A Proud Grandfather

The smell of freshly brewed coffee lures me out of bed. I pour a cup, grab my wedding magazine, and walk outside to join Ken’s grandfather, Mr. Hamilton, on the porch. I sit down next to him on a handmade porch swing. I turn my head in the direction that he is looking and see a tall, broad shouldered, tanned man wearing a faded blue swimsuit. He is standing along the shoreline while the waves collide with his ankles. There is a blue board beside him, held up by his muscular arm.

“Ken was an amazing surfer. I wish he would give the waves a try again. His accident has scared him from returning to his passion, but I think if he went out there, everything would come back to him and he could take any wave that came his way.” Mr. Hamilton’s voice brings me back to reality. I try to concentrate on the conversation.

Mr. Hamilton shares Ken’s adventures of surfing. He starts with Ken’s first wave and hesitates at the tragic part: Ken’s accident. Mr. Hamilton’s eyes tear up, and I squeeze his hand.

“It’s okay, Mr. Hamilton, Ken has already told me about it. I’ve read the articles. You don’t need to share this part.” I give him a soft smile.

He puts his hand up in objection, “No, no, no. You don’t know the real story. I must share this with you.”

I sit back on the porch swing nod for him to go ahead. I look through the railing poles to observe Ken’s figure as I listen to Mr. Hamilton’s story of the accident.

“He took a magnificent wave. As he was about to escape from the billow, the lip of the wave slammed his head, knocking him off his board. The strength of the wave enveloped him and drove him head first into the coral reef. The lifeguards ran out to help him. When they brought his unconscious body out of the water,blood streaming out of his head from the gash, I never thought he would live.” Mr. Hamilton pauses to take a deep breath. “I thought Ken was dead.” His eyes shimmer with tears. I twist my engagement ring and thank God for Ken’s life.

I wish Ken never had to experience this part of his life. It ruined his fearlessness and left him with horrible symptoms that come and go. I think about the month after the accident--sometimes he couldn’t remember my name. He’s always tired now. He used to be the first one out of bed each morning, brewing the first batch of coffee. Now he naps during the day to try to fight off the fatigue and confusion that hits him by afternoon.

“He used to be brave and excited for where life would take him,” Mr. Hamilton adds, “but the accident ruined that. I believe if he swims out and takes a wave, he will remember his journey and all his success, all the medals he won.”

“Well, I think today might be the day,” I say, stretching my hand out to him to help him up. We walk towards the railing and Mr. Hamilton squeezes my hand in excitement. He can now see Ken swimming out into the ocean.

“Do you know why his parents named him Ken?” Mr. Hamilton asks while we wait for Ken to find the right wave.

“No, why?” I ask, eager to hear the story.

“Because ‘Ken’ means clear water. My daughter thought that it would be a perfect name for her baby boy. From the day he was born I could see it in his eyes, he had so much potential to be a great surfer. He could conquer any water he wanted to.” Mr. Hamilton smiles, his eyes glowing.

Ken floats in the water, the sun kissing his skin, and Mr. Hamilton keeps talking, about the Triple Crown, about the Mavericks Big Wave Surf, which he won at just seventeen.

As Mr. Hamilton continues his praise, I stare out at the ocean and notice a different movement in Ken. He’s sitting broadly on the board. I watch him shift his body, open his arms, and start swimming. Then I notice the large wave that he is trying to catch.

Ken turns his muscular body around, facing inland, and starts to swim toward us. Mr. Hamilton points out toward Ken and we descend the porch stairs to move closer, onto the sand.

“He’s going to do it!” Mr. Hamilton exclaims.

Ken swims faster and faster. He embarks on the wave, stands on his board, and sails through the barrel with a familiar confidence and control. Mr. Hamilton is ecstatic. My heart swells with pride for Ken, and I realize that this is the day that will change our lives forever. A feeling of relief washes over me. We can stop dwelling on the past and move on with our lives.

Ken clears the wave and throws a fist up in the air as he hollers in excitement. As he celebrates his victory, I notice his body rocking back and forth on the board. He slumps forward. My body tenses.

Ken falls sideways off his board into the waves. A lifeguard runs into the water, calling for others to help. I break away from Mr. Hamilton and run, burning the soles of my feet, and throw myself into the water. The waves splash over my head, making it difficult to reach Ken.

A large man pulls me out of an overpowering wave as it pushes me down. He carries me out and sets me on the shore. I look up and see a lifeguard’s bronzed, stern face looking down on me.

“Leave it to the professionals,” the man says in a deep southern accent.

He grips my arm so I can’t return to the ocean. His fingers dig into my sunburned skin, and I try to escape when he lightens his hold. Over and over again he stops me, and tells me to stay on the shore.

“Let me go!” I seethe, but in return he pushes me down on my knees. I am helpless on the scalding sand.

A few minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up and see Mr. Hamilton pointing toward a figure in the ocean. It gets closer and closer. Now it is so close to me that I can touch it. It’s Ken.

Written by: Kimberly Kupres

Photograph by: Blake Bronstad

Boy & Chain

“Is that Trent?” Allison asks, pointing at the only picture remaining on the kitchen wall.

“Allison,” Steven hisses through gritted teeth as everyone takes a seat around the table.

“Hush, Steven,” Ms. Haas responds. “Allison, you’re welcome to ask whatever you’d like. And yes, that’s my Trent. My little angel. God’s little angel.”

An impromptu moment of silence rushes through the kitchen like the chill from an open freezer.

“Sometimes I still see him, you know,” Ms. Haas says, disrupting the silence, but maintaining the tension. “Not in a horror movie sort of way. More like one of those dreams where your body’s asleep but your senses are firing on all cylinders. I’ll be sitting here, reading the newspaper, and before I can get to the Sudoku I hear, More oatmeal, Mommy!”

“That was me, Mom,” Steven interjects. “Trent hated oatmeal. He was terrified of that creepy Quaker on the container.”

“Are you sure?”

“One-hundred percent.”

“Oh, well maybe it wasn’t oatmeal. Maybe he says, More Cheerios, Mommy! Regardless, I look up and he’s sitting there, smiling at me, joy radiating from that adorable little dimple in his left cheek.”

“Do you see a dimple in that cheek?” Steven asks, pointing to the picture. “Jason is your dimply son.”

“I know Jason has a dimple, Steven,” she says, turning around in her chair for confirmation, “but I could’ve sworn Trent did too.”

Ms. Haas studies the picture like a Magic Eye, squinting in hopes of making a crease appear on Trent’s frozen face.

“Nope,” Steven says. “The only creases on his body were the ones circling his chubby little arms. That’s why we called him the Michelin Man.”

Ms. Haas draws a deep, shuddering breath and turns back around.

“Oh right, right, right,” she says. “I remember that, you big meanies. Brothers. Am I right, Allison?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, Ms. Haas,” Allison answers. “I’m an only child.”

“We won’t hold that against you,” Ms. Haas says, attempting to lighten the mood. “One thing’s for sure, his hair is still as blonde and bright as the summer sun bouncing off a hubcap. And he has those piercing baby blues too, like the ones that follow you when you walk past an issue of Parenting Magazine.”

“We all did, Mom,” Steven says. “Our family portrait looked like a fucking Nazi propaganda poster.”

“Steven, don’t curse in front of your girlfriend like that,” she says. “And stop being so flippant! Allison asked about Trent–which she had every right to do–and I was just getting her up to speed.”

“She already knows everything,” Steven says, “I showed her the article.”

“You let her read that slander?” Ms. Haas scolds.

“What slander?” Steven asks, spreading his fingers like he’s being tasered.

“That reporter made me out to be the worst mother on the face of the Earth.”

“No she did not,” Steven moans, bored by the redundancy.

“Then why’d she have to mention me locking Trent’s tricycle to the pole for putting Play-Doh all over the car?”

Steven slaps his forehead with his palm and drags his fingers down his face like egg yolk.

“Because you did,” he says, firing sass between his middle and ring finger like a slingshot. “But she put all the blame on the girl who was texting and driving, not you.”

Ms. Haas closes her eyes and shakes off his logic until flashbacks of skid marks and blood splatters jolt her back to reality.

“Well, there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to hop in a time machine and prevent that day from ever happening, but it does bring me a tiny bit of peace to know Trent’s name and memory have been immortalized in the court of law.”

“You want to know something ironic,” Steven asks rhetorically. “I was actually pulled over for Trent’s Law once.”

“You were WHAT?” Ms. Haas says, putting every tooth in her mouth on display.

“Hey, blame Apple Maps. That shitty app was trying to tell me to turn into a creek.”

“How did I not know about this?” Ms. Haas asks, pursing her lips to put Allison at ease.

“Because I told the cop Trent was my little brother, and he let me go with a warning.”

“He should’ve thrown the book at you,” Ms. Haas spits without a drop or pretense. “If anyone should know better, it’s his own brother.”

“At least I know what he looked like.”

Allison’s posture stiffens as Ms. Haas melts into her chair. Her excess body mass oozes through the wooden slats like the clay Trent squished through the grill of their family car.

“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean that,” Steven says, tears welling in his eyes in pace with his mother’s.

Ms. Haas thrusts her hands towards the table and catches her face before her head crashes into the bare wooden surface. Her fingertips bend like barbs, fastening her palms against her eyes to dam her tear ducts.

“I’m going to take out another box,” Allison mouths to Steven, standing up with her chair pressed against her backside to avoid making any noises.

Steven nods and shuffles his chair back with no regard for the acoustics of the empty kitchen. He walks to his mother’s side of the table and wraps his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her tighter to bring his mouth closer to her ear.

“I know it still hurts, Mom,” Steven whispers. “It always will. But you will never hurt alone.”

Ms. Haas removes one hand from her face and places the dampened skin against her son’s forearm.

“Thank you, Trent,” she says.

Ms. Haas and Steven open their eyes. Steven remains still until his mother’s shoulders begin to quake. He leans in to hear muffled laughter sputtering from her nostrils. He does the same and kisses her on her cheek, the hairs of his beard tickling her into full-blown laughter.

“Okay,” Ms. Haas says, tapping Steven’s arm to signal she’s ready to stand up. “I think I’ve been moping here long enough.”

Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Florian Klauer

The Hallways of Always

I remember thinking to myself that we shouldn’t be doing this, that even though the weather forecast said no rain, the ominous thunderclouds gathering in great bunches to the south were singing a different tune. I remember wishing I had worn my other shoes, the ones with the good rubber souls. I remember cursing out whoever decided that the trail should follow the thin shelf along the ridge. I remember the panic in my friend’s eyes when the first raindrops hit us, heavy and cold.

I remember falling, the wind whistling past as I outraced the rain on our way to the valley floor. I remember the sun starting to peek out from behind a cloud. Then nothing.

It wasn’t like I had always imagined. Images of my life didn’t flash before my eyes. There was no tunnel, no bright light. There were no voices of loved ones beckoning, calling me home. There was no choir of angels and no pearly gates and no clouds. There were none of the things I had been taught to expect.

                                                                                                        ***

I am in a long corridor. Angular and sterile, it looks like a Museum of Contemporary Art. Doorways open at odd intervals, each emitting a light of a different color. I wander down the hallway and come to an intersection, each direction the mirror image of the others. I choose the left. I come to another intersection, same as the first. This time, I choose right.

I have no idea how long I amble down the labyrinthine passageways before I start to see and hear them. At first they are just murmurs and shadows, vague notions that something else is here. Then they start to come into focus. The first one I see is a medieval knight, clomping down the hallway in his armor. I try to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. I motion to him, but he passes me as if I don’t exist. I turn around just in time to see a small Asian girl in a school uniform running straight at me. I brace myself for the collision, but she darts right through me. I come to another intersection and panic as a tiger, snarling and ferocious, rounds the corner.

“Don’t worry. It can’t hurt you.”

The voice is cool, serene. But I don’t know where it’s coming from.

“Excuse me? Who said that?”

“I did.”

I follow sound the voice and turn around. Standing in front of me is a human form, but unlike any that I have ever seen. Radiant and shining, as if made by pure light, the being seems neither masculine nor feminine.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“I am Sidpa. I am your guide to the Hallways of Always.”

“My guide to what?”

“This place you have entered. This is the Hallways of Always. It is where souls go to transmigrate as they pass from one body to another.”

As Sidpa speaks the corridor grows ever more crowded, like the hallways of a high school in between classes. But instead of teenagers, it’s filled with people of every nationality, every age, from every time period. There is every type of animal. And there are the other things, fantastic Dr. Seussian creatures, like the seven-legged, two-headed beast shuffling it’s way towards me.

Sidpa sees the look on my face.

“In an infinite universe, you don’t think that life only exists on one minuscule planet do you?”

“I… I guess not.”

“I know. This is not easy to wrap your head around.”

“So I’m dead?”

“Yes… And no. Your soul is everlasting. It has been here before, an innumerable amount of times. When you are done in one body, you come here and choose another. See, watch him.”

Sidpa motions towards a man sauntering down the passageway. Clad in the rigid, formal wool uniform of a Russian World War II soldier, the man pauses at each colored doorway, as if window-shopping. Some he walks away from quickly, others he stays at longer, as if pondering whether or not to enter.

“He’s getting a feel for them, choosing where he wants to go next, and who, or what, he wants to be. Time and distance do not exist here. You can go wherever you want. You can be your favorite leader from history, your favorite animal. You can even be the parent of the person you were last time. The only life you can’t choose is the one you just lived. Unless you were taken before your time.”

The soldier comes to a another doorway and peers into it. Electric blue light reflects on his face. He exudes peace and understanding. We both know this is the one. Right before he steps through the threshold, he discards the incarnation of the soldier, leaving it on the doorstep like a snake shedding its skin, revealing the luminous soul beneath. I watch in awe as it disappears into the neon-tinted void.

“But what about you?” I ask. “Do you ever go through a doorway?”

There is no answer. I look around, but Sidpa is gone. I stand and watch as others slip through doorways. I gaze into the closest portal. Through a vibrant orange haze I see a collection of yurts on the Mongolian Steppe. I see a man and woman and immediately feel a pang of familial love. I walk to the next and I feel like I’m transported underwater. I see a pod of dolphins swimming all around me. I hear their squeaks and am surprised that I understand what they are saying. I continue down the hallway, surveying each door, and each life contained within.

Down the long corridor, I see a vivid green doorway that seems to pulsate. As I get closer I feel it pull me in, like a magnet. Before I even get there, I know. This is the one. I let the emerald glow swallow me up as I walk through.

                                                                                                        *** 

I see a bright, white light. I hear a voice with a slight Indian accent. A shadow cuts across and a man’s face comes into focus. I try to lift my head, but can’t.

“Don’t try to move,” the man says. “I’m Dr. Sidpa. You were pretty lucky to survive a fall like that, we thought we lost you.”

I lay there, my mind wandering, trying to separate truth from illusion, memory from myth.

“Yep, pretty lucky.” Dr. Sidpa continues, giving me a wink. “Or maybe it just wasn’t your time.”

Written by: Ben Cook
Photograph by: Daniel Vidal

Go Deep

“It was a perfect spiral,” Lenny said, reenacting the throw on his back from the chaise lounge. “It just landed in the wrong hands.”

Lenny let his plastered arm drop to the cushion with a thud that sounded like pig skin crashing into a receiver’s chest.

“And that’s why you drove your truck into a ditch?” asked Dr. Emanuel.

“No, that was the beer,” Lenny explained.

“The tests would beg to differ,” Dr. Emanuel countered.

“What tests?”

Dr. Emanuel pinched the screen of his iPad and turned it towards Lenny.

“The doctors tested your blood. Your BAC was .00,” Dr. Emanuel said, pointing to the results on the tablet.

“Well, I was in that ditch for awhile,” Lenny noted. “Maybe it worked itself out of my system?”

Dr. Emanuel made a few more finger swipes on his device and handed it to Lenny.

“According to the police report, a witness called 9-1-1 the moment you were ejected from your vehicle. You were emitted to the ER within 28 minutes.”

“So?” Lenny said, handing the tablet back to Dr. Emanuel.

“So, there’s no way your blood level could’ve dropped from DUI to nothing in less than thirty minutes.”

“Maybe it was one of the other drugs?”

“No other drugs were found in your system,” Dr. Emanuel stated, no longer bothering to pull up Lenny’s charts.

“Maybe I was roofied?” Lenny suggest.

“Although odorless and flavorless, Rohypnol can still be detected in your system. Which in your case, it was not.”

Lenny sat up and looked Dr. Emanuel in the eyes.

“What are you getting at, Doc?”

“The root of your problems.”

Lenny laid back down and stared at the textured ceiling that reminded him of painted turf in an end zone.

“My only problem is that goddamned throw that cost me a goddamned championship,” Lenny argued.

“That certainly is a problem,” said Dr. Emanuel, “but it’s not your only problem.”

“Well no-fucking-shit.” Lenny said, waving his cast arm towards the doctor.

“That’s two problems,” said Dr. Emanuel, “but I bet we can find more.”

“Heeere we go,” Lenny moaned. “Time to delve into my daddy issues.”

“Who said anything about your father?” Dr. Emanuel asked.

“Give me a break, Doc. You seem to have my entire life on that goddamned tablet.”

“Guilty,” Dr. Emanuel admitted, throwing up his hands. “But then again, so are you.”

“Of what?”

“Of lying to me.”

“About what?”

“About your real problems.”

“Fine, guilty,” Lenny said, throwing up his arms to mock Dr. Emanuel. “I guess growing up around a self-destructive sociopath sticks with you.”

“And in you,” said Dr. Emanuel.

“In you?”

“Don’t you see a little bit of your father in you?”

“Yeah, every time I look in a mirror.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I am NOTHING like my dad,” Lenny said, standing up from the chair and inflating his chest.

“Are you going to hit me, Lenny?” Dr. Emanuel asked, more intrigued than intimidated.

“No.”

“Then why are you standing over me like a territorial gorilla?”

Lenny turned away from Dr. Emanuel and began taking a lap around the office.

“I don’t know?” Lenny responded in stride.

“What makes you think your father was a self-destructive sociopath, Lenny?” Dr. Emanuel asked.

“My old therapist told me so.”

“Did he or she ever meet him?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Then how could she diagnose him?”

“Well, the self-destructive part is kind of a no brainer.”

“How so?”

“Ask his liver.”

Dr. Emanuel’s eyes widened as he dragged his finger across the tablet.

“So your dad was a drinker?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Is that why you don’t drink?”

“It certainly helps.”

Dr. Emanuel paused to take a quick note and continued.

“What about the sociopath thing, Lenny? Where did your therapist get that?”

“Where do I start?”

“Where did you start with her?”

“Probably his funeral,” Lenny said, retaking his seat on the chaise lounge.

“What was it about his funeral that stood out to you?

“No one came.”

“No one?”

“Nope, aside from a few family members.”

“Was your dad a secluded man?”

“Not at all. He was constantly trying to get other people’s attention, especially women.”

“When would he do this?

“Grocery stores. Restaurants. My peewee football games.”

Dr. Emanuel readied his iPad for a treasure trove of insights.

“What happened there?”

“Not my games, as far as he was concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he was too busy flirting with all the moms to even know what number I was wearing.”

“Were your parents divorced?”

“NO! My mom would be sitting right next to him, and he’d still turn and talk to Ms. Calvin’s big fake tits.”

“Did your mom say anything?”

“Hell no. That man could do no wrong in her eyes.”

“Why’s that?”

“He used to be a dumb jock; she was his secret admirer; and it wasn’t until everyone else they knew went to college that they, ‘fell in love,’ as she tells it.”

“Ah ha,” Dr. Emanuel said, pressing his finger against the tablet so hard he almost cracked the screen. “Let me guess, your dad was a quarterback?”

“You’re brilliant, Doc,” Lenny answered.

“A high-school-championship quarterback?”

“Can’t get one past you.”

“And you’re angry that you’re not?”

“Are you a psychic?”

“And THAT is why you drove your truck into a ditch.”

“No.”

Dr. Emanuel’s grin vanished and his finger stopped moving.

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me again, Lenny?”

“No.”

“But you said you were disappointed about the loss?”

“Of course!”

“But not disappointed enough to harm yourself?”

“No.”

“Then why would you harm yourself?”

“My mom.”

“Your mom?”

“Yes.”

“What did she do?”

“It’s something she said.”

“When?”

“After the game.”

“What did she say?”

“You remind me of your father.”

Dr. Emanuel rested the tablet on his lap and looked at Lenny.

“And that’s why you drove your truck into a ditch.”

Lenny’s eyes welled up with tears as he lifted his arms above his head.

“Guilty.”

Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Omar Sanders