped back.     “Yes,” she’d replied, laughing. “Frank and I have a lot in common!”     “Is that why you came on the trip?” said Ruth.     The woman obviously liked bananas.     “Yes,” said the woman. “It’s my first trip of the whole holiday. I’ve been ill. Poor Jim’s been left alone the whole holiday.”     Poor Jim!     What the hell, lady? Don’t you know your husband’s been living it up? Partying every night on the island while you were in your sick bed.     Poor Jim.     That’s what she had thought when she met him at the Hacienda Disco two weeks ago. His head hanging disconsolately over his Cuba Libre at the bar.     “Cheer up! It’s not the end of the world,” she’d said.     She’d eased herself on to the bar stool. Glad to escape the drunken bums who’d been offering themselves to dance. She’d always been a sucker for another party pooper.     “How do you know?” he said, barely glancing her way. “Any moment now a giant tsunami could sweep us all away.”     “Hell, you’re a bundle of laughs!” she’d quipped. “Too many Cuba Libres?”     The guy nodded into his glass.     “And what precisely has made you overindulge in the local speciality?” she said. “It can’t be work. You’re on holiday?”     He nodded.     “It can’t be money. You must have plenty to drink those.”     She pointed at his glass.     There was no reponse.     She paused as if deliberating.     “It must be a woman!”     The guy took a big swig of the dusky drink in the glass and continued to stare deep down into the glass.     “You either have one or you don’t.”     “I have one.”     His voice was so low she thought she’d imagined it.     “Don’t sound so happy about it!” she said.     “She’s ill,” he said to the glass. “She’s always ill.”     No wonder, thought Ruth looking at the waif-like figure of his wife woofing down the banana she’d handed to her. The woman looks like she could do with a good meal.     She should have got off the bar stool and disappeared into the dancing crowd at the disco. Leaving one more loser. But that was her weakness. An underdog.     Instead she’d stayed. Talking. Till the bar had started to close up.     He’d walked her home and she’d invited him in. Like she always did.     Nothing serious. She’d string him along for a few days then dump him. It was her way.     But the few days had lengthened further. Further than ever before. And she’d done what she swore she’d never do. Got involved.     “You want us to be together, don’t you?” he’d said the end of that first week.     “You could leave your wife,” she’d said.     “She’d never give me a divorce. Too dependent on me,” he’d said.     He saw the look on her face and went on.      “There is another way.”     There always was. Another way. If you were a man.     Goodness knows why she went along with it. But love makes you do funny things.     And they’d be together in the end.     She looked at the waif-like woman in front of her and thought back to the banana plantation they had just left. The maze-like rows of banana trees. The mulchy resting place of the dead banana leaves strewing the ground.     “There are rats as big as cats!” she’d said. “No-one comes in here at night!”     It would be the ideal place. —————————————————&     She dragged the body across the courtyard and opened the zip of the tent enclosing the banana plantation. The sweat from the exertion and humidity dripped from her top lip. She looked around nervously.     Rats as big as cats. She’d joked about it enough. But she had no desire to meet one. She wouldn’t drag the body far. A couple of rows should be far enough. Then she’d make her getaway.     And they’d be together.     She turned up the third row of banana trees to her left and dragged the body halfway up before laying it to rest underneath a heavily laden banana tree. She stood up, broke two off the hand, stuffed one in her trouser pocket and the other in the pocket of the corpse.     It seemed fitting.     Rats, you’re in for a party tonight, she thought.     But I’ll not be joining you. My party days are over.     She zipped up the tent and stole silently across the courtyard back to the waiting car that was parked some slight distance away.     She got in.     “Everything all right?”     “Perfect,” Ruth replied, squeezing that waif-like hand and planting a kiss on that translucent skin. “Now, we just need to fatten you up.”     She’d thought that the first time she’d followed Jim home, curious to see the wife so dependent on him. The wife he’d wanted her to kill. From her position outside their window she’d seen how he’d treated that frail, delicate, darling. And it was then she knew why she dumped men.     Love. It can make you do funny things.     That’s why she’d waited till Jim had left the house and gone in and told her everything. She’d cried and cried and Ruth had put her arm around her and told her she needed help.     Her help.     She’d leant against her and it had felt good. For both of them.     She’d stayed talking and done what she’d sworn she would never do. Got involved.     But then it was easy. She’d always been a sucker for the underdog.     “You want us to be together, don’t you?” Ruth had said after those first few heady days.     There’d been a nod.     “You could leave him,” she’d said.     The head had been shaken. And she’d known why.     Fear.     “There is another way,” she’d said.     She’d learnt a lot off men.     And she’d told her what.     “Fatten me up?” she repeated.     Ruth put her hand in her trouser pocket, pulled out the other banana and handed it to her.     “Let’s start now!” she said.     “Bananas make you fat!” she said.     “Bananas!” yelled Ruth.     And there was a peal of laughter.

Story Telling 2010 Janet Kuypers (poetry converted to prose)     Your see, my mom, eleven years ago, had breast cancer, and the three girls flew to visit her at her home across the country. and mom felt bad that she couldn’t make our trip better because she just found out she had cervical cancer too. but we couldn’t have come at a better time... and she had procedures, she had surgeries and she had a radical hysterectomy, and then the cancer was gone she was in the clear. so for a decade she went to the doctor and they found no cancer in her. and all seemed well. she had beaten a killer.     when I was almost killed in a car accident and I had head trauma (no fractured bones, except my skull) they never told me (just my family but not me, the patient) that I’m expected to have a seizure within six months of my accident. I had a grand mal seizure seven months after I was almost killed. no one explained to me what was happening. I had to figure it out as I went along.     well, a decade after my mom’s bouts with cancer she went to the doctor again, had a fever, felt tired... and they said, well, it’s funny, you’ve got all the symptoms, and most women who have had as much cancer in their history as you’ve had, well, you’re likely to have leukemia.     well, she did.     and when she found out at her home in south west Florida, she traveled to University of Chicago Hospital (they’re a good hospital, you know) and she got prepped for chemo, was in the hospital shorter than me (damnit, I shouldn’t be so self-centered that way) and had chemo, lost her hair (with her new crew cut, as her hair grew back she looked just like her brother, Uncle Pete, from this army photos) and the doctors said she was in remission.     now, this leukemia is a tricky thing, cancer of the blood versus cancer of an organ: it was easier when you could just remove an organ and leave it at that but this was cancer in her blood, and the cancer crept into her bone marrow... and they had to periodically drill into her hip bone for a bone marrow biopsy to see if there was any cancer in her bone marrow.     fun job, drilling into her hip bone.     you wonder why there are so many hip replacement surgeries now? well, look at how doctors test now... a little bone pulled here, a little bone pulled there...     well anyway, the doctors said she was in remission (happy happy, joy joy), but because this cancer-of-the-blood thing was tricky they’re going to give her another round of chemo just to be on the safe side, because you know, if people don’t go through this extra round of chemo the leukemia is more likely to come back. so mom took the chemo and she recovered at my sister’s house until she was well enough to go back home and recoup in her own home. I visited her in her recoup time just shy of my parent’s fifty sixth wedding anniversary. bought the cologne dad would give mom for their anniversary while I was visiting. she hoped that when her hair grew back after the chemo it would grow back curly — and it was. she was so used to having a hairdresser style her hair into a bee hive and she’d have to sleep on her nose to keep her hair style in place until her next hairdresser appointment. so her hair was curling now she bought curling hair gel. she wore a little white hat (we always could pull off looking good in hats) and curled the ends of her new short hair around her little cap.     she looked so cute.     mom would work in the mornings run errands, get groceries and by lunchtime she would be tired, so she’d watch her soap operas. but who can blame her, she’s still recovering from all the chemo Hell she went through. all of her neighbors said, it’s amazing how well she’s doing after all she’s gone through. and they were right.     a month after I left from visiting, mom started to feel tired and feverish. so dad took her to the doctor and they said, silly us, she wasn’t in remission. they wanted to put her in hospice care immediately, and she looked at dad, and they both instantly agreed they’re not giving up that easily, so back to the University of Chicago hospitals. more chemo for mom (a different chemical this time so she won’t lose her hair) but after she went through the chemo again they found no change in her condition.     and then they said, “you’ve got two choices: because you’re immune to chemo now you can go for experimental treatments, or you can decide to stop treatment”.     she said, “I don’t want hospitals anymore”. so she made her choice.     and the doctors said she had two to six months to live, maybe as long as a year. I said to her as she was getting platelets at the hospital, “when your father had cancer, doctors gave him six months to live. How long did he live?” and she said six years. so this was something she could beat; we Bakutis come from a strong stock, we can do anything.     I know we can.     well, I don’t think she wanted to fight. I think the pain in her bones was too strong and I think she was tired of fighting a battle she couldn’t win. so she let it take over.     they said two to six months and she lived just shy of three.     she struggled through it all, not telling us about her pain.     just taking her medicine, so to speak, and hoping everything would just kill her and get it over with. and... and I think emotionally she made the choice despite us.     and now I sit and write this story, and my father is sleeping in front of the tv in his lounge chair next to me. he says it’s more comfortable there to fall asleep. and I’m listening to his breathing while he sleeps and I hear him panting every thirty seconds while he sleeps, like he’s having nightmares about it all still. as I tell this story there’s still a panic in the air. even while we sleep.

What the Hell is She Complaining About 2010 Janet Kuypers (poetry converted to prose)     I can’t go around telling people about what you did to me. You see, nobody wants to hear it and nobody wants to hear a girl whining. What the hell’s she complaining about anyway? But you know, nobody knows the effects of what you’ve done. Nobody knows that I showered for weeks, no, months to try to feel clean after you did that to me. Nobody knows why I have violent fits of rage, how I’d hit the wall, rip up the plaster.     You want to know what I think of men now? You want to know their place in my life now? You see, I didn’t know what else to do, so I became the rapist... And now I let men do nice things for me, but I always keep them at a safe distance. I never let them get too close, because I don’t care how nice you are i’ll always keep you at arm’s length. I learned my lesson.     So yeah, you had an effect on me and I have to bottle it all up because no one wants to hear the details. I mean, I wasn’t physically injured, what the hell could I be complaining about anyway?     But you know, there are times when I wish you left a mark, like a bee sting or something, so people could see a welt from what you had done.     Wait, no, I take that back I’d wish I was stung by a bee and I was allergic to bees. Because then my blood pressure would drop, my pulse would get rapid, I’d fall into anaphylactic shock, my skin would turn white before I got the the hospital as they tried to keep me alive.     All because of a bee sting.     While everyone else is thinking, a bee sting, what the hell is she complaining about.

Janet Kuypers Bio     Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.     She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.     She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.     Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).     In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, Prominent Tongue, Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# cc& hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me and Under the Sea (photo book), the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

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