Stepping Stones

2010 - 2012

Best of

Dedication

To the authors and artists, thank you for creating magic with your words and pictures. To the

readers, thank you for inspiring us to continue to mine for gems that sparkle on the page. To

the editors, thank you for being the glue holding it all together.

Contents

Stepping Stones Magazine

Best of 2010-2012

PublisherTrinae A. Ross

Poetry EditorsHeather Lenz

Lisa J. Alexander

Fiction EditorNicole Turiano

Art EditorAshlie J. Pollard

Website Addresshttp://ssmalmia.com

The Best of Stepping Stones

Magazine 2010-2012 (ISSN

1092-521X) is a special issue of

the best works appearing on

the Stepping Stones Magazine

website, as voted by its read-

ers. Stepping Stones Magazine,

the editors and the publisher

assumes all work appearing is

the original work of the named

author and assumes no liability

for plagarism on the part of the

author. No part of this maga-

zine may be reproduced with-

out permission of the author or

publisher.

copyright 2013

Stepping Stones Magazine

Poetry

01 In My Mind I see Us As One

02 Outcast

03 Death of a Student

04 For Sylvia, Broken

05 Do Not Linger

08 Blowing Kisses to Star-Marked Backs

09 December 2010

10 In Lak’Ech

11 Morning Haze

12 New York

13 Stanzas on Poetry

16 The Japanese Word for Heart and Soul

17 Without the Tambourine

18 Radio Waves

19 Reading Her Body of Skin

22 Spotlight: Jasmin May Smith

29 Lying Next to Giles Corey

30 Eight Stories

31 Just for Now

32 Whaling

36 Spotlight: Lorraine Tolliver

47 Spotlight: Scott Owens

Fiction

06 Prozac Ice Princess

14 Bookworm

20 On My Way to Dying from Dehydration…

26 Survival Skills

33 Mary and the Walrus

35 Goodnight Minnesota

40 Visitors

42 Mr. William Sanderson Strikes for Home

i

Poetry

01

In My Mind I See Us As OneStuart Sanderson

In my heart, love would flow endlessly towards you

In my eyes, I see beauty surrounding and brightening the world around me

In my ears, I hear her voice talking to me for never ending.

The nights would be sharing

Our lives come together and dreams for a better tomorrow

Yet in my reality I see a new friendship coming towards me

And nothing more.

Yet I accept her friendship with an open heart with love and tenderness.

I hope she accepts my friendship with an open heart.

In my reality.

Poetry

02

OutcastP. Mari

How can I stare back?

Your soul looks at me

into a reflection of its

own grave –

A deep-chill in my eyes

freezes your words

And there is a knife in my

hand

ready to rip open a warm

heart

(Now both of us can bleed)

ove dies a wounded outlaw

–

It flees

Poetry

03

Death of a StudentElise M. Tobin

The snow reached up from our walkways

four inches, eight, ten, a foot

cartwheeling in behind other storms of this season,

grief on the palms of its hands,

tumbling, touching everything:

mailboxes, phone lines, cell towers and now collapsing

his young skull, springing him from his seatbelt

to land on salted asphalt. Snow filling his wounds—

the bloody original

gone. gone. gone.

So we each pick up shovels

to knock down this reaching snow

to build damp alleys

to let the grief walk

casket-wide—

with winter walls on either side,

two feet of fresh powder

topping brown and ivory strata.

Marking and marking storms past,

like the height chart still on his wall.

One foot, two, three feet, four.

Six foot two when the pavement came up.

We pray for no more storms this season,

for the gods, for Christ, for the groundhog

not to shake and send us further

into the beyond.

We walk alone

behind, in the casket’s path,

like a comet’s tail

waiting for the light of the sun

to melt a wider way.

Poetry

04

For Sylvia, BrokenKori Frazier

(Stephanie Baniszewski – October 26, 1965)

In my arms you are

dwindling, as if life

has mass and you exhale it

out. Your waxy, matted

hair sticks to my wrist, the bruises,

burns rough, abrasive. A vessel

of glass shards rattles in your chest.

Everything has gone

to black, you said, then

nothing, and I knew—

[Mother, stop. Please.

She isn’t faking.]

I think of us in swirling nightgowns

you singing about those thousands

of stars, smiling closed-mouthed

to hide a missing front tooth—

Hold onto me, honey.

You’re almost a ghost now.

Poetry

05

Do Not LingerRev. Judith Mensch

Do not linger long under the stars

Do not imagine yourself to be any other

Place except where you are

Do not let the breeze of night carry your

Heart to places you’ll never see

Hopes you’ll never know like you know

The hard ground your feet stand on

Stars can trick you into believing there

Is life in the dark

No, let those breezes make you shiver

Make you crave the warmth of hiding

Let the stars go

Fiction

06

Prozac Ice PrincessMatthew Dexter

We were watching my best friend’smother skate a circle eight across theentire length of the ice when we lost

count around three hundred and twenty-two.She twirled from one corner to the next like aballerina, dancing like a fairy on the tips of hertoes. The little children feared her, but she ma-neuvered effortlessly around them, cautiouslypeering over her shoulders, and no major colli-sions ever came into fruition. There were minorones on rare occasions, but nothing significant.

“I’ve been walking these streets at night…just trying to get it right…it’s hard to see withso many around…you know I don’t like beingstuck in a crowd…and the streets don’t changebut maybe the name…I ain’t got time for thegame…”

Her name was Nan Myers, and of course, weall knew who Nan Myers was because she wasunforgettable, most fascinating to gossip aboutand her children got suspended from the clubmore than anyone in its hundred year history.Her behavior was out of the ordinary and shewas an American outlaw. People like her onlycome around your town once every century.

“Just a small town girl…living in a lonelyworld…she took the midnight train going any-where…”

We threw a couple tennis balls at her, butthey missed and she flashed us a wicked glancewhile skating backwards. The balls bouncedacross the ice toward the boards where theyrebounded and rolled back across the rink andwere picked up by small children–toddlersholding onto orange cones and upturned plas-

tic garbage cans for balance began falling ontheir snow-covered rear ends like dominos inan attempt to pick up the balls between bladesas sharp as machetes.

“A singer in a smoky room…a smell of wineand cheap perfume…for a smile they can sharethe night…it goes on and on and on and on…”

It was a general skating session, whichmeant that people of all ages could be skating.No hockey, no pucks, no tennis balls permit-ted–just eighties love ballads blasting from thespeakers and a crazy lady who came every dayfor exercise and to inadvertently petrify thechildren. Nan Myers was always listening toheadphones, and Jesus only knows what cas-sette tape she was listening to (Devil music afew mothers said). But those headphones werelike earmuffs and that Sony Walkman was like amagic carpet ride to another planet.

“Some will win, some will lose…some wereborn to sing the blues…oh the movie neverends…it goes on and on and on and on…”

She skated lost in her own mind, often withboth eyes closed, yet always cognizant of othersaround her. Those were her mandatory safetyobligations, since she used the entire surface ofthe rink at random, not flowing in a clockwisemotion around the perimeter like the rest ofthe skaters, nor in the center circle designatedfor figure skaters. We would often practicecrossovers around those red face-off circles inthe corners, but nothing as ambitious as NanMyers’s skating sessions. They were a spectacleto behold, beautiful and dangerous at the sametime. You couldn’t help but hold your breath asshe floated across the ice like a ballerina oncrystal meth. She would skate in torn off denimshorts with the threads crawling down her legs

Fiction

07

like hungry spiders, as if she was a young AndreAgassi on ice, or Tanya Harding on crack andwhiskey.

“Don’t stop believing…hold on to that feel-ing…streetlight people…”

We waited for her to finish as the sun wassetting. She finally sat down on the woodenbench next to us, stretching out her sweatylegs, and started unlacing the laces. She wasblowing humongous streams of smoke throughthe cold December air, and steam was risingfrom her shoulders. Her figure skates werewhite with worn dark scratches in a few placesaround the heels and toes. God only knowshow many years she’d been abusing thoseskates, but they must have traveled thousandsof miles on that frozen surface; a Zamboni’sworst nightmare for more than a decade. AfterNan Myers finished an ambitious figure skatingsession you would have figured the ice had justexperienced a pee wee hockey game. She dugthe chiseled tip of her skate into that ice with acrack more powerful than any ice pick.

“Times have changed and times arestrange…here I come, but I aint the same…”

She took a sip from her homemade waterbottle, changed her sock, and put her tennissneaker on as she unlaced the other skate. Shewas sweating on her forehead and her cheekswere flushed a brilliant shade of pink. Wewaited and Elijah told her to hurry up.

“Come on Mom,” he said. “The movie startsin half an hour.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” she answered.And that was true about Nan Myers; say

what you will about all her peculiar behaviors,she was always going as fast as she could, evendriving. Two and a half minutes later we piledinto her blue Chrysler station wagon and buck-led our seat belts–a procedure I rarely did withmy own mother–who drove just as fast though

perhaps a little more angry and cautious.

“You took me in and you drove me out…

yeah, you had me hypnotized…lost and found

and turned around…by the fire in your eyes…”

The smell of Nan Myers’s car was more po-

tent than the pervasive yeasty scent on the

New Jersey Turnpike. The smell was foreign, not

familiar like the Jersey smell we all got used to

as the years wore on and our accents got uglier

and the air quality poorer. I often enjoyed the

dirty Jersey yeasty odor, and inhaled it deeper

than oxygen, as I did with gasoline, breathing it

into my lungs like a toxic hit of euphoria.

“Huuuuufffffffffff…,” I held my breath for as

long as I could. “Ummmmm…”

“Bakery…”

We parked in the no parking spot in front of

the Tenafly movie theatre but needed Nan

Myers to buy us our tickets, because she was in

her thirties and the movie was rated R.

“Two for Basic Instinct,” we told her to say.

The clerk took her bill through the hole in the

bottom of the window and filled it with more

bills, coins and two tickets. We took the tickets

and went inside. Unbeknownst to us Nan Myers

had decided to park the car and purchase an-

other ticket. She sat near the back of the the-

atre a few rows from the exit. We noticed her

two hours later when we were walking out and

she was sitting there smiling at us with her box

of butter-salted popcorn on her lap.

She looked at us particularly strange and

salacious that evening. Even the Halloween,

Jason, and Freddy Krueger movies we rented as

usual made me fear the image of Nan Myers

with the butcher knife nonetheless more than

the blades on the bottom of her figure skates.

2012 Pushcart Prize Nominee

08

Blowing Kisses to Star-Marked BacksKarlanna Lewis

Bind me fine in the other side of the mirror

for seven years. Break the glass so I can’t escape

the realm where loss is what you make it, where the man

you slept with once or tried to plant a kiss on sideways

could be your shepherd, if you wanted. And I do, I want

back every seventies High Times cover on the wall,

every aging olive-tin lying tongue-out on the floor

where we sat because it was cold and the dogs barked

through our fingers because they knew our kind,

because even though I never stayed till the other side

of night on the flannel heater, on stale sheets, I keep flecking

at this unscabbed sore, this chipped tooth that never

snapped. And I know who got the short half of a smoke

on the bed. It was me, not the window that didn’t shut.

2012 Pushcart Prize Nominee

09

December, 2010Stephanie Kaylor

This is the month you would haveturned two if what the doctorsaid was true

if I hadn’t thought my freedommeant a world alone, without you

but I went to the clinic thatsticky summer day, its windowscovered with grey cloth, blockingthe sun from further ripeningthe pungent blossoms who walk in.

It was not a child that left mygaping body, but my childhood,all the frivolities and daydreamsI wanted to have in your absenceleaving my womb one piece at a time.

The roses bloomed all around meas I waited for his car to pull over.Neither of us spoke the entire rideback, the smoke of his cigarettedancing to our thoughtstoo raw for any tongue

and I knew as he left meone last time at my mother’sdoorstep that he never would havebeen good enough for you tocall him Daddy, but justthe two of us would provideeach other all the love we neededin this world I took you away from.

But Isobel, you came out strong,for you only lost but once whileI still feel the knife every day.

10

In Lak’EchDylan Amaro-McIntyre

I am Smoke to flame. Flame to spark.

Slow burningSince past livesDanced out of deathTendrils curling twistedAs train yard hieroglyphs

I am the only song leftThe plumed quetzal pluckedFlying into Northern horizonsFor the very first time

I am grooves in desert stonesThat still remembers rainfall

I am the call of guerilla poetribesChameleoning their wayThrough a concrete creationismOf past begotten privilege

Spray painting acrylic answersTo questions society asks

I am fireside chants and dancePulsating heartbeat rhythms

I am original sinThe first taste of knowledgeSevering mankindFrom a blissful futureOf not knowing any better

I am the Ceiba Tree on fire

I am char. I am soot. I am splintered wood.I am memoryForgotten

I am

2012 Pushcart Prize Nominee

2012 Pushcart Prize Nominee

11

Morning HazeAlyson Hess

Fog creeps in quietly,

to smother the coming light of day.

Only the tops of cathedrals

and old redwood trees

escape its murky grasp.

The grass perspires,

anxious that the sun

will lose. Trees in the distance

stand still and dark

as the ghosts in your dreams.

A bird cries somewhere,

looking for its home.

You sleep

because you’re afraid to wake.

2012 Pushcart Prize Nominee

12

New YorkJoshua Bauer

There is a fence in Greenwich Village

Where the poets hang

Their small ravenous hearts of paper.

There is no better place to start.

Actually we stayed in New Jersey

Maybe that was our first of many mistakes

But you found a hell of a deal at the Ramada

And it’s easy enough to take the bus.

We walked all over that city.

My memories look like those famous photos

In which everything is very bright and out of focus.

We were walking in and out of every open door

and I told you the thing I am most scared of

That strange jabberwocky movement of the subway

We both laughed at Alice so wide-eyed, so naïve.

I wanted to know everything about you.

I want you to know I was sincere then.

Times Square at night darts

at the back of my eyelids.

I know I will dream of you.

2012 Pushcart Prize Nominee

13

Stanzas on PoetryJoseph Hart

Rhythms, stanzas, meters, short or long,

Blank or rhymed – all fodder for the Muse -

Elements to make a living song -

Chaos and insanity refuse.

8 or 10 or 14 lines or less -

Or longer when I would indulge my soul,

Exhaust a thought or simply to digress -

Or play like a comedian a role.

Properly rhymed stanzas for dead mourners -

The Muse in meter – Housman was the Prince -

Or ragged rhythms flowing around corners -

That was Poe – and none has done it since.

Rhythmed versicles, bad rhymes, alive,

Whose meanings pierce the heart with metaphor -

Dickinson who lived to 55

Closeted alone behind a door.

Magic sonnets – Shakespeare, Keats, Millay -

Ace of poetry – I cannot write them -

Invented for great geniuses at play -

I lack the skill, the brain that can indite them.

My notions and my feelings not consummate

Expressed in magical archaic fluff,

From a cliff into the ocean plummet -

With that said, I think I’ve said enough.

Fiction

14

BookwormWilliam Doreski

They met for coffee almost every after-noon. She liked to talk, he liked to listen.He pretended her voice reminded him of

wind chimes. He knew it was an ordinaryvoice, but it resonated in his loneliness, andsometimes he heard her in his sleep.

“My husband’s travelling again,” Lynn said.“He sells guns, you know. I’ve told you. ForColt, in Hartford. I wish he’d find somethingelse, something a little more constructive. Butyou guys like that bang bang stuff.” Like a rac-coon clutching a corncob, she held her coffeecup in both hands.

Nick leaned back in his chair and smiled. Hislife in the bowels of Widener Library didn’toffer much bang bang, only dust mites and oc-casionally, in the more remote stacks, aglimpse of sultry graduate-student sex.

Lynn went on. “Jimmy makes a lot of moneybut he doesn’t enjoy it. Never has time. Hewants a bass boat, wants to fish the Ever-glades. Imagine spending a month every sum-mer down there with the hurricanes andsleazy motels. I couldn’t take the mosquitoes.Big as June bugs. Besides, what would I do?Jazz in Miami’s pretty shopworn. Strictlytourist stuff.” Lynn photographed jazz musi-cians, but whether that was a hobby or a liv-ing Nick didn’t know.

They’d met like this for a year, ever sinceNick had attended the opening of a show ofLynn’s photographs. He had liked the darksurly faces glooming over their instruments,and fueled by cheap white wine had told herso. Nick admired Lynn’s sleek confidence, her

seamless body and bright expression, but he’dnever mess around with a married woman.They seemed too experienced, too sly. Notsexually—Nick had been around, he sup-posed, as much as most guys his age. But mar-ried people knew all about being married, andhe couldn’t compete with that knowledge. Be-sides, for all her glib conversation Lynnseemed remote as an asteroid. Sometimesshe looked right through him at something faraway, at the vanishing point.

Summer dropped a stratum of humidityand smog on Cambridge. The heat stifled eventhe slowest movements. Traffic sobbed downthe avenue and snarled. The stale library airreeked of farts and perspiration and rottingleather bindings. Heather, the head librarian,simmered like an old steam boiler. All wintershe had smiled at Nick, but now she gloweredfrom her glass cubicle as he arrived for work,and again when he retired for the day. Hesank under armloads of unshelved books andalmost wept with frustration. His shirt stuck tohis back.

Edna, his co-slave in the reshelving depart-ment, offered a paper cup of water. “Takeyour break. Meeting your friend today?” Ednahad already worked ten years past retirementage, and looked ready to work another ten.The heat didn’t bother her. Nothing botheredher except unshelved books, which she hated,and reshelved as violently as possible to pun-ish them.

“I don’t know. I like Lynn, but what’s thepoint?”

“The point? Guy meets girl. They like eachother. You need a point?”

“Come on, Edna, she’s married to a guy

Fiction

15

with a good job. I’m just a horny bookworm. Ishould get my MLS and get out of this hole.Maybe if I saw more daylight I’d feel less like azombie.”

Edna sighed. “Just get out and get someair.”

Nick crossed Mass Avenue, plowingthrough a fog of bus exhaust. The storefrontsglowered and the gleam of plate glass hurt hiseyes. Among the outdoor coffee drinkers atAu Bon Pain he saw Lynn staring into space,waiting for him. What did she want, anyway?Why waste her time and his? He turned leftinstead of right and hoped she hadn’t seenhim.

A week later the phone on level six rang.Someone at the circulation desk wanted Nick.No further explanation. He climbed the rack-ety metal stairs, sweating up six flights, andemerged like a coal miner from the depths.Lynn stood at the turnstile. No Harvard ID, noentry.

“Lynn, what’re you doing here?”“What do you think? I thought you were

sick or dead or mad at me. What’s going on?”“Nothing. I just—”“Nick, come on. Outside. I need to tell you

something.”As Nick hesitated, Heather swooped from

her cubicle and bore down on him like a cruiseship on a rowboat. “For heaven’s sake, Nick,she’s trying to tell you something. Go some-place private.” Heather smiled that dragonsmile he hadn’t seen for months.

Nick and Lynn sat on the library’s massivestone steps. Summer school students flickeredpast, chatting in bright colors. They looked tooyoung for college, too energetic to sit still inweepy classrooms.

“Nick, my husband. He… well, you know,

Nick, I really like you.”

Nick went a little cold despite the stifling

heat. Had this gun salesman found out about

their silly little trysts and threatened her? Or

him? Shot dead on the lowest level of

Widener. He would become a ghost story to

titillate generations of future students.

“He… well, he doesn’t exist. I mean not any

more. I’m not married. I was, but that was a

while ago. Just one of my little failures. I just

thought I’d tell you.” Lynn stood and the

faintest breeze ruffled her plain brown hair.

“Just thought I’d tell you. If you wanted to

hear.”

“Why did you….” Nick didn’t want to say

“lie” so he shut up.

“I just wanted to see how loyal you were.

Just wanted a friend. You wanted something

else, so you got bored, right?” She didn’t

sound like chimes anymore. She sounded like

she was crying a little. “You just got bored and

didn’t want to talk to me anymore. So you

didn’t show up. Just didn’t show up. Men are

like that. Little boys. Can’t talk to you. Only at

you. And you don’t want to hear.”

Nick leaned into his folded arms. Bored?

What did she mean? Anything but bored. But

he couldn’t compose a response if he had a

lifetime to think about it, and already the mo-

ment had passed. When he looked up, Lynn

was striding across Harvard Yard. Thunder

grumbled a thousand miles away. He stared as

hard as he could, but she couldn’t have felt

anything because she didn’t look back. Some-

where, probably in the belfry of Memorial

Church, real chimes sounded. Three o’clock.

Nick rose and returned to his unshelved

books.

Poetry

16

The Japanese Word for Heart and SoulRichard Fenwick

The wind reveals itself in eddies,

bending fields of parachute balls to the east,

that burst apart and float through the air

like a million milky helicopters.

I write and revise in quiet interludes,

follow trails that lead to larger fields

with granite rocks that I can lean against

to think of what she is to me.

We’re circles within circles, sky

and earth in one blue blur, laughing

over the smallest things: Christmas lights

in August, who will eat the last

tangerine in our green bowl, the dew

that seeps against our sandals.

At that, I think I’ll throw in the towel –

I have no way to properly describe her.

What I’ll do is draft one random thought:

I’d write ten thousand poor lines of poetry

before I captured her kokoro,

and by this rock, in this empty field,

with parachute balls floating all around,

I’ll sit awhile longer, to begin the task

of writing.

Poetry

17

Without the TambourineJane Stuart

This year I wrapped your birthday presents

using ribbon but I forgot you did not want any bows

and very pretty paper I bought then saved

for special occasions. You were dropping cards

on the table, you could not find one you liked

and so I asked: the pink and white, the purple,

or that green paper over there? another card?

A little gift-wrapped up somewhere,

all the beauty I could find and what I thought

you’d take but you did not want gifts this year

because you wanted something I

could not find for you at the store, you said,

and what was not available was not there.

It’s tough when life does not turn out

(if you don’t get your way) but love is not like that,

I said, and that made you mad.

I did not have plane tickets or a ship or plane,

I did not own an island, I had no forest to give away

..and all that jazz.

Sometimes, we have to see in empty pockets,

sometimes we come up short or there is..

only love.

You left, I stayed alone to mop the chili off the floor,

pick up the eggroll you put in my chair,

and nix the hot tamale.

It wasn’t right but you declined the birthday cake

I made and because you’d reached the age of indecision

you said it was your birthday but you were

too cool to care.

Poetry

18

Radio WavesJackson Burgess

When I extend my inner antenna

and fine tune to the station of divinity

I don’t even get white noise static anymore.

Not like the old days—

then, perpetual bubble wrap ruckus whisked me away

on my never-ending search for self-appreciation.

Jesus wept over my inhibitions

but he forgot to flush my fears

out of existence, so, as recompense,

I’m putting away my radio for a long time.

Maybe now I’ll hear my heart beat.

I’m tired of these cookie-cutter faces

with their stainless steel teeth and

silicone breast extensions invading my vision.

I need them to go away.

I’m lonely without my imaginary lover

and now that I’ve coughed up my conscience

I’m not so sure I’ll be able to fall asleep.

Flickering streetlamps and fireflies are

the only things that remind me I’m alive.

To test out my abilities, I’ll double knot my legs

right before I fall asleep

so that I’m chased by the monsters

I met last Sunday.

They’ll probably give me a head start

but unless I’m quick on my feet

they will catch me

and they will not let me go.

Poetry

19

Reading Her Body of SkinRichard Fenwick

She walked in the room

with a Bilgere book, curled up beside me

on the sofa, laid her head in my lap

and slowly turned pages as I tried to read

a paper, studying my face like she was

inspecting my blueprints.

All I could think was that love isn’t static,

it’s a place where we learn to read

one another, to flip through our pages

wary of content and style, plot lines

and archetypes, nouns and verbs, trying

not to read between the lines and drafting

rainy passages together on those days

when tears get in the way.

When I read her, I’m careful not to skim

over paragraphs, break bindings or smear ink.

I love her foreword, dedication, signed

inscriptions and how she introduces characters

in my life. When I reach the epilogue,

I flip to the index to find my favorite passages

and prepare to read her all again.

Our dénouement came that afternoon,

in a lightly lit room, on a thin red checkered quilt,

when I found a way to read the softness

of her skin, and the insistence in her voice,

making sure I marked my place in the middle

of chapter three.

Fiction

20

On My Way to Dying of

Dehydration in My SleepJenny Ortiz

We’re on the F train, on our way to

a wine bar somewhere on De-

lancey. I haven’t told him I don’t

drink wine and when he says, “If you like this

place, I can take you to another place I

know… maybe sometime next week,” I real-

ize I haven’t told him I’ll be in Iraq. On the

train he talks loudly and his eyes are focused

on the windows, making sure we don’t miss

our stop. Although the AC is on, he’s sweat-

ing. I can smell it and when I look at him,

there are beads of perspiration above his lip.

He’ll be the last man I sleep with before I

leave. I chose him at the party I’d been to a

few days earlier because he reminded me of

Adrien Brody: tall, long, and the way he

stood with a slight bend forward reminded

me of a sexual proposition. I wondered what

he would think of me if I simply asked him to

skip the drunken courting he had in mind

and go to his place to fuck without the AC on

and then order Chinese takeout, something

spicy with cashews. I’d turn on my iPod and

play Spinnerette’s Ghetto Love, while he’d

open the window, letting a light breeze

sweep in and pick up the smell of our sweat

and his dirty sheets.

I go to tell him my plan, but a little girl gets

on the train and sits across from me. The

train car feels small and even whispering

sounds like yelling. The little girl is given a

piece of chicken, white meat, by her father.

The fried skin makes her small fingers greasy

and she takes large bites, leaving her cheeks

bulging and her chewing slow. She reminds

me of when I was a little girl and my father

used to take me on train rides. We’d travel to

Brooklyn to visit my grandmother; sit around

a small television, yelling the wrong ques-

tions to the answers on Jeopardy!

The little girl is still eating the chicken

when we get off. We head to the wine bar

where he orders a bottle of wine for the both

of us and I ask the waiter to bring me tap

water. I think of the girl and how I should’ve

asked her for some of her chicken, or at least

where she got it. When will I eat a big piece

of fried chicken in the next couple of

months? My dad told me that when he’d

been in the army, a guy he knew stole a

whole slab of bacon from the mess hall. Was

going to eat it raw had my dad not convinced

him he’d get sick. They were in Germany and

it was snowing. While my dad cooked the

bacon in the guy’s helmet, the guy went off

to steal a loaf of bread. They finished off the

bacon and cleaned the helmet with snow. I

wonder if the guy smelled like bacon the

Fiction

21

next day. I wonder if it ever gets cold in Iraq.

I take a sip of wine, but I don’t taste the

subtle notes and stick to my tap water. Dad

has told me that while I’m over there I

should keep myself hydrated and keep my

boots dry. He didn’t mention anything about

keeping my gun clean, but has told me to

keep mace under my pillow and to pee in my

helmet at night. He told me this while we

watched M*A*S*H together. As my date

pours himself another glass, I imagine he is

Adrien Brody, and rather than explain the

wine to me, he is telling me war is kind and

you just have to stand on your mark. Even

with the explosions all around, if I stay on my

mark, I won’t get hurt. Before I left on my

date, my dad was putting on another episode

of M*A*S*H and I told him that Adrien Brody

would make a good Hawkeye. My dad

laughed. I laughed too, relieved.

My brother’s angry with me, although I

tried to explain to him that war’s the best

route for me. My father has said it’ll keep me

tight lipped and I usually tell him to shut up,

but then I apologize because everything’s dif-

ferent now. My brother told me war, espe-

cially for a girl like me, isn’t the way they

make it out to be on TV, but my father said

for some people it might be. I asked what

does being a soldier feel like and my dad

said, “You tell me. Aren’t you one?” But I

don’t feel like one. Maybe it’s cause I’m in

civilian clothes, and because I’ve been away

from the base.

But even then, I feel like I’m pretending.

Like I’m a female version of Alan Alda, hold-

ing a martini glass filled with water and

wearing a dirty robe asI pretend that there’s

fighting going on outside my tent.

All the people in my unit will be real sol-

diers, afraid of Iraq because Iraq means the

possibility of dying. I told my father I wasn’t

afraid of dying and asked him if that made

me a bad soldier?

He told me it made me a good soldier, but

a stupid person. I told him I could live with

that. I didn’t tell him I was afraid of killing

someone, or worse, of someone dying next

to me. A soldier who was a father, who was a

husband, who was a son. I didn’t tell him be-

cause he was laughing at something Hawk-

eye said and I too wanted to make my dad

laugh, but I’m bad at jokes. My brother as-

sured me my sense of humor wouldn’t get

any better, but my father told me it’ll get so

good, I’ll be the only one laughing.

My date asks me what my plans are for the

summer. I take another sip of my water. I

imagine I can taste the residue of the pipes.

Spotlight... Jasmin May Smith

22

Free to RoamJasmin May Smith

At ten years old I was free to roam

To be one with the land

To see beyond the mind set

To explore behind exploration

At twenty I was blind sighted

I was lost in the world

Of which 1 once explore

I knew not where to turn

Where to roam for I was a prisoner in my world

At forty, my life began to transform to greatness

I was back to exploring

Roaming as I please

Yeah this time I was wiser had a sense of me

And I know how to be free

Spotlight... Jasmin May Smith

23

I WantJasmin May Smith

I want to set my foot out my room

Put on some running shoe and run a mile

I want to breathe the air of a sweet sea breeze

To catch that breeze on my lips and let it kiss me

I want to be free to flee

To leave my mind

To leave me

I am tired yes, I am

I want to love

I want to fight

I want to set my feet on heaven grounds

To give I life

I want to settle on a bird nest and joining them

In the singing of their songs

24

Spotlight... Jasmin May Smith

Summer RageJasmin May Smith

The summer pours its rage on my back

The day stops at the point that

If a volcano interrupted

It makes that one difference

My lips had dried up

The water from my eyes burry deep inside

Not a shred of spring had past me by

The fall

Its colorful ways

The beauty of its stage

Call me crazy

Call me weird but my swear is that this summer

Has become my greatness enemy

Spotlight... Jasmin May Smith

25

UntitledJasmin May Smith

Look at me

I’m living in that ghetto fighting my way

To prosperity

I am trying to hold onto sanity

For insanity is in love with I

If I lie I will fall

If I sleep I will waste tomorrow dreams

if I play then a reward will never be mine

To find my way it a hassle

It’s a war

Never thought my world would be this dark

Wakening up no food in my belly

I pray that one of these guns shots I hear will seize I

But that just a moment of insanity speaking

Success is mine to hold

Never a day go by that I will waste on yesterday lost

To know me is my goal

To be strong

To win this war

To roll down my tears off my cheeks and smiling is my hopes

My future is mine

Time is beating down my door saying I am fooling myself

But I know that my tomorrow tell no lies

Fiction

26

Survival SkillsJean Ryan

Iwant to come back as a plant. A life aboveand a life below. No thinking, just finding.Water, food, light.Maybe not a redwood; that’s a long, long

life. A sunflower might be fun. One sturdy stalkzooming skyward, pushing fuzzy heart-shapedleaves, and then the grand finale: a giant yel-low flower brimming with seeds. The ending anoffering, a promise kept. Half a year on earthand not a single wasted moment.

My brother doesn’t drive anymore. When herides with me I find myself driving more cau-tiously: hands on the wheel at ten and two,eyes scanning left and right. Every block or sohe glances up, then jerks his head back down.His hands, jammed in his lap, rub against eachother constantly. He is trying. A few monthsago he couldn’t get into a car. Couldn’t even saythe word.

An accident, that’s what most people think.No. Nothing happened―at least nothing we’relikely to understand. There he was driving towork, normal as you and me, when somewherein his brain a pair of neurons fired and doubtwas born. Had he hit someone?

He checked the mirrors, turned around, cir-cled several times. Nothing in the road, but hecouldn’t be sure. He may never be sure again.

Locomotion. That’s our problem. If westayed in one place we could grow unerringly,drinking the rain, absorbing the sun, pulling infood with our feet.

With a brain you get options, illusions, sec-ond guesses, mistakes. One trifling incidentslips into that gray jelly and just like that you’re

hardwired for trouble. Everything is a matter ofassociation and interpretation; the margin oferror is incalculable. The fact that we can’t seethe forest for the trees doesn’t make muchsense, considering what we have to work with:The human brain is so disproportionately largethat as infants we can’t hold our heads up.

The reason we need a brain that big? Lan-guage. Our crowning achievement. We areword wizards. Not only can we learn any num-ber of words, we know how to string them to-gether so that we may comfort or seduce,cajole or deride, inspire or coerce, inform or in-flame.

Double talk. Slander. Fine print. Filibuster.Language may be getting the better of us.

Wendy Mack, my nearest neighbor on thislake, has given up the spoken word. No onearound here has heard her speak since the dayher daughter died, two years ago this June, of arampant staph infection. She lost her mind,people said, snapped like a twig.

Aside from Wendy’s silence, she seems nor-mal enough to me. Sometimes she brings mecuttings from her garden, sometimes a basketof tomatoes. I just nod and smile and take themfrom her, figuring that if she’s not talking, she’snot keen on listening either, at least not towords. Every so often I walk across the tall grassthat separates our houses, and we sit in thewicker chairs on her porch and watch the set-ting sun turn the lake to copper, and listen tothe crickets and leopard frogs, the occasionaljumping trout, the buzz of a dragonfly. Lift awaylanguage and you hear all kinds of things.

Kris, my daughter, has no patience forWendy. “What is she trying to prove?” sheasked me last week. “What’s the point? It’s like

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27

she’s trying to punish someone.”“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe she’s punish-

ing God by not using the gifts she was given.”You’ll not believe this but Wendy used to be amotivational speaker. She lectured all over thecountry and wrote four books—two of thembestsellers―on how to rouse yourself. I havean autographed copy of her first book, YES YOUCAN!

Oddly enough, on the opposite shore of thislake, in a yellow house directly across frommine, lives a man who speaks volumes. Hisname is John Dalrymple and he used to teachChaucer and Shakespeare at Northeastern Uni-versity. I’ve always been impressed with hisprodigious vocabulary, which he still happily ex-ercises, though his sentences are now indeci-pherable. Several months ago John fell out ofhis hayloft and smacked the side of his head ona horse stall. When you ask him how his wife isdoing, he is likely to say something along theselines: “Oh yes, the more the better. One daysoon. Biscuits with blackberry jam.” I have noidea if he understands the words that flow outof him, but he seems remarkably at peace.

Plants communicate with exquisite subtlety.If a tree on the African plain is being ravaged byantelopes, it will send a chemical signal to itsneighboring relatives. Instantaneously theseother trees will begin manufacturing more tan-nins, just enough to render them toxic to theherbivores, who, in their own canny way, willseek an alternate food source.

In response to beetle attacks, a conifer willrelease wads of resin, embalming the maraud-ers. If ground ivy loses its shade, it quickly getsto work toughening and thickening its leaves.

Whatever happens—floods, droughts, bugs,

beasts―plants are always making corrections,becoming the best they can be.

“Why do you think you hit someone?” Iasked my brother.

“I saw a shadow.”“Maybe it was a road sign, or a passing bird.”Eric shook his head firmly. “I felt a bump

under the tires.”“Probably just a pot hole or a frost-heave.”“No. It didn’t feel like that. It was more than

that.”“But you went back and nothing was there,

right?”He didn’t answer, just glared at the floor, his

mouth set in a grim line. I had no idea at thatpoint just how often we would have this ex-change, or how much time he would start tospend on these frenzied searches. That Ericnever saw any bodies in the road did little toreassure him. Maybe, he reasoned, the victimhad crawled away. Maybe another motoristhad stopped and picked him up. Maybe an am-bulance had already come. Was that a siren inthe distance?

Dysperceptions are what they are called:sights and sounds the brain creates to confirmits greatest fears.

Field dodder cannot afford doubt. A leafless,thread-like vine, unable to make its own food,it snakes through garden beds, ambushing theinnocent. With no energy to spare, doddermust be swift in finding a proximate host in ad-equate health. The wrong choice, a moment’slag, and the vine perishes.

And yet dodder is next to impossible to kill.“Devil’s Hair,” gardeners call it. Yank out thethin yellow strands and the smallest remnantspersist. And forget about saving the strangled

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host—a prize dahlia, say; the poor thing is al-ready gone.

In college I had a roommate who was afraidof wind. Breezy days would turn her wide-eyedand quiet. Gusty days she took Valium andstayed indoors. Gale force winds would chaseher under the covers, where she hugged herknees and moaned and cried. Naturally, Icouldn’t use the fan I had brought from homeand had to keep it out of sight.

There is a word for the fear of wind. Ancrao-phobia. In fact there are names for nearly anyphobia you can think of: otters, garlic, knees.There is a fear of beautiful women. There iseven a fear of sunshine.

What a comfort for the afflicted, to see theirillness respected with a name. I’m glad thatsomeone is keeping up the list.

Orchids! Over 25,000 species in the wild andeach one fabulous simply because it managesto exist.

The quickest route to extinction is cross-pol-lination; to avoid this threat, each orchid vari-ety seduces a particular insect, bird orbutterfly, offering up whatever scents orshapes or colors the creature craves. An orchidpollinated by a hummingbird is likely to havered tubular flowers filled with nectar, while anorchid fertilized by carrion beetles comes inshades of brown and smells like rotting meat.

Imagine being that sure of yourself: Sweet orstinking, you claim the right to be here.

We spook too easily, a throwback to thetime we were prey. Nowadays this hair-triggeralarm is more trouble than benefit, but there itstill is anyway, lodged deep within the brain,steeped in ancestral memories.

The truth is, our noggins are still evolving.We can’t help it that we see a stick and think:snake! 3000 years ago the brain’s hemispheres

were not even integrated: one side “spoke”and the other side listened. Which goes a longway toward explaining all those oracles andtalking gods.

My brother began calling hospitals to ask ifany accident victims had been admitted. Whenhe started phoning the highway patrol, severaltimes a day, he wound up in a rehab centeroutside of Boston where he stayed threemonths in a sage green room, eating nutritiousmeals and learning ways to calm himself. Be-cause his fears began behind the wheel, that’swhere they launched his lessons. “Car,” hewrote, over and over, filling pages of a legalpad; then he had to say the word; then he hadto look at pictures of cars; then he had to carrythe pictures in his pocket, and so on. Believeme, it’s been a long journey to the passengerseat; I couldn’t be more proud of him.

Bull’s Horn Acacia is a tree in South Americathat sports giant hollow curving thorns. At-tracted to these formidable thorns are stingingants who drill their way inside and take up resi-dence. If a branch is disturbed—typically by de-structive leaf-cutter ants―the stinging ants willrace out of the thorns and sting the attackers todeath. In return for this service, the tree pro-vides its defenders with shelter, nectar and, asif not forgetting anything, tiny protoplasm-richnodules that ensure complete nutrition.

If we ever saw the big picture; if our mindscould accommodate, even for a split second,the terrible balance of life on this planet, wewould surely be frightened out of our wits.

No way are we ready for custodianship.So, plants. No brain, no fear. Just the urge to

grow. The right to be here. I’d love to comeback as a lilac, but a stinking orchid would beokay too.

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Lying Next To Giles CoreyDonald J. Barrow

I said, “Wait, let’s go running naked through the woods.”

“No” you replied “what if others see”

Then, right then, I should have fled from you…

before the daily bills, before the children’s suck, before the

tarnished coffee cups,

before our story pages structured, confining, crushing,

heavy, unhappy book…. a lifeless tale… oh, “poor players.”

I should have ran that naked day, lungs bursting, soles

bleeding, the low pines striping

I should have fled- alone- from all of you.

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Eight StoriesJackson Burgess

It’s warm on my tongue like the

blood slipping down your throat,

even though you tried your best to

let it coagulate before the fall.

Empty in your heart and your promises,

you must have tripped over your old

unfulfilled virginity—and as for me?

I’m content to sweep the chalk dust

from tall doorways. I’ve been with you

since patriarchal death dances, since the

breeding rituals practiced by drunkards, since

suicide note courses and shotgun conventions,

and while you might not have recognized

my gaping eyes among the masses, be aware

that you were silent. The least you could have done

was tried to talk me down from the fall.

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Just for NowSandra H. Bounds

A tiny thing,

this girl child of mine.

I hold her and rock her,

croon and whisper to her

in sweet mother language

as I marvel at the utter perfection

of fragile fingers curled trustingly

around just one of mine.

I watch her,

letting my gaze linger

from softly crowned head

to pink soles

of happily wriggling feet.

I gave her life,

and for just a moment,

she is mine to love,

she who is so vulnerable,

so dependent on that love.

Just for now, she is mine,

but already

I plead for courage

to love enough for letting go.

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WhalingElise M. Tobin

With frost the ladybugs become

a shape-shifting wound

covering the southern side

of our white stucco home.

Their molten collection

brings them into relief.

Stubborn dozens slide inside

surviving in the fireplace,

the dining room,

the darkened wardrobe;

crawling over the one tie left behind—

left ready with its double wide windsor

and little white whales—

left ready for a train, a date, a neck

to choke, to match

the fury of Ahab,

a woman scorned,

a woman who will crush the whales

beneath her pegs

and kick the creatures

through open screens.

But my legs are tissue,

and heart just as thin,

so I’ll live within the wound,

and rock in the belly of this house

until the scab flies off

and leaves my toughened skin

at the gate of a winter

no whale could survive.

2013 Pushcart Prize Nominee

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Mary and the WalrusKarlanna Lewis

My father is a walrus,” Mary was con-vinced. Each day, when classes let outat exactly fifteen minutes past three,

she tied a length of polka-dotted ribbonaround her schoolbooks and trekked to theBloomsberg zoo. “Your father is not a walrus,”her mother repeated each morning, as shespooned two level dollops of oatmeal intoMary’s favorite orange bowl. But Mary in-sisted, to any seventh-grader at BloomsbergJunior High who would listen, that her father,in fact, had tusks.

When she was not looking at the walrusswim through the granite caves, Mary waslooking at the pages of books. “Did you know,”she often inquired of her mother, “that thewalrus prefers red algae to green?” And soonMary was asking for red food coloring in herpeas, as her walrus blood gave her strongaversions to the bitty green globes. “Did youknow,” she would begin over dinner, “the wal-rus is a close relative of the cactus and octo-pus?”

“The vitamin and mineral levels of cactusare superb,” answered her mother, the nutri-tionist, who soon began to serve cubed cactiwith cumin once weekly. After reading Underthe Tuscan Sun, Mary strongly believed thesun was a giant burning walrus, tusk-en andgolden, and she was sure this was her father’sGod. Since her mother was more concernedwith the caloric content of goat’s milk and themerits of one bleach over another, Mary tookup the religion of “Walrusism.”

At Mary’s parent-teacher conference, allthe faculty of the school expressed concern.“Mary is a bright girl,” hemmed and hawedthe biology teacher, “but she is misunder-

standing one of the basics of mammalian mat-ing. That is, Homo sapiens does not mate, andnever has mated, with Odobenus rosmarus.”

“Mr. Heeby,” interrupted Mary’s mother, “isthat a particle of a curly fry caught in yourmustache? Fried food is one of the worst cul-prits of heart disease, and I think you woulddo well to abstain from such indulgences. If bi-ology is the study of life, you must really showthese students how to live wholly and health-ily. Mary, you know, has never eaten a curlyfry.” Mr. Heeby fiddled a bit with his mus-tache, which was neither wide nor full enoughto hide the tickle of pink that crept into thefolds of his cheeks. He had been meaning toshave his sideburns for a long time, andwatching Mary’s mother adjust strands of herhair behind her ear, he thought now might bethe time. Her horn-rimmed glasses, whichframed her deep, slate-grey eyes attractively,made Mr. Heeby feel inferior. With some mut-terings of “Well, I suppose you know best,” hequickly ended the meeting.

When Mary came home from the zoo thefollowing week with a package of curly fries,her mother sat her down for a lecture. Thetalk lasted the better part of an hour, and in-cluded the words betrayal and disappoint-ment at least five times each. But when Marycame home a week later, with two piercingsabove her lip holding thin, white bones, hermother washed out the pans and laid millet &cauliflower casserole on the table without aword. “She’s an odd one,” said her nicer class-mates. “Yeah, but exactly ‘one’ of what isshe?” replied those not as nice.

Mary began offering tours to her classmates,who joined her in watching the great grey ani-mal circle its aquatic dome. The zookeepers be-friended Mary, and asked her if she might liketo conduct “Walrus Observations” on Satur-

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days. “My father,” her talks began, “is a walrus.”They wrote up an article on Mary in theBloomsberg Gazette, titled “Walrus Child: AtHome in the Dome.” Her mother, who wasbusy advising the town’s mayor against eatingprocessed corn, did not notice as Mary car-peted her room with dried seaweed. She alsodid not notice as Mary brought home drift-wood to surround her bed, and painted thewalls a deep cerulean blue. And when Marytraded her wooden desk for a rusty anchor andiron chest, she noticed nothing.

“Please,” she began one Saturday, “help mebring my father home.” Three hundred andtwenty-nine local children signed a petition,and they began planning. Eight-year-old Ezra,whose father owned a fishing supply shop,brought the biggest net in stock. After nine,when the zoo closed, three hundred andtwenty-three children (six were home sick)snuck past the lion, past the giant tortoise,and past the gobbling turkey. They set up aladder against the walrus’ cage, and Maryclimbed up. She lassoed the net around thewalrus and caught him up. “Oooooeeeeee,”he bellowed. “He said his name’s Huey,” inter-preted a young boy with a feather in his cap.

Seventy-four kids yanked on the net atonce, and sent Huey flying up over the rim ofthe glass. As fast as they could manage, themob of kids pulled Huey back to Mary’s bath-tub, which was overflowing with salty waterand padded with a sandy bottom. Shethanked each of the kids with one of hermother’s carob and rice milk “Oreos,” and bel-lowed “Ooooooeeeeoooo, long live the Wal-rus!” The kids threw fist pumps and tiptoedhome, while she sat on the lid of the toilet,teary-eyed and gazing at Huey.

“Excuse me,” interrupted one boy with par-ticularly long arms and legs, and what resem-bled black lip-liner at the corners of hismouth. “I have been wanting to meet you.You know, my mother was a squid.” In the dimlight of her bathroom, Mary’s tusk-bonesglimmered. “Why should I believe you?” sheasked finally. Her round eyes were half closed,and she rested an elbow on Huey’s back. “Be-cause my mother was a squid,” the young boyanswered seriously. He flapped his arms andsquirmed his legs, and she realized that he satthree seats behind her in biology. Mary could-n’t remember if his name was Kurt or Squirt,and so she looked at his pitch-black eyes andtried not to think about the dark trail squidsleft, or how it felt to swim through warm ink.

“Did you ever look on the other side of thewalrus cage, and see my mother?” he asked.She hadn’t. Mary had no idea they kept asquid in Bloomsberg. “Let me kiss you on yourtusks,” Kurt or Squirt pleaded, and Mary,though she had never been kissed before,knew she had to say yes. His two dark lipstouched each of her tusks, before they movedto her mouth, filling it with ink. This was hisproof, his squid liquid swirling over hertongue, and this is exactly what her motherfound when she walked into the bathroom.

“The zoo called,” began Mary’s mother, notlooking at any of Mary, Kurt/Squirt, or Huey,but at a place on the shower rod above theirheads. “They want their walrus back.”

“But Dad belongs with us,” retorted Mary.“Your father was not a walrus,” sighed her

mother, removing her pristine glasses, obviouslyexhausted. Mary’s lip quivered and she fiddledwith her two semblances of tusks. “Your father,”her mother looked far away, her face cloudingand eyes glistening, “was a manatee.”

2013 Pushcart Prize Nominee

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Goodnight, MinnesotaMichael Warne

Istared at the clock flashing 11:22 with tiny

red fingers as I heard the door open down-

stairs, and slam shut against the winter

wind. I wrapped myself in blanket, covered my

head and buried my face into a tiny space be-

tween pillow and cold wooden nightstand.

‘Is the door locked?’ I heard a voice ask.

I felt my skin wet and warm against the blan-

ket. I rubbed the sweat from my head, felt a

curl of hair and wiped it away from my face. I

lifted up the covers and welcomed the fresh air.

‘Seattle?’ I asked.

I looked over to the window, rubbed my eyes

and let them focus on the girl leaning against

the windowpane. I got out of bed, the blanket

still wrapped around me. I walked over to her,

my little feet cold against the attic’s floor, and

wrapped my fingers around a little silver latch.

The window opened, a cold breeze blowing in,

falling across my face. I shivered.

‘Minnesota,’ she said, then went quiet, star-

ing at the stars in the night sky.

I looked at them for a while, too. Pitch black

outside, except for a few doorway lights blink-

ing on and off. I knew enough to know it was

cats, not ghosts.

‘Minnesota,’ she said again, trailing off into a

whisper, ‘I still can’t believe Dad named you

that.’

I looked up at her. She looked angry.

‘Name me after a city,’ she said, and

propped her legs up against the side of the

window, ‘and you after a state. What a fucking

good father he is.’

Her boots shined in the moonlight, brown

leather coated in something, clean as the day

she’d gotten them. She reached into her pocket

and took out a pack of cigarettes, glanced at

me, and put them away.

‘Did you remember to lock the door?’ She

asked.

‘Yeah.’

I yawned.

‘You’re still sleepy.’

I managed an ‘Mhmm’ and wrapped the

blanket tighter around me.

‘Come on, sit beside me.’

She sat with her legs over the ledge, dan-

gling above the roof below and patted a hand

against the window sill. It sounded hollow, like

it had been eaten out by something. I hopped

up anyway and gestured to wrap her in the

blanket.

‘No, it’s yours,’ she said.

I leaned against the wall of the window and

looked up at the stars.

‘What’s up there?’

Seattle dragged a finger across a patch of the

little lights.

‘Well, there’s one. Ursa Major, I think.’

‘What’s Ursa Major?’

She looked at me.

‘Well, I think it’s a bear.’

I strained my eyes, tilted my head one way

and then the other.

‘Doesn’t look like a bear.’

‘You have to learn to connect the dots. See,

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36

that one is the end of the tail, and those are

the legs, and the one there is his nose,’ she told

me, pointing to one, then another, then an-

other. But I couldn’t follow. I sighed and let my

eyes drift.

‘You’ll get it one day. You’re still too young.’

‘My eyes are tired.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘just as tired as mine used to

be. But they’ll adjust. And then you’ll see.’

I wrapped my arms around my legs beneath

the blanket. I didn’t want one of my feet to ac-

cidentally slip.

‘Why did you run away?’

I looked at her and felt as if she might look

back. But she didn’t.

‘Was it because of Dad?’

She stared at something distant without

blinking.

‘Was it because Mom left?’

Still, nothing.

‘Seattle,’ I whispered, ‘why did you leave?’

She looked at me for a moment, stared into

me. Not into either of my eyes, but past me, at

something buried in the back of my brain.

Something I couldn’t quite remember.

‘I was afraid,’ she said finally. ‘I was afraid of

Dad. I left to find—’

She stared out into the distance again.

‘Who were you looking for?’ I asked. ‘Was it

Mom?’

I could see her face quivering, her lips shake.

‘No. You know as well as I do Mom isn’t out

there.’

‘Do you want the blanket?’

‘No,’ she said again. ‘You know as well as I

do—’

She looked at me, a tremor in her arm this

time.

‘Was it Granma?’

She reached out to touch me, held her hand

a moment away from my cheek, then drew it

back and smiled, tears forming in her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said, her body as still as the cold air

now, ‘it was Granma and Granpa.’

I breathed in, drew my lips into a circle and

let my breath escape slowly. In the darkness, I

think I could see the tiniest of ice crystals form.

‘Minnesota,’ I heard her say, ‘don’t follow in

Dad’s footsteps. Don’t drink a drop, okay?’

I let my eyes rest, kept them closed, feeling

the cold paint chips like egg shell on my cheek.

‘Okay.’

‘And take your time while driving, okay?’

I yawned through my throat, keeping my lips

shut and letting the warm air flow out my nose,

fill my ears.

‘Mhmm.’

‘And don’t leave the house at night, okay?’

I sucked a tiny patch of saliva from the cor-

ner of my lips back into my mouth.

‘Come back home soon, okay?’

‘Minnesota,’ she said, fainter now, ‘I love

you. It’s time to close the window now, morn-

ing’s coming. I love you. I love you.’

And as I closed the window with my eyes still

shut and walked into bed with my eyes still

shut and drew the covers up to my chin with

my eyes still shut, I thought about how much I

loved my sister too.

‘Seattle,’ I whispered, ‘I miss you.

Spotlight... Lorraine Tolliver

37

The VisitorLorraine Tolliver

Most generallyhe can be thought ofas far off somewhere,taking care of business.His work is notpaid much attention to,except in occasional news flashes.Brushing up againsthim personallyis to be avoided if possible.Usually, he’s an undesirable,unsociable loner.But thenas time goes bysuddenlysomething becomes suspect.A presence is felt,inching right up,moving right in.Uninvited,he’s come to visit.Backing away doesn’t help.He’s staying.He’s strange, but oddly companionable.He can edge in closeand dissolve into specks——into the flow of things.He shatters himself apartand scatters throughout the house.He has not come without intention.He has chosenthe one he will take.

That one he intimately embracesinvades, enfeebles, and claims.When his victory is complete,the house is speckledwith this guest Death.In one corner, he has crumpleda life into his being.He will gather himself againinto a solid form of tearand move on.

Spotlight... Lorraine Tolliver

38

Big AirLorraine Tolliver

I know you big air.

You hold knowledge

writhing within your bonds.

You speak all tongues

and hear the unspoken

as it spins through

your silent chambers.

Beyond DeathLorraine Tolliver

Out of the sharp tunnel of first knowledge,

out of reach of the bloody blades

that chop loved ones into the grave,

I am trying to emerge

into a soft and benign expanse

which includes and mutes earth’s harsh identity

into translucent outlines

and permits the worried solid self

to accept cold but comforting accountability.

Spotlight... Lorraine Tolliver

39

Fiction

40

VisitorsLynn Beighley

Martha and Bruce spent the morning

cleaning the house. They were ex-

pecting another couple, Jack and

Susan, to spend the day visiting with them out

by the pool. They tossed shoes into closets.

They vacuumed cat hair off the furniture. They

gathered glasses from various rooms and

washed them. They shared the house with a

cat and dog. They were comfortable with a cer-

tain level of clutter and cat hair, but they as-

sumed that visitors wouldn’t be.

“Maybe they’ll cancel,” he said, with a flat

tone.

“Not likely. Anyway, we need to get this

place cleaned up, might as well finish now.” She

sighed and reached for the bleach spray.

Eventually Bruce deemed the house clean

enough and they went outside to the pool to

wait for Jack and Susan, who arrived an hour

later.

Martha was floating on a raft in the pool re-

laxing in the bright sun. She had a plastic glass

full of beer and a book. Their dog, a white Ger-

man shepherd with one floppy ear circled the

pool, waiting for a chance to give her a lick

when she got close enough to an edge. Bruce

was tapping a keg of beer.

Jack and Susan let themselves in. Jack imme-

diately removed his shirt and sandals and dived

into the pool before Bruce even realized they

had arrived. Jack swam to Martha’s float.

Martha was always attentive to Jack. Bruce

would watch Martha’s face when Jack told sto-

ries. She focused on him to the exclusion of

anyone or anything around her. She would quit

drinking and moving. Sometimes she didn’t

seem to be breathing.

“You splattered my book!” Martha pre-

tended annoyance, but she wasn’t good at it.

Bruce could see that she was enjoying Jack’s

presence.

“Why are you reading anyway? Come swim

with me.” Jack started shaking Martha’s float

until she was seriously in danger of falling in.

She laughed and broke away. She paddled to

the side of the pool and deposited her drink

and her book. She slid off the float in to the

water.

Bruce and Susan were chatting about the

weather, the pool temperature, and the beer.

He poured her a glass from the kegerator. Every

few seconds Bruce’s glance would slide from

Susan to Jack and Martha.

“Jack, come get a beer, man,” Bruce said. He

could see Martha frown for a second as Jack

climbed out of the pool.

A few clouds drifted by. The four of them

swam, rested, and drank. The conversation

shifted to politics, not a subject Jack and Bruce

could discuss without arguing. Martha winced.

“I’m telling you, they shouldn’t recall him at

all. The voters elected him. It’s like on your

wedding day saying you can always get a di-

vorce if it doesn’t work out.” Bruce folded his

arms.

“But Bruce, how can you not vote for

Schwarzenegger? You can’t tell me that you

don’t think he’d do a better job than Davis? Es-

pecially since you know he’s going to work as

Fiction

41

hard as possible so he can jump to the presi-

dency next?”

“Jack’s got a point,” Martha interjected.

Bruce didn’t seem to hear her, but began to

argue more loudly.

She and Susan started talking about how

stubborn men were. They both spoke loudly in

an attempt to distract Bruce and Jack. The dog,

lying near the kegerator, lifted his head up.

Jack didn’t reply to Bruce’s last point. Instead

he was staring at the corner of the patio.

“Look at that,” he said. “There’s a rat!”

Martha inhaled sharply. Susan and Bruce

stared at it. Martha didn’t want to see it, but

paddled over.

“I think it’s trying to get dog food,” Bruce

said.

“I can’t believe it. I’ve never seen any rats

here before.” Martha’s hand was covering her

mouth. She could see it now. It wasn’t that bad.

It was small for a rat, light grey and almost

cute.

The rat stood very still for a few more sec-

onds. Instead of making a run for the dog food

or leaving, it stared back at them. The dog no-

ticed and ran after it. The rat dove off the edge

of the deck.

Martha, Jack, and Susan began trading rat

stories. Susan talked about having kept a rat as

a pet, and how affectionate and smart it was.

Jack told a story about shooting rats with a b-b

gun when he was in high school. Martha and

Susan made noises of disgust, but laughed at

Jack’s exploits. Bruce was quiet. His face was

slightly flushed. He got out of the pool and wan-

dered to where the rat had been. It was gone.

“It’ll be back,” Bruce said. “I’ll have to set up

a trap. I can’t poison it because the dog might

eat it.”

Martha ordered some pizza. When it arrived,

Bruce answered the door and paid for it. When

he came back out, Martha was leaning on a

lounge chair with Jack sitting at her feet. Bruce

asked Martha to help him with plates. As she

got up, Bruce saw Jack’s hand brush her foot.

After the visitors left, Bruce and Martha

cleaned up. Bruce talked about the rat and tried

to get Martha’s opinion on how to deal with it.

“I think it’s gone now. It probably won’t

come back,” she said. “The dog scared it off.”

That night, Bruce heard the dog barking as

he brushed his teeth. The next morning, Bruce

put on his swimming trunks and went out for a

morning swim. The dog was standing on the

other side of the pool and didn’t come over to

greet Bruce. Bruce could just make out a brown

furry lump that the dog appeared to be guard-

ing. He walked around the pool and discovered

the body of the rat. The dog was sitting next to

it. It looked unscathed but unconscious. He

prodded at it with his foot. It appeared to be

dead. He picked it up by its hairless tail. Holding

it at arm’s length, lips pursed with disgust, he

walked over to the garbage can, opened the lid,

and let it fall from his fingers. He made certain

that he had put the lid back on securely, in case

the rat wasn’t really dead.

When he went back upstairs, he washed his

hands and told Martha that he didn’t want to

have Jack over again. Martha nodded, but

Bruce could tell that she wasn’t listening.

Fiction

42

Mr William SandersonStrikes for HomeRebecca Burns

Some things could no longer be denied. His

horse was lame. For the last three miles,

Albert had stumbled over uneven, black-

ened grass, hooves gamely picking out a line

towards the brown dot in the distance. Up

ahead, the homestead stood silent on the

plains, tranquil against the purple sky. A faint

light flickered in an upstairs window: a tell-tale

line of smoke oozed from the chimney stack

like sweat beads on smooth skin. Mr William

Sanderson had been mesmerised by the

smoke’s languid movement, his aching, travel-

worn thighs relaxing against Albert’s flanks.

Now, as Albert tilted awkwardly from side to

side, Sanderson sighed and suddenly became

conscious of the evening air, still and dry. It had

drawn an unnoticed, unsightly sheen from the

skins of both horse and rider, and they shone

like the faint light in the distance. Although

Sanderson had removed his corduroy jacket

once on the trail and fully out of sight of the

town, the heat on this New Zealand evening

was still suffocating. His riding boots, newly

purchased and once proudly gleaming, were

dusty and heavy on his feet. Albert grunted

painfully beneath him. With a resigned, almost

bitter glance at the companion riding alongside

him, Sanderson reined the horse to a halt and

dismounted.

Marama also stopped, watching his fellow

rider dismount with interest. The Maori’s

brown skin seemed clear of sweat, a fact that

did not escape Sanderson as he wiped perspi-

ration from his own brow. Perhaps Marama’s

unspoken but determined insistence to ride

with bare arms had saved him from the op-

pressive heat. His inappropriate garb, though,

put Sanderson’s teeth on edge. Thank good-

ness, we are some distance from decent

Christchurch company, he thought. He tried to

recall the studied luxury of the bank’s waiting

room, recently visited, while the evening

breeze whipped through the tussock grass. But,

deep leather seats and shiny mahogany tables

did not rise up in his memory: instead, a mud-

dled collision of silk, red lace, brass head-

boards, and oiled, naked skin reared in

unwelcome, though not unpleasant remem-

brance. For a second he was sure he could de-

tect a faint whiff of perfume in the night air.

And, even as he tried to recall the austere

frontage of Harding’s Bank which dominated

the dusty high street, the grey brick seemed to

crumble and give way to the darkened door-

way of Miss Swainson’s boarding house. Snug

down a side alley away from the main street,

Miss Swainson’s bolthole was a velvety secret,

and her girls had been welcoming and waiting.

The muscles in Sanderson’s thighs tightened

again. Calm yourself man, he thought sternly. In

a couple of weeks, I can make my excuses and

justify another trip into town. The bank would

probably want to see the station’s accounts

anyway. He told himself that, in the meantime,

the station and husbandly duties would quell

his needs. But only just. He looked away from

Marama’s naked skin. A gruff order for the

Maori to cover himself was on his lips, but he

Fiction

43

gulped it back, unsure of how Marama would

react. Instead, he ducked down to stare at Al-

bert’s leg.

“Go lame, eh?” Marama said suddenly, his

quiet low voice carrying in the stillness. A faint

blue line creased in his chin as he spoke and he

reached out to caress his own horse. “We ask

too much of our beasts, Mr Sanderson.”

He supposed a gentleman would make con-

versation, even with a native, but Mr William

Sanderson felt in no mood to talk to this un-

welcome interloper. He hadn’t asked Marama

to join him: circumstances beyond his control

had forced them into companionship. And now

he was expected to give the Maori shelter

overnight on the station, maybe for a few days!

Marama had been quite firm about that.

Sanderson gave a little shake of his head, mar-

velling at the unfairness of it all. He supposed

some tribal resistance lay at the root of these

unreasonable demands. Why couldn’t these

natives see this was no longer their country?

Why their insufferable rejection of English val-

ues and their determination to undermine the

colonists attempts to civilise them? It would

have been far better if Marama had stayed

with his people in the North; instead of coming

south to barter with farmers and merchants,

who were only trying to make a decent living.

Marama should have understood that an Eng-

lishman dealt with a Maori only out of neces-

sity. Blast it! And Sanderson slapped Albert’s

flesh sharply, causing the horse to jump in

pain. Why did Marama have to be at Miss

Swainson’s yesterday?

Then Marama appeared at his side. Standing

up, Sanderson jumped to find the Maori so

close to him; Marama had slid without a sound

from his own saddle. He was now working his

fingers into a leather pouch tied around his

neck, one hand resting on Albert’s side. Grind-

ing his teeth, a small tick pulsing at his grey

temple, Sanderson stood back. “Please do not

do that, Mr Marama,” he said. “You startled

me. And kindly remove your hand from my

horse.”

Marama eyes narrowed into brown lines,

but he brought his hand back to his side.

Slowly, with the other, he drew a small glass

vial from the pouch. He held it out in his palm

towards Sanderson. “For the horse,” he said,

his voice deep. “Rub this on. It will help.”

Sanderson eyed the bottle with distaste. A

clear, effervescent liquid lapped the glass,

smearing the sides with a thick sheen. He was

quite sure it was not a lotion that could be

bought at Kirk’s Imperial Hardware and Gen-

eral Store in town. “No thank you, Mr

Marama,” he said, ducking his head down so

the Maori could not see his grimace. “I have

some embrocation with me.”

Marama shrugged and slid the bottle back

into the pouch. Then he retrieved a pipe from

another hidden pocket, lit it, and began to

smoke.

Suddenly it was dark. The purple haze of

dusk had been fleeting and momentary: now

the sky was frayed blackness, punctured by a

thousand silver dots. The temperature fell rap-

idly. Shadows played on the tussock grass

stretching out before them: strange, mythical

shapes whirling on the charcoaled carpet, re-

Fiction

44

cently cleared by some unknown farmer. To

Sanderson, glancing up briefly from Albert, it

seemed as though Marama was a weird, other-

world conductor, beating out a rhythm for

these unknown, untamed shapes with his pipe.

Marama’s eyes were closed.

Albert cried suddenly and reared up, flanks

shuddering. Embrocation gleamed on his fet-

lock like goose fat on a Christmas bird. The ani-

mal panted and tossed his head for a second,

white flecks flying, and was then still. A heavy

silence slid down upon the travellers. For a mo-

ment, Sanderson felt completely cut off from

the world, caught within its glutinous hold. Dull

panic curled in his stomach for a second; his

eyes strained in the evening gloom, seeking out

the station. It was about two miles away and

he would have to walk.

They set off. Sanderson lit a small lantern and

held it low by his side to mark out their steps. It

cast a sallow ring on the ground, encircling both

his and Marama’s feet. Marama walked in

lengthy strides, murmuring quietly to his horse

every now and then. At first Sanderson felt baf-

fled that the Maori would give up the comfort

of his ride to keep him company, and would

wait for him. He could think of no human con-

nection between them except, maybe, given

where they met, the need for fleshly release.

Since leaving Christchurch, Sanderson had

longed to see the back of the native though he

hadn’t quite been able to shake him off. He re-

membered how he had tried to slip away from

the boarding house and the annoyance he felt

when, turning in his saddle, he saw Marama fol-

lowing at some distance.

“Why don’t you ride?” he barked gruffly. He

couldn’t look at Marama directly and stared in-

stead down at the circle of light. “There’s no

need to walk alongside me.”

Marama gave his easy shrug and continued

his slow lumber. The ground seemed to be

swallowed by his gait, passing through his body

and lit momentarily by the orange compass at

his feet. “Better this way,” he said, without ex-

plaining what he meant. His hand drifted out to

stroke Albert again.

The station blinked up ahead. Sanderson

wasn’t sure if the sight was welcoming or a

warning: there was no comfort in the knowl-

edge he was near home. He thought of Sarah,

probably in bed reading or, more likely, staring

at the wallpaper as the wind whipped about

the wooden building. She slept a lot these

days, crumpled on the iron frame. Sanderson’s

fingers would sink into her flesh late at night.

She was a series of creases and rolls, and se-

cret, soft, folded away places. Sarah hadn’t al-

ways been so. Indeed, on their first night

together when they set sail for New Zealand, a

delirious, violent desire to possess had surged

within his breast when she had removed her

corset: fragile ribs gleamed like chicken bones

through pale, translucent skin, seeming to in-

vite his touch and caress. The sensations

aroused by her disrobing in their cramped,

swaying cabin had taken him by surprise – he

had not expected to feel that way about her.

Within the seclusion of their married quarter,

she had slowly released the fabric binding her

breasts and pushed away the hooped skirt en-

veloping her legs until she stood, naked and

Fiction

45

trembling, blinking like a chick emerging from

its egg. Sanderson had thought he had taken

Sarah off her parents’ hands as an act of char-

ity and convenience. She served a greater pur-

pose than he could have imagined – after their

wedding, he did not visit a boarding house for

a whole six months, not even after their emi-

grant ship had docked at Lyttleton.

His fist tightened around Albert’s bridle.

Their wedding day had not gone smoothly.

Sarah had clung to her mother, and her mother

to her. He had overheard them whispering after

the service, when Sanderson had been thanking

the minister and when Sarah should have been

by his side. Instead, she had stood apart, fingers

plucking the new wedding band on her finger.

Sarah’s mother, thin and shabbily dressed, had

babbled a warning about the married couple’s

first evening together, and Sanderson had

caught a glimpse of Sarah’s horror-struck face.

She had kept her lips pursed together that

night, silent but not resisting, rolling with the

ship. In the morning, she had not met his gaze,

staring at the cabin walls as they closed about

her like a briny womb. She wept for her mother

for several weeks whilst the ship ploughed on

relentlessly through the waves.

He was sure that one of Miss Swainson’s

girls had been on their boat. Of course, the sin-

gle women had been separated from the mar-

ried quarters, and carefully marshalled by two

stout matrons, but still – a girl he had enter-

tained just last month seemed familiar. Natu-

rally, she had not let on, even if she did

recognise him. Instead, she had smiled the

whole evening, a gold tooth gleaming in the

welcoming darkness. She had not pursed her

lips together, as Sarah had done. She had mur-

mured encouragement and caressed Sander-

son’s grey hair, pushing him towards a delirium

experienced only once or twice before. Some-

thing about her allowed him to leave all inhibi-

tions at her doorway. Perhaps it was the

vigorous climate – he had not been to town for

several weeks before that visit and the icy

winds of the plains had breathed hearty fresh-

ness into his bones. He had paid the woman

handsomely in the morning. A pity she had not

been available last night.

Suddenly Marama spoke. “I hadn’t seen you

at Miss Swainson’s before.” His disembodied

voice rang out from the darkness conversation-

ally but Sanderson almost stumbled. The

Maori’s words appalled him. How dare he re-

mind him – an English gentleman! – About the

circumstances of their meeting? He had barely

time to react before Marama spoke again.

“Your English women; I see them getting off

the boats, hoping to find husbands or work. Did

so many expect to be earning their keep with

their bodies?” The Maori cleared his throat, the

harsh sound carrying across the plains.

The temperature seemed to have dropped to

below freezing. Sanderson drew up sharply,

hissing between his teeth. This really was outra-

geous. He brought the lamp up to his shoulder,

swinging it around so its yellow light was cast

against Marama’s face. Marama’s pipe was still

in his mouth, pursed between blue lines, which

met at his lips. His brown skin seemed to gleam

in the darkness, though not with sweat. His

eyes narrowed against the glare.

“A gentleman – a gentleman does not speak

about such things!” Sanderson spluttered,

Fiction

46

heart pounding. “I’ll thank you to keep your re-

marks to yourself, especially if I am to be

forced to give you shelter!” Goosebumps

pricked his arms as he wondered if Marama

would repeat his remarks at the station. Sarah

was not a problem. Sanderson did not think he

could bear the smug glances of the labourers.

Marama slowly drew the pipe from his

mouth. His brown eyes studied the English-

man’s face, taking in the grey bristles and thin-

ning hair. “You have a wife at home, yes?” he

asked quietly. “As do I. Yet we are drawn to

these other women. I sell them lace, which

they use to cover their bodies even as they are

used. They pay well. Sometimes I am offered

more, but I cannot accept. I have a wife in the

North. I still sell them lace, coming back to

them month after month. Do you?”

Sanderson took a step back now, shocked

beyond words. The Maori was clearly mad. He

may have spent time bargaining with townsfolk

and farmers, but he had learnt none of their

English ways. The services of these women

were not to be mentioned, ever – not even in

those exclusive clubs back home from which

Sanderson had been excluded. Nor should a

man mention his wife in the same conversa-

tion. Decent women, after all, were ignorant

about these matters. Sanderson remembered

the whispers between Sarah and her mother

on their wedding day.

Marama’s face was impassive. He shrugged.

“No matter. We will not speak of it again. I

have some things to sell and then I will return

home.” He raised the pipe to his mouth, but

paused. “Does your wife wear lace?”

Sanderson hit him. He hadn’t expected to

and it was at the full extent of his reach. But,

the blow struck home, glancing off Marama’s

jaw and driving the Maori’s head backwards.

The pipe dropped to the earth with a soft

thump and was lost to view. Sanderson, pant-

ing, moved in for a second attempt, fist pulled

ready. Blood surged in his ears and a remote

part of his mind screeched for him to stop –

these natives could be dangerous. Something

had become detached inside and was no

longer anchored to that repressed core. He felt

delirious with violence. Albert harrumphed

nervously.

Then Marama turned to face him and the

anger in Sanderson’s breast and throat died.

Blood seeped from a corner of Marama’s

mouth, snaking down his chin. Images of red

lace draped over the end of a bed bloomed in

Sanderson’s mind. His shoulders slumped

heavily.

The Englishman and Maori stared at each

other for a long time. Albert’s tail switched,

eyes flicking between the two. The orange light

of the lantern drew a circle around them. Be-

yond the orb was only darkness, save for the

twinkling station up ahead. They were quite

cut off from all company. This native could kill

me if he wanted and no one would know,

Sanderson thought. He did not feel fear; in-

stead, only embarrassment that his life could

end in such a way – he could just imagine the

newspaper reports and the incredulous gasps

of Harding’s bankers. They stood for a long

while, Maori and Englishman, caught in that

moment.

Spotlight... Scott Owens

47

SpiteScott Owens

He thinks the room keeps growing larger,

the silence keeps getting louder,

the space between things almost unbearable.

He knows it has something to do with him,

yet another slight, the usual persecution.

He can’t imagine his own complicity,

can’t see that every time he calls her

Bitch in whatever way he chooses, she moves

farther away, takes his world with her.

48

AttendanceScott Owens

We wait, where else, in the waiting room,

comfortable, bland, television perpetually on game shows,

Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy, Who Wants to Be . . . .

Having tended to every detail of living

at home, we’re left now with filling out forms

for what seems forever: names and numbers,

date and place of birth, list of ailments,

medications, procedures, emergency contacts.

We’ve called them all on our catalog of impermanence:

friends and family, physicians, surgeons, specialists.

None of them can be here, trapped in contingencies

of their own lives, hardly able to address the card,

buy a stamp, use the clothespin to clip it

on the mailbox, hope it will arrive in time.

Spotlight... Scott Owens

Spotlight... Scott Owens

49

Making LoveScott Owens

Is it then something that has to be worked at

so hard? Like making bread, trouble, time?

Like something produced, the calculated end

of an assembly line, a monthly quota

of parts received, turned, passed on?

There was a time we loved to make

the words of love, had them washed

from our mouths with soap.

A man must give himself the right

to speak the words his body knows,

to fight the urge to have his mouth

mind, body washed clean, to keep

from making this a place where nobody fucks

anymore but only sleeps together.

Cast of Characters

50

Dylan Amaro-McIntyre is a 2012 Pushcart Prize

nominee

Donald J. Barrow is a 2013 Pushcart Prize nom-

inee.

Joshua Bauer is a recent graduate from Indiana

University where he studied English. His poems

have been recently published in The Broken

Plate. Joshua is a 2012 Pushcart Prize nominee.

Lynn Beighley is a fiction writer stuck in a tech-

nical book writer’s body. Her stories often in-

volve deeply flawed characters and the

unsatisfying meshing of the virtual and actual

world. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and

currently has 13 books published. Her work is

either forthcoming or published in Apocrypha

and Abstractions, Intellectual Refuge, and

ken*again, and in the e-book “The Lost Chil-

dren: A Charity Anthology,” as well as at

http://www.fictionaut.com/users/lynn-beigh-

ley and on Twitter as @lynnbeighley.

Sandra H. Bounds is an active member of the

Mississippi Poetry Society and was chosen as

its 2005 Poet of the Year. She holds a Master of

Arts Degree in English and has taught in both

private and public high schools, as well as in a

community college. Sandra is a 2013 Pushcart

Prize nominee.

Jackson Burgess is a writer, painter, and stu-

dent at the University of Southern California.

His work has been published in various Ameri-

can and Australian journals, including The Sto-

ryteller, SpeedPoets, Stepping Stones Maga-

zine: ALMIA, and Children, Churches &

Daddies. You can find him performing poetry,

watching clouds, or combating insomnia

around South Central LA. Check out his per-

sonal blog: jacksonburgess.wordpress.com.

Jackson is a 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee.

Matthew Dexter is a young American author

living in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. He writes nov-

els, short stories and everything else in be-

tween. When Mateo is not writing he enjoys

life by the ocean; beautiful beaches, breathtak-

ing views, reading, and being inspired. But

never candlelit dinners on the beach. He’s

afraid of Pirates.

William Doreski has had his poetry appear in

various electronic and print journals, and in

several collections, most recently Waiting for

the Angel (2009).

Joseph Hart is a 2012 Pushcart Prize nominee.

Alyson Hess is an undergraduate student at In-

diana University - Purdue University in Fort

Wayne, Indiana, pursuing a degree in English

Literature and Women’s Studies. She is cur-

rently spending a year abroad, studying in Can-

terbury, England. Alyson is a 2012 Pushcart

Prize nominee.

Stephanie Kaylor is an unemployed twenty-

something from upstate New York, where she

Cast of Characters

52

indulges in gin and melancholy. Stephanie re-

ceived her Bachelor’s degree in English Litera-

ture at SUNY Geneseo, where she studied

poetry writing under Dave Kelly, author of “In-

structions for Viewing a Solar Eclipse.”

Stephanie is a 2012 Pushcart Prize nominee.

Karlanna Lewis currently attends Florida State

University, where she is in the progress of de-

veloping an honors thesis in poetry as part of

her B.A. in Creative Writing. Karlanna is a 2012

and a 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee.

Rev. Judith Mensch served as a pastor in the

United Methodist Church. She began writing

poetry in the last years of her life, as a way of

responding to and coping with breast cancer.

She passed away in 2003.

Scott Owens holds degrees from Ohio Univer-

sity, UNC-Charlotte, and UNC-Greensboro. He

is the author of Shadows Trail Them Home (col-

laboration with Pris Campbell, Clemson Univer-

sity Press, 2012), For One Who Knows How to

Own Land (Future Cycle Press, 2012) Some-

thing Knows the Moment (Main Street Rag,

2011), The Nature of Attraction (collaboration

with Pris Campbell, Main Street Rag, 2010), Pa-

ternity (Main Street Rag, 2010), among others.

He teaches English and creative writing at

Catawba Valley Community College and has

published more than 1000 poems in journals

including Georgia Review, North American Re-

view, Beloit Poetry Journal, Hayden’s Ferry Re-

view, Cream City Review, and The Pedestal.

His work has received awards from the Acad-

emy of American Poets, the Pushcart Prize An-

thology, the Next Generation/Indie Lit Awards,

the NC Writers’ Network, the NC Poetry Soci-

ety and the Poetry Society of SC, and been

nominated for 9 Pushcart Prizes and 7 Best of

the Net Awards, and read by Garrison Keillor

on The Writer’s Almanac.He has given hun-

dreds of readings of his work and taught

dozens of workshops at colleges, libraries, and

arts centers across the Southeast.

Stuart Sanderson is a 54 year old writer, who

doesn’t let cerebral palsy keep him from his

craft. He believes that “Words are in all of us. It

is easier for some people to get the words out

than others, but everybody has a poem in

them.”

Elise M. Tobin began writing poetry as an un-

dergraduate at the University of Mary Wash-

ington. She earned her M.A. from UConn and

currently teaches English in an urban school

district. Elise is a 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee.

Michael Warne is a 2013 Pushcart Prize nomi-

nee.

Other writers appearing in this anthology: Re-

becca Burns, Richard Fenwick , Kori Frazier,

Khristian Mecom, P. Mari, Jenny Ortiz, Jean

Ryan, Jasmin May Smith, Jane Stuart and Lor-

raine Tolliver

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