Category Archives: JULY 2024

Bill Diamond, Creative Non-fiction, JULY 2024

Road Music

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Road Music

Bill Diamond

Long road trips and music are a match ingrained in the American cultural DNA.  Especially in the open spaces and the endless stretches of the western United States.

Your musical preference can be country songs fit for America’s wide and fruited plains; the bizarre lyrics of Leonard Cohen’s addictive ballads; the thumping rhythms of classic rock; or, something else.  Whatever your tastes, when you are piling up miles, music is the perfect travel companion.  Listening, or singing, with or without musical accompaniment, lifts the spirit and hypnotically helps the hours pass.  Songs can break up monotonous landscapes, or add to the majesty of breathtaking scenery.   

But, have you ever experienced the road singing back?  Not figuratively.  Literally.  I’m not talking a road-weary, out of body auditory experience; or, the result of a hallucinogenic.  Actual music coming from the asphalt.  There are a few places in the world where it can happen.

One such location is on an otherwise unremarkable segment of iconic Route 66 East of Albuquerque, New Mexico.  

For a quarter mile stretch on the Eastbound lane, the rumble strips were engineered to play “America the Beautiful”.  To hear the vibrations in action, your wheels have to be traveling on the strip at exactly the speed limit of 45 mph.  The selection of the patriotic hymn embodies the love of the open road and the allure of Route 66 as emblematic of that wanderlust.  A fitting song for one of America’s most famous roadways, which originally stretched 2,448 miles between Chicago and Los Angeles.

The song was installed in a 2014 partnership between the New Mexico Department of Transportation and the National Geographic Channel.  It was designed to encourage drivers of the historic road to slow down.  The project required a fair bit of engineering.  The individual gouges had to be placed a precise distance from one another to produce the notes of the song.  The result was that the rumble strip hums the tune as tires pass over. 

When installed, the phenomenon was announced with large road signs, giving a one mile warning in advance, and directions on how to create the music.  

This is no longer the case.  The signs have been removed and wear and tear has somewhat diminished the sound.  Therefore, it’s no longer part of a casual drive.  To experience the song requires searching, effort and commitment.  On a trip to Santa Fe, Juanita and I undertook the quest.  

The first challenge is to locate the correct stretch of road in the absence of signage.  You leave the interstate in the tiny town of Tijeris to access Eastbound Old Route 66 which parallels the new highway.  Online descriptions indicate the song is between mile markers 4 and 5.  

On the first pass, we learned these directions would be more helpful if those markers existed.  They do not.  This part of the road is a divided highway.  Therefore, reversing direction requires driving several miles and making a large loop.  We made the circuit for a second attempt.

On this lap, we spotted a marker for mile 3.  On the fly, we tried to determine the location using the odometer to estimate the start of the appropriate portion of the road.  This is an imprecise exercise.

I drove while fixated on both the odometer and the speedometer.  I also tried to place the wheels on the rumble strip on the passenger side of the road.  This was no easy task as the strip is not highlighted and blends almost invisibly into the rest of the road.  Juggling these tasks is the definition of ‘distracted driving’.  

Juanita had her window open and her head outside looking for the grooves.  We proceeded like this for several miles.  The chill November air was bracing.  We didn’t turn the heater on for fear it would muffle the sound of the highway humming ‘America the Beautiful’.  

We heard the groan of the rumble strip that is normally designed to alert you that you are leaving the roadway.  However, it was an off and on staccato.  The notches are only about the width of a tire.  I would hit the strip and hear the loud noise.  It was difficult to stay on the narrow corrugation.  Particularly on a bend of the road and while I was simultaneously trying to monitor the speed and distance.  I moved on and off the strip in a herky-jerky manner.  It was as likely I would slide off the road into the ditch as ‘play’ the inspirational song.

There was a lot of skill involved in this endeavor.  Imagine trying to learn a new musical instrument.  Now imagine the instrument weighs over a ton and is traveling 45 mph.  I’ve never been good at music and have difficulty whistling or even carrying a tune.  This lack of talent didn’t help.

Juanita assisted by playing the role of a concert conductor.  A maniacal conductor!  As I tried to maneuver the rental car down the semi-shoulder of the highway, she provided a stream of shouted directions while waving her arms.  The wind blew her hair to resemble that of a banshee.  “Move left.  Faster!  Now right!  You’re missing the strip.”  Distraction was piled upon distraction.

Miraculously, at some point, we heard several notes of America the Beautiful.  Although it was the treasure we were searching, it still came as a surprise.  It wasn’t a symphony orchestra, but the tune was clear.  It only lasted a few seconds as I couldn’t keep the car properly aligned.  I managed to find a few more notes before we were beyond the engineered melody.  

It was like sighting an elusive wild animal in the forest.  The taste of success made us eager for more.  We circled around for another try.  This time, we had a better sense of where the musical part of the road began.  Practice should have improved our skill.  Confidence was high.  Impractically high.

One of the issues is that this was more art than exact science.  A car is a crude instrument.  And, all the logistical challenges of speed, location and narrow target remained.

Juanita was pumped and enthusiastically engaged in the hunt.  As we approached, she began a patter of instructions as if I hadn’t just made an attempt minutes before.  “Remember to go 45 this time.”  “And, stay on the strip.  Don’t swerve so much.”  

I concentrated.  We found the beginning of the song and heard more notes.  Then I moved off the grooves.  It wasn’t intentional, it’s just difficult.  And, on this attempt, there was much heavier traffic zipping past us, including a large semi-truck.  Its wind blast moved the car.  I slowed and compensated.  

Juanita is usually insistent on safe driving.  She was apparently lost in the moment.  Rather than concerned about the risk of a collision, she was distressed we weren’t getting the entire song.  “Go right, go right.  We’re not on it.”

Before the rumble strip tune ended, I managed to capture more of the anthem.  This third attempt was still spotty, but it was our best yet and had proven that the highway actually belts out a song.  

Juanita gave me a look that said I was hopelessly incompetent.  “You moved off the strip again.”

I decided it was pointless to explain I thought it wasn’t worth being crushed by a tractor-trailer to squeeze out a few more notes.

She exuded such confidence about the ease of the task, it was as if she’d already traveled and mastered this musical highway.  Since I was flubbing the ‘instrument’, I assumed she’d relish an opportunity to have a hands-on go of it.  I pulled onto the dirt shoulder.

“You can do better?”

Faced with the prospect, she was calmer and said, “No.”

I didn’t expect the truth.  It threw me off.  Nonetheless, I insisted, left the car and went to the passenger side.  “Your turn to drive, maestro.”

She reluctantly slid over.  We re-visited the now familiar road for a fourth run.

When we got close, I alerted her that we were almost there.

“Don’t make me nervous.”  Apparently input from the female species to the the male species is helpful guidance.  The reverse constitutes unnecessary confusion.  Go figure.  I bit my tongue.

Hunched tight over the steering wheel, Juanita rumbled down the rumble strip.  She had somehow magically willed the other cars to disappear.  We were the only vehicle on the highway.  We bounced and jiggled.

The dulcet tones of ‘America the Beautiful’ reached our ears.  It lasted for a few seconds.  Juanita had the same trouble navigating the asphalt keyboard that I had.  She  strayed, then got back on course several times.  By the end, we’d heard more of the song than previously.  Pretty good for a rookie.

We declared success with a high five and continued our backroad journey to Santa Fe.  Another unusual roadside attraction added to our Life Lists.

I understand why the State took the signs down and no longer advertises the project.  It was a great experiment and may have slowed some drivers.  Nonetheless, it created a hazard.  Most cars and trucks are traveling over 60 mph and don’t expect others to be going significantly less.  Especially not when these tourists are swerving erratically in and out of the breakdown lane.  Safety before entertainment. 

It was a challenge to make the road sing.  Still, it was an uplifting reminder that there are thousands of offbeat places in our world.  These unique sights surprise and delight in an age when the forces of homogenization are strong.  Enhance your life by seeking them out.

FICTION, JULY 2024, Michael Tyler

Blood On The Sidewalk

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Blood On The Sidewalk

Michael Tyler

Sam is lying languid on yellow sheets, James will be home tomorrow which leaves little time for new lovers.

 Sam reaches up and receives the glass and sips with the merest hint of a grin. I drink from the bottle and look at scars on a wrist, a tattoo marked and bled, bracelet often mislaid.

 The tattoo once read, “He possesses heart who knows fear but masters fear: who sees the abyss but sees it with pride.” Sam had nodded as she read and rubbed her index finger across my skin.

 Sam leans in for a refill and I note the nape of her neck, newly revealed to the world. I call her a flapper and she replies it was once all the rage and pats the bed saying simply, “Sit with me awhile.”

 Audrey Hepburn catches my gaze from across the room, a room I know so well yet see in a light newly revealed. “Scales from the eyes,” I mutter. Sam asks what I said and I reply simply, “Nothing … nothing important.”

 Jazz is barely audible but speaks softly in the meanwhile. “I am in the pink,” Sam had said when she put it on and I remain bemused.

 And James will return and for now Sam is here and I am here and the bottle is half full and Sam teases with a fingertip …

photo Harry Rajchgot

Angela Townsend, Creative Non-fiction, JULY 2024

Foiled

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Foiled
by Angela Townsend

Everything is sentimental in a time of triumph. I discovered this when I reached the end of the tin foil roll. Standing in my kitchen, the final sheet in sight, I wondered how I could make this a keepsake.

Maybe I could take that last ripply rectangle and coax it into a swan or a Brontosaurus.

Maybe the Reynolds Wrap box could be reborn as a shelter for scrunchies.

Maybe there were other ways to honor Awful August.

I had acquired this household product when the dragonflies buzzed and the Perseids played. Mere weeks into living alone, I discovered I could not only acquire a toaster oven of my own choosing, but also command veggie burgers as I saw fit.

I could set them on silver magic carpets, keeping my chipper white appliance pristine. I could assault them with 450’ dragon fire, scorching them into crisp pucks.

I could eat and experiment and hold my house without anyone holding me in contempt.

I found myself daily astonished. Contrary to bleak predictions, I was capable of rejiggering the dryer vent when it misbehaved. Against all odds, I remembered to change the air filters. Surely attracting the awe of angels, I did not destroy the dishwasher.

Somehow, I even accomplished feats such as feeding myself, keeping not one but both cats alive, and remaining generally ambulatory, at times even with a shine in my step.

This was all despite the fact that Awful August was upon us.

I conducted experiments, praying God would help me to conduct myself with grace. I prayed for V.’s family before I would take a bite of dinner.

I played with V.’s least favorite cleaning products and made the house smell like hooligan Gain and lawless strawberries.

I piled my hair high atop my head, then cut it short.

I watched good men have good fun on The Tonight Show until my laughter shook pillars.

I erased pages.

I wore ruts in the road to Goodwill until the old man with the eye patch smiled at me knowingly: today, pajamas from V.’s mother; tomorrow, jungles of burdened stuffed animals. It made me happy picturing Costco fleece and Gund birds finding new life, somewhere they wouldn’t have to stand in for flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone.

I made mistakes by the roll, dropping glass and shopping unwisely and snapping at my mother when I was scared.

But now I was my own foil, and my fouls were not met with swordplay. I swept up the pieces. I resolved to do better tomorrow. I apologized and was forgiven.

I prayed for his family before I would take a bite of dinner.

My mother, God’s poet, God’s planet, God’s grace in blonde, blocked out two Zoom hours every morning. Her herbal-tea eyes, the comfort of my life, boiled over. We did the last five years over. We traveled the full length of the cosmos, redeeming time, foiling the rancid wedge between us.

When V.’s plants and couches and kitchenware departed, she cheered the void and filled it with pastels. She brandished Samuel L. Jackson’s entire vocabulary. She spent thirty-six hours redecorating my empty condo, naming it the Queen’s Garden.

She forgave me and refused to admit anything to forgive. The crown sat light atop my head.

And then Awful August made me lightheaded.

Late-night V. calls pierced promises of God’s peace. The edge of midnight brought threats to climb my balcony, convince the court to command my cats, tow me like a dinghy to marital counselling.

He would scorch me. He would save me. He would take his life. He would take me in his sacred love.

I was not his for the taking.

I was taking care of business, shaking like the last square of foil.

My friends toasted my tries and confessed they “knew” before they knew. They knew. How did they know? How did they all know, even the ones who are always the last to know?

They charged me to reclaim my name, give no ground, live no more as a blanched ballerina en pointe. They observed that I looked younger. They admitted that I had looked terrible.

The shower drain mysteriously stopped clogging, an anomaly since it had surely been my hair to blame.

A work picnic became an uncorked coronation, volunteers and valiants polishing my tiara and amputating the long tail of “unlovable.”

Halfway through the picnic, he called. He would let me keep the cats if I went to counselling. God spoke to him in the afternoon sun. Wasn’t I the one who always said God still spoke? Now he understood. Now. Now. Now. OK?

I attempted to negotiate. I got scorched. I got sunflowers. I got scared. My Mom got scared.

And then I got sentimental for myself.

When the man opened the cage, sleepy and cavalier, he had five years of evidence that the bird would tremble.

But the bird saw something glinting in the tree, not tin foil but dignity.

The bird realized it was her reflection.

And the bird flew.

And the bird’s courage is still new.

And the bird can let Awful August drop in The Lover’s ocean.

photo Harry Rajchgot

FICTION, Jane Weary, JULY 2024

EXILE

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EXILE

Jane Weary

We are inside a metal container in the compound.

Last night, after leaving the truck, they came and sprayed hoses on us, a hard shower washing away our filth. We stood under the water, still clothed, in batches of five or maybe six. I held on to Marie. I need the child as much as she needs me. Marie, of course, held tightly on to Dara. It was good to see that dirty toy washed. We stood beside our older sister, Jaz; our brother, Sami, had been taken away with a group of men. 

We let the water fall upon us and rejoiced. Strange how a person can rejoice in such a time of terrifying unknown. But the feel of the water cleaning from our bodies all that was before, brought with it some release, lightening our hearts. I saw Jaz throw back her head to allow the water to soak through her matted hair and wash clean her eyes, opening her lips to let the wetness fall upon her dry mouth. At first, Marie, in my arms, held tight around my neck, her face buried into my chest, but then she seemed to relax into the liquid dancing off her skin and loosened her grip letting her body fall back, away from me. 

We were given some bread and then the women and the young were brought inside this container to lie where we could to sleep. At least the door stayed open allowing in the damp night air, and a welcome streak of soft moonlight. It also brought the night’s insects, buzzing and whirring around our heads. If we had not been so exhausted, none of us would have slept at all because of them.  We did not speak. I believe we were too tired to talk, and too afraid of what we might say.  

But now I am awake. I have rested, a broken, fitful sleep, true, but I feel ready now.  Somehow we must get out from here, away from these people, our fellow passengers so empty and so broken and our captors, so impatient and severe. We must find Uncle’s friend.  I have moved to sit beside the door where I can watch and listen for our brother to find us.

It is almost dawn before I hear it, the sky just beginning to lighten. The sound of sharp staccato notes from a reed frog, here where there are no reeds. I know immediately it is Sami. It is the song of the river that runs through our village back from where we have come. My brother makes his animal noises well. I crawl over the sleeping bodies to Jaz. She has heard it too and is ready. She looks at me with brown, clear eyes. I shake little Marie, who is still holding tightly to Dara. She moans and I quickly cover her mouth, softly pulling her up to stand beside me.

We move stealthily, making only a slight rustle as we gather the plastic bags holding the belongings we have managed to keep. There is little left. Our feet are bare, our shoes in the bags. Silently, we creep away from the container. 

One man sits near the fence by the road. Sami gives him American dollars. He seems satisfied with this. No one will know we have left because no one knew we were ever there. We avoid eye contact with him, slipping past on silent feet moving us into the coming day.

By the time the sun has come up we are not the only ones upon the road. In fact it is busy, busier than any road I have ever seen.  People and animals share space with bicycles and cars and many, many trucks. We do not stand out in any way;  we are just another group of ragged people walking with plastic bags. My braided hair has long come undone, as has Jaz’s.  We all wear the same clothing we had dressed in the morning we left the Refugee Camp, having kissed baby Nadia a thousand times, having wept and held tightly to our Mother. I had been the last to follow the others into the truck, my heart heavy, and my head light. 

Now here we are in this city with only the name of Uncle’s friend and an address on a piece of paper. As we walk, Sami takes it out to check the information. The paper is wet from last night’s watering and falls apart in his hands. We stand by the side of the busy, dusty road while he and Jaz try to decipher what can be seen. It is impossible, the paper is illegible. 

‘It’s ok,’ he says, his voice shaking. ‘I think I remember that his name was the same as my teacher.’ He sounds out the name slowly, but his eyes look confused, uncertain. ‘Or something close to it.’ And then he quickly adds, ‘It’s only the address we have lost.’ 

‘Only his address?’ I sound incredulous. I am. His teacher’s name is so common, there must be many, many with the same name here. Too many. Where to begin?

Jaz shakes her head. ‘That is not enough, Sami. Especially if you are unsure.’ She looks at him. I watch and see he cannot meet her eyes.

‘I am unsure,’ he admits.

I cannot believe he has allowed this to happen. I cannot believe we are here in a loud foreign city where people pass us everywhere, but do not see us. We are like dust in the air to them. And now, we have nowhere to turn, no one to call. I stare at my brother and my sisters, all hope sinking in my belly. No one speaks. 

As we stand there in despair, the morning sun burns down. It seeps through my thin clothing and I begin to feel faint. It is already so hot upon my head and the plastic bag I hold in my hand cuts against my grip. Suddenly I need to pee badly. Overnight I felt the cramps inside me and know that my blood is running. Jaz took some ragged cloth from out of her bag and I placed it inside my pants when we squatted to the side of that container in the indigo air of the early morning. It feels now as if it has loosened and I fear it may fall out and betray me.  We have not eaten anything. We have not drunk since the water from the hose the night before. I need to sit, I need to eat, I need to sleep… I need I need I need. I need my mother.

And then I am screaming, running down the road, my sandals sharply slapping against the hard surface of the street, my hair flapping against my back, the plastic bag bouncing in my scrunched up fist. I am become a crazy girl, a thin, bleeding crazy girl with unbraided hair and plastic sandals and all I know is to scream. Scream and scream. And all I see is the glare of the sun and all I hear is the slap slap slap of my feet, like gunshots fired beneath me.  

Sometime passes before I realise I am crouched in the shade of a dirty vehicle parked under a skinny tree whose empty branches reach over me. For a wild moment I think these are the arms of my mother, but then I see the brittleness and know there is no comfort here,. The heat and the dust and rubbish summersault about me in the shallow breaths of air that come and go. Gradually I hear again the dull noise of the city and see again the sunlight so harsh I am blinded. I  am weeping. Without noise, tears fall down my face and I cannot stop them. I relieve myself squatting there in a parking lot outside big concrete buildings. 

I have lost my family. I am without place. I am alone and I am shamed.

****************

It is Marie who finds me there, huddled alone beside the car. She has loosened from Jaz’s grip and has run searching for me. She too is crying, “Kali? Kali? Kaaaaali. Pleeeeeease. Where are you? Kali. Please” I hear her shrill sad voice and for a small moment it makes me weep harder.

“I am here, Marie.’ It is a whisper, my voice hoarse, my throat dry. “Just here behind the car.” And I stand so she can see me. I am happy she has found me,  relieved I have not lost my family and they are here and they are with me.  I feel that I am trembling and so I wipe my eyes, hoping to clear the tears, to hide my weakness, to find myself again.

Sami comes striding toward me. I see the anger in his eyes. He grabs hold of my hair throwing me back to the ground. He ignores the thud of my shoulder smacking into the side of the car as I fall beneath him.  He ignores, too, my sharp intake of breath and my wince. He places his hands around my neck and shouts, spitting the words into my face,

“Never leave the family. Never.” His eyes are red-streaked and his hair, like mine, is wild and uncombed. He looks like a mad man. “Next time we will leave you. We will take your shoes and take your money and leave you in the dirt… alone.” He squishes my face sideways into the street. Hard. He means this. And I know that he too is shamed; he has not saved the paper with the address we need.

Marie comes forward to him. She pulls at him. “No Sami,” she tells him, “no.” 

Then Jaz comes too.  “Sami, you are hurting her.”  Her voice seems surprisingly steady, more tired than concerned.  His hold loses energy and his fingers leave my throat. I turn my head spitting out the dirt in my mouth and the blood, happy that I can breathe. My eyes look up, squinting, into the sun. Jaz is looking at Sami – with some admiration I think, although I am not certain because the sun blinds my sight. Perhaps her look is one of gratitude. Jaz is older than me, but she knows that I am braver.  

Sami stands up from where he was, moments before, kneeling over me. I stand up too. We are both shaking. No one says a word. We turn to follow Jaz as she begins to move down the road. In the loud silence drumming in my ears, I feel Marie slipping her little hand into mine. 

An hour later, we are all tired. Bone-tired. But we walk on. We have no choice but to walk on, following Sami who has taken the lead again despite our knowing, without words, that he will never remember the name of Uncle’s friend; he simply leads us forward. 

And no one wants to carry Marie. She is hot and, although, like the rest of us, she has not eaten well in months, she feels heavy, too heavy to carry. I can see how her shoes hurt her feet. She was barefoot for those months in the Camp and now her toes are rubbed raw and red from the chaffing of the plastic. She cries, big soft sobs, hiccupping pitifully, as if aware that no one is listening. As if she knows that it is useless, but she must cry anyway. I am sad for her, but not so sad I can find the strength to carry her.

The city is a nightmare.

We speak to no one; we are too tired and we trust no one. 

Somehow, by good fortune alone, I think, we find the bus station. Our brother buys us tickets to the furthest town we can get to on a one-way bus. We do not recognize the name of the destination. The neon writing over the front of the bus is blue, a strange blue, like nothing I have ever seen. Metallic and sharp, it shimmers in the sunlight as if there is something wrong.

It is going north, that it all we know. North to the west and freedom. We follow the crowds, fighting to enter the bus. We are like sheep, only knowing to follow the one in front.

We buy water bottles, spending more of our precious money but Jaz tells us it is important to have water. We all remember the truck and not one of us argues. Sami also buys bread and tomatoes that are a deep red and filled with rich juices when we bite into them. The taste stings our mouths, so unused to fresh foods. My cheek hurts badly, but whether this is from Sami’s cruel push or from the tomatoes, I cannot say.

‘Come.’ Jaz is straight backed, her mouth a harsh line. She is holding out her arms to take Marie from me as I hesitate to board. ‘Hurry,’ she orders, ‘I will find a seat.’  My mouth hurts so much I cannot speak and so I simply nod, wordless, and hand the baby up to where Jaz stands inside the bus. I fear that, like Marie, I have been made mute by all that we have lost. It is everything.

The bus is full. It is alive with people talking and arguing, laughing and singing to music which the driver blares from the radio. The notes are loud; the songs strange and haunting. It is not music that we know. It doesn’t matter. 

I turn my face to the window holding tightly to Marie who is holding tightly on to Dara.

FICTION, JULY 2024, L.F. Armitage

That Peaceful Summer Night 

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That Peaceful Summer Night 

L.F. Armitage

A bug zapper crackled, disturbing the cicada-hum of that peaceful summer night. A car rolled in and made the bell within the gas station ring which did not disturb the man behind the counter who slept peacefully leant against the window of the store. The man in the red station wagon stepped out and began to fill his car. Checking the attendant was in fact asleep, the man took out a cigarette and lit it with a flip-lighter then stared out at the woods around the gas station as the pump whirred and vibrated in his hand. He took a draw of the cigarette and put the pump back into the fuel dispenser where the man noticed an old-style, scratched up metal sign that read: “DO NOT SMOKE AROUND THE PUMPS” in faded typography. The man smiled to himself and stepped out of the way of the pumps, off of the dirt road by the gas station and onto the edge of the woods surrounding the place.

The man was named Terry, and this was not the first time he had stopped at a gas station on a warm, peaceful summer night such as the one he stood smoking into. He looked up at the night sky, the moon was beginning it’s slow-descent down now that it had reached its highest point and pin-prick-nickel-stars glittered, the moon remained an unflinchingly pearl-white circle. Terry thought of his father and the nights they had spent looking at the stars on his childhood home’s roof; they spoke about life, fishing, girls, his parents’ pending divorce… how relevant those conversations became as time went on. Taking a final draw, Terry flicked the cigarette into the woods and stepped back into that dirty-orange aura of the gas station to pay — he wondered if he had enough to pay and took his wallet out of his pocket; he opened it wide.

A dull nickel looked back at Terry from within the barren, leather pocket of the wallet. Rooting around, there was nothing else in the wallet save a few expired and unused credit cards and a small worn photo of Terry, his wife and their two kids: Terry Jr. and David. Giving the attendant asleep behind the counter another quick glance, Terry took out the nickel and spotted a phone box behind the gas station. Eyeing the dull coin thoughtfully, Terry went over to the phone box, inserted the coin and dialed a number: His home phone number.

“Clinton residence,” came a young voice, tinny through the phone, “who is speaking?”
“What’re you doing up this late?” Terry questioned the voice, who he realised was his youngest son, David. There was silence for a moment. the gentle cicada-hum from outside of the phone box began to seep in when the voice came again impertinently:
“Mom’s out again and Terry’s upstairs with his girlfriend.”
“Dammit, kid… ” Terry said half to himself as he breathed out, “You should turn off whatever you’re watching and get into bed, young man. It’s midnight.”
“One-thirty.” David said, equally as docile as before his father told him to go to bed. Terry smiled to himself and scratched his temple.
“All the more reason to go to bed. You okay though, kiddo?”
“Yes, Daddy. How was your interview?”
“Better than last time that’s for sure. It’s a bit far away but if I can get the car fixed we won’t have to move-“
“I don’t want to move Daddy,” David said, almost accusingly.
“We won’t, don’t worry.” A silence came sharply over the two, The cicadas began to grow loud in Terry’s ears, like some chorus of crescendoing accusatory and tiny conflicts within his mind. “All right, get to bed as soon as I hang up now, David, I’ll be back in the morning. Looks like it’ll be pancakes for breakfast tomorrow – just like mom’s.”
“Okay Daddy, see you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you more, kiddo.”

He waited for his child to hang up first. Terry stood in the phone box for a moment and breathed in then slammed the phone onto the hook a few times. Leaving the phone to hang on its wire, Terry stepped out of the phone box and looked back up at the night sky. It was not the first time his wife had ‘gone out’ for the night. Terry looked up at the moon and the moon seemed to look back. Why did I stay with her? He thought to himself, then he thought of Junior and David and remembered why. After some more introspection, Terry got back into his red station wagon and scrunched his hands over his steering wheel. Terry tried to think happy thoughts but he ended up thinking about burning his house down, collecting the insurance money for the house and his wife then riding off into the sunset with the kids and their dog Milly. The thought made him smile. The station wagon started up, spluttered and popped then drove off into the darkness. The bug zapper crackled and the cicadas hummed into that peaceful summer night.

photo US Environmental Protection Agency

FICTION, Jim Wright, JULY 2024

The Man with the Spook Eye

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The Man with the Spook Eye
by Jim Wright

Ricky trudged through the field, looking for rocks. Ahead, his dad steered the old tractor as it clattered along, churning up a smudge of dust. The tractor pulled a wagon that bumped across the furrows of the plowed field carrying a load of fresh-picked stones. Three other figures flanked the wagon with Ricky, scanning the ground as they tramped. These were his sisters and brother, Frecka, Linny, and Tom, all pressed into service like Ricky to clear large stones off the field before planting corn.  As they marched, one then another would spot a stone, amble over, hoist it, and stagger back to the wagon to toss it onto the growing rock pile.

Ricky was eleven and already knew plenty about the relativity of time—how the seconds could slow and congeal during church or when his mother left him alone in the Pontiac Bonneville during visits to town because he was a nuisance and hazard to her grocery shopping at the A&P. But picking stone felt like it registered on a scale with no end in this lifetime—maybe glacier time or eternity. The tractor would crisscross the field, tracing an unending labyrinth through a trackless desert. The stones he picked seemed limitless and unremarkable as potatoes. 

But today, as on all days, the long raveling journey did eventually end, as the last rocks were plucked from the field. With a happy shout, the pickers all hopped on the wagon. The tractor drove to a corner of the field that bordered the woods and pulled to a stop in the shade of the trees. Ricky peered over the side of the wagon into a dark ravine half-filled with a large rock mound. 

The pickers worked with energy, pitching stones onto the rockpile. As the last stone arced into the darkness of the ravine, Dad started up the tractor again. It lurched forward in a cloud of blue exhaust, nosing up the path toward home. As the tractor gained speed, Ricky slipped off the wagon side and waved. “Going to the woods,” he shouted to the others. “Be home in a little while.” His sisters and brother sat with legs hanging off the bouncing wagon, waving back. Soon the tractor was far up the path, rattling like a can of pebbles. It passed behind a hedgerow and was gone. 

Ricky turned toward the impassive face of the woods fronting the field. For a moment, he studied the shadows, then took a deep breath and ducked into the trees. The air was hushed. Overhead, the leafy canopy cast a green sun-dappled shade, rustling lightly. 

Ricky imagined he was a fish, darting through a huge pond ceilinged with lily pads. He quickly found his stride and loped along deer paths toward a far part of the woods that was his secret kingdom. Soon Ricky could see the land sloping upward. As he climbed, the stately woods thinned, and Ricky crossed into his realm: a five-acre stand of younger trees that had taken over an abandoned farmstead. Here, the afternoon sun streamed through the broken canopy to light up the ground in a dazzling pattern. 

Ricky shouldered through a clutter of tangled undergrowth and stepped into a small clearing. Just ahead, he spied his secret castle—a low, crumbling stone foundation surrounded by an overgrown wall of scrubby bushes and berry vines. The foundation was a remnant of a haybarn long since rotted away. Along one side of its enveloping thicket, a shadowy entrance rose up from a granite threshold. 

Ricky ran to the opening and peered in. He saw what he thought at first was a pair of wolf eyes locked on him. Ricky blinked in confusion. He looked again. 

As his vision focused, he made out the figure of a man seated in front of a smokey fire and now staring calmly into the flames. Ricky moved back to the edge of the opening and peeked in.  The stranger was old, maybe as old as Ricky’s uncle. He had a shaggy head of salt-and-pepper hair. The man looked tall and wore a pair of worn jeans. He had on a sleeveless undershirt that came down tight across a hard dome belly. The man held one hand extended. Across his flexing fingers a silver dollar rolled back and forth as if alive. The man closed the dollar in his fist, shook it twice, and opened it. The dollar had vanished! Another fist-shake and the dollar reappeared, to crawl again like a salamander through his fingers.

The interior of the ruined barn was a half-step down, with a floor of weedy, hard-packed earth covered with leaf litter. Trees and bushes crowded the outer edges of the foundation like battlements of green, framing open sky overhead. The man continued to sit, working his enchanted coin. On the fire, a pot bubbled and gave off a tasty smell. A large canvas rucksack lay propped nearby. 

The man froze, the coin scissored between two fingers. He called out in a raspy voice: “I see you, boy. Why don’t you come introduce yourself?” 

Ricky held his breath and stood so still that he felt invisible. The man looked over. 

“I know you’re by the doorway, boy. I seen you. Come say hello.” 

Ricky hesitated, then exhaled and stepped into the opening. The man tilted his head back, studying Ricky up and down. One of his eyes was large, dark brown, and glittering, while the other was a filmy white marble. 

“Where’d you come from?”, the man asked finally. 

Ricky pointed vaguely over his shoulder: “Our farm is near here.” 

“Uh-huh. And what’s your name?” 

“Ricky.” 

The man’s eyes flicked left and right. “You alone?” he asked. 

Ricky pulled himself up. “Sure. I know these woods pretty good.” 

The man nodded. “I’ll bet you do,” he said. 

The man patted the ground next to him. “Ricky, you want to sit by the fire? There’s plenty of room.” The man said his name gently like he knew him. Ricky was silent. The man picked up a thick stick and poked the fire, tapping the pot lightly. 

“We’ll have lunch ready pretty soon.” 

“Nah, I’m not hungry,” said Ricky, but he stared hopefully at the pot. 

Then he looked at the man: “Who are you?”  

“Who am I?”, said the man, surprised. “Well, don’t you know?” Ricky shook his head. The man worked the coin again.

 “I’m the magic man,” he said. 

“There’s no such thing as magic,” said Ricky. 

“No such thing?”, the man exclaimed, holding up the coin. “Haven’t you been watching this silver dollar disappear from the world and come back again?” 

“That’s just hand tricks,” said Ricky, importantly. The man stared at him, flushing a little. 

“Well, how about the rabbit?”, the man said. 

“What rabbit?”, Ricky asked. 

“The one’s in this pot,” the man said. He gestured with his stick to the edge of the enclosure where a fresh pelt was pegged on a tree. “That’s his skin.” 

“Catching a rabbit isn’t magic,” Ricky said. 

 “Listen and you’ll change your mind,” said the man. “I am crippled as a foundered horse.” He pointed to his right hip. “I use a stick to get around. But this morning, I was hungry. Well, sir, didn’t I see that rabbit there peeking at me from the woods, just like you. Now, any farmer would’ve chased after ‘im with a shotgun. But not me. I just stared at him, used my snake-eye to dazzle him, used my voice to trance him. Then grabbed him up and snapped his neck. Krak!” The man twisted his hands as if wringing a wet towel and grinned.

Ricky tensed and took a small jump back. But the man just leaned toward the fire, the coin weaving again through his fingers. 

Ricky stepped back up, planting his foot on the threshold. He tapped his cheekbone: “Mister, what’s the matter with your eye?” 

The man shifted, fastening his marble eye on Ricky. “You talkin’ about this?”, he said, pointing. “There’s nothing wrong with it. That’s my spook eye.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“I mean, son, with this special eye I can see all the ghosts and spirits that wander the world.” Ricky threw a look of exaggerated disbelief. 

“Think what you want,” the man said, “but it’s true. Demons and the unclean things that walk and fly and wail are visible to me. And I can whip ‘em!” 

“Where do you see ghosts?”, Ricky asked. 

“Go by any cemetery,” the man replied, “and I spot them lined up at the fence, mewing like cats. Hungry for our souls. Hell, I see two ghosts behind you right now!” The man pointed over Ricky’s head, his eyes zigging and zagging as if he were tracking the flight of swallows. Ricky shot a glance back over his shoulder. 

The man dropped his voice to a gentle growl: “Don’t you worry, though. You’re safe if you stick close. They’re afraid of me.” 

Suddenly, the coin flew from the man’s hand and landed in a pile of leaves on the far side of the fire. 

“Shoot,” the man said. “With my bum hip, it’ll take me half a day to find that dollar.” He paused. “Ricky, you can have it if you want. Finders, keepers.” 

For a moment, Ricky looked intently where he thought the coin had fallen. He shrugged: “I should be getting home.” 

“Sure,” said the man. “Your folks’re  probably worried about you. But before you go, think you’re smart enough to solve a riddle?” 

“Maybe,” said Ricky. 

“OK, here’s one,” said the man. “The more of this you have, the less you see. Now, what is it?” 

Ricky thought. “I don’t know…rain, maybe?” 

“No,” said the man. “It’s darkness. Rain was a smart guess, though.” 

Ricky started to turn away from the entrance, when the man called, “Hey, don’t leave without pitching me a riddle.  Come on now, fair’s fair.” 

Ricky scrunched his face in thought. Then he lit up: “OK, I remember one I heard…If you feed me, you make me live. If you give me a drink, you kill me. What am I?” 

The man closed his eyes and thought. He puffed out a long sigh. 

“Oh, that’s a tough one,” he said. He poked at the flames. “Fire’s getting low. Need to find more wood.” He chuckled and wagged a finger. “Don’t run off until I get back. I’ll crack your riddle for sure.” 

The man labored to his feet, big and unsteady, clutching a large branch as a staff. He hobbled out of the enclosure, wincing as he stepped up and over the threshold. Ricky drew back and watched the man shamble bearlike off to the right into a cluster of trees. 

Ricky listened as the sound of rustling grew fainter and faded into the distance. Then he hopped down into the leafy rectangle of the ruined barn, running over to where he thought he had seen the coin fall. He knelt and combed his hands hurriedly through the ground cover, flinging twigs and leaves into the air as he went. As he made one final scoop, Ricky felt the hard metallic disk slap against his fingers. He palmed it, pulled it close to his face, and studied the silver dollar. It shone in the half-light. There was the face of a lady on the front, almost worn away. The dollar nestled in Ricky’s hand like pirate treasure. He shot a look toward the entrance but could hear nothing. 

Ricky noticed a log at his feet that stretched in a diagonal across half of the enclosure floor. A strange pattern ran along the top of it. Ricky stooped for a closer look. A long string of little stick people had been carved into the log. The figures were all tumbled and intertwined and pressed up against one another. Ricky was mystified about what they were doing—yet they made him feel slightly sick. He turned to leave but sucked in his breath as the man came trotting briskly up to block the entrance. 

When the man saw Ricky standing wide-eyed inside the enclosure, his good eye gleamed and his face creased into a huge smile. 

“Well, boy, looks like you’re not going anywheres.” The man tapped his stick lightly against his thigh. “Oh, and I couldn’t guess your riddle,” he said in a honeyed voice. “What is it?” 

Ricky looked left, then right, as if dazed. The man laughed. 

Then Rick’s expression changed. He looked hard at the stranger. 

“Fire,” he said. “It’s fire.” 

He ran three steps, picked up the large canvas rucksack, and flung it into the glowing coals, knocking the pot over with a loud hiss. 

“Son of a bitch!”, the man shrieked. He leaped over the threshold and fumbled to retrieve the smoking rucksack. At the same time, Ricky ducked low and ran in a curve around the side of the enclosure to reach the entrance just as the man flung the rucksack into a corner and whirled to pursue him. 

“God damn you!”, the man shouted. “I’ll catch you and skin you!” Ricky shot into the sunlight and plunged into the scrub. The noise the man made in pursuit was prodigious as he cursed and thrashed and stumbled through the undergrowth. But Ricky sped on, quick as a silvery fish. Soon he was running in silence.

When Ricky reached home, the other kids were in the yard playing Kick the Can. Ignoring their invitations to join the game, he climbed into the tall sugar maple in the corner of the yard and spent the afternoon watching the hayfield that ran down to the woods. He waited for the stranger to emerge, raging, from the line of trees at the bottom of the field. No one came.

Rick said nothing about the magic man. He did not want to get into trouble. But he carried the silver dollar in his pocket for luck. The faded face of the lady on the coin was serene and strong, his protector against ghosts. And strangers.

photo Wikimedia Commons

Ammalia Ball, FICTION, JULY 2024

Warmth

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Warmth

Ammalia Ball

Ammalia Ball wrote this short fictional story for a childhood friend of hers who took his own life. She wrote it in a way to cope with the loss in the hope that he is happy again and is where he is supposed to be.

The cat gazes at me in what I imagine is an expectant sort of way, orange eyes blinking slowly now and then. I oblige in staring back, a forgotten coffee in hand. I needed a break from my mind, anyway. The cat, however bored with its decision, stretches out its front legs and leaves me alone to my thoughts, once again. I sigh and turn my attention to stare at the collection of colors swirling at my feet. Oranges, reds, and browns, whimsically create a sound like tinkling bells. 

I took another sip from my cup, cold coffee bringing me back to the present, and continued walking. The trees I passed had lost most of their beauty if you were to see the greenery as such a thing. I did not, and my admiration of the bare branches reaching towards the sky was evident in my eyes. I have always loved this time of year. The cold is what tempted me to go outside, finally feeling comfortable in my skin, as much as I could. I diverted my attention toward my feet, watching the steps I took along the carved path of the forest.

I watched my boots drop on each dead leaf with a crunch. Kicking small pebbles forward as I passed them. Occasionally, I would look behind me whenever I heard the light steps of tiny feet on the dirt that were not my own. I was always alone. As the wind blew, it would whisper its secrets to me and blow through my hair almost like hands tickling softly in play. Each time would leave me shivering through my thick, winter coat. The clouds danced carelessly across the setting sun in the sky. The dark passings made the chill in the air harsh against my skin. Choosing to ignore the cold, I continued walking down the path farther and farther into the woods. Eventually, I came across a slightly overgrown start of a path. The shrubs created a barrier just tall enough for me to not be able to look ahead. I lift my gloved hand to the leaves and graze my fingers across the rubber greenery. The need to see what was on the other side was overwhelming. I began to wedge my way through the thorny bushes that were using all of its strength attempting to keep me back. As I could begin to see the other side, a weak branch holding me snapped under my weight and a small yelp was all that I was able to release before I hit the ground. The cold air made the pain in my wrists feel much worse and my coffee cup burst open upon contact, precious coffee seeping into the dirt, but the feeling all but disappeared when I looked at what the shrubbery was protecting.

A lake came into view with a sheet of thin ice covering the surface. There was a small rusted bench near the bank facing towards the lake. The wood had rotting holes in the planks and vines had risen up to claim the bench before the air turned chill, essentially killing the vines. Small rings of mushrooms had grown at each leg of the bench, the rings growing a few inches away from connecting. It was a mystical kind of quiet, and all I could think of to describe it was ‘beautiful’. I walked past the bench to stand at the edge where the sand met the icy lake. I slowly bent down and wiped away at the frost to look at my glassy reflection. We stared at each other for a good while, making critical remarks against the other. Her nose is too bumpy. Her hair is too frizzy. Her lips are too pale. The ice began to shoot back. All you ever do is comply with others. You never have an original thought. Your desperation for affection is what forces people to turn away. I scowled at the other woman in the ice and stood back up to look at the vast space. The lake was large. It went on for miles, the forest emerging again on the other side, a deep mystery to solve if you were to make it across the ice. It was difficult for me to see the opposite side clearly. I was curious about what I would find if I were to make the journey.

I observed the area, contemplating this absurd idea. With the wind nuzzling against my back and encouraging me, I decided on the first independent choice I had ever made and took a step forward. The ice crinkling beneath my feet but never delaying my pace. I only stopped walking once I estimated myself to be at the center of the lake. I looked at my surroundings, forcing a small laugh at the fish I could see swimming around at arm’s length, if not for the cold barrier separating us. 

I brought my eyes back up to the shore, noticing a black figure making its way to the bank. The cat gazed, once again, sitting down on its haunches in anticipation. I stared back, tilting my head slightly to the side as I observed the cat’s actions. The cat’s eyes held an intensity that could be seen from across the lake, igniting fear in my heart.

 The cat released a slight sound, its eyes seeming to bore into my soul, seeming to talk with me,  now I realize it was foretelling of what lay ahead. Wanting to walk towards the cat, I shifted my stance and heard the crinkling sound of spider-webbed cracks racing across the lake. 

I stared in horror at my feet, moving as small as possible, only bending my knees slightly for balance. The cracks made their way towards me at an agonizing speed. All I could do was watch. Watch as my fate has been handed to me. Watch as one decision changes everything. The gravity of a single choice. I seemed to have been standing there for too long, staring at the freshly formed cracks under my boots. The ice breathing in wait, patient enough for its opponent’s next move. It was too silent. I carefully looked back up at the cat which, in retrospect, had not moved once. We looked at each other for a little bit, talking with our eyes. I begged for any sort of assistance while the cat did not blink. Only observed. That is what frightened me the most.

My balance swayed a little with more weight on one foot than the other. The lake created a deep crack that stole me with it. My coat and boots acted as heavyweights dragging me down farther and farther until it was too dark to see which direction was up. The water enveloped me in a strangling hold. I struggled at first, of course, but once I was deep enough time stopped. The cold water felt warmer, like a silk caress. I moved slowly down, the fish choosing to swim around me and continue on their way. All I did was float. Calm surrounded me. I was growing content, gaining acceptance. There was nothing I could do and I was okay with that.

I saw a faint light where the ice cracked, but my vision was blurred to the point I could barely see what was in front of me. If I could, I would’ve seen a small, black figure pop its head over the light, watching me drift away. All it ever did was watch.

Hours had passed, possibly. My eyes had closed, focusing on the feel of the water against my skin. It did not feel cold anymore. It felt warm and inviting. The endless water wrapped around me as if it did not want me to leave. It wanted to keep me company during this long winter. It wanted to dance through the lake all day and night. I was tempted to let it. 

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Night had consumed the earth, the Moon rose to its zenith shining its light down as a comfort to those who came alive under her glow. She gazed down at her land. The admiration flowed through her as she looked upon her children. She could see the young couple parked in a field a few yards away, sharing kisses and secrets under the stars. The small group of deer frolicking along the grass, without a care in the world. The owls fly from tree to tree swooping down to catch their prey, then flying back into the safety of the leaves just as quickly. The nocturnal rodents waddling through the trees. An opossum carrying three tiny babies along her back as she walked, sparking a feeling of relatability in the Moon. The small, black cat frequently seen by the Moon sitting on a rock in a field looking up towards her shine. She took her gaze to the lake nearby, which had since frozen in the change of the weather. The iridescence of the fish scales softly reflecting through the ice along the lake. The algae swaying with the movement of the water. The woman slowly sinking into the abyss opening her mouth one last time, bubbles floating to the surface. The Moon followed as the woman’s eyes fluttered closed. She watched in agony as a human so young could never gain the promised experiences one should have. The ones the Moon herself had watched take place throughout the centuries.

She made her way until she could see directly down into the collapsed ice, past the fish, past the dark, to almost the bottom of the lake. The woman flowed in the dark, hair waving around her head like a halo of light against the murky water. She ventured into the depths of the woman’s soul, watching flittering images of her life. The Moon felt the happiness of the girl she saw before the tragedies of life chipped it away. Until the sorrow was all that was left. The loneliness of the woman appalled the Moon. She rewatched the memories until all she could feel was the throbbing pain in the woman’s heart, slowly losing its beat.

The Moon was a mother and a strong believer in second chances. She provided a home to every creature in her care. She decided she would let the woman into her world, give her the choice to be reborn into the wind carrying the leaves. To gain the chance to feel a part of something. She carved away the last bits of heartache hiding the Spirit that defined the woman and began to carry her back to the surface. The woman’s soul gave some resistance at first, clinging to what was comfortable hiding from the unknown, but change can never be avoided for long.

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I knew I was out of my body as I felt the soft touch of the water move past me. I still felt a small connection to the physical prison I was leaving behind. A slight tether of serenity attaching me to my body threatening to break if I moved away any farther. I knew if I wanted to be let go to avoid this separation, all I had to do was ask. I was curious, however, and wanted to see who had saved me from the confines of my body. I remembered the water was supposed to be cold and how I had fallen deep into it, but all I could feel at the moment was warmth and relief. No one knows how Death is going to be when he comes. For me, I was greeted by Death with joy and peace. The neverending gasp for air was relinquished with the loss of my life. I could finally breathe again.

I opened my eyes to see a pale light surrounding me. It was holding me tight along my lower back, dragging my limp Spirit through the current. I turned my head to see a fish swimming idly by. I reached out my hand to touch the fish, missing it by a few inches. I continued to ascend towards the surface and left the fish behind me. The light became more intense with each passing moment as I got closer to my savior. I did not feel the need to shut my eyes against the bright light, but it blinded me, nonetheless. 

I felt the energy shift as I burst through the barrier of the dark lake into the light of the Moon. The Moon created a pleasant shine to keep my soul warm, for which I was thankful during these cold winter months. I drifted up until I was face to face with her. I could feel her beauty and gentleness in my heart, knowing she was looking down upon me with an unbreakable love that I remember wanting when I was alive. Flinching momentarily, I felt a hand I could not see hover over my cheek and swipe away a tear I did not realize I had cried. I began to lean into the touch, grateful for the warmth behind the act. The feeling in my chest bloomed into a welcomed light of bliss and a soft smile formed on my face. The Moon let me go midair but I did not fall. I looked around and felt the wind whip my hair as playfully as a child. Looking a bit closer, I could see the Souls of children and adults alike. Some of the children ran around with dogs who jumped to snatch clouds in the air. They beckoned me to join them in their antics. To become one with the wind. I turned toward the Moon, nervousness consuming me as a remnant of my old life and who I was. She encouraged me to run and flourish in the joys of the afterlife and what I can become. She gave me one last loving touch and I turned back to the sky. I chased and played with the other Spirits who became one with the wind. We blew through the trees, producing songs few could hear. I was finally where I needed to be. 

photo Harry Rajchgot

FICTION, JULY 2024, Sara Barnett

POUNDED GOLD AT THE FOUR CORNERS

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POUNDED GOLD AT THE FOUR CORNERS

Sara Barnett

“I don’t wish to be disturbed. By anything, ever at all.  You hear me?

I am in writing mode.”

Dad growls this to us, me and Tammy, who still has a nice tan where I have nothing.

“Do, too,”  I say about it.

“Do not.”  Tammy says.  Sick enough to make you want to punch a twin brother in the face.  God I love Tammy.  Aggravating amazing little bitch.

Our father, like this in the afternoons, we, tumbling on the soft wool rug laid out in woven braids, in circles, comes from the city. Orange, yellows, brown.

There is a turquoise coffee table.

And no one around when we get too vicious, me and and Tammy, wrestling hard.  I am littler, by “exactly no inches.” Which he tells me doesn’t make any sense!

And he pounds me one, right up under my right front shoulder, and it flips my head back, and 

when my head comes down, loose on its tethers, and hits the hard turquoise of the coffee table –

I get a cool scar over my right eyebrow. Gnarly.  It didn’t even hurt.  Well it did.  But. 

I am really really tough.

My mother can’t even tell us apart. Not right now. Right now, she lives mostly in her sock drawer, bawling and unballing.  No one has died.  She goes crazy.  Which is why the three of us boys must love her: me, Tammy, Dad.  We three men, we hold her up.  For she isn’t always crying.  So, we must be holding her up!  

She is a woman who lives with three boys, now, alone for several seasons, in a remote fishing village in Maine.  A paradise, according to the pamphlets. In the city, she would belt it out on the mike with a lack of abandon.  Songs, all the way across the country, now.  And we three, two kids and a mom, we’re following dad’s dream.  This is dad’s dream.

Why not?

Tammy and I know where the gauze is when we’re bleeding.  And how to boil water, make the macaroni.  Dad makes sure we have butter, milk, and a side of something green.  He is forager in the morning at the green grocer’s. “I am the hunter and gatherer,” he says, like the alpha and omega.

It is 1:30.  He won’t reemerge from his cave with its typewriter till well after six. 

Tammy, who plays it all sweet and innocent, is the leader of just us two.  He smiles that smile people call ‘impish.’  Man, if they only knew what Tammy was really up to.

And if you know, please tell me.  I beg him not to go, each night, out the window.

“Dude,” he says.

“Look at the moon.”

I see it fine from here, I do, but I throw back the covers of my twin bed, run over to the window seat. 

I get up, on my knees even! on the cushion, and pointing with one finger, a little unbalanced, I say:

“See?  I can see it just fine from here.”  I could fall out! This is brave!

He smiles at me.  A few of his hairs in the front are stuck up, static electricity.  It is cold outside, and instead of worrying about if he might freeze, I think, 

‘I bet that messed up hair, if we stood back to back right now, would make him a lot taller than I am.’ 

And that thought, it angers me. Sore.

“I wanna go closer to it,” he whispers, and I shove him away.

“Go then,” I say.

He smiles, impishly, and I, I go right back to bed.

This happens every night now. Rhombus, wrong bus, in this squared-off new town I don’t want to ever know.  Everyone’s weird.  Talks funny. New school, dumb haircuts.  The opposite coast.  Metropolis.  I miss the metropolis.  I love the word metropolis.  I love everything about where we came from, and hold it smack up against all this nowhere.  

But tonight, the first night, before Tammy’s leaving becomes routine habitual, this is the first and last time I get up on the cushion.  Then up on my knees.  Dangerous.  The open window. Rocking, close to an escape unto the higher air.

When he is gone, I frown a lot.  It kinda hurts, wrinkling my forehead.  I lie back down in my twin bed, I rub the smooth bandage on my brow with my finger, and it really hurts.  Good.  This is good.

It’s a better scar if I rub it.  Good.  And soon enough I’m sleeping, like Peter, like Heidi.

I am tough little man.  A mountain goat.  Ice.  Mom has just been in here, reading to us.  She doesn’t know Tammy is still in all his clothes under his covers, and will be leaving as soon as she does.  Our room.

Mom reads to us about Heidi’s mountaintop, and extreme poverty, and the careless winds that batter the Alps.  I am a tough little guy.  I am.  Though restless, even in my slumber. I am somehow and always aware when my brother is missing.

Well before the the nighttime story, earlier this evening, dad has returned to the living room, crossed the colorful floor, and so we four, we have macaroni and cheese, and Brussels Sprouts, (Mom, who keeps a budget list, swears that’s how they spell it) in the small kitchen.  It is, I am told, only “a nook.”

And she nods, she is listening to our father, who has been alone with his thoughts for hours, and now cannot shut up, and her cheeks are bright red above the steamy bowl of noodles. 

And she laughs when my father says something funny.

It has been a good day for him at the typewriter.

When no one, for no reason, no matter how big or small, “under no circumstance,” can disturb

him.

Not even mom, not even the moon.

It isn’t until about about age fifty, I realize, quite latent and stupidly, mom really only went crazy with the sock drawer, the sorting of it, probably just a few times, at the worst.  It must have been rare, such contained fits of madness, though she was likely unhinged all the time, even with us, far and beyond far, and too too alone.  

But when it did happen, it was always in those hours – eyes glazed, her own hair wild – during long empty afternoons, when dad was writing.  

Not to be disturbed.

I wonder if she felt as lost then as I did. Crazed, and eager to howl! My brother’s secrets too heavy.  Tales of who he would meet up with.  The very what of the what they would do. 

This wide lake-pitted nowhere, too weird.  Severe. Cloistered. And just two restless boys breaking each other’s craniums open on a turquoise table, which had sharp edges save where there were appliquéd corners of fake gold, molded in something spray-painted and springy to look real, and what might have even softened my blow the first time I cracked my head open. 

On top of it, the table, was a wide strewn collection of ugly dark green malachite animals, badly hewn and often referred to as “the lumpy things.”  I wonder if they reminded her of the city, like the sunburst woven rug.  Only this lame menagerie and ground cover left of time before in San Francisco.  Just a few of the smaller items we carried to the fishing village. And I wonder if these objects were, for her, a source of joy or of pain.  I wonder, for of course things in the city were also hard – must have been.  Ours maybe wasn’t extreme, but we were poor, I know this now.  

I wonder – was it less frightening for her as well, in Maine, among these lower buildings, and shacks, to hide, or to feel so hidden.  I like to think that sometimes, even when the locals snubbed us or spoke in what seemed a different language, garbled and grimaced-menacing, that she was at least equally captivated by the much bigger wide open sky.  

But in the end and all through, it must have been horrifying.  To know that in a remote place such as that was, she had no recourse if, say, there were a snow storm as vicious the one we had that day. It felt everlasting. Closed down the lone three shops, the roads, and one school.  And there was so much blood. She had no recourse.  This is what there was. And she, a bombshell, sequestered by force, and only twenty-five.

Sometimes boys need an ambulance.  But none could come.  And it was the three of us, alone, every day, for years, until dinnertime.

When she herself is much much older, I hold her hand and say,

“Thank you.  You were everything.”

Of course, I see it now.  Yes.  It must have only been a few times, there, such a wild woman, raging beautiful at the bureau drawer. But those select visits into her unrestrained madness stayed with me, scared us, me and Tammy, who was also a wild child, but just a child himself, hurling ourselves around a shabby living room. My brother, Tamalpais, eventually in a different metropolis than the one we used to know.  Dead, by the age of thirty-six.

It isn’t until I myself am sixty-eight I realize, there was no one to help her.  Either.  That is obvious.  You would think that would have come to me a lot sooner, too, but since the accident… so many scars.  And I was a selfish little thing, angry a lot of the time.  Wrestling.

But for her, giving and warm, there was truly no one. There were fishing boats. And private closed groups of homesteaders. And a small tiny school filled with only a handful more children, a bunch of ignorant adults, with that grumbled way they had of speaking so as to confound normal communication.  There were always clouds, and that window seat, which seemed so tall to me, skyscraper.  Tall to me, as a mountain peak in Switzerland, and all around, a sense of potential avalanche.  It was oppressive, and while Dad eventually eked out his book, he’d spend his remaining life seeking its publication, and I think – I think he would have lived longer had someone, besides his wife, if anyone at all in fact, had ever once said “yes.”

I myself don’t die until I’m ninety-seven, which is far too long to live, in my opinion.  Far too long to be alone – rough two thirds of my life without my twin brother.  Over sixty years.  I would take him slamming my head into that table, its corners, pounded into that old faux gold.  I would take it every time over this low constant burn of contemplation.  But I remember, most of all, and would take far above a fraternal lonesome violence, hearing my mother read to me, or singing the way she once did, once could, in a Western city that had everything and anything you could want.

And just as I am going, mom takes me, a poor fool, from her place in the sky, where moon and sun are bobbing equal – I can see them!  She lifts me, by the hand, and shows me the ring my father bought her. Real gold. Diamond chips and promises.

It glints, and in its bright light, with only one second to decide 

I –

wish to be born again.

That night, at the kitchen table, when the battling wasn’t the worst, the sock drawer stayed closed, and dad was happy about his pages.  That night, over steaming noodles and the red bowls, she took my chin in her hands, saw the bloody glob of gauze.

“Who did this to you?”  We say nothing.  Like always.

She takes me by the hand to the bathroom, washes the gash.  Applies one of the many soft cloth bandages from a box we keep in a cabinet hung on the wall behind a mirrored glass.

I can sudden feel her fingers again, the metal of that ring.  I am pushing old wounds around, hoping at best to make a scar.  

I want to make a mountain chain.

That gooey ew ew ew of bloody platelets mom says “only boys like.”  By secret push, then as now, when Tamalpais would jump the bedroom window, and I, in my bed, awake in my rest. 

It was Tammy who could go out.

So that I could stay in.

And everything would be fine.  How could I know?  This is what we had.

She must have done it all.  Everything.  Our mother.  I even doubt our father ever shopped that much.  It was mom who would feed us, keep tabs on small spending, who would take a fresh strip of gauze, smooth it out nice and long, not the way me and Tammy would string fibrous bits of its fabric onto our broken skin, clotting like clumps of cherry gum. 

I remember – we would use Scotch Tape for adhesive.  Mom had real stuff, something that she’d saved from a hospital.  She’d saved, had forethought.  Entering another man’s dreams.

I can feel her hand now, reaching for me as it did at story time to tuck me in, close. Our mother, dragged across the country from the Bay Area.  Even there, way high up, up up in Maine, she would find these little dotted scabs or flooded red rosettes, under clear tape.  Our battles, our head wounds. Attached by bloody bone when dad was writing. We thought they were our epaulettes and boutonnieres. Not signal and sign of a greater abandonment.

She must have had to do this hundreds of times.  Remove things. Patch up.

Wipe away the tears.

All our cheeks.

She must have been very very afraid.

Early to grief.

It is sudden cold.  The world becomes a swirl of black and white.

I think “Oreo Cookies, ice cream” back in California at the Dairy Queen, where she’d hold my hand, and say, “and what do you want – anything, darling, try it!”  and so many choices. 

Flavors.  

And then I die.

My father, who rarely, if sometimes, went out for a stroll holding empty bags in the morning.

And would write, for five hours, undisturbed in the afternoon.

I don’t see him. Anywhere.  

I just feel my mother’s caressing palm.

And there is nothing but cool, and I gone, finally sound and sound asleep, in my hayloft of sweet smelling straw.

photo NASA

FICTION, Jacinta D’Arcy McElligott, JULY 2024

The Devil Fairy

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The Devil Fairy

Jacinta D’Arcy McElligott

‘The Devil Fairy’ is inspired by, and dedicated to, all those who have faithfully recorded, preserved and translated the legacy of Irish folklore, stories and legends handed down from generation to generation through the centuries.

“Is that the last of the stories you have for me tonight Máire?” 

”An é sin an ceann deireanach de na scéalta atá agat dom anocht Máire? Sean asked again gently, this time reaching across to the small stool between them and turning off the recorder. The reel came to a halt with a soft click. 

It was late, the light dimming behind the wind-and-rain-lashed windows on either side of the cottage door. But it was cosy by the fire, the turf crackled and glowed, hot and intense in the open grate. The earthy scent filled his nostrils, the firelight glinting and flickering across the flagstones, highlighting the white of the willow-patterned teapot on the dresser. 

Seán sat back and waited. Máire was the last he would interview today. It had taken him time to find her, his windscreen wipers furiously battling the wind and rain as his Mini Morris had rattled and squeaked up the rocky boreen to this little cottage, high and remote on the cliffs of Sleigh in Western Gaeltacht of Donegal. 

“There is one more, but I dare not tell it,” she whispered. Seán reached back to turn on the recorder— 

“ No,” Máire said, staying his arm with a bony grip, her voice tight, her blue eyes sharp as she held his gaze. “This one must die with me, or with you,” she whispered. “That’s if you want to hear it. My father, God rest his soul, told me this story when I was just a little wain. I have the scars to prove it. I have not told this story to anyone, not even my poor husband, my son, or my grandson. Perhaps if I tell it to you it will lose its grip on me.”

Máire’s voice was so low and tight now that Seán had to lean in to hear her. Their heads were almost touching as Máire whispered, “This one is ancient. I hear it in my head in old Gaelic. I mean it, Seán O OhEochaid. If you hear this story you can’t go home tonight. You can sleep in my grandson’s bed. But you must  not leave the house. You must not open that door.”

Seán nodded. He looked down where Máire’s hand still grasped his arm. He could feel the tremor in her fingers quickening his pulse, tensing his muscles, and he felt a cold sweat in the back of his neck. “I’ll hear your story Máire. I’ll stay with you,” he said, shifting his chair closer, the two of them nestled in the glow from the fire. 

“It was a night like this,” Máire said. “I was no more than nine or ten, my father sat where you are sitting, in that very chair. I was crossed-legged in front of the fire, just there.” Máire nodded to a space on the flagstones between them.

“My mother was knitting, and she tried to hush him. ‘Don’t tell her that one,’ she said. You’ll only frighten her and she will be up all night. But I persuaded him anyway. He leaned back in that chair. He seemed older somehow with the telling, grave, frightened even. ‘You know, little Máire,’ he said, ‘there are many stories about the fairy folk. As a rule they are a garrulous group, they have their ways. They can be cantankerous, souring the milk and such, even if you cross them unwittingly. They tend to hold grudges and even among the fairies, like human folk, there are those that are pure evil’.”

Máire  turned her head. Seán could see the tight wrinkles around her eyes as she peered intently at him and whispered, “Na Diabhal Sioga – Devil fairies, my father called them. Seán, these fairies are evil and rotten to the core. Once they’ve got their sights on you, God help you, for they never let up. They live long lives, longer than generation after generation of human folk.”

Máire paused here, taking the poker and turning the embers in the fire, throwing sods of turf on from a basket by her chair, the sparks flaring and scattering up the chimney. The door creaked with each gust of wind and the rain beat against the pitch black windows.

“My father told me that when he was a boy, his father told him of such a demon. My great-grandfather was one for the drink, and coming home along that long lonely boreen one night, he saw the light of a fire and a great commotion going on in the lee of the hill. He hesitated, for even in his inebriated state he recognized the dell as one where the fairy folk were wont to hang out. But he snuck over the wall and made his way over, hoping to hear some fiddling, dancing and have a tale to tell. But when he crept close, keeping low behind a scrub of a tree, he was shocked to see a hideous creature, about four feet tall, flailing about with a carcass of a sheep, scattering sticks, stones, ashes and sparks from a fire. There were no other fairies about, they must have fled or were hidden. The creature was in an almighty temper.’

Máire raised her hands and looked to the ceiling. “My father raised his arms like two great wings until his shadow was high and menacing under the thatch. My mother remonstrated with him, but he went on. ‘Its features,’ he said, ‘were human-like, but the mouth wide and long like a wolf, the teeth yellow and pointed. It was covered in grey thick skin, mottled across the shoulders, and the back of its arms were covered with tawny hair. Its chest was huge like a gorilla’s. Its arms were long, the fingers on his hairy hands elongated and ending in talons.’” 

Máire’s eyes travelled across as if watching her father’s shadow  creep and sweep across the room again. “My father said my grandfather scrambled  away over hillock and rocks until suddenly he heard an almighty screech above him and felt the weight of the creature’s talons piercing his shoulders, lifting him bodily so that his feet were flailing in the air, his shoulders in agony.” Máire’s body swayed as she said, “The creature whipped him back and forth beneath him, finally flying him up the boreen and dropping him like a sack of potatoes at this very door.” 

Máire paused, and she took a deep breath,  she seemed to pull herself inward as she whispered, “Later that night, as I lay awake, thinking, I couldn’t get the story out of my head. The wind had died down, and there was the first signs of light on the horizon as I pulled on my boots and crept out of the house, still in my nightdress, my coat slung over my shoulders. I ran down the road. I had not gone far when I heard a sort of leather flapping, a cackle, a screech and felt the sharp pierce of talons. I screamed. I screamed and cried. I sobbed in agony as the creature turned, swirling me back and forth beneath him, then flung me bodily unto the thatch of this house. My father and mother, white-faced and grey, brought me down terrified and distraught. The wounds festered and took a month to heal.” 

Máire reached back and allowed her shawl to slip off her shoulder. She teased aside her black widow’s dress so Seán could see the two deep grey puckered scars on her thin bony shoulder.  He reached across and held Máire’s hands in his own and they sat in silence, staring into the fire. Seán’s head was still reeling with the implications of what Máire told him as he stood up pulling the jacket from the back of his chair. 

“I’ll just get my things from my car,” he said.

Máire looked up suddenly. ‘Oh no! Don’t open the door, what did I tell you?’

But Seán was already out the door and Máire’s cry was lost to his anguished scream as the piercing talons sank deep into his shoulders and he was wrenched and pulled skyward, dangling, flailing, beast and body streaming down the boreen in the darkness and wind-lashed rain.

photo Wikimedia Commons

Dave Dempster, FICTION, JULY 2024

2043 – AI Armageddon?

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2043 – AI Armageddon?

Dave Dempster

What happens when, as Alan Turing predicted, the machines take control? Patrick was very afraid. He could never forget the pain of losing a finger of his left hand to his father’s carpentry lathe when he was aged seven. Now aged sixty-two in 2043, he could find no reassurance around him. 

A retired history professor, Patrick’s fear of machinery had isolated him from most of society in Edinburgh. He did not wear an earpiece, or its predecessor the headband. He couldn’t trust electric cars, when they became unavoidable. He had kept his Catholic faith, although his local church had long since been sold and converted to housing. He now gathered as the youngest parishioner in an ever-diminishing elderly group of worshippers, confined to a small stone building borrowed from a wealthy benefactor.

The highlight of Patrick’s limited social life was his weekly walk to his beloved chess club. His longstanding opponent was Tom. They had known each other for decades. Their views were polar opposites on so many things but a mutual love for the Royal game kept them from coming to blows. All the same, Patrick thought better of pushing some arguments too far. 

On this particular Friday night, their game had proved more interesting than usual. Patrick had a clear advantage but had to restrain himself. One hard lesson he had learned over the years was that over-confidence can ruin a promising position in an instant. So many of his attacks had been spoiled by a reckless sacrifice. He had used more time than he should have already and felt pressure from the clock. He must hold his nerve and check the variations yet again. Was he missing something obvious? No, he was as sure as he could be, made his move and pressed his clock. Tom could find no realistic defence and resigned only a few moves later.

The two made their way to the club bar, bringing pieces and board with them. They sat down with their drinks to begin the post-mortem. “Cheers” “Aye, cheers” Tom ran the game scoresheet through his earpiece, reciting move by move. They learned that the opening had been relatively even, but Tom had moved a strong defensive knight away from his kingside, giving Patrick attacking chances. When it came to Patrick’s critical move, though, they were both surprised. The earpiece oracle came up with a defensive resource that neither had considered. They looked at each other in disbelief. Patrick should have lost! 

“Only a bloody computer could come up with a move like that” Tom exclaimed, excusing himself for missing it. Patrick took up the theme. “Computers have really ruined the classical game. Deep Blue beating Kasparov in 1997 was bad enough, but Alpha Zero mastering the game in four hours by teaching itself in, I think it was 2017, led to general abandonment of the classical game. Chess descended into variants with much shorter time controls when humans knew that they just couldn’t compete with machines. And cheating, of course. I gave up playing online when opponents began making brilliant moves, helped by silicon friends, without being caught out. What’s the point!?”

Tom agreed but Patrick had just got into his stride. “That’s what really bothers me, Tom. The cheating. When the latest whizzbang invention or discovery appears, everyone thinks it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, then problems appear but we’re told that it’s okay, regulation will make it all safe. So, electricity started fires, but safety rules rescued us, electric cars caused crashes at first, but again safety rules saved us, and parachutes cost lives before relative safety was achieved, centuries after Leonardo first had the thought. However, social media, one of the products of the internet, was already beyond control when unfortunate side effects, such as fraud and bullying, became obvious and simply could not be stopped. AI is beyond control.”

“Pat, you really are a dinosaur. A Luddite! Rover saved my life!” Patrick knew that ‘Rover’ was the robot at Tom’s family home. “It was just amazing”, Tom went on. “How on Earth could Rover have known that I would develop bowel cancer a year on when I had passed all the medical tests with flying colours? Just shows how primitive GPs are. Carol, my better half, adores Rover. She’s planning to present him with a fancy overcoat to keep him warm. He doesn’t need it but it’s a nice gesture, after Rover found the perfect holiday for us next month. Everything we could ask for, at a great price. The kids idolise Rover. He knows everything, absolutely everything. Rover is more than indispensable. We just couldn’t live without him.”

“That’s my worry, Tom. What happens when the machines have had enough of us?” Tom protested. “You’re wrong. Look at what AI has done for us – why would they turn on us? They don’t have feelings and they can hardly pick up machine guns, sail across rivers and climb mountains, can they?”

“They don’t have to, Tom. We don’t know them. We cannot know them. But they know us, everything about us. Our likes, dislikes, fears, ambitions, everything.” replied Patrick. “I don’t get it”, Tom said in a more agitated tone. “AI saved the planet from climate change, for goodness’ sake! We don’t have to work if we don’t want to. Kids don’t need formal school education. They start home machine learning at two years of age and have access to rapid learning tools. I remember the hell of school in our day. Health care has improved beyond our dreams. The ancient NHS could never cope, and it’s gone, thankfully. Then there are the consumer benefits. Your choice to your door 24/7 at the lowest available cost. What’s not to like? Seriously?”

Patrick realised that he was losing the argument. He knew he could never win the argument but he kept soldiering on. “Remember way back in 2023, when there was a genuine fear in some folk that AI was an existential threat to human civilisation? At that time AI was very basic, with early language models. Chat GTP was hailed as tremendous, but even the experts had no idea how it worked, although they loved their creation, of course, and wanted to defend it at all costs. The concern was the speed of development of AI. The standard answer was that regulation and standards would keep us safe.” Tom nodded in a mildly perplexed way, and Patrick was encouraged.

“The fundamental defence mechanism – that AI was banned from pretending to be human – was first put forward in the European Union AI Act. 2024 I think it was. As usual, it was just ignored and circumvented, and within a few years no-one could tell, and hardly anyone cared, if they were in fact talking to a machine or a human being. Alan Turing’s story, thought fanciful in his time, about women one day taking their computers for walks in the park and telling each other ‘My little computer said such a funny thing this morning’ became reality.”

“I can see all that, Pat, but what difference does it make?” Tom asked, beginning to lose patience. “AI has intelligence far beyond human intelligence. If the machines decide that we are no longer of use, they can easily destroy us”, Patrick replied. “Och” Tom was indignant now, as if about to deliver the knockout punch, “Machines don’t have feelings, so how can they even want to hurt us?” “Tom, we don’t understand our own consciousness, so how can we know about an alien life form?” “God, is that the time?  I’ve got tae run. See you next week, Pat.” With that, Tom rushed out of the building.

Walking home, Patrick reflected on the recent debate. He felt more isolated than ever. As an electric car sped past him almost silently, he recalled that his fear of central locking had led him to refuse lifts in the old petrol days. His modest bungalow home came into view. When his wife died unexpectedly two years earlier, Patrick had been forced to move house. Grief would probably have overwhelmed him, had he stayed on in their old brick-built house. Besides, maintenance had already become difficult. The garden was overgrown and he hardly needed the space on his own. He had to choose a modern building to stay within the city boundary and his budget.

His only regret in moving was that he lost control, as he saw it, of the house locks. He did not trust the centralised electronic system which locked and unlocked the front and back doors and all the windows. The salesperson had told him that nothing could possibly go wrong and, when that did not convince, explained the ‘unnecessary’ fall-back position of using the pre-printed emergency phone number. So much for sales. There was no alternative.

The sound of the metallic locking of the front door behind him seemed louder than normal. Likely to be mere imagination. Patrick had his usual nightly glass of water from the kitchen and prepared for sleep. Suddenly the lights went out. Patrick had to stay calm. There had been no storm. The National Nuclear Fusion System would surely kick in, in only a few seconds. A feeling of dread. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t in denial, as he groped his way to a torch on a living room shelf. From there he went to the nearest window. No streetlights. No lights at all.

Patrick’s heart sank. He was beginning to panic. Was his worst fear truly coming to pass? The deadness of the phone compounded his alarm. He made his way slowly into the kitchen for the final tests. He checked, hope against hope, but the fridge door would not open. Despairing, he turned the water tap lever. For an instant he could relax again, but it was only a residual trickle.

It was over. Resignation before checkmate. Patrick started to pray.

photo courtesy NASA

James Croal Jackson, JULY 2024, POETRY

It’s Too Late, Baby, Now It’s Too Late

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Jackson, James Croal- It’s Too Late, Baby, Now It’s Too LateDownload

photo Wikimedia Commons

FICTION, Jonathan B. Ferrini, JULY 2024

A Notary Public

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A Notary Public

Jonathan B. Ferrini

My grandmother, Mildred, was an independent woman and an entrepreneur.

As Southern California was growing by leaps and bounds in the fifties, Mildred decided to supplement her husband’s salary as a cross country trucker with jobs as a part-time waitress, taking in laundry, sewing, and cleaning houses. In addition to raising three boys, she would provide daycare service to working women who lost their husbands in the war.

Mildred was an astute observer of the economic trends around her and decided to enter of one of the fastest growing segments of the economy, real estate.

Mildred obtained a real estate salesman’s license which was what it was called. She teamed up with a go-getter single woman named Ness who ran her own real estate agency. Ness taught Mildred the business of representing buyers and sellers of homes.

Ness ran a real estate office which included mortgage brokerage, property management, and her own notary public service so as to provide efficiencies in the closing of sales through escrow companies. Ness encouraged Mildred to obtain a Notary Public commission issued by the State of California.

“A notary public is a person authorized by law to administer oaths, certify documents and signatures, and perform other official commercial duties. Notaries are frequently employed to witness and verify signatures on a range of legal documents.”

Mildred would often take me as a young man to and from her notary appointments which provided me the opportunity to meet a variety of persons including home buyers, sellers, attorneys, and bankers. 

Ness retired and sold the real estate office to Mildred who built it into a successful real estate agency with over fifty agents. Mildred sold the business to a national real estate company and retired. She used the generous proceeds to embark on a long-deserved vacation including a trip around the world. She provided trust fund accounts to pay for her children and grandchildren’s college tuition. 

Ferrini/Notary/2

Mildred wasn’t comfortable in retirement and maintained her notary public commission performing these duties until she passed away in her sleep.

The attorney instructed me I was the new owner of “Mildred’s Notary Public Service” as specified within her will. 

I was teaching social studies in a private school. I didn’t have a clue how to run Mildred’s business but I was “burned-out” teaching from a staid old textbook to the children of the privileged living inside posh homes behind gates which created a bubble insulating them from the harsh realities of life. 

Mildred’s attorney suggested I complete a “total immersion” course within the notary public business to determine if I liked it, otherwise, he’d arrange a sale to a competing firm interested in Mildred’s clientele. It might be time for a career change so I agreed.

I met the owner of,

“Stu’s Notary Public Service.

24/7/365, anywhere, anyplace accommodation.”

We met on a Friday afternoon after school at a beat-up 24/7 coffee shop called “Sam’s Stop” conveniently located at the offramp from the Interstate 5 freeway in Los Angeles and a few blocks away from the Los Angeles County Central Jail. 

What I believed would be “total immersion” as a notary public became a graduate school education in life.

Stu was a gruff old man with a crew-cut hair style, fat fingers resembling claws, and a pinky ring depicting the scales of justice.  Stu wore a shirt, tie, and a suit in need of a steam and press. His shirt pocket had a neatly arranged assortment of black, blue, and red pens in addition to a mechanical pencil. 

His briefcase was black and “attorney style” which looked like it had seen “better days”. Just as he was closing it, I caught a glimpse of an embossed “Certificate of Completion” for a notary public course Mildred taught students along with a photo which appeared to be my grandmother as a younger woman presenting the certificate to a young man resembling Stu. 

Everything Stu needed to complete his work was inside that briefcase and ready. It reminded me of a movie assassin opening the case carrying a rifle to be assembled before an assassination.

Mildred’s attorney told me,

“Stu isn’t not the kind of guy who wears his life story on his sleeve.

“If he wants you to know something, he’ll tell you. 

Ferrini/Notary/3

“Although he may present himself as gruff, he’s a professional and a ‘straight-shooter’ you can trust and learn from.”

Stu’s office was his smartphone, notary public stamp, and a notebook where he recorded the signatures with thump prints of those signing official documents. 

Stu’s “rolling office” was a beat-up original hybrid car and booth number thirteen inside the coffee shop where he would hold court talking up the waitresses all hours of the day and knowing each by name. 

He spoke with what appeared to be a New Yorker’s accent which had become less pronounced over the years.

“Hi ya, Stu.

“Whose ya’ handsome friend?

“Looks like a lawya’.”

“Introduce yourself, Max.”

“I’m Max S…”

“First name only, kid.

“He’s a teacher who might be takin’ over his grandmother’s notary public business. 

“I’m gonna’ show him the ropes.”

“Ah, a teacha’. 

“Ain’t that dandy.

“Watch ‘ol Stuey, Maxie. 

“He uses that pen like a sword and notary stamp like a mallet. 

“You’ll learn the business from a guy who wrote the book on bein’ a notary.

“If you get him to open up about his past and wanna’ tell me, you’ll eat here for free anytime you come in, honey.

“Usual combo breakfast, Stuey?”

“Yeah, Letty, and the same for Max.

“Bring a pot of coffee so you’re not comin’ back and forth although I enjoy watchin’ you swingin’ those hips.”

Ferrini/Notary/4

“If you weren’t married to your business, you’d take me on that date you’ve been promisin’ me for years and you might learn ‘a thing or two’ about this ‘smart cookie’, Stuey.”

His cellphone ran incessantly while he was scheduling appointments in between eating and chit chat about the business.

“Mildred was a fine Notary Public but her clientele was ‘uptown’ dealin’ with sellers and buyers of homes with an occasional trust or will.

“I’m gonna’ show you the ‘downtown’ side of the biz. 

“Brace yourself!

“Just watch, keep your mouth shut, and learn.” 

Our first appointment was at the Central Jail.

The lobby was an assemblage of the heartbroken, disenfranchised, desperate, and folks eager to free their loved ones from custody. It was poorly lit, smelled of perspiration and other malodorous fumes including toddlers running about and baby’s crying.

There was a bank of bullet proof teller-style windows including narrow slots where life savings, bail bonds, and documents were exchanged to secure release from jail.

We met an elderly aunt meeting a bail agent whose company was named “Bar Buster Bill Bail Bond Agency.” Bill was a brutish, no nonsense, unempathetic former prize fighter who reveled in hunting down bail jumpers.

Her nephew was riding in a car whose occupants had been arrested for California Penal Code 246 which is shooting into a vehicle. Evidently, it was gang related.  Bail was set at two hundred and fifty thousand for the boy’s release. The fee for the bond was twenty-five thousand dollars which was the customary ten percent fee to the bail agent.

The aunt agreed to have Bill place a lien on her home she owned free and clear paid for by decades of cleaning floors in downtown office buildings. She’d have one year to pay Bill the twenty-five thousand dollars and six percent interest in cash, refinance, or sell the home to remove Bill’s lien.  

Her heartbreak, disappointment, and anxiety of possibly losing her house if the nephew didn’t show up in court as promised were palpable. 

“My deceased sister tried to raise the boy alone but had no man at home.

“When she died, he found a home with a gang.

“I was too busy raising my own family to take in another to my home.

Ferrini/Notary/5

“I’m guilt-ridden and must help the young man in memory of my sister.”

I learned the notary protocol was designed to avoid unnecessary conversation, obtain the aunt’s identification, signature on the trust deed, and Stu’s notary stamp alongside her signature. The job was completed in less than fifteen minutes and we were on our way to the next job.

As we were leaving, newly released inmates scampered from the lobby and into the streets eager to meet friends, family, and relatives or jump into waiting taxis which lined the sidewalk in front of the jail. Many were still wearing their jail identification wristbands.

“Why would a taxi want to pick up a guy just released from jail, Stu?”

“A guy just out of jail isn’t likely to stiff a cabby ‘cause he don’t want to end up back in the pokey.

“Cabbies tell me these are the safest, longest, and most quiet of their rides with business flowin’ out of that jail twenty-four hours a day, every day.”

We drove to a modest convalescent home where we were meeting the grieving family of an elderly woman who was conscious but dying. It was her desire to complete a “last-minute” Will which Stu said,

“Most people put off a Will ‘cause they don’t want to think about death or believe they’ll live forever.

“The ‘Grim Reaper’ is always lurking not far behind all of us.

“It’s better to plan in advance for death with a Will or Trust but I’m happy to provide this essential service as it puts what might be the final smile on the clients face.”

The elderly woman was propped up in her bed and proudly proclaimed she had saved nearly one million dollars cleaning the lavish homes of the wealthy while living frugally after her husband passed decades earlier. 

She boasted her life savings had been safely placed within U.S. Saving’s Bonds and her Will would bequeath the savings to her grandchildren including a medical doctor and pastor.

Our next stop was at a divorce attorney’s office.

“These are the worst jobs, Max. 

“You’ll never see more hatred and vitriol than in a divorce settlement.”

The husband and wife were silent as they both signed the settlement and custody agreement. The attorneys appeared exhausted and happy to be rid of an “ugly case” as Stu called them.

Ferrini/Notary/6

I noticed a sublime regret, disappointment, and uncertainty about the future in the faces of the husband and wife as they would move through life sharing custody of six children.

Stu worked extra-quickly, moving like a trained surgeon, exacting the necessary identifications, signatures, and stamping the settlement agreements. He nearly dragged me by the collar to get out of the office quickly.

“The fireworks and munitions volley often occur after the settlement, Max! 

“It’s better to get the hell out fast or become ‘collateral damage’”

During our drives to these appointments, Stu was answering calls and booking appointments. I concluded each call was an opportunity for Stu to distance himself from the emotional traumas he’d otherwise carry around like “PTSD”.  

We arrived at a hospice resembling a five-star hotel. We were escorted into a beautifully appointed bedroom with an ocean view from the top floor.

Stu’s client was a young woman who likely was approaching thirty years of age but her body was ravaged by a fast-spreading cancer which had eaten her to the bone. She spoke of her career as a prima ballerina travelling the world. 

As Stu was quickly readying his materials so as to make a hasty retreat, I engaged the dying woman in perhaps a final conversation as she was eager to speak of her life.

“I was always chasing the next performance.

“Too busy for romance.

“Dance was my only love.

“I have no family but only the conservatory to whom I’m leaving my estate.

“I want to thank you for speaking to me. 

“I’ve noticed people are uncomfortable around the dying.

“Live each day as if it is your last!”

Her hand could barely hold the pen but she marshaled every ounce of strength left in her tired body to sign the documents.

“Alas, I have become ‘The Dying Swan’”.

The day had passed quickly but the emotional toll on me was burdensome.

“Hang in there, Max.

“Just one more appointment which might pull you out of the doldrums.”

Ferrini/Notary/7

We met at the County Courthouse and proceeded to a judge’s chambers. We were greeted by the judge, social worker, young couple, and two beautiful children who appeared to be “fraternal twins”.

The atmosphere was warm, jovial, and loving. The same sex couple were adopting the brother and sister who would otherwise been separated and were of a different race than the soon to be parents.

The judge completed a customary review of the adoption papers and rooted about his desk for his box of candy treats for the kids to celebrate the occasion. The social worker had attached balloons throughout the office. 

Although we were within the justice system, this experience was a far cry from my first appointment of the day at the jail. The melancholy of the day subsided.

Stu was quick to complete the notary assignment and told me outside the judge’s chambers,

“I always beat a hasty retreat from happy scenes so as to permit the parties to revel in a precious moment of happiness without distraction.”

During our drive back to the coffeeshop where Stu would relax, eat dinner, nap, and complete paperwork, he asked me,

“You gonna’ take over Mildred’s company?”

“No, Stu.

“I’m going to bring my newfound life experiences of today to the classroom with the hope of enlightening my students beyond the textbook.

“Thank you for the opportunity to see another side of life, Stu.”

“I figured as much, Max.

“It’s time for this old notary to spend more time ‘uptown’ and I’ll be in touch with Mildred’s attorney about a fair offer to purchase Mildred’s business, if you approve.”

“Mildred would be delighted, Stu.”

James Croal Jackson, JULY 2024, POETRY

Tourists

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Jackson, James Croal- TouristsDownload

photo Wikimedia Commons

Colby Galliher, FICTION, JULY 2024

Reclamation

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Reclamation

Colby Galliher

In a once-logged forest in the northern reaches of an ancient ridge there thrives a mountain laurel colony. Its reign is not measured in years but in expanse. In measureless abundance. The stronghold’s every molecule is poisonous. Its interlocked thickets form a labyrinthine hell for any who attempt passage. When the laurel blooms in early summer its wool of hexagonal flowers, each one perfect with a hypnotic symmetry, dyes the woods a beguiling white. Fire has chastened the laurel, pests have plagued it, but still it has grown, and grown, and asserted its domain. 

With every season the laurel’s woody brain of roots complexifies, each dirt-bound strand pulsing with information in a dendritic, sentient galaxy. So that with its snake-tongue stamens the laurel comes to evaluate each warm-blooded thing that chances into its embrace. And like starlings in a murmuration or villagers in a mob, the hive of it reacts and deliberates with one mind, levying a judgment on the entrant.

On a grey, humid morning, two gunshots fracture the air. Something of flesh gallops into the laurel’s woods, onto unseen scales. The hive turns its billion blossom eyes to the west.

***

The man barrels through the fern sea. A dark trail of snapped fronds is his wake. His mouth froths as he hurtles between the colossal trees rising from the swell. His right hand strangles the handle of a snub-nosed revolver, his index finger glued to the trigger. Four of the six chambers are empty. He rasps as he ignores the fire in his thighs and impels himself deeper into the greening woods.

When his lungs begin to falter he slows to a stagger. Then a drag. He lunges to the closest trunk and shimmies to its front, placing the tree between himself and his origin. He puts his back against the grain; raises his chin; closes his eyes; seals his mouth. Spent air blasts from his nostrils.

The man listens.

Silence.

He turns his head and inches an eye past the tree. The crazed pupil scours the forest, darting from trunk to trunk. It searches for blue police uniforms, for the steeples of state trooper hats. But the man finds none. The only human trace is his long, erratic depression plowed through the understory. It documents his movements down to the stride.

“Shit,” he spits the pent-up breath from his mouth. He whacks the butt of the revolver twice against his temple and grits his yellow teeth as he stares at the map he has left his pursuers.

He straightens his back against the tree and looks up. The quilted canopy flutters. Rain scents the rising wind. The man jerks his gaze down. The landscape pulsates with a verdancy that overwhelms his vision. He rubs the tears of exertion from his eyes, the spittle from his mouth, and blinks rapidly. The knives in his chest and legs begin to fade. 

The man squints. His head lolls forward. Far off ahead of him, a horizontal stripe of cherubic white disrupts the green-spread. It threads across the horizon, shimmering like the farthest water seen from shore.

Wind rushes high in the canopy. Its sounding flume thwarts his vigilance. His eyes shoot up and then over his shoulder. The woodland lilts and melds isolated movements into one pastiche.

He thinks he detects the spinning of rotors overhead. He stabs the handgun into the air, swinging it wildly from point to point, hunting a helicopter through the branches.

The wind muffles his curses. The man snaps his head down and shoots forward into the curling green waves.

***

The man’s broken trail stretches back through the woods. At the treeline crimson bootprints reverse out onto a quiet road lined by mobile homes. The tracks backpedal through a swarm of patrol cars and flashing lights to a faded white trailer. In the driveway, beside a vintage yellow Thunderbird strewn with tools, lies an old man stiffening under a police sheet to cover his near nudity. A dirty sweatshirt and jeans, too small for him, lay discarded by the car’s bumper. His embossed leather holster is empty and flung to his side. Two bullets from its missing tenant are buried in his torso. Nearer to the woods a policewoman sprawls with her pistol death-gripped in her right hand, her collarbone and sternum shattered. Beside her shrouded body a contingent of cops and dogs prepares to enter the woods.

***

The man clutches the waist of the old man’s pants as he runs. The overall straps flail at his hips like tentacles. Sweat drenches his hair and the stolen red and brown flannel.

He trips on an errant root and pitches forward. His hands strike the ground first. The revolver fires, detonating in his ears. The explosion resounds through the woods.

He scrabbles in the ferns and flips onto his back. His hands accost his torso in search of a wound. He pushes himself up to a seated position and aims the revolver back the way he came. His eyes slit with desperate rage. 

Still the green pearl of the forest swims with wind, discernment impossible.

The ringing from the shot splits his head. His jaw opens and shuts as though he chews something too big for his mouth.

“Now they have a gunshot to follow,” he snarls. “Probably think I killed a hiker.” He jabs his booted feet into the mess of ferns and dirt. “Why did that old goddamn joe talk back? Couldn’t just give me his clothes, had to go for his gun.” He rolls onto his stomach and looks ahead. “And that cop, why’d she have to—”

His mouth freezes. 

The pink-and-white fortress of mountain laurel towers into the air several strides ahead of him. It blinds with a brilliance that seems to radiate from some internal force.

The wind dies out. A viscous silence drapes over the woods. Somewhere deep in the trees a thrush twinkles its delicate god-song like the synchronous breaking of a thousand, minute glass worlds. Fragrance plumes from the edifice of flower sprays. 

The laurel’s scale sends a shudder through the man that seals his gawking jaw. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head. A shower of sweat pelts the ferns. He rises slowly, watching the pastel hedge with suspicion. 

The man steps back and looks down the wall. The coral boundary marches in either direction as far as he can see. It bisects the forest into what he has seen, and what awaits him.

His pupils slide to their left.

“Bastard.”

He twirls around with the revolver primed. Every leaf ogles him. The thrush flutes and a madrigal of bees hums from the laurel behind him.

A dog barks in the distance. His hackles rocket up.

He turns and glowers at the long, seductive barrier. An odd fear whimpers in the corners of his eyes.

“Screw it.”

He dashes for the narrow opening of a deer run to his left and stoops to enter the maze.

***

The man shuffles through the game tunnel crimped at the middle like an open clam shell. The enclosure is dark, the air stagnant with perfume and sunlight-starved dirt. Blooms encircle his bent head and limbs. Their long stamen tongues taste him. Signals flow to the root-brain. 

He emerges from the tunnel onto the compacted brown clay of an old service road. The trail bends sharply in either direction in a horseshoe. Fugitive flowers stick to his sweat-slicked head; errant petals and floral viscera crawl down his back and latch onto his skin like leeches. He ruffles the flannel to dislodge them as he jogs around the left bend of the road. 

The mountain laurel grows clear across the cut. The shrubs spool from the roadsides, edging out into the break.

The man sneers at the blocked path and spins. He sprints around the horseshoe’s middle. At the opposite end he finds the same sight. 

The sweat stings his eyes and he blinks in bewilderment at the barrier. His heart and breath struggle in ragged cacophony. He looks up. Every green granule studies him in petrified silence. The hot grey sky crushes the crowns of the trees. 

A clamp tightens over his sternum. He drops his eyes to the wayward stretch of road. The laurel seems to have encroached further on the break.

“What in the hell…”

His voice sounds alien to him. Each syllable floats out and hangs in the air, confined.

The man vaults back to the deer run. The sprays grow over the gap as though it was never there. The thrush’s incantation haunts from all sides, splintering glass in his ear drums.

He beats the side of his head with his palm.

“Relax, relax! Don’t lose it now.”

The man mops the sweat from his face with the sleeve of the tattered flannel. He takes off down the road’s left segment. He lowers his head and crashes through the blooming thicket. He claws the branches apart, stepping high and stomping down to clear a path. At first he struggles, the tangles holding firm, but as he flings himself forward the branches curl away at his push. The flowers pour onto him by the thousands as though from a deep, bountiful wound, enveloping him in their hemorrhage.

Something cracks and bursts beneath his boot. The man jolts to a stop and looks down. He raises his foot from a woven nest. A clutch of eggs lies obliterated, the goo dripping from his sole. Their fragile annihilation summons the faces of the old man and the officer: The deathly grimaces that contorted their mouths with unimaginable pain when the close-range shot pulverized their flesh, snapped their bones. Pawing at the wounds as they fell like their doom could be swatted away.

The man smacks his forehead to banish their images.

“Dumb bird building a nest on the ground!” he yowls and jerks the dying slime of cells from his boot.

He looks back and the mountain laurel has twined together, effacing the path he blazed. 

He limps forward. Again the branches forsake their turgidity for him. He peels them back with the barrel of the revolver. His face and hair wear a lacquer of petals.

Something feathered breezes against his calf. He keeps moving, blaming a branch.

It strafes his leg again.

The man wheels around and stares into the dark mire. The mouth of the revolver tracks his leer.

An avian shriek peals from beside his head. The man lurches into the brush as though the noise has shoved him and pulls the revolver’s trigger in the bird’s direction. The gun clicks, the hammer uncocked. He thrashes to regain his balance and pulls against tendrils that have coiled around his ankles and wrists. When he tugs himself free he spits up petals that have infested his throat and lungs.

He tears through the scrum, all the while the tangle closing behind him. The shrieks multiply, bombarding him from every side. Birds he does not look up to see throw themselves against his scalp, peck tithes of his flesh, screech with a mania that rings with the awful cries of those he killed.

The man staggers out into a clearing. The flannel and pants hang off him in rags. Lacerations tattoo his flower-strewn skin. The grey sky presses on him with the intensity of the desert sun; the white glare from the ocean of flowers cleaves his forehead.

He heaves short breaths from an airway choked with petals. His knees wobble. He squints at the clearing. The compacted dirt, the horseshoe bend, it is all the same. Only, the laurel has engulfed more of the curve. In the hedges the legion of birds screams, the million bees vibrate, the forked tongues of the flowers strain to devour him.

“Where…how…”

His vision blurs. He only sees swathes of seashell pink, molten green, asphyxiating grey. He stumbles in delirium, the revolver and its one filled chamber still clutched in his hand. The vengeful chorus rises to a decibel that ruptures his eardrums as he falls forward into the waiting hedge. In the tumble of his arms the hammer cocks and the trigger clicks. The din muffles the shot. Then, like hands pressed over ears, the hellish symphony quiets.

Far off, somewhere unknowably remote, a thrush harps. The man writhes on his back, a hole ripped in his stomach by the revolver shell. As his life ebbs out and he goes still the laurel entombs him. It consumes the clearing, its verdict once more rendered on the guilty and the violent, on the ultimately transient.

photo Harry Rajchgot

James Croal Jackson, JULY 2024, POETRY

Soundtrack to Living in My Car

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Jackson, James Croal- SoundtrackDownload

photo Wikimedia Commons

FICTION, Janet Goldberg, JULY 2024

A Pretty Picture

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A Pretty Picture

Janet Goldberg

______________________________________________________

This weekend they planned to see the Julia Morgan again, an exquisite, two-story stucco with soaring ceilings, rich mahogany floors, and lovely built-ins. $2.5 million. Not that she and Conrad planned to buy. On Sundays they just liked going to the Open Houses, touring the old Berkeley homes in the fancy neighborhoods they couldn’t afford. And it wasn’t that they were poor. The 1918 condo they’d bought two decades ago was actually quite valuable but not valuable enough to buy one of the grand old houses—there simply wasn’t enough cash to make up the difference. Conrad, an accountant for a small business stamp company, did okay, but because he was on in years his meager increases barely made up for inflation, and Dorothy, a therapist with her own practice, was on the downslide too, the scream therapy she gave, corrupted, commandeered now by marketers looking to make a buck. “Log onto Escape to Australia and with the touch of a button you can scream your head off, record it, and hear it played back to you from the outback.” Dorothy had stumbled onto the website one day and was horrified to see a giant speaker blaring someone’s screams among startled kangaroos. But on Sundays, roaming through all the open houses, she and Conrad could forget their problems. This Sunday though, Conrad woke up with a cold. “But don’t let that stop you from seeing the house again,” he said to Dorothy after he blew his nose.

“I think I’ll go meet Margret instead. For brunch. She’s been trying to get me into the city for ages. I’ll just take the train in.” Earlier, before Conrad had woken up, Dorothy had spotted in the newspaper just a small ad about an exhibit at the San Francisco Art Museum, a new gallery across the bay, beneath it a small photo of a diapered infant propped up on a pillow. But precious as it was, there was something odd about it, the infant’s eyes. Dorothy had to get a magnifying glass to get a better look. 

“But what about the Julia Morgan?” Conrad asked. “It might not be open again next weekend.”

“Oh, they’ll be others. And besides I wasn’t keen on the bedrooms. All that dark wood paneling. And that pink bathroom. I couldn’t see myself squeezing into it. Though that old tile has its charm.”

“Well, that bathroom would have to be gutted,” Conrad said. 

Gutting such houses—the Julia Morgans, the Bernard Maybecks, the John Hudson Thomases—was something they’d become fond of doing, tearing them down to size with this or that comment. 

Dorothy slipped on her coat and picked up her bag. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Before dinner. Maybe we should bring something in—if you feel like eating, that is.”

“I always feel like eating.”

She left the condo and walked to the station, catching a westbound train. Twenty minutes later, emerging from the tube under the bay, Dorothy got off at Powell Street. It was quiet there, the underground station dingy, only a man in a blue jumpsuit pushing a yellow bucket, a string mop protruding from it. As she rode the escalator up and heard a train from the eastbound side pull in, a pang of regret, of guilt, struck her, and she thought of aborting, of running back down the escalator and catching that train back to Berkeley, where she could leisurely breakfast at a café and then hit the Julia Morgan. Conrad wouldn’t know any different, would probably be pleased that she’d changed her mind. After returning home, she could deliver her impressions, and once again together they could tear down the house. Had she been truthful, had she told him where she was really going, the nature of the exhibit, she knew what’d he say: Why on earth see a thing like that? But she couldn’t be the only one going, could she?

Exiting the station, she stepped out onto Market Street. A heavy dome of fog hung over the city. Shivering, Dorothy pulled her coat tight as she headed toward the museum, along the empty sidewalks as the empty Sunday buses and cable cars ground down the street. 

Outside the museum now, one of the older brick buildings that hadn’t yet been torn down, she paid and then entered, brochure in hand. For a few minutes she skimmed through the brochure and then followed the signs to the exhibit. At first it looked like any other gallery with framed art hung on austere white walls and benches to sit, though these were polished marble, long and rectangular, attractive but hardly inviting. It was early, only a few people milling about, their coats still on as if the fog had crept in with them. Maybe the photographs, like delicate fruit or the dead themselves, needed to be kept at a certain temperature.

One by one she took each photograph in, mostly families—mothers and infants, siblings, whole families, what you might think were innocent depictions of a bygone era, if you didn’t know any better. So it was like a strange guessing game, trying to distinguish the dead from the living. That apparently was the point of such death photography—daguerreotype—developed in the early 1800s as a means to help the Victorians cope with early death, so the brochure said. Print-maker Louis Daguerre had apparently invented the means to make such photos both blurry and lifelike, a loving means of preserving the dead. One photograph in particular drew Dorothy in, five plump, dour-faced siblings lined up in a row, three boys and two girls, the older girl, a sturdy brunette with long curly hair, in a plaid jumper, and the other, the smallest, a cutie with blond sausage curls, in a white satin dress. Dorothy stepped closer, zeroing in on her. She was a little paler than the rest, her cheeks puffed out as if she were holding her breath, her shoulders so bunched up she seemed perfectly neckless. Her eyes barely open, she appeared to be asleep on her feet, whereas her siblings, erect and round-eyed, seemed unable to shut their eyes, their lids seemingly propped open. 

“It’s her.” Dorothy heard a voice behind her. “The dead one.” She turned and saw a young man sitting on one of the marble benches. He had straight dark hair and bangs and pimply skin. He was wearing gray sweat pants and what looked like brand-new white sneakers. He was quite small, the size of a boy, his feet barely reaching the floor, but his deep voice made her think he might be older, high school, maybe even college. She’d treated young people before. She actually preferred them over adults. Dorothy looked at the photograph again and then down at her brochure, which said the smallest bodies were the easiest to prop up. She sat down beside the young man. He was clutching an old, battered-looking shopping bag on his lap. This struck her as odd, but she shifted her gaze to another photo to the right of the siblings. “I thought this might be interesting, but actually it’s quite ghastly” came out of her mouth, though she’d meant to keep this to herself. But then wasn’t that how she used to always start her sessions so many years ago, before scream therapy, when she’d endorsed traditional talk-therapy, with an ice breaker, a confession of her own? Of course, some of those confessions were just lies.

“The ones with the eyes are the worst,” the young man said. “The painted-on ones.”

She assumed he was referring to the 19th century artists who made their living painting eyes on the dead. There’d been something about that in the brochure too, and now that odd picture of the infant in the newspaper made sense.

“Are you a student?” Dorothy asked. She sat down on the bench beside him.

The young man relaxed his grip on the shopping bag a little. “Not really. I was shipped here from China. My parents like to send me places.”

“To study? Your English is very good.” Dorothy thought it was best to compliment him. It was almost impossible not to when presented with someone this young and obviously ailing. Still, she was surprised at how readily he’d engaged her. She wouldn’t ask him about the shopping bag, of course. Not right now.

“When I was in high school, they sent me to boarding school in China.”

“Why is that?”

The young man shrugged. “My parents don’t get along. They hate me.”

Dorothy nodded. She heard such proclamations before, but she’d never met a parent who hated their child. She didn’t think it was impossible though. “You seem like a nice person to me,” Dorothy said, still peering at the photograph next to the siblings, this one a sweet family trio arranged lovingly in a coffin, husband and wife, their infant nestled between them. Eyes closed. A serene look on their faces. Such a pretty picture. 

The young man let out a sigh. A little bead of saliva formed at the crack of his mouth. “Those little beasts at the boarding school tormented me for years.”

“That’s terrible. What did they do to you?”

The young man turned toward her. His eyes looked glassy. His head shuddered a little, and then, clutching the bag more tightly, he turned away. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“What do you think they did to me?” His voice was almost a whisper now, a polite hiss, which made her bristle. She thought about getting up, leaving. She looked for a window.

But then he sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Let bygones be bygones.” He chuckled a little.

The expression sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Dorothy folded her hands on her lap, trying to appear relaxed, and looked at a different photo now, this one to the left of the siblings. In it another little girl, this one seated on an upholstered chair, appeared to have dozed off, her head turned, chin resting on her chest. Beside her, in a twin chair, was a large doll nearly the same size as her, wearing the same hair ribbon, the same jumper. 

“That’s definitely the weirdest one,” the young man said. “Dolls are so creepy.”

“You know,” Dorothy said, “I’m a therapist. I can help you.”

He turned toward her again. “You came to see dead children and you want to help me?” 

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” Dorothy said.

“You don’t even know me,” the young man said. 

“What is it you have in that bag?”

He blinked his eyes and then gazed into the bag. “It’s what I carry with me all the time,” he said.

“You aren’t homeless, are you?”

The young man scoffed. “You think everyone who carries a bag is homeless?”

“Of course not,” Dorothy said. “It’s just that I’m worried about you, that you might hurt yourself. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“You mean hurt someone else.” He looked around the room. “There aren’t even enough people here to hurt. I should have gone someplace else.”

Dorothy rubbed her hands together, the bench beneath her so cold. 

“Anyway,” the young man said, “haven’t you seen enough? Maybe you should leave. You must have better places to be.”

Dorothy imagined Conrad in his armchair, tissues and cough drops, the smell of mentholyptus. She thought of all the bad colds she’d had, how she couldn’t breathe. “Actually I don’t.”

“You’re just saying that,” the young man said. His face stony now, he reached into his bag.

“You don’t need to do that,” Dorothy said. 

The young man pulled his hand out, in it a thin, dog-eared book. 

“Oh,” she said, relieved, then annoyed, recognizing that miserable little book. The proverbial bible of alienation—The Stranger. How many young men had it ruined? Still, Dorothy remained composed. No point in being argumentative. “Are you reading that for school?” 

“Who said I was going to school?” 

“I just assumed…” She noticed that there were more people about now, and a few had turned to look at them.

The young man slipped the book back in the shopping bag; then he pulled something else out and stood it on his lap, holding it firmly between his hands. It was so bizarre she didn’t know what to say as she stared at its button eyes and stitched-on mouth. Then he put the small stuffed bear back in his bag. 

“Is that all you have in your bag?” Dorothy asked.

Another bear came out, this one green with some bald spots around the ears. “This bear hates everyone.”

“Why?”

The young man slowly shook his head. “It just does.”

Dorothy crossed her arms, hugging herself. “I wish they’d turn some heat on. I’ve never been so cold in my life.”

The green bear disappeared back in the bag. 

The young man turned to her. “You’d better leave now.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“What do you care anyway?”

“Just think of your future.” Dorothy wanted to reach out to the young man, to touch his arm.

“You like to play games, don’t you?” The young man looked over at a photo. “You know why she did it? The mother.”

Dorothy followed his gaze. He seemed to be focused on the family in the coffin. “Did what?” 

“Stabbed them with a knife. Him, then the baby.”

Dorothy studied the young, pretty face of the woman, of the murderess, and then looked down at her brochure. “Is that what it says? How awful.” She shook her head. Feeling sick, she pressed her hand to her stomach, and muttered, “I should have gone to the Open House, the Julia Morgan.” 

“Julia Morgan? Who’s that?” The young man slid his hand back in the shopping bag, something small and dark coming out this time. 

 But Dorothy, trying to calm herself, averted her eyes, fixing them on the space, the white wall between photographs. A tranquil luxury; a quiet grandeur. The realtor’s voice from last Sunday echoed in her head and then the brochure copy, what she could remember of it, she started softly reciting—Classic wainscoting. French doors. Curved staircases. Leaded glass. Expansive gardens. Gourmet kitchen. Heart-stopping views. An absolute gem—for as long as she could. 

Ivan de Monbrison, JULY 2024, POETRY

April 21, 2024, Marseille.

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April 21, 2024, Marseille.

Ivan de Monbrison

In the meantime, this morning the wind has finally died down, and no longer makes the large plane trees that line the main street of the town, called La Canebière, shiver. A little further up, by a large church called Les Réformés, although it is Catholic and not Protestant, some hackberry trees have been planted, with darker foliage and gnarlier trunks. Yesterday morning, like every Saturday, it was flea market day along this street, there were old dusty books, obsolete trinkets, old-fashioned paintings; and me, I wanted to find an old wooden pipe for myself, but those proposed being a little expensive,  I gave up. And yes! There’s no denying that I’m truly a man of our times…I smoke the pipe, I play chess by myself for no clear reason, I badly strum my guitar, and recently, I have started to read “The Tales of the Vampire”, translated from Sanskrit by Louis Renou, more than sixty years ago now. Here, there is no computer, no television, only scores of paintings vainly hanging on the walls, in rows, and outside, through the window, the imperturbable view of the old roofs of Marseille. I live on rue Mazagran, right next to the famous Thiers high school and the Gymnase theater. If ones goes down La Canebière, it’s easy to quickly get to the harbor and the sea. Sometimes, when the weather is bad, it also rains in the old attic where I live, so then I put a plastic bucket on the floor to catch the drops, and when I’m not present, there’s inevitably a puddle that grows there but which, fortunately, dries out quite quickly, due to the arid air of this southern land. The old attic, turned into an apartment, still a little rickety, is inhabited mainly by my past, by passing through women whom I’ve slept with there, or by visitors who might have visited me, from time to time. One day, I can imagine, I too will finally leave this place, having broken my pipe, as we say for passing away in French, in my turn, for good. Then, the old attic will remain vacant, with only canvases as sole guests, those which I have been clumsily painting on relentlessly, while waiting for death for so many years, with but shadows of my poor unconscious usually casted over them. They will stay all alone in here, probably waiting for  a last  late visit, forever postponed.

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FICTION, Joseph A. Schiller, JULY 2024

The Last Score

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The Last Score

by Joseph A. Schiller

He heard Enoch speaking to him. He knew it was important. He knew Enoch was getting agitated from his lack of responsiveness. But he just didn’t care.

Alex struggled to remain present, to concentrate on the crucial preparation work at hand, but kept finding himself zoned out in the pixelation of his daydreaming. He felt his long, deep breaths rise and fall in his diaphragm, the kind of intentional breathing necessitated by his own frustration with circumstances. The volume of Enoch’s voice was steadily climbing, carried by more angst the more impatient he became for Alex’s attention. Enoch deserves to know. If not now, when? Alex thought to himself.

He straightened up a bit, shaking his head gently as though it were necessary to regain his concentration and focus on the conversation. Without waiting for Enoch to finish his thought, or to find a natural point to insert his own, Alex just blurted out, “I’mmmm…I’m done!” And for the first time in several minutes, Alex made eye contact with Enoch, noticing the confusion in his expression.

“Wait, what? What are you getting at?” cried Enoch. “Done with what? This job?”

Alex took a couple more deep breaths before explaining himself. “I…I’m done. This is my last score. I’m out of the game. I…”

Enoch appeared shocked. “You’re walking away from us? From this? What suddenly prompted this? Do you have a problem wit…?”

“No, I don’t have a problem with you.” Alex raised his hands up in front of him, shrugging his shoulders a bit as he did. He’d known in advance that broaching this topic with Enoch, no matter the circumstances, would not be pleasant. He was not expecting Enoch to take it well.

“So, what is it? Where is this coming from?” demanded Enoch.

Alex allowed another long breath in and out. “You deserve that much.”

Enoch adjusted himself on the sofa, straightening his posture in attentiveness. The movements were almost forced, as though Enoch was forcing himself to try and be more receptive to what his close friend wanted to tell him.

Alex eyed Enoch’s expectant face, with the hint of impatience and irritability that, despite all efforts, Enoch could not avoid showing completely. Alex’s gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers fidgeting. The thought crossed his mind that it was only going to get worse the longer he made Enoch wait. Alex couldn’t argue with that. No time like the present.

Forcing his eyes back on Enoch’s, Alex began to explain himself. “As you know, I didn’t grow up with much. I was essentially raised by my grandparents because my parents couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves. It’s probably the most solid parent decision they made. Anyways…

“At a time when my grandparents should have been looking forward to retirement, as humble as it would have been, they both had to stay employed in order to make sure I didn’t go without. And when I was old enough to recognize the sacrifices that they were making for me, I vowed to myself that I would do everything I was capable of to reduce the burden they carried, and, if possible, give them the rest they deserved.

“By the time I was in high school, there was nothing I needed or wanted that I couldn’t get on my own, and I thought I was pretty clever about keeping things from my grandparents. My grandmother, eh…I think she suspected, but tried to convince herself otherwise. My grandfather, on the other hand, well, not only did he know, but he was surprisingly apathetic about it—even borderline supportive, strangely enough.”

Alex paused for a second to make sure his colleague was okay with him continuing. When Enoch didn’t say anything, he resumed.

“I remember, as though it were just a few moments ago, my grandfather knocking on my bedroom door one afternoon asking to talk. He never asked to talk…ever. It didn’t need to be spelled out to me why he might suddenly want to speak with me. And, if his voice on the other side of the door hadn’t been so gentle, I would never have opened it for him.

“After letting him in, he sat in the chair at my desk, and just stared down at his hands in his lap while I waited impatiently at the foot of my bed. We sat in silence together for what seemed an eternity, me not taking my eyes off of his, and him at his lap.

“I honestly had no idea what to expect out of my grandfather’s mouth. Every instinct I had led me to expect the absolute worst. You need to understand that I idealized my grandparents—I worshiped the very ground they walked on. Their disappointment would have been the end of me, crushing my very soul. But, that’s not what came out. My grandfather eventually looked up at me and gave me a second to make sure that I locked eyes with him.

“He told me that he knew I had been engaged in petty theft for some years up to that point, and that I was beginning to set my sights on bigger and bigger targets. He dropped that in my lap and went quiet, I think because he expected me to shout out that he was wrong. But I didn’t. I could not and would not ever lie to my grandparents. When I didn’t say anything in protest, he said one more thing, and only one more thing. He told me that he would support me in any path…any…that I chose under one condition: That I have a very clear moral compass to guide me, and that I vigilantly guard those principles. Otherwise, he said, I would deserve every bit of the punishment awaiting me.

“I’ll never forget that conversation. We never spoke on the subject again, and we didn’t have to. I carry those words with me always. So, to make an unnecessarily long explanation even longer,” Alex said with a grin, “I no longer know why I’m doing this. I’ve pondered it for months, but…but…all I know is that if I continue I will be doing it for the wrong reasons. That promise to my grandfather means more to me than any score…any.”

When Alex had finished, he took a long, deep draught of air, before slowly letting it out, waiting for and fully expecting his lifelong friend to respond. Enoch adjusted himself on the sofa to sit closer to the edge of the seat, still betraying anxiety in his body language. A measured response from Enoch was the last thing Alex expected. However, Alex could tell that Enoch, though he wanted to say something immediately, had decided, rather, to choose to completely digest what had been shared with him, to process how he felt about it before opening his mouth.

The two shared a quiet moment before Enoch finally voiced his thoughts. Enoch’s countenance, Alex noted with relief, gradually softened, taking on the appearance of understanding rather than of hurt. Alex glanced down for a second, brushing his right pant leg at the knee as if removing dust, then Enoch finally spoke. “Well…if you’re out, you’re out.”

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Ivan de Monbrison, JULY 2024, POETRY

The circle

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The circle

Ivan de Monbrison

The face is placed upside down on a corner of the table and you spill ink on a sheet of paper you would like to say something but you can no longer speak any language you are sitting mute without a name there is also near to the sheet an ashtray full of cigarette butts and a deck of cards turned upside down you turn one card right side up it’s the queen of hearts then another it’s the queen of spades this time there is also a heart  still beating and torn from your chest and left in the pocket of the shirt that you are wearing now and this heart is totally covering you up with blood yesterday you went for a bit of a walk in the old downtown area that you know so well it has a lot changed over the years the faces seated on the terraces are no longer quite the same as before but the young people still laugh as they used to drinking alcohol wasting their time their faces are all different and yet they all resemble each other in all sorts of ways all these individuals all the women all the men are only one in fact unique and anonymous today there is in front of you in addition to the deck of cards a cup of coffee placed on the table right next to the ashtray and the card of the ace of spades turns over by itself and that of the two of clubs also today you have some heartburns in your belly due to smoking too much and you have painted a canvas all in black you don’t speak with anbody anymore and you no longer have a name of your own you have turned bald and you keep telling yourself that you should change all of your teeth three times a day at least and change also once a week your head and once a month your face yesterday in the street you saw on a sidewalk death walking between the tables of the cafe terraces where young people were seated and by this beautiful late afternoon you saw her staring at them smiling and counting them all with her fingertips one by one as they keep laughing and exchanging among themselves meaningless and trivial words  on the boulevard the cars went speeding up noisily and the young people as they laugh keep showing their white teeth to each others and their words are nothing more than unintelligible sounds as if they had once again turned into the animals that they have never really stopped being as if they were removing this false skin made of clothes and their shoes too and all this while still mechanically bringing their lips to the brim of the glasses filled with alcohol most of the time some smoking cigarettes too with the smoke coming out of their mouths and death passes between the tables and carefully observing them, one after the other, but they do not see it

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Benjamin Schmitt, FICTION, JULY 2024

Job #17 

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Job #17 

Benjamin Schmitt

After the twenty-four-year-old founder of the startup he worked for had a nervous breakdown and abruptly sold the company, John had to find a new job. He called all his old associates but times were tight and no one could offer him anything. As the weeks went by, desperation moved in and began strutting confidently around the house in an ill-fitting bathrobe, so John spent more and more time considering jobs he never would have even looked at before. One morning he awoke to his deceased father’s voice drunkenly crowing at the dawn in a distant cornfield and he decided to accept an entry-level position at a fast food restaurant. This was an enormous relief to his wife, whose part-time catering job didn’t pay enough to feed and shelter their family of five. At work, he was the oldest person slinging burgers and fries by twenty years. For the first few days he found himself depressed about his fall to such a lowly station and filled with bitterness at the youthful hopes of his coworkers. His own hope felt more like the dread inside a Las Vegas casino, while their hope followed its every teenage pronouncement with clanging, trailing bells. Only after witnessing and experiencing the verbal abuse of the customers towards the staff was John able to move past this. It took some time and quite a few angry misunderstandings but once they got to know each other, John and his coworkers would often laugh together at a stupid customer or a peculiar situation and in those moments he felt that there were no such things as generations, only gusts of humanity shaking an eternal tree that constantly dropped fruits of mirth and sadness. 

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