Empty

Leigh and Tara sit on a white seersucker blanket with rainbow stripes spread across the lawn of their Aunt Mary’s backyard. Leigh wrinkles her nose to push up the bridge of her thick, black-framed glasses as she chews on the last blackberry and leans back on her hands. She wears a black Macgregor hoodie and cut off shorts, the lining of her pockets peeking out across her thighs. Tara pulls her dress over bent knees and wraps her arms around her legs, glancing at her toenails and wondering if she should paint them gray. The wind rustles the canopy of leaves above, casting shadows that sway back and forth like seaweed underwater.

“Are you okay?” Leigh typically asks Tara once a week, often prompted by a sobering Facebook status or blog post.

Tara is both appreciative and annoyed by the inquiry, not understanding why something must be wrong in order to inspire serious reflection and discussion.

“Oh yea! Why?” She sounds overly chipper.

“I dunno.”

Leigh tugs at a few strands of denim. Just five feet and four inches, her long limbs and narrow face suggest a much taller frame than her sister. Tara is the same height, but her legs are thicker and her torso shorter. Even next to each other, she seems closer to the ground than her younger sister.

“Remember when you asked me if I had an eating disorder? We were on the swings and you were upset when I threw up after lunch.”

Leigh doesn’t say anything, but looks up at Tara and meets her gaze. Her posture straightens, conveying that she’s listening.

“It’s not that I think I’m fat. And I don’t count calories,” Tara continues. “I’m really not even aware that I’ve gone for a while without eating. I just get so hung up on my thoughts that I forget I need fuel to sustain them.”

She picks at the corner of a toenail, annoyed at its length.

“So, what about throwing up?” 

Leigh remembers listening to her sister regurgitate a super expensive meal and feeling confident that her concerns about Tara’s weight were officially justified.

“I make myself vomit when something doesn’t feel right, like if I eat too much or I feel like my stomach can’t digest whatever’s in there.”

Tara’s face feels really hot, not because she’s lying, but because she feels scrutinized.

“It’s not punishment. I promise. I do it because I feel like my body needs me to do it.”

A dove coos from a powerline, a sound Tara and Leigh always mistook for an owl until today, looking up and noticing the tail feathers press down as the soft murmurs tumble out.

With a sharp intake of breath, Leigh sings, “Ooookaaay-eee,” to signal her surrender.

This is a significant difference between them; Leigh has no problem dropping a discussion if it’s causing more harm than good. Tara, on the other hand, is mildly confrontational and likes to get to the root of a problem, even if it means stalking the opposite party and hounding her with questions until she’s reduced to tears. A couple years ago when the sisters were still in high school, Leigh walked in on Tara standing in the living room gaping with confusion just as their mother was slamming her bedroom door and weeping hysterically within.

“What the hell happened?” 

Leigh dropped her purse to the floor and threw her keys on a side table as she slipped off her Birkenstocks.

Tara turned to look at her and shook her head. 

“I don’t understand why Mom gets so upset when I want to talk to her about something serious. She gets all defensive and says her blood pressure is too high and she can’t listen to me anymore. How are we supposed to work on things if she can’t even talk about them?” 

She slumped onto the sofa, propped an elbow up on the armrest and cupped her cheek in one hand.

Leigh walked to the fireplace and sat on the cold stone hearth, sneering at her older sister. 

“There’s a huge difference between having a conversation and being interrogated, Tara. You’re really stubborn and don’t let up until you get answers.”

“Well, I didn’t get any answers outta Mom. She’s in there crying and I feel like a shithead. Why should I feel bad for wanting to know the truth?” 

Tara sat erect, her hands flat on top of her thighs, staring directly into Leigh’s eyes.

“Tara, you’re immune to pain or something and as much as you preach practicing empathy, you pretty much have none. You’re a bully. You want people to be able to process stuff the way you do and honestly a lot of us can’t because we’re too busy just trying to get through our own crap. Not everyone spends all friggin’ day trying to figure out the meaning of life.” 

She leaned back against the masonry, palms together between her thighs, eyes heavy with exasperation.

“Why doesn’t anyone give a damn?” Tara asked.

Leigh closed her eyes, careful not to sound pissed after forming her reply. 

“We do, Tara. The truth is, you’re the one who doesn’t give a damn about anything other than what you think is important. And while you spend all your time looking down on other people and accusing them of living shallow lives, you end up alone. Are your deep thoughts worth it?”

Leigh never found out what Tara was hounding their mother about. As she sits on the blanket across from her now, she notices the perpetual furrow between her sister’s brows and that her shoulders are rounded forward as if she might cry, but Tara’s face is blank and her gaze without purpose.

“Is it worth being sad all the time?”

Tara looks up, blinks. 

“What?”

“All that thinking and not eating. All your truth-seeking and isolation. Is it worth it?”

Tara’s eyes close as tears stream down her cheeks and drip onto the dress stretched over her knees.

“No.”

Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Natasha Akery

Family Blood

Freddie MacNamus sat in his truck and looked down at his hands. So many stains. Blood, sweat, and tears covered those hands. And black oil that would never come out from under his thick, yellow fingernails.

But mostly blood.

His boy once told him that blood ain’t red inside you. It ain’t red ‘til it hits the air.

Well now Freddie knew a secret. The pits of hell sure ain’t black. When you walk through those places where nightmares are born, all you see is red.

It’s mostly blood.

His boy was smart. They gave him a fancy name at birth. Kissed his wrinkled, old-man head and said, “Prescott, all we gots to give you is a name. It’s your leg up. Reach high, son. Maybe you’ll make it to some other family tree.”

But blood runs thick, and old habits are hard to break. Within a year, Prescott MacNamus was just Mac. Plain and simple. But boy, was he sharp.

It damn near stopped Freddie’s heart, the night he saw all that thick, red blood pouring out of Mac, staining the pine slats of their front porch.

Freddie knows deep down he done it.

He was so mad that night. So God damn mad. And the sad thing is, he didn’t have nothing to be mad about. His boy would sit at the supper table, making his wife laugh til’ she begged him to stop, tears rollin’ down her face, sayin’ her insides hurt. They were happy. But Freddie couldn’t be happy. Just livin’ made him mad back then.

Bein’ just a mechanic. Selling just tires. It wasn’t enough. He always thought he should be doing more. His family deserved more. He felt guilty every time he looked at ‘em. So he stayed mad. And he stayed away. Always sippin’ that awful, burnin’ drink.

And the night they were killed, he wasn’t there to help.

It hurts to think about it now.

He can’t take more than three breaths without prayin’ to God they died quickly. That they didn’t see it coming. That they weren’t scared.

Freddie figures, lookin’ back, that he got home about twenty minutes too late. ‘Cause Mac was still warm when Freddie scooped him up. He ran to the truck, piercing the still September air with his screams. Pleadin’, “God. Please God. Please.”

He thought his boy might have a chance. ‘Cause he could still smell the milk and cookies on his breath, see, and lil’ Mac had his dinosaur jammies on, and Freddie was pretty sure those were his favorites. They were the ones Mac was always wearing when Freddie tip-toed through the house late at night after another bender, to peek through Mac’s cracked bedroom door and love him from afar.

He layed his boy down across the seat of the truck. He’ll never forget the way those tires squealed as he ripped out of his driveway. Surplus stock from the shop. He’d put ‘em on a few weeks ago, shooin’ Mac away when he asked to help.

He drove like his own life depended on. And it did. But after a mile or so, he couldn’t see the road. He couldn’t see Mac.

It was all blood.

He opened the door and puked. Whiskey and snot came out between wails. The putrid mixture hit the dirt road only a few seconds before Freddie did. He lay there, heaving, sobbing, covered in family blood, til a State Trooper pulled up.

Somewhere along the line, they realized Freddie wasn’t a killer. Just a worthless piece of shit.

They let him go. His penance? That the world kept turning.

He had to keep showin’ up at the shop. Keep on sellin’ tires. Every day he stepped into that place, the smell of old rubber filled his nostrils, reminding him he ain’t got nothing left to work for. He made barely enough to keep his home, but not enough to sell it.

So at night he’d come home and lie on that porch. Put his head down on that dark brown stain. If he was still enough, he could feel heat comin’ off the planks of pine. It was because the porch soaked up the western light all afternoon, but Freddie liked to think that warm spot was Mac.

And this morning was no different. Until it was.

He got out of bed. Got in the shower. Smelled his wife’s shampoo. Gently closed its cap. Then he put on his blue coveralls and went to work.

But when he got there, he couldn’t walk in the door. He walked out back, tore an old piece of tarp in half, and wrote “Closed” in clumpy motor oil on it.

He stepped back and looked at it. The shame of everything he’d done–everything he was– hit him hard. He couldn’t keep nothin’ alive.

He threw it out and started over on the other half.

He thought for a second, and wrote:

Moved to 1897
Metropolitan Park
Flea Market Plaza

Freddie didn’t have enough room to finish the word “park.” It didn’t make no difference. Something he made would live on, even if it was just for a day. Even if it was just for an hour. Even it was a lie. Soon enough, somebody would find out the truth. But that shop, the one Freddie never thought was good enough, was the only shred of worth he had left.

Sitting in his old truck, Freddie finally felt some peace. He couldn’t wash his hands of what he’d done, but maybe God would clean his soul.

He looked out the driver’s side window one last time, then put the truck into drive.

He turned onto the dusty highway, and slowly pressed the gas. He didn’t let up as he watched the speedometer reach 60, 70, 80, 100.

The pedal ground against the metal floorboard. There was nowhere else to go. Freddie jerked the steering wheel to the right.

For a second, everything was quiet, and then the deafening sound of blood rushed into his ears. And right before everything went black, he saw his wife. And his Mac. But mostly blood.






Photograph by: Jaemin Riley
Written by: Sarah Gatling

Bug Man

The best thing about his job was seeing inside all the houses. It wasn’t like house hunting, all the homes reduced to shells of themselves. It wasn’t a suburban nightmare, like when his prissy girlfriend in high school had dragged him through progressive dinners and tours of historic homes. There, the spaces are decked out in the appropriate seasonal décor—every table runner in place. No dried wax on the candlesticks. That sort of thing.

No, when he entered someone’s house, it was at its most living, breathing state. No one cleans up for the bug man. Sometimes, it’s a lesser state than that—the emergency jobs—the termites, the bed bugs. All the embarrassing intimacies are exposed, and no one cares. The bug man gets the crusted dishes in the sink. The untamed dust bunnies exploring new territories like tumbleweed on an open prairie. The beds stripped and yellowed mattresses exposed, tainted with creatures, as sheets spin in an extra-high-heat dryer, and Mrs. Scoffield or Johnson or McAlister scratches her arms and cries when he leaves.

But seeing how the mighty had fallen wasn’t what he loved most. Sure, he had grown up poor. He’d done a stint in the navy and ended up exterminating bugs when his previously undiagnosed sleep apnea got him honorably discharged. He’d only had chance encounters with the rich and famous until he took this job, but peering into their nooks and crannies didn’t do it for him. Besides, wealthy, educated people didn’t tip well.

What he really loved were the houses where people lived alone, especially Emily Conyers’ house, though he couldn’t admit that to anyone for fear of being labeled a predator.  He had never lived alone. He moved from his childhood home with his mother, four sisters, and an aunt, the lone man in a gaggle of women, to the ship, where the men at first overwhelmed him. And now he lived with Raye, who was more girl than all his family members, yet cruder than anyone he’d met at sea. She spent hundreds at a hair appointment, slept in makeup, pissed with the door open, and drank milk from the carton.

The loner-houses weren’t anything like his apartment with Raye. The men lived unapologetically—entire rooms with no furniture. And the women’s spaces, especially Emily’s, intrigued him most of all. Women alone didn’t sacrifice anything for anyone else. If Emily wanted a pastel pink dresser and intricate lace doilies on the wall, she had it, and yet it didn’t come across childish. Just true.

Emily was twenty-five, divorced, and interested in stargazing and staying fit, but he only knew this from her OKCupid profile, which he wasn’t supposed to be viewing, as he was in a loving, committed relationship with Raye. He visited Emily’s house once a month for a routine cockroach/spider/centipede spraying, and each time he found himself lingering in the corners, taking his time. He knew this was counterintuitive. She’d never call him with a brown recluse problem if he took such pains to keep her pest-free, but he couldn’t imagine her, all alone, sleeping in fear on her tiny living room loveseat because of a rogue cockroach in her bedroom at night. 

His OKCupid profile featured an unrecognizable photo of himself, ten years prior, at boot camp. He wore sunglasses and had the requisite close haircut. Raye would never discover him, as long as he cleared his computer history, and Emily wouldn’t guess that Chris, “I like to work out and live life to the fullest,” was the Chris-the-bug-man-Chris.

He was building up the courage to send her a private message.

“I hope you haven’t had any problems with those Japanese stink bugs,” he mumbled as he sprayed poison in her kitchen.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“Stink bugs. From Japan? They came in on a boat…invasive species.”

“Oh. No. I don’t even know what they’d look like.”

“Kind of like little origami kites, actually. But, you know. Smellier.”

“I’ll be on the lookout.”

“Yes! Let me know if you see any. You can call me any time. I mean, call ExpressPest any time, and someone will come out and take care of it.”

“Thanks. I will.”

He ran the conversation over in his mind. Her voice had risen when she said thanks. Like she genuinely meant it. It was a start.  He’d send the message.

Dear Emily,

You seem like a cool girl I would like to get to know. Would you like to chat sometime?

Over his shoulder, he heard the sound of smacking gum.

“Who’s Emily?”

It was Raye.

“Um. A client with a stink bug problem.”

“That’s what she said,” Raye snorted.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

“Whatever. Oh my god, is that OKCupid? What the hell, Chris?”

It would take a trip to Jared’s Jewelers and a lot of groveling to unwind Raye from this one. Raye cried that she shouldn’t have to feel insecure because she worked so hard at being confident. That he should know how far she’s come with trust after her last boyfriend and the mess with her step-dad, and she built a home with him, right, don’t you understand that we’re a family?

He looked around at their apartment. Raye’s purple bra hung over the bathroom doorknob, drying from the laundry. There were tampons in plain sight on the toilet tank. Over the fake fireplace was the art Raye had bought from TJ Maxx, the wooden plaque that said, We didn’t realize we were making memories—we just knew we were having fun! He realized he did live in a loner-house, but that house was Raye’s loner-house. Where did he go?

He got a message back from Emily.

Do I know you? You look so familiar from your picture.

He thought of Emily sitting on her double bed, the room dark but for the twinkle lights strung above her doorway. He envisioned himself disappearing there, too, tucking his work shirts away in the bottom pink dresser drawer.

He hit reply.

Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Dot Dannenberg

Wheel

Shooting Big Sneak, he hit a hung-up sycamore that bounced the kayak toward an undercut rock. He turned just as the shoulder of fall-line granite thumped him in the temple. There was no blackout, no ringing bell in his brain – just a dull pain, skull against rock, followed by a faint buzzing like a sweat bee against a nylon tent wall. He righted himself, shaking it off, glad he’d had the spray skirt on.

At first he thought the weather had turned – the sky glowering down to the dull, horizon-wide mica-shine that meant storm. Then he saw that his bright boat (Tequila Sunrise, the sticker had said) had lost color. The river, too, was black as burned oil, the foam on the standing waves as dull and lightless as mortar mix. He was as absent of color as his granddad’s ancient television. Dashing his face with the inky river didn’t help. He closed his eyes, opened them, rubbed them. The world stayed the same flat monochrome.

What could he do but paddle through? He tried, but in grayscale the river’s eddyline disappeared: the current grounded and spun him. The dimness felt malevolent. As he passed under the first of two bridges, the span against the flat chalk sky was a long, black shadow, an underbelly alive with the chittering of bats he could perceive only as a faint, teeming seethe. He knew they must be bank swallows, not bats, but couldn’t convince himself. He saw what he saw. When two dozen swarmed from their unseen mud nests above him it was all he could do not to panic. Against a glaring patch of sky the veering wings appeared and disappeared like ghosts.

Just past the second bridge, at the take-out, he pulled the spray skirt and saw his legs, gray as a dead man’s, the hair stark as black wire. The pallid sand of the shallows made a soft sucking sound against his keel. Again he shut his eyes. He beached, got out. He slung his head side-to-side, up and down, went to his knees like a Muslim pray-er, forehead to the damp riverbank. Nothing worked. He thought of whacking himself with the paddle.

Is you hurt?

The voice came out of the yawning darkness under the end of the bridge.

Who’s there?

Nobody. Just me fishing.

Hey.

Hey. You eyes – they failing on you?

I hit my head.

You not seeing me?

You’re under the bridge. I can’t see anything under there.

A shadow moved against shadow, its edges indistinct until a pair of black rubber boots became clear, stepping down the sapped granite rip-rap that shelved down from the bridge. First he saw the knee-high boots, then knees and thighs, carrying wide, round hips. A woman. A stick or cane helped hold her up.

You seeing me now?

I see most of you. Not your face.

She came further until she stood ten feet away.

This close as I’m coming, mister.

That’s fine. I see you, ma’am. Her eyes were black as two cliff-face caves.

What ail you?

I can’t see right. Everything is black and white.

Everthing is. Sure enough.

Now that he’d said it he realized there was no white, only the bleached gray of dry bone.

Everything’s shadows. No color.

How long?

Two hours, maybe. Seems like forever.

What you hit?

A rock. In that rapid below the old ferry.

You laid down yet?

No ma’am.

You lay down, then. Lay down with that same rock as your pillow.

It was in a rapid.

Then find one like it.

What good would that do?

Rock took your sight. Rock can turn it back.

I thought of hitting myself already, if that’s what you mean.

I said what I mean. You lay down.

So he did. He was on his knees still, a flat slab of granite within reach of his head. He stretched out, putting his temple to the stone, freckled and shot with graininess – dark and light specks and every colorless gradation between from pencil lead to pen ink. Charcoal, soot, ash-tipped reed -- every medium hands had ever scribbled in. He rested his head on the hardness.

The woman’s face above him was a black hole against the sky. For the first time he feared something other than this dead world he had crossed into. He closed his eyes.

In the dream his stone pillow was brought to him on a wooden paddle. It was rounder – almost spherical, the size of a large orange – but it was his pillow. The surface, too, was like an orange’s, minutely pebbled, glossy. He lay still looking at it, his eye entering the crevices of its roundness until a translucent leathery wing was spread over his sight. He blinked. The stone had become an orange, halved -- a ruby wheel, white-spoked, its colors muted but there. His waking heart lurched at the redness and accelerated, as if a lost heat had rekindled his blood.

When he woke, a weight held his eyes shut – the woman’s warm hand, rough with dirt, smelling of snuff, earthworms, Jergen’s hand lotion. Her long middle finger spanned his eyes, her other fingers his brow and upper cheeks. The calloused ridge of her palm draped his temple, as soft on that side of his head as the rock was hard on the other.

You keep them eyes shut, she said.

She drew her hand away. He heard riprap shift as she withdrew up the bank – heard her call from under the bridge Look now. Look at old muddy first.

He cracked open his eyes. He saw first the river -- clod-colored, flowing under a still, dim reflection of the sky -- then the gray-mottled sycamore trunks of the far side, then the brown-shot, green-and-yellow spatter of their leaves. Beyond, the blue sky.

Thank you, he said, to the clouds, the trees, the water, the woman. He was too glad to cry.

Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Gordon Johnston

Connect to Charger

--100%--

This is the happiest moment of my night, and it will be ending any second now.

*Knock, knock, knock*

Speak of the Devil.

So long, chair. We will meet again.

--99%-- 

“Happy Birthday, muddahfuckah!”

It’s Brent, some of his college buddies and a group of girls who may or may not be above the age of consent.

“Brent, I told you in the text, my birthday is two weeks from now.”

“And I told YOU in the text, I don’t give a shit. It may not be your birthday, but we’re gonna party like it’s your birthday!”

Brent clearly didn’t know how I party on my birthday.

“Where do we put the keg?”

“You got a keg?”

“Hell yeah! I spare no expense for my best-work-buddy’s birthday!”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Then why are you holding THIS?”

Brent tossed a plastic chalice, with “B-DAY PIMP” emblazoned around the rim, in my direction.

I didn’t catch it, and it cracked.

“DUDE. What the fuck? That thing cost me like, twenty bucks!”

“ONLY twenty bucks?”

--68%-- 

The number of people in my apartment has quadrupled since Brent and his entourage invaded my personal space, which is why I’m surprised William, our colleague, has decided to cling to me like the stench of fried food on my corporate-mandated apron.

“This is an epic birthday party, dude.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, man! You’ve got a keg and everything!”

“It’s not even my birthday.”

“But Brent said…”

“Brent’s an idiot. He just needed an excuse to get wasted and I was foolish enough to let him know it’s my birth month.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

--59%-- 

Will and I broke our awkward silence by taking a sip of our drinks. As I peered down the ribs of my red-plastic cup, Angela passed through my sights. What was she doing here? If my stalker-ish calculations were correct, she should be visiting her boyfriend this weekend.

“Will, it’s been a pleasure, but I need a refill.”

“Want me to get it for you, Birthday Boy?”

“No. No I don’t.”

“Alright, man. I’ll be here.”

“Good to know.”

Note to self, avoid that area for the rest of the night.

--51%-- 

“Angela?”

“Hey!”

Oh, God. She’s going in for the hug.

“Happy Birthday!”

It feels like it.

Oh, man. She gives good hugs.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Yeah, well, Blake had something to do this weekend, and I didn’t want to just stay home alone on a Saturday night like some kind of a loser.”

“Totally.”

Liar. 

“This is a great party!”

“I spare no expense for my birthday.”

“I can see that. You got a keg and everything.”

“YOLO.”

“Totes!”

Kill me.

“I really like your apartment.”

“Thanks. Me too.”

Another uncomfortable silence and another sip from my cup. As I lowered my drink I heard a raised voice coming from the bathroom.

--44%-- 

“EWW! GROSS, DUDE!”

“Angela, it’s been a pleasure, but I need to see what that’s about.”

“No problem. I’ll be here.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Note to self, immediately return to that area.

--42%-- 

“Oh no.”

“Jake threw up EVERYWHERE.”

“I can see that, Brent. Jake. Jake. Come in, Jake.”

“He’s out, dude.”

“I can see that, Brent. Get him out of here so I can clean all this shit up.”

“I’m sorry, dude. I really am.”

“Yeah, well, you should be.”

And just like that, Brent was gone. So was Jake. It was just me, a bucket and the second coming of our “award winning” baked potato soup.

Through the door I hear Brent persuading William to give Jake a ride home. Will was the newest addition to the wait staff, thereby making him everybody’s bitch. His sheepish demeanor wasn’t doing him any favors. I guess that’s why he flocked to me. We wear a similar wool.

--27%-- 

Things were shaping up. The puke was gone. Will was gone. And as far as I could tell, everyone assumed I was gone. My insignificance was working in my favor. Now, to keep my presence unknown while I take these vomit cloths to the dumpster.

--22%-- 

“Oh.”

Shit. It’s Karen.

“HEY!”

She “discreetly” discards her cigarette and goes in for a hug.

“Happy Birthday!”

Even in the great outdoors, her breath smells like a bowling alley.

“Still smoking, huh?”

“Come on, it was just ONE. Give me a break.”

“Hey, I’m not your oncologist. Puff away.”

I used to be more vocal about her deadly habit. Then she started mistaking my general disapproval of self-destructive behavior for genuine interest in her well-being. And now, I’m her Angela.

“Need help with those?”

“No thanks.”

“Want me to walk with you?”

No thanks.

“Sure.”

--13%-- 

Karen talked from the dumpster to my doorstep. About what, I had no idea. I put my social skills on autopilot and let my mind drift off to a happier, lonelier place.

As we came in, Brent was on his way out.

“Hey, man! I was looking for you. I think me and some peeps are going to get pancakes. You down?”

“Nah. I think I’m going to stick around and tidy up a bit.”

“Want me to help?”

“Thanks Karen, but I’ll be fine by myself. You go enjoy some breakfast food.

“I’m not really hungry.” 

“Well, I’m pretty sure they have a smoking section.”

The light in Karen’s eyes extinguished like the cigarette she smashed into the pavement.

--9%- 

The door closed with Karen, Brent and Brent’s peeps on the other side. I checked to see if Angela was still lingering around the kitchen.

She wasn’t.

It would’ve been nice to take one more swing at wooing her from Blake, but beggars can’t be choosers. All I’ve wanted to do since Brent knocked on my door was return to my lonely throne and let the solitude rejuvenate my spirits like a cold compress.

Just let me step over a few empty beer cups and…

Oh, yeah.

--Charging-- 

Photograph by: Jaemin Riley
Written by: Mark Killian

...And the birds eat desire

My wife’s mother told her a story the night before we were married. She was an old-fashioned mother, and a petite creature that seemed prone to mishandling, as if she might fold at any moment like a card table after an AA meeting.

Contrary to her size though, she held inscrutable beliefs, and she held them tight.

It was a crazy story - a voodoo story. A tale my wife and I used to mock in early morning romances between cotton sheets and hushed, private fucking.

We smiled at her imagination the way you smile when you’re embarrassed – tight lipped, head down, and contained. We smiled because we were in love and that’s what lovers do; they smile.

-- 

The girl’s name was Naomi and she was beautiful and small and calm in the way an only child can be.

She came from the city.

She loved to read, and when she told people this she emphasized that girlish word love because she did not yet know what it meant.

At twenty, she met a boy like her mother told her she would. His name was Mario, and he was handsome and tall. He had a sturdy jaw, pursed lips, and nice hands.

It took some time, but eventually, they thought it fate – the pair of them.

They married and settled. They fucked like rabbits. They fucked like newlyweds.

They spent afternoons reading out loud to one another because they both liked Hemingway.

“For his prose!” they said aloud and she would giggle and he would laugh.

They held hands often.

One year…

Two years…

And then, as if a curtain had been drawn, they fell out of love.

It was fast how it happened, how quickly their love soured.

It flailed and gasped and drowned in the ocean. It fell from the skyscraper and smashed into the ground and it bled everywhere.

Then came her obvious regret, as his love still thrived. He still kissed her neck. He still held her hand. He bought her things, little stupid things that she had once adored but now despised.

And so she dreamed where her guilt could not reach and she dreamed that something would happen, something terrible, and in the end he would be gone and she would be allowed to start over.

One night she slept, and she dreamed of a white room with a white bed and a single window. Outside the window it was black. Not darkness, but rather the absence of color – as if outside the window did not exist and there was only this room and this bed and this girl, Naomi.

She was dressed in a white gown, and her black hair was curled underneath her.

 Her eyes were closed and she lay on the bed, dreaming of a boy.

But not her Mario.

Instead, this one had tattoos and she lusted for his arms. He worked in the same bookstore she worked in. He had a wonderful haircut and he used to make jokes and when he laughed Naomi could feel it in her belly, the red-hot glow, the bleeding, licking carnality that filled her up like Thanksgiving turkey.

And so she closed her eyes and she dreamed of the new boy’s hands as they explored her. And she became more and more excited until all of it had to go somewhere…

And then the window burst open and in came the birds.

Hundreds of nondescript black birds, all of them screaming human screams, and they hurricaned around her and then they attacked.

They ripped at her belly. They pulled at her clothes. They tore at her skin and blood erupted from her and it sprayed against the wall, TAT – TAT –TAT, like machine gun fire.

The red blood clung and dripped from the white wall and she looked and saw a macabre mural of her creation.

She beat at the birds with her fists and her screams infused with those of the birds and it created a swelling, ghastly, cacophonous melody and still the birds screamed louder and their pitch went higher and higher and higherandhigherandhigher until she shot from her dream like lightning from the earth.

Sweating.

Heaving.

Crying.

Mario held her but she knew something was lost, something in her belly, something she would never be able to replicate.

But they never divorced – the pair of them.

They grew old together. They never had children but they shared memories. They made love, and they cooked and their pastoral pleasantness compensated one another in some way.

But for the rest of her life, Naomi never felt any sort of sexual fervor for Mario, or any other man for that matter. It had taken her a bit, but eventually she accepted what the birds had stolen from her.

When she died she did not weep.

Instead she glanced to the walls around her, and in their sparkling whiteness, she searched for traces of red.

 -- 

In the winter they congregate on the telephone line like fossilized old men at a country club, like a bunch of Chatty fucking Cathy’s, and with these goddamn birds come my mother-in-law’s story.

They appear and it appears and they are one in the same – these birds and their story. Recently, I’ve stayed inside and watched them through the window there on the wire. The word isn’t comforting, but they keep me company nonetheless.

I’ve done this since my wife came home from the hospital.

I do this as she cries in our bedroom, as she sleeps alone, as she refuses my eggs and toast I’ve made for her.

With the doctor and he keeps using the words mishap, mistake, mischance, and not once does he say MISCARRIAGE and I want to pin him down and fucking scream it at him and tattoo it on his face.

Instead, he says that we can try again when she’s ready.

“There are no second chances!” I yell. “There is no false start! There is no replay!”

I can no longer be a part of my wife. Not spiritually. Not physically.

It feels as if I can no longer be a part of myself.

And so I sit at the window.

I think of the story.

I think of my mother in law.

I think of my wife.

And the birds eat the desire.






Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Logan Theissen

A Singular Purpose

“What is this?” Heidi held up the wooden object, perplexed.

Jackson peered at the object from behind the refrigerator door where he was grabbing fresh oranges. “A muddler,” he replied.

“What’s it for?” Heidi moved to the living room couch, it’s back facing the kitchen, and turned her body to watch him.

“You’ll see.”

Jackson set the oranges down on the kitchen counter and began shaving strips of rind off the fruit. He looked up from his task, pleased that he had finally invited her back to his apartment.

Heidi ran her hand along the stiff threads of the fabric couch, fingering a loose strand along its edge. She admired Jackson from where she sat, aware that his charm was in-part due to his playacting of good company, as one would for a casual date. She glanced about her surroundings, inhabiting the role of detective, pretending that she could deduce Jackson’s true character and personality by the contents of his apartment. Jackson’s bookshelf, replete with literary novels, must have meant that he was an intellectual. His television was set askew of the couch, so his free time was not spent lazing about. Rather, the wear on his running shoes and the ragged gym bag by the front door must’ve meant that Jackson lived dynamically, in constant motion. She already knew that he was handsome and well-dressed, so she convinced herself that he was exactly what she was looking for in a partner.

Jackson glanced up occasionally from his makeshift cocktail bar, a tray on his kitchen counter, and watched as Heidi scanned his apartment, quietly hoping that he had not left anything out that would undermine her perception of him.

“What are you making?” Heidi asked.

“Old Fashioneds,” Jackson replied, still working the orange.

“What’s in that?”

“Whiskey, bitters, maraschino cherries, and orange peel.”

“So what’s the muddler for?”

Jackson laughed, “You sure do ask a lot of questions.” He began crushing the maraschinos in a glass tumbler. “This is what a muddler is for,” he said.

“That’s all? Why can’t you just use a spoon?”

Jackson paused and thought for a moment, “Well, you probably could. This exists for just one reason, not that it makes it any less important, but it means it must do that one thing particularly well. And this,” he held up the muddler red with juice and the pulverized bits of cherries, “exists to muddle.”

Decades later, after Heidi had settled down with Dr. Anson Maguire, a podiatrist from Westchester, and after she had reared their two children, Alex and Morgan, when all she had left to do was reflect on her life, she remembered with surprising ease that first date with Jackson and the conversation about the muddler. She remembered the unnatural heat of that Indian summer and the oyster bar he had taken her to in the East Village. She remembered the briny shellfish and glasses upon glasses of white wine they had enjoyed together on the narrow outdoor portico. She remembered how lightheaded she felt, either from the wine or from the date, as they made their way to his apartment, hands clasped tightly together. She remembered the bright sunlight of the early evening hour and the way it had illuminated the entirety of Jackson’s studio apartment, its windows facing due west, directly in the path of the setting sun. Heidi smiled in her waning years, bemused by the fact she was able to recall such unremarkable details of that relationship, though she could recall little else about it. She thought it curious how complete that memory was, and how much she truly loved Jackson during their brief affair.

Jackson handed Heidi one of the glass tumblers, moist with condensation. He held his own tumbler close to his face and inhaled deeply before taking a measured sip. Heidi observed him from the corner of her eye and followed suit, unaccustomed to drinking with someone who appeared so self-assured in his ability to do so. Jackson later confessed he had been terrified that she would not find him interesting and had been deliberate in his every action. He had been so preoccupied with impressing her, exerting so much energy in being impressive, that he had not realized how little they had in common.

“You know, this isn’t bad. I don’t usually prefer whiskey cocktails.”

“Why didn’t you stop me when I told you what was in these?” Jackson shook his glass lightly, the ice clinking against the inside surface.

“I don’t know, I guess I wanted to try something new.” Heidi smiled as she said this.

“I’ve got a bottle of gin. If you’d like, I can make you something else.”

“No, honestly, it’s wonderful.” It would be the only time Heidi enjoyed a whiskey cocktail.

“Why is it they call them that?” Heidi asked. “Old Fashioneds, why are they called that?”

“There was a period of time where it became unfashionable to order the drink, so it was ‘old fashioned’ to do so.”

“How can something so simple fall out of favor?”

“The tenor of human fancies is a fickle thing.”

“So what were they called before?”

“Hm?”

“Old Fashioneds, before they became old fashioned.”

“That’s a good question. I have no idea.”

There was a break in their conversation and it was silent for a moment inside Jackson’s apartment. His wall clock was broken, the second hand shifted back-and-forth perpetually on the fiftieth second.

“Jackson, do you like me?” The dark liquor had emboldened Heidi.

Jackson was slightly taken aback by the bluntness of the question, but answered truthfully, “Of course.” He took advantage of the moment and leaned in for a kiss. Jackson wasn’t sure if Heidi was the one. What he did know was that, at that moment, she was all he wanted.

They went to bed together that night. When Jackson woke the next morning, Heidi’s scent lingered on his bed, though she had not, and the glass tumblers he had set on the nightstand were gone.

Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: James Mo

Stitched

I am a festival of feminine contradictions: I wear makeup to the gym, where I jump on the indoor track and run laps around the men. Talk of blood and needles nauseates me, but I have five piercings, three tattoos, and big plans for more. I straighten my hair daily, but I can't be bothered to color my grays or even wash it on a regular basis. I learned to bake when I was three, but at thirty, I can’t so much as sew a button on a coat. The latter is more of a problem than the others.

Case in point: I ordered a pair of pricey, lacey, black knee socks from Etsy. They arrived yesterday, I wore them to work today, and at 9:15, my boot buckle ripped a hole in one, right across my shin. Son of a bitch, I thought. I’m always doing that. I’m always ruining nice things. I rummaged through my desk for something to stop the snag. After deciding against a staple, I opted for scotch tape, which stood out against the black like a disco ball in a cabin. I tried to keep my legs as still as possible and made a mental list of friends who knew how to sew.

Trygg, my ex-fiancé, did. He said he would teach me, but then he left me for a twenty-year-old, and that put the kibosh on sewing lessons and, well, everything else. I should’ve known he’d drop me for a child. “Trygg” is not a grown-up name. “It’s Scandinavian,” he once told me. “It means faithful.” I should’ve thrown that in his face when he confessed that he’d been cheating, but I was too busy throwing plums—a dozen perfect red ones, which I’d bought to make a cobbler. Instead, I made a mess all over my carpet, though I hit Trygg with every one. I can’t catch to save my soul, but I pitch like a major leaguer.

I think of that day now, standing in the household supplies aisle at Fred Meyer, where I’m examining the two mini sewing kits I have to choose from. Each comes with sixteen colors of thread, and neither gives the option of grey-scale only, which would better suit my monochromatic wardrobe. The only difference is the price. I grab the more expensive one and turn to leave, when something jolts inside me, and I stop short—there she is. My replacement.

This is the second time I’ve seen her. The first was when Trygg and I exchanged boxes of our stuff. I met him on my porch and saw her in the driver’s seat of his car, like an accomplice ready to hit the gas as soon as the robbery was complete. I didn’t get a good look then, but today, I know it’s her. She’s wearing a pink polka dot smock with a sweater and tights to match. It’s almost too much, and then she shifts so I can see her face. She’s not pretty. I’d feel better if she were pretty. That would mean Trygg dumped me because he’s shallow and not because of my personality, which isn’t exactly something I can fix.

She’s perusing vacuums, oblivious to my presence, and I can’t pull my gaze away. I don’t want to think about the home she’ll bring the vacuum to, the strands of Trygg’s red hair she’ll clean off of her (their?) carpet, how he probably told her he’d buy the vacuum, and she said, No, I’m happy to do it. That’s the kind of guy he is, and these are the kind of women he finds. Here’s another contradiction: I’m meticulous about sanitizing the bathroom, but I only vacuum twice a year. Whenever Trygg and I made out on the floor, he’d leave with hair, dust, and pine needles stuck to his sweater. He never seemed to mind. Or maybe he did, and he just never said it.

My replacement is side-stepping down the aisle, back and forth, as though this is the most important decision she’ll ever make. I’m still staring, and right as I realize that, she looks over. I freeze, squeeze the sewing kit, don’t even blink. She smiles and lifts a hand to the vacuums, like Vanna White turning an illuminated vowel.

She says, “Do you know anything about these?” As though I’m just another woman shopping after work, buying a household item to fix the snag, the mess my man has made.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry,” and I am, though I’m not sure for what.

She shrugs. “That’s okay. I mean, it’s a vacuum. As long as it does the job, right?”
I manage a smile that strains every muscle in my face, then back out of the aisle and speed-walk to the checkout.

At home, I Google “how to mend a sock” and find a YouTube video that’s easy to follow. But then I have to Google “how to thread a needle,” and by the time I figure that out, I’ve forgotten where I found the YouTube video. I think, Screw it, and start looping the needle in and out of the fabric, pulling the hole back together. I have to go over each stitch four times to make it hold.

I tie the knot, snip off the excess thread, and examine my handiwork. I’m less than impressed. It looks like a keloid scar, the kind I have on my chest from when I wiped out on my bike—a preteen riding in a purple bikini—and hit the gravel so hard an ER surgeon had to give me six stitches. I flaunt that scar like a badge of honor. It will not be the same with the socks. I’ll be self-conscious every time I put them on, until I decide to only wear them around the house. Whenever I do, I won’t look down, taking small comfort in the fact that, this time, no disaster will erupt from what I’m choosing not to see.





Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Jessica Lynne Henkle

Evangeline

I keep dreaming about this impossible place. The geography expands in every direction and I feel some cosmic cartographer etching the map across my soul. It is desolate - there’s no one but me to explore the abandoned streets, to feel the heat radiate up my legs from the concrete, to push open the unlocked doors of antique storefronts. I feel like the only person left in the whole world and I get to peer into the lives of people I will never meet, to pass my hand over their furniture and sit on their empty porches. Sorrow shakes me when I wake, as the city fades away. Whenever sleep takes me back, I am grateful.

Since I was a little girl, I loved to describe my dreams to people. Most thought it endearing and fascinating, but as I grew up and entered adolescence, my parents became concerned and embarrassed if I elaborated for too long. I remember my father’s warning squeezes on my shoulder. I learned to trail off and allow him to change the subject with ease, but I never understood his restraint for he was also a dreamer. I found some of his journals in an old keepsake trunk he had in the garage. I hid them under my mattress and would read them by flashlight after everyone had gone to sleep.

When I could no longer speak freely to others about my dreams, I started to write. My mother noticed the growing callus on the outside of my right pinky and how much my hand would hurt after filling pages of lined loose-leaf paper. She found an old IBM computer that sported the iconic black screen and green type. It came with a dot matrix printer that used the never-ending paper spool with the holes on the sides. Everyday after school, I finished my homework and grabbed a Capri Sun out of the fridge before running to my room to spend the next two or three hours at the keyboard. My favorite part was the sound of my dream manifesting on paper, watching the print head move back and forth as it squealed.

I was twelve years old when I first dreamt about the abandoned city. I was wearing a sleeveless white Easter dress with navy blue pinstripes and matching sash around my waist. I stood in the middle of a two-way street, acutely aware of my childish ruffled socks spilling over saddle shoes. On the left side was a valley full of trees and a city skyline beyond it. On the right were tall glass buildings that seemed to disappear into the clouds. I followed the yellow lines to a bend around the block and kept walking until I noticed a large fountain with a statue of Athena rising out of the water holding a shield and a sword.

When I woke up I kept my eyes closed tight, wanting the dream to come back, wanting to go back to that place and take off my shoes so I could step into the water and walk up to the goddess. I wanted to touch her sandaled feet, to feel the grain of the stone with my fingertips. I wanted to feel the water soak the skirt of my dress and pull me down toward the coins littering the fountain floor with wishes. I stayed awake and reluctantly got out of bed, not expecting to ever go back and see more of that city.

I sat in front of my computer a few days later, staring at the screen with the green blinking dash that summoned me to write. Describing what I saw would be easy enough, but I didn’t know how to capture how I felt inside. Have you ever been somewhere or done something or been with someone and felt completely whole? Have you ever experienced a complete loneliness that did not make you sad, but brought you peace? Have you ever felt like you finally came to the end of yourself and the beginning of unadulterated existence? How was a twelve year old supposed to put any of that into words?

One day, my mother asked me if I was depressed. The question startled me; I’d never considered the notion before. I looked at her face and saw her eyes laced with wisdom and concern.

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

She flipped through a few pages of one of my notebooks, placing her chin in her cupped hand. “Your stories seem sad lately.”

I sat next to her, leaning over and looking at the pages as well, cocking my head to the side and pursing my lips as I reflected. “Well, sometimes I get sad, but I don’t really know why. I keep wishing I was somewhere else.”

My mother closed the notebook with care, folding her hands on top of the red cover and turned her head to face me. “I’m not like most mothers. I don’t say what you want to hear. I tell you the truth.”

“I know.”

“Your father has a wonderful imagination, but he began to resent it. He never learned that our dreams and our reality do not have to be separate. They are one.”

Whenever I started to forget about my dream place, sleep would take me there again. I would scale bridges, walk along railroad tracks, make tea in empty cafes, take naps in strange hammocks, and drive luxury cars. Over time, I recognized different parts of the city and could navigate my way back to a place I had not seen in years. It wasn’t until I was almost thirty years old that someone trespassed into my dreamscape, standing in Athena’s fountain. I would often gaze at the goddess in awe, but this woman looked upon her as an equal. I woke up before she turned around to face me, but I knew it was my mother.

There was a text message on my phone from her. “Call me. I love you.”


Photograph by: Jaemin Riley
Written by: Natasha Akery

Leftovers

He bought the chicken to make Kathy happy. It would be like before. He’d make his special sauce from ketchup and brown sugar. It could be the two of them together, watching the game. Or Bill and Meg could come over. But when he got home from the store, Kath was mad again, scrubbing the bathroom floor with her little frayed toothbrush.

“It never comes clean,” Kath muttered, her teeth clenched.

Jerry put the chicken in a bowl in the back of the refrigerator. He could tell Kath had done a sweep of the kitchen again. His eggs were gone; so was the seaweed salad he’d meant to have for lunch one day this week.

Jerry trudged to the basement. He could hear Kath opening and slamming the metal doors of the dryer. Best to keep out of her way.

The game. He dug the remote out of his recliner. There were Frito’s around here somewhere, he knew. He found them. He chewed. Stale, but good. The crunching echoed in his ear, drowning out the commentators on TV, drowning out Kath’s movements upstairs. Jerry reached over for the stuffed Tasmanian devil toy he had picked up at a yard sale a few months ago.  Its crazy eyes looked past him. Its tongue lolled in its fanged mouth. Jerry tugged at the tuft of fuzz on Taz’s head. The day he’d brought it home Kath yelled at him, like she always did, about junk. But this one wasn’t junk. He would save it for when Brice and Caroline brought the baby over. He’d give it to the baby. It was perfect for the baby.

Brice and Caroline never came over anymore. Kath would plead on the phone.

“I’m working on cleaning the place up—the baby will be safe,” she would say.

Brice always had an excuse. A work thing. Caroline’s allergies. All the dust, you know; it’s not you; it’s the cat you used to have. Caroline can’t handle any residual cat dander. And the baby was showing symptoms of the same allergies.

Kath would wail at Jerry.

“Don’t you care that you never get to see your own grandson?”

Jerry did care. That’s why he’d buy things, just in case. This week at the Salvation Army on MLK Jr. Drive he’d found a whole box of those little baby sleepers, the tags still on.

“Brice’s baby—he’ll love these,” Jerry had said. “Keep his feet warm at night, see? I used to have ones like this when I was a kid. Red, though. With grippers on the bottom so you don’t slip?”

“The baby’s a boy, Jerry,” Kath said. “These are pink. And they’re too small. Six months? The baby will be a year old soon. Take them back.”

“Salvation Army doesn’t do returns,” Jerry said. “We should save them. Brice and Caroline might have another baby. Maybe a girl.”

Jerry finished the Fritos. He tucked the bag down into the crevices of the recliner. He was still hungry. There was that chicken upstairs. But maybe he would surprise Kath with dinner tomorrow. She would come home from work and he would have it all ready, served up on those new plates he had picked up from where the people on Firth Street got evicted. Perfectly good plates. The blue willow kind, each one a different picture. His favorite was the one with an old house on it, trees, children dancing in a meadow.  In an upstairs window, a ghost. It only had three little chips. Still perfectly good. He would have to remember where he stashed those plates. Not in the kitchen. No room. Maybe in the den, in one of the crates. Maybe there.

Upstairs, the screen door slammed.

“Kath?” Jerry called.

No answer. She must be going out. Going to the store for something. He turned the TV down, strained to listen for the sound of the truck tires crunching on the gravel driveway.

The screen door slammed again. He heard Kath stomping through the house, rustling things.

“Kath?” Jerry called again. “You’re not moving stuff around up there, are you? I need to know where everything is.”

Kathy appeared at the top of the stairs.

“I’m out, Jerry,” she said.

“Out of what?” Jerry said.

“Out. I’m gone. I’m going. I didn’t touch any of your stuff. I just got my clothes and some of the things from the bathroom. Nothing of yours. I’m going to Meg’s tonight. Don’t try to talk me out of it, because this is too much. I’ve decided.”

“What are you saying?”

“You can have the house. I don’t want it.”

“What about the truck? Are you taking the truck?”

“I’m not. Meg’s coming to get me. She’ll be here any minute.”

“How are you going to get to work without the truck?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Kath said. “I need you to let me be for awhile.”

“If that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”

A car horn sounded outside, two sharp honks.

“That’ll be Meg,” Kathy said. She shut the door to the basement, leaving Jerry alone. He was still clutching the Tasmanian devil. It had a little rip under its arm. The polyester stuffing was starting to escape. He pushed it back in. It was still a good toy. He’d bought it for the baby. The baby would still like it.

When the city officials came with the citation stating that the house violated city ordinances, Jerry vowed to be cooperative. He would accept help. He would downsize.  He let them take the crates from the den. The baby clothes. The mountain of books he’d purchased from the friends of the library sale.

The cleaners and organizers were shocked when Jerry wouldn’t let them in the kitchen. They found him clutching a metal bowl of putrid chicken legs, long rotten.

“At least let me keep the bones,” Jerry said, his face ironed of any feeling. “They were for my wife.”

Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Dot Dannenberg

Roses

“Mama?”

“Yes, child?”

“Can we move across the road?”

Brenda scowled at the newly constructed lofts across the street and closed the curtains.

“No, child. We can’t.”

She made her way across the cramped bedroom and took a seat at the foot of the twin-sized bed being shared by her two daughters. She sat quietly, trying her best not to disturb the sleeping sister

“Why not, Mama?”

“We ain’t got that kinda money.”

“What kinda money we got?”

“This kind.”

Brenda twirled her right hand above her head like a ceiling fan–one of the many amenities that were hard to find on their side of the asphalt. Her eyes remained on her daughters’ juice-stained comforter. She didn’t need to see the constellations of mold spores spanning the roof. She didn’t need to look at the cracks in the walls where pests fled with food crumbs held over their heads. She didn’t need to watch the AC unit convulse erratically in the window to keep the room below 90 degrees. She was painfully aware of their living conditions.

“Why don’t we got that kind of money?”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“What’s opinnin?”

“An opinion is something people say is true, even though they ain’t got no way of proving it.”

“What’s your opinnin?”

“It don’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because I ain’t got that kinda money.”

“Who does?”

“The people across the street.”

“What’s their opinnin?”

“I’m lazy.”

“Are you?”

Brenda laughed, looking down at her knuckles that were swollen from decades of clenching cleaning supplies.

“I guess that’s a matter of opinion, too.”

“How?”

“It depends on what you think is important.”

“What do they think is important?”

“Who?”

“The people that think you lazy.”

“School.”

“You was lazy in school?”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Everything’s a matter of opinnin to you, Mama!”

Brenda and her daughter braced themselves as the sleeping sibling started to squirm. After a few furrows of her brow and nose, the toddler squeezed her raggedy plush turtle and settled back to sleep.

“You betta watch your tone.”

“Sorry, Mama. So why do people think you was lazy in school?”

“Because I didn’t do too good on my report cards.”

“Did your mama get mad at you like you do at me?”

“I didn’t have no mama growing up.”

“You didn’t have no mama!”

The daughter quickly grabbed her mouth to stop the outburst from spilling out, but it was too late. Her younger sister yawned, stretching her slender frame as if her arms and legs were being pulled in opposite directions by invisible forces.

Her ribs pressed against the caramel-mocha skin of her unclothed torso. Her elbows disrupted the smooth lines of her arms like knots in a length of rope. The thighs extending from her reusable diaper were the same width as her underdeveloped calves. And her sugar-rotted teeth protruding crookedly from her gums like a weathered picket fence. Her eyes opened as her lips closed.

“Come here, child.”

Brenda’s youngest daughter crawled into her mother’s outstretched arms and pressed herself against the right side of her body. Her tiny figure left plenty of space for her older sister.

“You too.”

Brenda beckoned her talkative child with her free arm. She bounded across the bed to Brenda’s left thigh in a single leap. The three of them sat bunched together at the foot of the narrow mattress.

“No, child, I didn’t have no mama.”

“Did you have a daddy?”

“Nope. I didn’t have no daddy either.”

“Where were they?”

“Jail? A grave? I don’t know? I just know they wasn’t there. I was raised in a foster home.”

“Did you have any sisters or brothers?”

“TOO many! They weren’t my real brothers and sisters, but we still had to share beds and food and all the things you two fight over. There must’ve been a hundred of us.”

“Did they keep you safe?”

“Safe? I haven’t felt safe my whole life.”

“Do you feel safe now?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“Do the people across the street feel safe?”

“Not yet.”

“When will they?”

“When our side of the street looks like theirs.”

“Can we still live here then?”

“No, child.”

“Why not?”

“Because we ain’t like them.”

“What are they like?”

Brenda looked up from the sleeping toddler leaning against the right side of her body and stared at the floral-pattern curtains separating her eyes from the other side of the road.

“They‘re roses.”

“Roses?”

“Yes, child, roses. They’re soft and delicate and pretty to look at. They need a lot of food and water and a special place to live. They need lots of love and attention.

“Well if they’re roses, what are we?”

“We’re more like those.”

Brenda pointed to the tripling of succulents sitting on the girls’ nightstand, their durable petals illuminated by the leftover moonlight seeping in from behind the curtains.

“Cactuses?”

“Yes, child, cactuses.”

“How?”

“Because we’re tougher than roses. We survive on a lot less than they do. Most people don’t pay us no mind, but we stay alive.”

“But I don’t want to be a cactus, Mama.”

“Why not?”

“Because everybody likes roses more than cactuses.”

“Well, child, that’s not up to you. You’re either born a cactus or a rose, and you and your sister, you’re a couple of cactuses.”

The daughter pressed her face against Brenda’s chest. Brenda could feel her shirt moisten with tears.

“Quit your cryin, girl.”

Brenda gently slapped her daughter in the back of the head as if she were hitting an emergency-release button. Brenda’s daughter peeled her dampened eyes from her mother’s shirt.

“Let me finish. You and your sister were born cactuses and you will always be cactuses deep down in your souls, but if you make smarter decisions than your mama, you’ll be the strongest, fiercest, most beautiful flower of all.”

“What’s that?”

“A cactus rose.”

“Do they live across the road?”

“Child, there ain’t nowhere a cactus rose can’t grow.”

Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Mark Killian

From the Summer to the Fall

“Do you know why they call me the Coward King?”

“Why is that?”

“Because, as it goes, to the victors go the past.”

“What do you mean?”

“The history books are wrong about me. It’s true, I’ve done terrible things, but what they don’t teach in schools is that I had to, I had to do those terrible things.”

“Why?”
 
“Why did I have to do them? Why do men do anything? As King I was forced to make difficult decisions I never chose to make, but it was my duty. And in times of war, those difficult decisions became impossible, but unceasingly necessary.”

“It’s been years since the last war.”

“Don’t be naïve, there’s always war. Men go to war because they must – it’s what makes us human, so it becomes part of our existence. Kings though, that’s different, the role of King shifts. There was a time when they built statues in my honor you know, statues that I lived long enough to see brought down – but war, war is constant.”

I’d never met the Coward King before. The last time I’d spoken to Pete, he was a shepherd that had lost his flock. The time before that, he barely spoke, trembling in fear at the red-eyed, goat-headed half-man that silently towered over him. And while I never knew who I would be speaking to during any particular visit, it was always Pete I was looking at. Aged, of course, but time had been outwardly kind to him. His strong, handsome features said little of his internal struggle. Only his eyes, often wide and vacant, gave him away.

I met Pete in the summer of ’67, after the riots, after the National Guard had been called in, when everything changed. They said that the violence had erupted because some white police officers had killed a black cabbie, but everyone knew it went beyond any one event. The black cabbie’s name was John Smith, though it could’ve been anyone, any number of John Smiths could’ve been the catalyst for what had been culminating for years. The riots lasted three days, three days was all it took to dismantle an entire city. In the weeks that followed, uncertainty hung in the air. Some people tried. They went about their days desperately clinging to routine, praying that maybe if they pretended hard enough, it would be so. But there was a mass exodus of, not just whites, but affluent blacks too, out of the city and suddenly, Newark had been altered. The possibility of healing, of revival, was never given a chance. Eventually, I would move on too, but at the time, Newark was my home.

For a long time after the last day of violence, the city was a ghost town, its people either having deserted it or who were still too afraid to face the aftermath. But many of Newark’s business owners who had built their lives in the city needed to see what remained, if anything remained. Folks like Pete and I were there on the streets immediately after the mayhem had ended, gauging, not whether we could afford to go on, but how much it would cost to do so. There was hope among us.
 
But, the harmony that existed between my past and my future ceased the moment I stepped through the cracked, wooden door frame where a glass pane once stood, kicking around the thoroughly looted remnants of Bendemann’s Grocery Store, of my grocery store – hopes of salvaging something, anything, dashed. There was little I could do, so I spent the rest of that day helping others where I could.
 
Pete and his ten-year-old son Charlie were standing outside his once popular diner on Broad Street, staring into the charred hole that stood in its place, when I approached.
 
“I’m sorry,” I remembered were my first words to Pete.
 
“Me too,” he replied as he turned to me. We spoke casually and openly about what we had lost, as strangers do in times of shared tragedy. Charlie had remained silent during our exchange, staring dispassionately at the destruction around him.

We turned off of Broad Street together and onto Central Avenue where a butcher friend of Pete’s owned a storefront. Pete became distracted by the remains of a fallen statue honoring a white police officer that once stood proudly, audaciously, on Central Avenue. When he noticed that he no longer had a grip on Charlie’s hand it was already too late. The official report was that Charlie had lost sight of his father for a split second and stepped onto the street into the path of a passing car, nothing more than a terrible tragedy. Pete and his wife, Sara, suspected otherwise, but it was too fantastic an idea that such a young child, not yet world-weary, could’ve suffered from depression, let alone be suicidal.

Soon after Charlie’s death, Pete’s headaches began. The doctors found a benign tumor on his parietal lobe, which they said was harmless. The most damage that it would cause, they said, was chronic discomfort, but that it could be safely removed. After the operation came the voices. The tumor had acted as a valve, its removal unleashing a torrent that had been crying out for decades, previously unheard and unheeded. Charlie’s death suddenly made sense to Sara, Pete’s madness being the missing link. The illness must’ve been imparted to Charlie, just as Pete’s blue eyes had been. It was an explanation for the otherwise inexplicable, and it was enough for Sara. Still reeling from Charlie’s death, she was unable to cope with Pete’s rapidly deteriorating state and left him.

I kept in touch over the years, as the world Pete once knew began collapsing in on him. Then one day, he disappeared. Nearly a decade passed before he emerged again, Newark had taken him, had swallowed him whole.

“You don’t understand do you?” Pete said to me tearfully, still as the Coward King. “Some choices are not choices at all.”

Photograph by: Jaemin Riley
Written by: James Mo

The Extractor

Anna lost both her parents at an early age, her mother of illness and her father of mortified suicide. Haunted by their sudden departure, she became a ward of the state, hopping from one foster home to the next until she pleaded her case before a judge at age seventeen with her GED in one hand and pay stubs in the other. He granted her early liberty and she was able to look after herself, work full-time washing dishes, and keeping her own apartment. She would brush past the pretty college girls on her way home from work late at night, smelling the perfume caught in their hair and listening to their laughter erupt across the sidewalk. Anna decided to go back to school.

She did not want to go to a four-year institution. Instead, she enrolled in an entrepreneurial certificate program at the community college that would only take three semesters for her to complete. Anna ordered her books and met each of her teachers before the first semester began in order to state her intentions for the program and explain that she has a hard time listening for extended periods of time, which is why she takes copious notes. They found her both odd and delightful.

The semesters flew by and Anna inhaled every bit of information from her courses. Her teachers were very impressed and encouraged her to pursue a business degree at the university level, but she staunchly disregarded their recommendations. One of her courses in the final semester required a research project on a topic regarding current business trends and what that means for small business owners. Anna presented the idea that in order to obtain business, you have to relieve pain, otherwise your product or service becomes obsolete. She received her certificate in the summer with a 4.0 GPA.

Anna put an ad in the paper for her business:

    APPARITION EXTRACTION
When the ghost of someone you love
   or someone you don’t even know
            can’t seem to let go.
        Call for an appointment.


The ad printed in the Sunday paper and she received a call at 8:30 AM. The woman was a widow named Shirley and she was both nervous and eager to meet with Anna regarding her services. They met an hour later at Shirley’s home in a suburb on the west side of town. They sat together at the kitchen table with only the sun filtering in through the window over the sink to illuminate the room.

“My husband died three years ago, “Shirley began. “He was a pastor with a congregation of over two thousand people. He had a heart attack and passed, but he is still here.”

Anna ran her thumb and index finger down the handle of the coffee mug in front of her as she watched Shirley’s face.

“I don’t mind him being around,” Shirley continued, “but it becomes quite difficult to distinguish reality and fantasy. I go on about my life as if he is still really here. I talk to him, read with him, go to the grocery store with him. Sometimes it slips into my conversations with others and they think I’m losing it.”

Anna took a sip of her coffee before stating, “And that bothers you.”

A look of shame flashed across Shirley’s face before she looked down at her hands in her lap and said, “I just need for him to go away. I don’t want to feel crazy anymore. He’s dead and it should seem that way.”

Anna nodded, trying to convey sympathy and understanding. “Shirley, if you could please ask your husband to reveal himself to me, then we can get started.” The widow looked up, a question on her wrinkled forehead before Anna explained, “A ghost chooses whom it haunts. Essentially, he has to haunt me in order for me to see him.”

Unsure of herself, Shirley turned to her right and asked, “Frank, dear. Would you please introduce yourself to Anna?”

His appearance was like wind blowing pollen off trees in the spring, a smokey arrival before full manifestation as a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a pleasant smile. Anna smiled in return.

“Hi Frank. As you know, your wife is interested in carrying on her life in as normal a way as possible. I need to know if you’re okay with that.”

Frank nodded.

“Good. That makes this much easier. To tell you a little bit about me, I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with ghosts ever since my parents died. It was easy because I was always looking for them. I’m not special really. I think anyone can see ghosts. I’m just a little more open to it than others. So, this is how it works. I want you to tell me the name of a place you’ve always wanted to visit, but never could.”

Frank twiddled his thumbs a moment, examining a table leg. “India. There is a shrine there that is claimed to be the burial place of Jesus after he rose from the dead.”

“What city?” asked Anna as she leaned back in her seat and reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a handful of stamps.

“Kashmir.”

Anna leaned forward, picking through the stamps with the tip of her index finger before selecting one. “Even ghosts need a mode of transportation.” She placed the stamp on the table and looked up at Frank, smiling. “Take a look at that and then close your eyes.”

Shirley gasped, reaching for the space that Frank once occupied. “Oh, my God. Did you send him to India?”

“Good grief, no. He’s haunting the stamp. I’ll write a letter to the shrine in India, put this stamp on it, and he’ll be on his way.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Shirley whimpered.

Anna pulled out an invoice and filled in the necessary information before sliding it across the table. “You didn’t get to when he died. Some things should stay as they are.”

Photograph by: Whitney Ott
Written by: Natasha Akery