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The Oklahoma Review Volume 15: Issue 1, Spring 2014
Published by: Cameron University Department of English and Foreign Languages
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StaffFacultyAdvisorGEORGE
McCORMICKFacultyEditorsDR.BAYARDGODSAVE,DR.JOHN
HODGSON,DR.HARDYJONES&DR.JOHNG.MORRISAssistantEditorsKAITLYNSTOCKTON,
TAMMYHORNBECK,GILNUNEZ,CAMERONBREWER,CASEY
BROWN,SHELBYSTANCIL&SARARIOSWebDesignELIAMEREL&
HAILEYHARRISLayoutCASEYBROWN
MissionStatementTheOklahomaReviewisanelectronicliterarymagazine published through the Departmentof English at Cameron University in Lawton,Oklahoma. The editorial board consists ofEnglish and Professional Writingundergraduates, as well as faculty advisorsfromtheDepartmentsofEnglishandForeignLanguages&Journalism.The goal of our publication is to provide aforum for exceptional fiction, poetry, andcreative nonfiction in a dynamic, appealing,and accessible environment. The magazine’sonly agenda is to promote the pleasures andedification derived from high‐qualityliterature.TheStaffTheviewsexpressedinTheOklahomaReviewdo not necessarily correspond to those ofCameron University, and the university’ssupportofthismagazineshouldnotbeseenasanyendorsementofanyphilosophyotherthanfaithin–andsupportof–freeexpression.The content of this publication may not bereproduced without the written consent ofTheOklahomaReviewortheauthors.
CallforSubmissionsTheOklahomaReviewisacontinuous,onlinepublication.Wepublish two issueseachyear:Spring(May)andFall(December).TheOklahomaReviewonlyacceptsmanuscriptsduringtwoopenreadingperiods.
•ReadingdatesfortheFallissuewillnowbefromAugust1toOctober15
•ReadingdatesfortheSpringissuewillbeJanuary1toMarch15.Worksentoutsideofthesetwoperiodswillbereturnedunread.Guidelines:Submissions are welcome from any seriouswriter working in English. Email yoursubmissions to [email protected]:
•Prosefictionpiecesof30pagesorless.•Asmanyasfive(5)poemsofany
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Table of Contents Cover Art B.C. Gilbert , Detail from “BFE” Fict ion 10 Zack O’Neil l , “Sea Lion” 32 Timothy Bradford, “Winter Velodrome” 47 Jerry Gabriel , “Electric, This Age Coming” 56 Mark Belis le, “Primary Directive” Images 70 B.C. Gilbert , “BFE” 72 B.C. Gilbert , “Devil’s Claw” 74 B.C. Gilbert , “Tipi” 76 B.C. Gilbert , “Twister” Poetry 80 Brent Newsom, “Esther Green Plans a Funeral” 81 Brent Newsom, “Floyd and Patti” 82 Brent Newsom, “New Hope Baptist Church” 83 Brent Newsom, “Floyd Fontenot, Free Bird”
84 Brent Newsom, “Ash Wednesday” 85 Corey Don Mingura, “Red Pterodactyl” 87 Laura Holloway, “Annus Miraballus”
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Reviews 90 George McCormick, A Review of Phong Nguyen’s Pages from the
Textbook of Alternate History
91 Cameron Brewer, A Review of J. David Osborne’s Low Down Death Right Easy
Interviews 93 George McCormick, “I’m not the only one to seek out his grave in
St. Mary’s Cemetery, between the Interstate and the softball diamonds”: An Interview with Ed Skoog
Contributors 101 Contributor’s Page
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Fiction
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Zack O’Neill Sea Lion
Announcer:“Willcountifitgoes….”
(pause)
Sacramentofans:“HHHHhhhhhhahhhHHHhhhhhaaaaaAAA!”
Me:“Man.”
Mybrother:“Godthat’sirritating.Well,it’snicethattheselosersgetatleastonegoodmoment.”
Mydad:“Well,screwtheLakers,Ijustneedthepoints.”
“Whentheirinteriordefensegetsattacked,”mybrotherwenton,“it’sliketheyjustshut
down.” My dad agreed with him. It was a good, tactical insight I had to admit, a historical
anomalygiven thedominanceof their insidegame,butwhen I tooknoteofhowrelaxedand
unflatteredmybrotherwas,slumpedinthechairpontificatingbythewindowfurthestfromthe
frontdoor (I’dhavebeenpacing, tryingnot to shake) I felt inclined to rebuthim.All I could
thinkofthoughwasAfricancatfish(clariasgariepinus)shownolinkbetweenaggressive
behaviorandfoodintake,whichIwasstillconvertingwhenthedoorbellrang.
Tracy was here. After an artificially cheery hellomymother escorted her through the
frontdoorandfoyer.Mybrotherdidn’tgetupuntilshewasinthecenteroftheroom.Shehada
brownt‐shirtandjeanson,justlikehim.Iwasn’tsureiftheirgetuprepresentedsomemovieor
maybe TV reference.Whatever the case, when she gazed at himwith her smiling,mackerel‐
coloredeyes,mypersonalitywentintoitsshell.
Mydadturnedinhischair.
“HeyTracy!”
Shewentovertohimwithakindoflumbering,unladylikegaitandshookhishandlikea
man. “Hello, Mr. O’Neill” she said, in a husky voice. My brother laughed; my dad did too,
repeating “Mr.O’Neill” like the officiality of it was absurd. She smiled, blushed, put her hair
behindherear,lookedatmybrotheragain.
Whenshenoticedmeshesaidhiandmyname.Iwasstandingnearoursmallfireplace,
feelingheatononesideandcooloceanair—whichalwaysseepedinthroughwallporesandold
windowframes—ontheother.Isaidhiback,andlookedaway.
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Afterabitofsmalltalk,withTracybrieflyregardingthegamebutnotcommentingonit,
mymomscootedherandmybrotherintothediningroom,Iguesstoposeforpictures.Thiswas
likelydoneformybenefit.
SoontheywereofftoSadieHawkins,leavingthethreeofusalone.
Mymother:“Needabeer?”
Me:“No,that’sokay.”
Mymother:“Yousure?”
Me:“Yeah.”
Mydad(eyesonTV):“Ahpiss.”
Kobeatthetopofthekey,holdingforthelastshot,gesturing:(unintelligible).
Me:“Notgonnahittheover?”
Mydad:“It’slikethey’retryingtoscrewme.”
Whenthegamewenttocommercialheopeneduphislaptop.“Whatdoyouthinkforthe
secondhalf,”hesaid,“theoverortheunder?”
“What’sthenumber?”
“Don’tknowyet.”
Sincegettinginonabetwasofcoursenothappening,Imadeablandcommentonhow
thepossibilityofextratimemadetheoverenticing.“Goodpoint,”hesaid,nodding,fascinated
withthescreen.Istoodthereandthought,andI’dtalkedaboutthiswithmybrotherbefore,it
wasstrangewhathetaggedasoff limits.Potanddrinking, fine.Bettingongamesthroughhis
sportsaccount,not fine. I figured itwasaterritorial thing:hisaccount,hismoney.Butwasn’t
thatkindofsadistic,talkingtomeaboutbetswithoutbringingmeinontheaction?
Hemadehisplay,didn’ttellmewhatitwas,closedhislaptop,grabbedhisemptybottle,
gotup,wenttothekitchen.
Anadforasushirestaurantcameon.Istaredatthelittletraysoffish,thefist‐sizedrice
balls,slimyseaweedsalad,andthoughtaboutmybrother,whoalwayshadthequalityofbeing
in a small pond, my father, a remora to his manta ray father, my poor mother, who never
thought to do anything untraditional, Kobe the kingfish and the Lakers and all those
championshipsandsofuckingwhat.
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Isneakedawaytomyroom,feeling,asIoftendowhenIgotheretomasturbateordrink
or smoke, that my departing footsteps made thunderous sounds, like storm waves on
breakwater.
I’dcrucifiedmywork,nailedthepaintingstomywalls Imean,thepastels,acrylicsand
coloredpencilcompositionsthatmymotherpraisedsorhapsodicallyitmademewanttotrash
themallandquit.ButIthoughtmaybesomeofthemwereprettygood:onewasaportraitofa
cobalt‐bluesky,swirlylikeStarryNightexceptlessimpastoandoverstated,thatbackdroppedan
obsidian‐blackmountain(theskywassodarkyouhadtolookhardtodistinguishthetwo),and
anunrealisticaquagreenoceantotheleft.Littledotsofred
and yellow,which I’dmadewith toothpicks, signified cars
on a highway running along the coastline. I envisioned
convertingitintoahugefiberglassmuralwithrealredand
yellow lights thatmoved, and strobe flashes at the top for
lightning. I’d given thepainting to Sarah as a present, but
on the first day of the new semester she gave it back, in
frontofeveryone,becauseyouknowshecouldn’thavedone
itinthefuckingparkinglot.Orhere,orherhouse.Jesus,breakthethinginhalfandstuffitin
my locker. Thatwould have been better. Shemademe feel like I’d been thrown back in the
waterwithhalfmymouthtorntoshreds,infrontofmybrotherandhisgirlfriendnoless,and
Jonnyandhisgirlfriendtoo,rightinthehallwaybeforefifthperiodautoshop.
Anotheronewasapaintingofearth—I’dmadethecontinentsredandtheoceanblack,
andtheskywasgarnet,andthestarswerealldifferentcolorslikeSkittles.I’dusedaCDforthe
outlineofearth,andreallyfuckedupbothMadagascarandtheBritishIsles.
Ineverpaintedpeoplebecausethatwastoohardtechnically;everything,really,wastoo
hard technically. I’d get impatient, and therewas always sloppyass craftsmanship toward the
end. Another problem was mixing colors that looked exactly the same when I’d run out of
something.
Withmymotherputtering aroundcleaning andmydadwatchingTVwith the volume
incrediblyhighasusual,IfiguredIcouldsmokesomeofthetarinmypipe,whichwasabundant
enoughIdidn’tneedtoscrapeanyoutandmakepellets.
Ipushedupawindow.
I considered the story of my parents – my lower‐middle class mom, for whom Long
Beach State was a great leap forward, and my dad, the
flunky who could have gone to Pepperdine on his parents’ dime if he’d applied himself.
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Amedleyofobservationsfloatedthroughmymind,intertwined,asalways,withtheidea
thatIcouldsynthesizethisstatethroughforceofwillwhensober,andthatthehyperapprovalof
ideaswas falseself‐worth: InartclassMr.Randrup,whosesphericaleyesandcatfishwhiskers
werealwaysabitdistracting,toldmetoomuchstructuremeantlifelessnessyetpracticingform
wasnecessary,andthebiggoalwastotranscendguidelinesoratleastputthemintheserviceof
something personal, and to persevere when failure or negative feedback dampened your
enthusiasm; he was good at makingme feel less intimidated by the brilliance of others and
helpedme to just focusonmyself (I felt the therapeutic effectsof tunnel visionat least); the
male banggai cardinalfish (pterapogon kauderni) will starve for a month while he
hatches andnurtures theeggsofhisoffspring;webulliedMr.Stetson,whoalwayssmiled
likeadolphinandhadwhathe called “good schoolguilt,”whatever thatwas;he’d talk about
how teachers cannever really be ethical because in placeswherehelpwasneeded youdidn’t
haveresourcessoyousoughtoutthebestsituationforyourselfinstead;Idon’tknowwhatmade
himthinkanyofusgaveafuckaboutthat—itwasalmostlikehewastalkingtohimselfthrough
us;wesensedwecouldtalktoeachotherwhilehetalkedandthat’swhereyou’dreallypusha
teacheraround,notsomuch inconfrontationbut insocializingwhile theywere trying torun
things(ofcourseforthemostpartIwaswatchingothersdothis);wildzebrafish(daniorerio)
aretimiduntilinteractingwithdominantmembersoftheirspeciesandyettheyinteract
well in aquariums thereafter; one time inEnglishwehadaprompt calleda “randompage
exercise”whereMr.Stetsonpickedanumberoutofahatandwehadtodoareportonthatpage
fromabookcalledTheRoad;Igotapassagewhereapersonwaslayingonamattresswiththeir
legscutoff,beingcannibalized,accordingtoMr.Stetson,inslowmotionbybadguys;IguessI
was supposed to do external research or cross‐reference the scenewith the course themes or
anothertextbutIjustspeculatedonwhetherthepersonwasaliveordeadandwhathumanlegs
mighttaste like—Igot thepaperbackwithaDon itandcommentsabouthowmuchIcould
havedonewithregardtoeatingandethics.
Our very old cat nudged my door open, unbuckling it easily from its worn out latch
receiver, and announced her presence with a series of crotchety mews.We made vapid eye
contactthenIlookedoutofthewindowattheocean,theirisbluemassbeyondaforegroundof
birdsofparadiseandaweatheredwoodenfence.
She stopped beneathmy desk next to an old aquarium—adusty, graveled ghost cabin
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thatI’dstoppedoperatingwithnegligencemonthsago—wrappedhertailaroundherfeet,and
startedlickingherself.Ilookedoveratthemirror,andestimatedmythinninghair.I’dlearnedto
stop talkingor thinkingabout it—but likeweightgain,orpoor interaction,or task failure,or
anythingelsethat’ssupposedtoeatawayatyou,theagonyhadawayofworkingitswayout.I’d
shruggedofftheideaofdelay‐the‐decayremediesandwasjustacceptingit.Honestly,Ihardly
considereditpartofmylife,untilI’dnoticesomeonefromacertainvantagepointlookingdown
atmyheadandthenlookingawayquickly,orI’dperceiveoldermalesbeingoverlynicetome,or
I’d seemyselfunderabright light,or thinkaboutSarah,or theSadieHawkinsdance. Ihated
gettingphotographednow, of course. Sometimes I’d conceive of howmyhair symbolizedmy
consciousness: thin at the front, around the edges a network of support, just past the front
barrennessandpatchesoftrivialgrowth,intheback,whothehellwantedtoknow.
IthoughtoftheChristmasgoodbyewithSarah,herperky“Well,seeyoulater!”asIwas
about to ask her when was the next time we were going to do something. No breakup, no
dramatic moment—no responsibility for her. Maybe turning fantasies into success took
somethingIdidn’thave,Irememberthinkingatthetime.LikeahookIcouldn’tbait.
Our doorbell, that intrusive hidden tintinnabulation lurking gnomishly in our ceiling,
rang out. I heard the front door open, and the charisma‐boosted voice of mymother. Then
young voices, male and female. Positivity. Good‐natured awkwardness: overlapping chatter,
politeretractions.Myfathergettingoutofhischair,menmeetingforthefirsttime.
I came out and saw a girl dressed in tight jeans and a linen trim topwith a goldfish‐
orangebeadarrangementaroundtheneck,andadudewithagoateeandgellyspikyhairdressed
in amaroon V‐neck pullover that suffocated a white polo shirt. He held something in saran
wrap—sheagrocerybag,andabottleofwine.
The girl looked over at me with a wide‐eyed smile; the guy looked too, except his
expressionwas blank. I could smell the fruity/medicinal hybrid scent of his gel. Neither said
anythinguntilmymomsaid,“Adam,thisisKeithandKelly.”
Ishookboththeirhands.
“Nicetomeetyou.”“Youtoo.”“Nicetomeetyou.”“Youtoo.”
Then.
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Me(pointingatKeith’smystery,saran‐wrappedpackage)“What’sthatrightthere?”
Keith(smiling):“Halibut.”
Mymom:“Ohwow!”
Kelly:“Keithcaughtithimselfjustthismorning.”
Mydad:“You’rekidding.”
Keith:“Rightouthereinthesurf.”
Me:“Howbigwasit?”
Keith:“Aboutthreefeet.”
Mymom(drawingthewordout):“Wow!”
Keith:“Wecanputitonthegrillwithsomegreenonions,andsomelemon.”
Kelly: (holding up the grocery bag, which surely contained some green onions, and some
lemon):“Wecameprepared!”
Everyone:“Hahahahaha.”
Mydad(noddingatthewine):“Lookslikeyou’vegotsomethingelsethere.”
Kelly(holdingthewineup,labelout):“Starborough.FromNewZealand.”
Me:“Let’spopit.”
Keith:“Noneed.”
(Keithunscrewsacap)
Everyone:“Hahahahaaa.”
Mymomfetchedfiveglasses,whichthewinewasquicklyemptiedinto.Weclinkedand
toastedtothestarfishonthebottle.
Sour.Candyish.Girlshit.
“Sowhathappenedatthemeeting?”mymomsaidtoKelly.
Kelly rolledher eyes,which initiated awork conversation thatwashedawayour group
dynamic’s fledgling infrastructure. Us guys looked on politely, not yet at the pointwherewe
couldbreakawayforourowninteraction.Itwasaloathsomeandawkwardplacetobe,butIwas
toostonedtoworryaboutitsoI juststoodtherewithadumbsmileonmyface.Inoticedthe
acceleratedpaceatwhichmydaddrainedhisglass;whenhedid,he interruptedthegirlsand
said,“I’llgetanotherbottle.”
“Thanksguy!”mymomlookedatKelly.“See,he’sgoodforsomething.”
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Wemurmuredoutchucklesasmydadwenttothekitchen,checkingtheTVashepassed.
IbegantowonderwhyKeithwouldn’tbeintothegame.
“You guys go outside,” mymom said mercifully to Keith andme. “We’ll get the food
started.”
IpulledaslidingglassdooropenandledKeiththroughabackyardfullofflickeringocean
breezes. Light came in through the fidgety trees and moved around drowsily—I felt like a
nibblermeanderingthroughseakelp.
We came to a metal table next to a clover‐filled fire pit we hadn’t used in years and
skiddedthechairsout—well,Idid.Keithliftedhisup.
Hesethiswineglassdown,satdown.Tookalookaround.“Kindofbriskout,”hesaid.
“Lateafternoonwind.”
Hedidn’tsayanything.
“Most of the year you need a jacket out here,” I said. “It’swhy south‐facing places are
moreexpensive.Lesswind.Wedon’thaveoneofthosethough.”
“Ohreally?”
Theflattonesuggestedanantagonisticreactionoverwhatoccurredtomewasarichkid
observation. Iwondered howmy dad, the legacy kid, the default owner of this house,whose
fathermadehim“workuptheladder”inthebusiness,dealtwiththattypeofshit.Probablyjust
ignoredit,notevencaringenoughtosmirkaboutitinprivacylater.
Keithtookalookaroundourquarantined‐by‐shrubby‐old‐fencesbackyarduntilsettling
hisgazeonthetripoddedeight‐ballbarbecue.“I’llwaitforyourdadtofireupthegrill,”hesaid,
staringatit.“Seemslikethemanofthehouseshoulddothat.”
Ismiled,sippedaforgottendropofwine.Tart.
Whitefish(coregonuslavaretus)haveuniformgrowthanddonotdevelopfeeding
hierarchiesevenunderfoodrestriction.
“So,” I said, twisting the empty glass on the table, whichmade a sandpapery scraping
sound so I stopped (also because it occurred tome thiswas a feminine gesture), “how’d you
catchthatthing?”
He gave an expression that would normally accompany a shrug of the shoulders. I
interpretedthisasasignalhe’dwantedtotellthestoryinfrontofeveryone.
“Wannasavethetaleforlater?”
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“No,no,”hesaid,sittingup,andsettinghisglassdown.“Here’swhathappened.Iwent
downearly inthemorning,righthereatthefootofLongfellow,withaboardandallmygear.
WhenIwasabouttwentyfeetfromthewater,I jammedthefishingpoleintothesand,letthe
dragout,putbaitandasinkerinabaggie,wrappedthelinearoundmyhandwithcorkonthe
hooks,andpaddledout.”
“Wasitabitchhangingontothatstuffwhenyouwentpastthewaves?”
“Nah.Anyway,Ipaddledoutafewdozenyards,attachedthesinker,andloadedupthe
hookwithsomesardines—”
“Isthatwhatyou’resupposedtouse?”
“Supposed?”
Ilaughed.
“So Iputonthesinker,andabait leader rightby thehookso thesardineswould float
abouthalfafootoffthebottom,thenIdroppedthelinedown,andgotbackinasfastasIcould,
watchingtherodthewholetimeincaseittookofftowardme.”
“Howlonguntilyougotabite?”
“Aboutanhour.But Iknewrightaway,whentherodpracticallysnapped inhalf, Ihad
somethingbig.”
“Right.”
“WhenthethingwasinthesurfIsawitfloppingaround.Itlookedlikeagoddamnedsea
monster.Ithoughtitmighthavebeenabigstingray.”
“Ibet.”
“SoIranintothesurfwithaknife,andstabbedit,andgrabbeditstailanddrugitoutof
thewater.”
“How’dyougetithome?Didyoufilletitrightthere?”
“No,Istabbedituntilitstoppedmovingandputitinatrashbag.”
“Holyshit.Thenaggingwifetreatment.”
Helaughed,andIsawteethsopointyitwaseasytoimaginerowsoftheminhismouth.
“I’msurprisedyoudidn’tgetstoppedbyalifeguard,”Isaid.
“Noshit,”hesaid.“Theyreallydon’twantyououttheredoingthat.Butthistimeofyear,
mostofthestationsareclosed.AndwhereIwasnoonewasinthewater.”
“Right.”
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I was going to ask him howmany people saw, and how long he’d have waited before
figuringthebaithadcomeoff,but justthentheglassdoorslidopenrustilyandmydadcame
out,holdingared.“Hey,gotsomeSeaSmokeBotella,”hesaid.
“Alright,”Keithsaidflatly,obliviousnodoubtthat itwasa$30bottle.Mydadprobably
didn’twanttopopit.
Hebloodiedourglasses.
Mydad:“Letmegetthegrillgoing.”
(KeithandIsip)
Keith:“Greatwine.”
Me:“Ohyeah,that’sagreatbottle.”
Keith(afterapause):“So,you’reanartistIhear.”
Me:“Well,Iscrewaround.MaybesomedayI’llbeone.”
Istaredintomyglass,tookasip—strong,asmokyyetberrylikeflavor.Thetartstarfish
wine’sresiduelacedit,andkindofruinedit.
Nearly all fish that have been raised in a marine reserve take longer to flee a
hunterwithaspearthanfishthathavegrownupinthewild.
Mydadcameoveroncehe’dgotthecoalsup,putthegrillonupside‐down,andhadthe
areasmellinglikeshitwe’dbarbecuedbefore.“So,how’dyoucatchthatthing?”hesaidto
Keith.“Youascubadiver?”
“Dude,youmissedthestory,”Isaid.
“Ohman,youshouldhavelethimsaveit!”
“I’lltellitagain,”Keithsaid.
Thegirlscameout,eachwiththeirwine,mymomholdingabowlofbluechips,Kellya
smallerpurplebowlthatIknewhadsalsainit.WhentheyjoinedthetableKeithgotup.“I’llget
thefishready,”hesaid,andwentinside.
My dadwent over to the grill, flipped it and started scrubbing it, working around the
flamesthatwereprobablytoohighforhimtobedoingthat.Anunhappyexpressionwasonhis
face.
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Mymom(inatonemuchlighterthanit’dhavebeenifwedidn’thavecompany):“Isthatyour
secondglass?”
Me:“Yeah,andevenworse,Ididn’trinseit.”
Mymom:“Shame!”
Usthree:“Hahahhehheheee.”
Kelly:“Soyourmomsaysyou’reanartist.”
Me:“Shethinksso.”
Mymom:“Wehavegreatkids.”
Kelly:“Theyhavegreatparents.”
(Usthreesmilegaily,theygoontalkingandItunethemout)
Keithcamebackoutwiththehalibut,beigejelloonaplexiglasstraythatalsocontaineda
rolloffoil,afork,aspatula,abottleofmarinadeandsomeseasoning.Mydadstoodbackwhile
Keithtriple‐foldedfoilintoasheetthatcoveredhalfthegrill;hethenputthefoildown,poked
holes in itwith the fork (saying something tomydad right before), slid the fish onwith the
spatula,andstarteddroppingsauceandsprinklesontothemeat.
“FatherMcClellanisheavy‐handed,”Kellysaid.
Ilookedoveratthem.
“Atleasthe’slaxaboutthecode,”mymomsaid.
Backtothegrill.
“Wellit’sastrategyforrecruitingbetterteachers.”
“Youknow,”mymomsaid, “even if it’s a factory for the four‐year, and thekidsdo the
privileged‐childthingof‘Idon’tunderstandthis,youmusthaveexplaineditwrong,’it’sstillway
betterthanthepublicsystem.”
“Waybetter,”Kellysaid.
“Howdoyouknow?”Isaid,turningaround.
They lookedover atme,bothwith that classic “unwelcome interruptionof a girls‐only
conversation”expressionontheirfaces.
Mymom:“We’veheardstories.”
Me:“Oh.Stories.”
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Mymom:“Adam,didyouknowKellyteachesEnglish?”
Me:“Really?”
Mymom:“Tellherabouttheprojectyoudid.”
Me:“Oh.”(toKelly)“HaveyoueverreadTheRoad?”
Kelly:“No.”
Me:“Oh.”
Kelly:“Whatwastheproject?”
Me:“Arandompageexercise.”
Kelly:“Oh!I’vegiventhose.Theyleadtoalotofcomplaining.”
Me:“Yeahforme,itwasfrommyteacher.”
Kelly:“Ohuhoh.”
Me: “I told him itwas becausemy parents pressureme to drinkwhen I should be doingmy
homework.”
Mymom:“Ohstopit!”
Kelly:“Well,I’dhavebeenhardonyourassignment.”
Me(confused):“Really?”
Kelly:“It’showIcontroltheyoungsters.”
Keithlookedover.Mydaddidn’t.
“So,”Kellysaid,“where’ssonnumbertwo?”
“He’sout,”mymomsaid.
“Outontheprowlhuh?”
Welaughed.
Theywentbacktotheirtalkandleftmeinaconversationalwarpzone.Iknewmymom
wantedto includemebutshehadtobeagoodhostandcertainlyshewasenthusiasticabout
gossipingwithayounggirl.Inoticedthechipsandsalsa.Bluecorntortilla.Kindofsmall—the
kindwhereyouneededthreeperscooptogetthejobdone.
Hot.
Iwasscarfing,andgulpingwine.
“Gotthehungries?”Kellysaid.
“Isthatwhattheycallitnow?”mymomsaid,andtheybothsmiled.
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“Halibut’sready!”Keithsaid,savingme.
“Oh,letmegogetthesalad,”Kellysaid.
The twoof themwent inside,Keithwith the fish thatsteamed like theheadofanold‐
timetrain.Thisleftmymom,dadandItogethersippingwine.Mydadwasstillstanding;Icould
tellhewasirritatedwe’dbecomeguestsinourownhome.
“Ishouldhavetoldhertogetmorechipsandsalsa.”
“Nah,”mydadsaid.
“Didyouwantmore,Adam?”
“Nah.”
Thehalibuttastedhealthyandseemedalittleunderdone—Ifeltitwouldhavebenefitted
froma sauceofmushrooms,greenonions,mincedgarlic.As the fishunflaked inmymouth I
foundmyselfwonderingwhenthe laststormwas,wherethisthing’dbeenall its life. Itwasn’t
thebestwateroutthereevenindryweather,withboatsandindustrialrunoffandstormdrains
and general pollution from the beachgoers. After storms the waves would foam green
sometimes.I’dheardstoriesofsurfersgettinghepatitis.
Mymom:“Thisissogood.”
Mydad:“Reallygreat.”
Me,KeithandKelly:“Yeah.”“Yeah.”“Yeah.”
Kelly:“Thankstoourhunter.Suchawonderfulcaveman,”
(KellygivesKeithanadoringlook,Keithfrowns)
Me,mymom,mydad:“Hahehahahehe.”
Mydad:“Wehaveafriendwhogetslobster.Goesoutinalittleskiff.Youallshouldcomeover
thenexttimewegetsome.”
Kelly:“Ohdefinitely!”
Mydad:“Wemakethemintotacos.Diceupthemeat,frycorntortillaslightlyinapanofolive
oil,topeverythingoffwithsomecheese,salsa,guacamole,sourcream.”
Kelly:“Hey,tellthemhowyoucaughtthefish.”
Mymom:“Yeah!”
Keith(humbly):“Okay.Well…”
22
More than 11 million non‐native marine organisms representing at least 102
speciesarebeingimportedannuallythroughCalifornia'sportsofSanFranciscoandLos
Angeles,primarilyfromIndonesiaandthePhilippines.
Mymom(afterfinishinghersecondglassofwine):“So,how’dyoutwomeet?”
Keith:“Well,IwastakingclassesatElCamino,andshewastheteacher.”
Mydad:“Whatfor?”
Keith:“Shewasanadjunct.”
Kelly:“That’swhenIdecidedIwantedtoteachhighschool.”
(Silence,perhapsallofusknowingthat’snotwhatmydadmeant)
Keith:“Anyway,Ilookedheruponfacebook,andthoughtshewasprettyhot.”
Kelly:“Andhewaslivingwithagirlatthetime!”
I looked out at the water, a cobalt rind topping our jagged brown fence. Unlike my
brother,Ineverwantedtogotothebeach.Thebeachmademefeelfatandpasty.ThelasttimeI
went there, itwasaSaturdaymorning,andI sawbuff surfers,cutechicksexercising,Mexican
ladiespushingwhitebabiesinstrollers.
Kelly:“WegotaPlaystationtoo!”
Mydad:“Awhat?”
Mymom:“What’saplaystation,Adam?”
Me:“Uhh.”
Mydad:“Aplaywhat?Station?”
Me:“OhGod.”
Keith(tome):“Youhaveagamingsystem?”
Me:“NoIreallydon’tplay.Mybrotherdoesthough.”
Keith:“Oh,alright.”
Theconversationwenton,andKellyhadthegoodsensetocutoffKeith,whoapparently
hadashorttank,beforehegottoodeepintoanaccountofCallofDutyBlackOps.Shetookover
and got into somehigh‐minded ideas abouthelpingpeoplewith their developmental reading
23
skills, which seemed odd given her choice of an elite prep school over community college
teaching.Other featuresof thismandatorybanterweredetailsaboutKellybeing fromRolling
Hills, attending UCSD, Keith being in construction, me feeling incapable of either of those
things (I considered the story of my parents—my lower‐middle class mom, for whom Long
Beach State was a great leap forward, and my dad, the flunky who could have gone to
Pepperdine on his parents’ dime if he’d applied himself). Themore discerning I became, the
moreadversarialthefourofthemweretome:Isawpeopletakingturnsdisplayingthemselves,
notreallylisteningtoeachother,fakingapproval.IalsonoticedthecouplyenergyofKeithand
Kelly,thekindwhereyoungeronessurveyolderonesthenlookateachotherwithlittlesmiles.
When we were done eating and the glasses were empty all it took was one comment
abouthowcolditwas(dad)toprovokeasuggestionthatwegoinside(Kelly),andwithpolite
synchronicitythefiveofusrose,gatheredourculinarydetritus,broughtitall inandput iton
thekitchencounter.Kellythenofferedtohelpclean,andmymomsaidnonono,andmydad
half‐heartedlyofferedtopopanotherbottleofwine,andKeithsaidnonono,andwefell into
thisawkwardplaceofnotknowingwhethertositorstandorwatchTVordowhat?IfiguredI’d
helpoutbygoingtomyroomwithoutsayingwhy.Ismokedmoretarthere,andstaredoutata
gauzy,diaphanousmarine layer thathaddraped itselfacross thehorizonandwasobscuringa
dullpeachsunset.Theglowwasalmostwhite,andlookedmorelikeasunrise.
Ifeltmyartificialvoiceemboldeningitself,thetruenarcoticeffectofthedrugforme,but
in itsconfidence‐buildingstagestherewasaknockingatmydoor,anditslitheredintohiding
likeaneel.
Kelly:“Adam?”
Me:“Takingoff?”
Keith:“Yup.”
Therewasapause,whichIinterpretedasaknowingnonverbalexchangebetweenthem
inresponsetothesmell.Didtheywantsome?
Kelly:“Itwasnicetomeetyou!”
Me:“Youguystoo!Goodjobonthefish!”
24
Idon’twant to talk toomuchaboutmythoughtsafter that.Thethoughts Ihavewhen
transitioningfromanawkwardgatheringtoisolationaretheleastpleasantonestome.
Clippedversion:
Thesinkwasrunning.
TheTVvolumewasup.
Scientists have observed that zebrafish stop swimming when left without
company.Thisisthoughttobethefirstdocumentedichthyicexampleofahumanmood
disorder.
Itwasveryquiet.
Iwasquitestoned.
The anglerfish (melanocetus johnsonii) might be the ugliest fish in the ocean,
witharustedmetalcolor,stalactitesandstalagmitesofsharpteeth,hideousspikedfins,
anda fleshyprotrusion thatemerges from its foreheadwhichcanglowand isused to
attractprey,hencethename.Thetailmeatofthelophiusgenusisusedincookingand
issimilartolobstermeatintaste.Thebulkoftheirevolutionarydevelopmentisthought
tohavetakenplacebetween130millionand100millionyearsago.
Mybrotherstillwasn’thome.Heplayedtennis,mydad’ssport.Wasn’tverygood,wasn’t
goodinschooleither.
Ineededinstitutionsfor ideas—school forart,peopleforrelationships,orelse itallgot
awayfromme.Mybrothersucceededwithinthem,sotherewerecertainthingshe’dnothaveto
confront,fornow.
Mymomanddadcontainedeachother,andI’dalwaysbeindebtedtothemforthat.My
uncontainabledepthputpeopleoff.
Bluegill(lepomismacrochirus)haveareputationforbeingeasytocatch.Theywill
oftenbite anythingwith a bright color. Stories aboundof anglers using lineswithno
polesandhookswithnobaitcatchingthesefishthreefeetfromabankthey’releaning
over.
Iwasanichelesschild,badatcompetingtoo.
25
Oxazepam, a drug used to treat anxiety, insomnia and alcohol withdrawal,
appearsinhumanwasteandofteneludessewagetreatment.
Thewordsmy brother usedwhen talking tome about girls, ormore to the pointwhat I did
deficiently:(adjectives)unctuous,satyric,diffident,(nouns)supplicant,(verbs)cadger.
When the drug gets into waterways, fish consume it and become sedated.
Subsequently they are less judicious in their consumption of food. This makes them
easier to catch, and vulnerable to disease. Scientists worry about humans
overconsumingthesefish,oneofwhichisperch…
I gave the cat’s rickety, chin‐on‐feet body a once‐over, piquing her semi‐conscious
interest.Herheadlingered,suspended,asIputonmycoat,stuffedthepipeandalighterintoa
pocket,enteredthehallway,shutthedoorbehindme.
Sand.
Paced‐outtrashcans.
Orangelights,chilledairinoffthewaterdesert,piercedexoskeleton,bikersandjoggers
still. Off in the distance low surf mumbles. The shadowed
sandand itsdivots, likeminiaturewavetroughs,a feargang
memberslurkedinblindspots(Imighthavelookedlikeone
myself,hoodovermyheadsoIwouldn’tfeelcoldairhitthe
barespots).Mybrotherwouldn’thavewantedmedownhere
likethis,Iknewthatforsure.
I sat down on a hill that crested the hardpack, away
fromthe light,and lookedat thePVpeninsula, itsglittering
hump, and on the opposite end Malibu’s expanse of lights
spillingfromtheupperhillside.Further,Pt.Dune.
This was where education met edification, as Mr.
Randrupwouldsay.Theforkintheroadbetweenpenumbra
andchiaroscuro.
I remembered a story thatmygrandmother,whose skinmadeher look like something
thatshouldbecrawlingoutofaGalapagostidepool,toldmeaboutPearlHarbor,howeveryone
herethoughttheywerenext,howthey’dturntheirlightsoffatnight.
I took out the pipe, twisted landward, held it withmy lips, cuppedmy hand over the
I remember looking for shark bites or cuts from boat
propellers; finding none, I figured maybe it’d been
exhausted by strong currents, or was separated from its pack,
or couldn’t find food, or was sick from infected fish, or maybe some unknowable
combination of those things ate away at it until it just gave up and hurled itself toward a world it had no business in.
26
bowl,flaredthelighter,hitit,hard,heldmybreath,turnedback.
Sometimes when the waves crashed you could see a blue phosphorescent glow in the
foam,flashes,hereandgoneagain,littleaqualightningstrikes.
Outintheshallowsyoucouldhookcorbina,whichweregoodeatingbuthardtocatchon
accountoftheirskittishness.Chasingthemwasafool’serrand.Mostofthetimeyourhookcame
backwithnothingbutthedeadsandcrabonit,wrappedinaclusterofseaweed.
YoucouldneverseeitaswellfromhereasoverinRedondo,butbackinthedaytherewas
abargeafewmilesoffshoresetupforcommercialfishing.They’devensunkaboatbeneathitto
makeahalf‐assreef.IsleofRedondowasitsname,buteveryonecalledit“thebarge.”Theriseof
half‐dayboatsandradareventuallymadebargesobsoleteinCalifornia,butyearsago,dozensof
peopleeverydaywouldferryoutfromtheRedondoPiertocatchmackerelandbonitomostly,
maybesandbass,occasionallyrockfish,barracuda(sometimessealionswouldcomearoundand
theworkerswouldscarethemoffwithfirecrackers).Ifyougottooneofthelaterferriesthey’d
tellyoutheboatwasfullandtheycouldn’ttakeanyoneoutuntilsomeonecameback.Whenyou
gotoutthere,abouta20‐minuterideoverseahillsuntilyouwereamileoffshore,you’dsetup
yourpoleatanopenspotandgotothesebigcircularbaittanksthathadliveanchoviesgoing
aroundandaroundinthem.You’dgrabone,takeitfromthewater,putyourthumbonitsnose,
pullitsheadtoonesidesothatthegillswereexposed,pushthehookthroughthefleshbehind
the gill (too deep, and it’d pierce themuscle tissue, causing almost instantaneous death, too
shallow,thefleshwouldtearandthefishwouldbreakaway)thenyouwalkedtotheedgeofthe
boatwiththethingflapping,helditout,droppedtheline,watcheditsplashintothewaterand
swim around, a bright, writhing gleam, until the sinker took it down out of sight. Then you
waitedfortherodtobend.
Geronimo,mybrotherandIusedtosay.
Ilostmyenthusiasmforfishingafterawhile.Ihaveanaturalinclinationtogetseasick,
andtheDramaminealwaysmademewoozy.Andtherewasthetimeastormcameinthatwasso
badyoucouldseetheboatpitchingviolentlyupanddownallthewayfromtheshore.Ibeganto
havenightmaresanddaymarestooaboutbeingoutthere inthoseconditions—inmytortured
visions,theshorewouldmoveupanddownandupanddownandupanddown.
Beyondthesurftheoceanwasablackmass,aninvisiblenothing.
Pacificbluefins (thunnusorientalis) swimnear the topof theRedondoCanyon.
27
They are unsafe to eat due to highmercury levels. Japan consumes eighty percent of
thosebrought tomarket.Therecordpricesomeonepaid fora fishofanykind is $1.74
milliondollarsinTokyofora489‐poundbluefintunacaughtoffthecoastofJapan.The
fishisprizedforsushiandsashimiandhasbecomemorevaluableasthespeciesgrows
scarcer.InTokyo,asinglepiececancost$24.
Great Whites (carcharodon carcharias) lurk deep in the Redondo Canyon but
sometimes travel to the shallows. Though they prefer colder waters they have been
spottednearthesurfandseveralattacksintheSouthBayhavebeenattributedtothem.
GreatWhites reach theirmaturity at 15 years. The earliest known fossils of them are
sixteenmillionyearsold.
Thelanternfish(myctophumpunctatum),whichswimbetween1000and5000feet
beneaththeseasurface,ismadeupof246differenttypesandisthemostcommonfish
in the ocean. They account for almost two‐thirds of all deep sea biomass and are not
only the world’s most populous fish, but the most populous vertebrates too. Their
cumulativetonnageisseveraltimestheamountofallotherfishspeciescombined,and
theyarea criticalpartof theecosystem,servingasprey forwhales,dolphins, salmon,
tuna,sharks,penguins,andsquid,amongotherspecies.Theyrangefromsixtotwelve
inchesinlength.
Thehadalsnailfish(pseudoliparisamblystomopsis)arethedeepestlivingfishwe
knowof.Theyhaveneverbeenspotted less than6000metersbeneath theseasurface
andhavebeenrecordedasfarasfivemilesdown,intrenches,feedingonshrimp.Their
liveliness surprises experts, who figure creatures at these depths are inclined to
conserve energy. Scientists believe there are fish that live even deeper, we just don’t
knowaboutthemyet.
A girl’s giggle flopped between my ears. A couple deeper voices, too, laughter in my
submarinecanyon.
Iturnedaround.
Four peoplehad traversed thebikepath andwerewalking towardme.Twoguys. Two
girls holding their shoes. One of the girls walked with her hands out all cartoonish and
exaggerated,likeakidplayingairplane.Sheseemedamusedatthesand’sunstablesurfaceand
byextensionherowndrunkenness.Theothergirl, in starkcontrast,wasnearlymotionlessas
28
she followedalong,headdown.Bothof themwere tiny,petite Imean,andtheguyswere the
sameexcepttheyweretaller.Humanlamppostswithdarkheads.
They reached theprecipiceof a sand slope in the fringeoforange lamplight.Though I
was strategically shadowed, I crawledbackward andhidbehinda smallhill.Theywere about
fiftyfeetfrommeIguess.
Theamused,moreanimatedgirltookoutacigarette.Theotherstoodandhuggedherself,
lookedupanddownthebeach.
Oneof theguyshada fishingpole. Iwatchedhimandhisbuddy take their shoes and
socksoffandrolluptheirpantlegs;aftertalkingtothegirlsamoment,whichIsurmisedwasan
unsuccessful attempt to cajole them down to the surf, they slid down the sand slope like
tobogganers. Just out of the water’s reach the guy without the pole dug into the sand and
produceda scoop that theybothexamined.The friendextractedwhat Iknewwasa sandcrab
andbaitedthehook.Thisguythentookthepole,walkedintotheunfurlingwaves,yelped,and
castthelineout.Igota littlechillanticipatinganunexpectedlystrongwaveorunseenriptide
knockinghimdownandsuckinghimouttosea.WiththedragoutI’msure,theywentbackup
tothegirls,andwhentheygottherethefourofthemsatandhuddledlikebasketballplayersata
timeout.Beforelongtuftsofsmokeemergedfromwherethecoach’swhiteboardmightbe.
One girl, themore excitable one I think, leaned back. The other girl was hugging her
kneestoherchin.
Theywerequietforalongtime.Ilookedaround.Waitedformorepeople,cops.
Moresmoke.Ithoughtaboutgoingover.
MightIgoover?
Oneguyreeledthelinein.Hefussedwiththehookandturnedtohisfriend;soon,they
bothgotupandwentbackdown.
Theytookturns:castout,talk,reellinein,pickseaweedoffhook,getnewsandcrab,cast
outagain.Whiletheydidthisthegirlsittingupkeptstaringatthem.Shewasstartingtotakeon
amalevolentair,potentialenergythatradiatedmenace(perhapsmoresoinretrospect), likea
hunchinggargoylestatue.
And then the girl came to life – activated by a telling physical movement, or spoken
keyword, or conjured memory, or unresolved effrontery. She rose and went down the hill,
jumpingthelasthalf.Theguyslaughedather,butthatwassnuffedoutwhenshegotcloseto
29
one, looked up at him and initiated an augmented‐by‐gesticulations conversation.As the girl
spoke, pointing, motioning vaguely at something behind her, holding her hands out as if
pleading,hittingherchestrapidlywithherpalms,theguywasstill,absorptive—thatis,untilhe
shruggedhis shoulders.To this, thegirl turnedandwentbackup. I got the sense she’dbeen
tryingtoprovokehimintoanactofaggressionsoshecouldbeoffended.
Afterexchangingaglancewithhisfriend,theguycaughtupwithher,andthebickering
continuedatopthehill.Theothergirlliftedherheadandkindofremindedmeofmycat.Asthe
feistycouplewentatit,theguywiththepolereeledthelineinandwentovertothesittinggirl.
They huddled, and draped a jacket over their heads. Bursts of orange light began appearing
beneathit.Thistime,thesmelldrewmein—that“notrespassingintheforest”aroma.Itgotinto
myweak spots through an olfactory pore, andmade thiswhole scene, everything about it, a
multifacetedsymbolofallIdidn’thaveaccessto.ThiswasallthemotivationIcouldremember
for what I did next, besides the tried and true excuse of inebriation.What wasmy agenda?
Weed?Conversation?DidIfeellessthreatenedsincetwoofthemweredistracted?Itwashard
tosay,whatgravitationalforceledtothetidalpull.ButIwentover,flexingmyfingers,tryingto
thinkof something to say. Ineeded tomeet them.Pierce theirbubble.Howthough? Iwasn’t
goodatthissortofthing.WhowasI?Tothem?
Iapproachedthesittingcouple, thewindatmyback icingevery threadofmuscle.The
jacket lifted. I couldn’t see their faces, but their demeanor brought tomind a timewhenmy
brotherandIhadliftedatarpinmygrandfather’sbackyardandsawraccoonshidinginhisboat.
“Doweknowyou?”thegirlsaid,hervoicefullofthatstoictypeoffakegenerosityyouget
fromthesegirls.
Ididn’treply.
Theguystoodup.
Istopped.Staredintohisshadoworsilhouetteasitwere.
Hedidn’tmove.
Ididn’tknowwhattosay.
Ourlittlestandoffcaughttheattentionofthetwobehindthem.
Allfourwerestaring—fourblackfiguresinpaleorangelamplight,watchingme,however
Imighthavelookedbeforetheflashing,slow‐recedingwaves.
Theangrygirlstormedoff,sprayingsandasshewent.
30
“Melissa!”
Shebeganrunning.
“Melissaaaaaa!”
Irecognizedthatvoice.
Itwasourneighbor,orrathertheirkid,acrabbycollegegraduatenamedDarien.Hehad
longwavyhairandacne.Wesmokedanddrankwithhimonhispatioonce—hewasoutthere
withabottleofscotch,andwewereabouttolightupatthesideofthehousewhenweallsaw
each other. I remember him ranting (atop his deckwith an unobstructed view of thewater)
abouthowtheoccupymovementwasbullshitsincewewereaslaveempireandweempowered
evil corporations by relying on their goods and services, and how collegewas a credentialing
apparatusforthemanagerialclassesorsomethinglikethat.ThatwasamonthagoIthink—we’d
beenavoidinghimsincethen.
Thegirl,hisdateorwhatever,stalkedthroughthesallowlamplightanddisappearedinto
adarkalleybetweentwomonstrous,triple‐deckedstrandhouses.
TheyallregardedhersobrieflyI’msureitwouldhavemadeherfeelworse.Isupposethey
weremoreinterestedinmeatthatpoint.
This was going to result in embarrassment, or a beat down. Or more polite
awkwardness—itdawnedonme,likeafloodofself‐effacingenergythatcomeswhensomeone
shows even a hint of disapproval, I’d never have the charisma to sustain a conversation that
wouldgetthemburningweedforme.
Iran,mirroringthegirlIguess,anddescendedapartoftheslopethatendedverycloseto
thewater.Iwaitedforthemtoappearattheridge,interruptthelightandswiveltheirheadsthis
wayandthat,buttheynevershowed.
Hearingthewaves, feelingthepenetratingwind,andhearingthewavesagain,thinning
outandhissing,Iimagined,afterthinkingitover,thattheothercouplehadjoinedDarienashe
watchedthecrevicehisdatehadvanishedinto.Aftersomeruminationtheyallsetoffintothe
shadowstogether,boundfortheirlamehomelivesorapartysceneormoreofthesamebullshit
exceptsomewhereelsenow.
Staringat theglowingwaves, feelingthenonstopwind, trying to findsomethingworth
painting,envisioningtherightsideofthebayasaslopestuddedbysapphirediamondsandthe
leftasaglitteringwhalehump,prettypostmodernarmswelcomingintheblackwater,Ithought
31
ofmybasketballfantasy,whereI’dpickupalooseball,ablockedshotofoneofmyteammates’
panicked,sissy‐assattemptstohitthegamewinner,andfromabouttenfeetbehindthethree
pointline,rightinfrontoftheopposingteam’sbench,launchaturnaroundjumperthathitthe
netasthebuzzersounded,andthenItookabow,showingmyasstotheotherteam,andmy
teammatesrushedover,hoistedmeupontheirshoulders,andsomestudentwaswaitingwitha
microphonetointerviewmeinfrontofthecrowd,andgirlsandfemaleteacherswereallgiving
melooksliketheyadmiredmesomuchtheywereabouttocry,theolderonesinamotherlysort
ofway.IalsothoughtofatimeIwasbodysurfingwithmybrotherandfeltsomethingbrushup
againstmyleg,howcolditwasrightnow,ifSarahwasatthedance,howImightgetbackinside
quietly,theaftertasteofthehalibut,andonandonandonandonandfuckingonuntilmymind
was blurry and aching and anesthetized and despite its opposition tomy body, or you know
maybebecauseofthat,IfeltonceagainlikeIwasinmyroomandisolated.
ThelasttimeIwasoutherelikethiswasrightafterSarahgavememypaintingback.I’d
comeoutandseenadeadsealionafewfeetfromthewater’sedge.Waveslickeditsbody.Its
eyeswere gone, andmaggots bubbled in the sockets. The smell—rancid seaflesh,worse than
spoiledkelp. I remember looking for sharkbites or cuts fromboatpropellers; findingnone, I
figuredmaybeit’dbeenexhaustedbystrongcurrents,orwasseparatedfromitspack,orcouldn’t
find food, or was sick from infected fish, or maybe some unknowable combination of those
thingsateawayatituntilitjustgaveupandhurleditselftowardaworldithadnobusinessin.
Theblack,crumbling,flashing,convulsing,moiling,retractingocean.Swirlrisecrashthin
hiss.Landwaterland.Goback.
Thereitwas—whatbroughtittogether.Yetanotherchoppyaesthetic,twoworldssealed
byabubble‐eyedcarcass.
32
Timothy Bradford Winter Velodrome
InErnestHemingway’sAMoveableFeast,amemoirabouthistimein1920sParis,hewrites,“I
havestartedmanystoriesaboutbicycleracingbuthaveneverwrittenonethat isasgoodasthe
racesarebothontheindoorandoutdoortracksandontheroad.ButIwillgettotheVélodrome
d'Hiverwiththesmokylightoftheafternoonandthehigh‐bankedwoodentrackandthewhirring
sound the tyresmade on thewood as the riders passed, the effort and the tactics as the riders
climbedandplunged,eachoneapartofhismachine.”Afterreadingthispassagein2003,Idecided
towriteashortstoryaboutanAmericanbicycleracerwhogoestoParisinthe1920storaceinthe
famous six‐day races, non‐stop, 144‐hour‐long competitions between numerous teams of two
riders,butwhiledoingresearch,Icameacrossabetter‐knownandinfamoussideoftheVélodrome
d'Hiver’shistory.Thisledmetostartanovel,whichI’vebeenworkingonoffandon(moreoffthan
on)since2005.
The Vélodrome d’Hiver, or Winter Velodrome, an indoor arena that seated 17,000 people and
featuredaglassceilingandstateof theart lighting,wasbuilt in 1910along theSeine in the 15th
arrondissementofParis,France,and for forty‐nineyears,hostedbicycle races,mostnotably the
six‐dayraces,circuses,rollerskating,politicalrallies,andnumerousotherevents.InJulyof1942,
duringwhatbecameknowaslarafleduVeld’Hiv,theroundupoftheVeld’Hiv,over7,000Jewish
men,womenandchildrenwereheldthereforsixdayswithoutadequatefood,water,andlavatories
beforebeingshippedofftoDrancy,aholdingcamp,andfinallyAuschwitz.Fewreturned.
Influencedprimarilyby theworkofW.G.Sebaldand theearlynovelsofMichaelOndaatje, this
hybridnovel,whichusesprose,poetry,drama,historicaldocuments,andphotographs,followsthe
livesoftwomaincharacters—aFrenchtrackcyclistandaJewishimmigrantfromPoland—from
1925when theyarrive inParis to thedestructionof theVel d'Hiv in 1959.This excerpt from the
novel’s prologue starts at the chronological end of the story and introduces the two main
charactersaswellastheVélodromed’Hiver.Thenovel’sworkingtitleis“WinterVelodrome.”
33
May19,1959
Torndowninthespringandbythespring,therecoilinanswertothepressureofevents,
theweightof17,000bodiestimesthenumberofnightsthestadiumwasfilleduponitsconcrete
frame, which answered in a volley of aches and cracks, communiqués to the city planners
suggesting demolition. The Vélodrome d’Hiver limps into the second half of the twentieth
century along the left bank of the Seine, just downriver and around the bend from the Eiffel
Tower.But itcangonomore. Its legsaregone, its face façade. Itspillarsstillhold intheclay
beneath,butitsbodyisusedupandarecentfirefurthereditsdecline.
Above,thetenoroftheskyisclear,azureandsorrowful, is“April inParis”aswailedby
CharlieParker,who’dbeeninthecitytenyearsearlier,diedfour.Ahundredorsopeoplecome
towatchthearticulated,clawedmachinesdigintotheuglycarapaceoftheVeld’Hiv,theveldt
ofEve,thecalvingofEve,itsmythandloregrandenoughtoevoketheoriginofthespecies,ora
Greek‐likemythofgod‐as‐animalmatingwithhumansandtheresultingoffspring,butitsbox‐
like appearance unfavorably compared to theCitroën factories just downriver on the quai de
Javel.Belchesofblacksmokejutintothesky,steelbucketsjerkilyprodandpush,glassshatters,
andsoontheshellgiveswaytoexposethevertebraeandribsofsteelgirders,stillpaintedbeige‐
brownwhererusthadyettowin.
Smoke‐patinaedconcretewallssurroundthemyriadwoodenchairs,silent,chippedand
broken,liketeethinabadmouth,andtattooedwithinitials,datesandnames:HB,AD,JS+AJ=
amour,7/52,2/55, Jean,Anne‐Marie,Vincent.Theglassceiling,paintedblueduringthewarto
camouflage it frombombings and scraped imperfectly clean afterward, leaks in several places
when it rains, threatening participants, spectators and the loops of electrical lines that hang
down incatenaries to forman impossibly complexwiringdiagram,one thatonly thecurrent,
wizenedelectricianknows.Hedoesn’tunderstandthisdemolition.
Twomen among the crowd watch a bit more intently than the rest, eyes wise to the
moment’simportandlinkagebacktotherest,likealongandfreightedtrainthatrollsnightand
day and never arrives. They are not old men, but they are not young. Not dwellers of the
surroundingGrenelleneighborhood,butfamiliarsanyhow,theirstoriespiecestoanimpossible
mapoftheVeld’Hiv.Theycometowitnessanending.Theycomebutputnothingtorest.
34
One has trouble sleeping but can extinguish consciousness with cognac when he has
money,orcheapbrandywhenheislow.Theotherhaslonggivenuponsleepatpropertimes,
letsitcomewhenitwill,likeanunpredictablerelative.Theshorteronehaslosthisform,gained
weight,getswindedwalkingfourflightsuptohisapartment.SometimeshetakestheMetroto
LaCipale,anoutdoorvelodromeontheothersideofParis,wherehewatchesyoungridersand
offersunaskedforadvice.Holdback,bepatient,wait longer toattack.Thetalleronewearshis
gray woolen overcoat even though the weather is getting warmer, and in the inside top left
pocket, he carries a small Jewish prayer book, its text copied by hand. And inside this book,
tuckedintothecreasebetweenthecoverandthefirstpages,isaphotoofawomanwhoselarge,
kindeyesareechoedbythoseoftheboyandgirlstandinginfrontofher.
When they spot each other, knowing the other would be there, there is no visible
emotiononeither’spart.Likeex‐lovers,thesetwo,theyareveryprofessionalaboutthings,and
thevelodromeisathirdinthetriangle.Whatiseffacedinthedaily,consciousmind—thecollar
bonelinesofanoldlove,thefirmguidanceofsomeone’sarmswhensightisshatteredbygrief,
thenumberoftimesonekissedachild,thenumberoftimesonewasplungedandheldunder
coldwater—cannotbeacknowledgedthoughtheireffectsarewovenintothem,likefreely‐given
humanhair into the clothof aFrenchwartimecoat,or agolden thread intoa father’sprayer
shawl,hanging,unused,inacloset.
JeanapproachesAbram,offershimhishand,thecontactasigh,anaffirmation.Thenthey
turn to watch, offering no comments to the reporters surveying the crowd for quotes.
Anonymityablessingnow,butbeneaththerubbleofthings,someneedofrecognitionsurvives.
The backhoe loaders continue their attack, deftly advancing, pushing and retreating. Kinetic
energy is liberated.Whocansaywhatelse?A localmemoryofpain,echoingwithin, spiraling
upwardintothesky,vortexreversed?Ghoststhatinhabitedthere?“Indeed,itisjustasabsurdto
assert that corporeal substance is composedof bodies or parts as that a body is composedof
surfaces,surfacesoflines,andlinesofpoints.”Isthereaveilwecanrenttoopenoureyestoall
that is, totrulysee,or is imaginationitsownreward?Alargesectionofwall falls inward.The
twomencannotwatch likeboys,amazedatthebeautyofhumansmovingordestroying large
things.Thematerialhastoomuchinit.
35
Butsoon, it’s timefor lunch.Mostof thecrowddisbands.Thedestruction,started,will
lastonemonth,andtheVeld’Hivwillbereplacedbyagovernmentbuildingandanapartment
building. France is
putting shoes on the
hugechildProgress.
Coffee? Jean asks.
Abram nods, and they
trundle off together, old
friends comfortable with
eachother’ssilences,able
to sit with each other’s
sorrows, messy like milk
spilledonatable,andnot
try to mop things up.Words come when they come, build like a small fire slowly catching
betweenthem,awarmth.
Theywalkbyanewspaperkiosk.Theheadlinesread,
FrencharmycontrolsAlgeria
FrenchCommunistPartypushesfor“self‐determination”
How’reMarieandthekids?Abramasks.
Looking forward to summerwithmymother in Livet. They love themountains there,
Jeanreplies.AndMiriam?
HerrelativeshaveinvitedustoTelAviv.Shewantstogo.
Tostay?
Idon’tliketheideaofmoving,butperhaps.Wheredoyouthinkanoldcommunistcan
findaplacetoworkonhisbookinpeace?
Jean thinks before he answers. I thought you’d found that space here, like a sprinter
maneuveringthroughapackofracers,hesays,hishandsjockeyingforpositionintheairbefore
him.
Theywalkinsilencearoundacornerintothesunlight.
Ithinkwe’llgo,atleasttovisit.Ineedarespitefromthiscity,Abramsaysastheyreach
thedoorofthecafé,Ilove,whichJeanopensforhisfriend,tohate.
36
Café interior.One barman.A handful of patrons. The rhythmof cups and plates beingwashed,
friendlybanter,takingorders,andmomentsofnearsilence.Lucid,underwater‐likelight.Jeanand
Abramareseatedatthezinccounter,ademitasseandwaterbeforeeachone.
Jean:Whathappened?
Abram: We lived and a war fell on our heads. The millstone ground millions but
somehow...wewerepushedtotheside.
Jean:Andnow?
Abram:Weshitinpeacenow.
Jean:Weshitthecolorsofalltheflagsofallnations,united.Pileshealed.
Abram:Hownow,brown?
Jean:Pants.
Abram:Getmemy...
Jean(laughing):Yes,Irememberthatjoke.Howyouinventeditwithmeatthecenterof
things.WhatapalaceofcowardiceIwas!
Abram:Iwasn’tmuchbetter.Toldtokillwithahammer,Ihiditinthebread.Toldtokill
withaknife,Icutbreadinstead.Andthegun.Awk!Icouldbarelyhitanon‐humantarget.Poor
tree!
Jean:Whoareyou,myfriend?
Abram:Iammybookbutwounded,threetimesdeeply.TheBookofLifesitsonashelf
somewhere in the future bleeding from these wounds. One. Two. Three. (He gestures to his
forehead,sternum,belly.)Andwhoareyou,myfriend?
Jean:Iamthedrownedmancomebacktolife,buttoooftenIwakeupfromterrorsunder
coldwater.
Abram:AndAysha?
Jean:Mermaid,deadlyorsavingI’veyettodecide.
Abram:AndMarie?
Jean:Lifeguard.
Abram:Ihavenohopeformermaidorlifeguard.Humansarehairybagsofwater.AndI
loveMiriamforbeingjustthat,nomore.Wesloshtogetherthroughthenight,arough,hairysea
againstaroughmiddleC,thetoneshesingsthen.
37
Jean:God?
Abram:CondensedintotheAngelusNovus,wholooksonasthewreckagepilesupinto
history.
Jean:JulietteGréco?
Abram:Hairybagofwater.
Jean:ArcdeTriomphe?
Abram:Backgroundforaslaughter.
Jean:Hope?
Abram:IdreamtlastnightthatIleftitbehindtobecomearealJewsittingfullypresentin
arealsynagoguewithnohopeforGodorfutureormashiachorpastorprogress.Theservicewas
abeautifulbore.Thesurvivorssatwithme,satiatedwithgrief.Iwasfree.ThenIwoke,andhope
stirredinme,andideasforthebooktoo,andsufferingbegananew.
Jean:Whatflavor?
Abram:ShirazandCommunistredcurrant.
Jean:Whatdepth?
Abram:Abyssal.
Jean: I tooalmost lefthopebehindwhenIwasdownthatdeep, into thewateryendof
myself,pasthopeofseeingagainbicyclesandloversandwivesanddear,dearchildren...(He
looksoveratAbram,whoseeyesarewatering.)I’msorry,myfriend.
Abram:Theywere.
Jean:I’msorry,myfriend.
Abram:Theyare. . . . I’venevertoldyou.Italktothemdaily,allthree.Theyadviseme
wheretogo,whattodo,tofinishit,ourbook.TheykeepmecompanyontheMetroplatform.I
don’tcarethatpeoplelook.Theycan’tseethemasIdo.
Jean:Iknew.I’veseenyoutalking,knewitwastothem.
Abram:Thankyouforsayingnothing.
Jean:Sometimesthat’swhatfriendsdo.
Abram(hesitant):Thankyouforhelping.I’msorryIneversaidthatbefore.
Jean:Sometimesthat’swhathumansdo.
Abram:Which?Helporavoidsayingthanks?
Jean:Both.(Pause.)SowillyougotoTelAviv?
38
Abram:Yes,IshouldgotoseatoseewithmyC.
Jean:Funny.
Abram: It just happens. These sounds play together like shapes on a page. All dross,
beautifuldross.
Jean:Andgrist,likeus.
Abram:Allthat’sleftisforustogrindourselvesnow.Toapoint.Beautifullinesofpoints.
Allwecancomprehend?
Jean:Perhaps.(Pause.)Butdesignwithorwithoutend?
39
Oneweek earlier, SalvadorDali, dressed in a graypinstripe suit and carryinghis cane,
enterstheVeld’Hivtomanifestitsfinalevent.Hebringsabombmadeofcopperontowhichare
fixed forks, spoons and knives, coins, nails, a small replica of la Tour Eiffel, and a Cross of
Lorraine.Hedoesnotannouncethisbombingbeforeithappens;hedoesnotannouncehehasa
bombuntilhearrivesattheVeld’Hiv.Daliplacesthebombinthecenteroftheinfield,whereit
issurroundedbyahedgeofphotographersandjournalists,andretirestoasafedistance.Kraaa‐
BOOM! The power of the bomb catches the press off guard—his intention?—and one
photographer is wounded on the face. Dali reappears amidst the smoke, manic‐eyed, his
moustacheperfectlywaxedandturneduptohischeeks,likebicyclehandlebars,andgathersthe
scatteredpiecesof copper,holds the largerpiecesup for thepress likeanewMoseswith the
undecipherablecommandmentsofthepost‐atomicage.Pin‐pon,pin‐pon,pin‐pon,pin‐pon,pin‐
pon,pin‐poncomestheambulance.
40
AnhourbeforetheymeetatthedemolitionoftheVeld’Hiv,atthecounterinacaféon
theAvenueÉmileZola, JeanSapin,overcoffeewithmilkandsugar,somethinghis teammates
alwaysteasedhimabout—Youdrinkitlikeawoman!—perfectifitscolormatchedherskin,the
memoryofherinthebackjerseypocketofhismindlikeashotofespresso,cognacandcocaine,
knownaseagle’ssoup,takenduringthegruelingsix‐dayraces,JeanSapinwandersthroughthe
wreckage,makinghistoryinhishead.Shaftsofclearwintersunshinethroughtheglassceiling
onto the planks in the track, illuminating the brown and goldhues in thewood,while small
birdstrappedinsideflitamongthegirdersandlights.Voicesechoinandareswallowedbythe
aberrant,enormousacousticsofthespace.Goodride,goodride,Henri’sdeepvoicecutsthrough
theoxygendebthazeandcrowdnoiseafterJean’sfirstracethere,agenineteen,afiftykilometer
points race, Henri happy with him though all he’d done was stick with the pack. Henri’s
resonant, pipe‐smoke and cognac‐mellowed voice, the same that would denounce him? No,
different.Laterman,changedman,bitterman.Theyallwerescaredandchosesides,likedogsin
packs, like starving rats.UnderHenri’s tutelage, Jean rode the track—250meters around and
around and around—until he knew every bump, warp and groove, the way theymarked his
progressaroundtheoval,thewaythefinalturncouldthrowyouoffbalanceasyoucameoutof
itforthesprint.Once,itmadehimwaiverandbumptheSioux’srearwheel,whichpitchedhim
hardintoacrashthatdrovelongwoodensplintersfromthetrackintohislegs,armsandhands.
Helooksatthescarsonhiselbows,old,worn‐outlabelsbeneaththedark,wiryhairthatprove
hewasthatoneonce,butonlyinadistant,long‐agoway.
Howmanyfacesinthecrowdsforthesix‐dayraces?Sometimeshe’dcatchauniqueone
ashepassedand itwouldhaunthimfora lapor two.Sometimeshe’dsearch for itagain: the
electricblueeyes,themossgreen,thevelvetbrown,theicygray,abovethestrongnose,allof
one’scharacteristhereinthenose,andthemouth,atearofteethandred.SeeingAyshathere
forthefirsttime,havingnoideawhatshewouldbringhim,takefromhim—leaveoff,enoughof
her.MeetingAbram.Butmainlythecrowd,allofParisitseemed,passedbyasarevolvingand
noisyblur,andhe likedtheway its longitudinalwavesdisturbedtheairwhentheracewasn’t
41
heatedandpeoplewereminglingandmadethesoundofamurmuring,slightlydistantocean.
Andhelovedthewayitroaredwhentheracegotgoingandthecrowd,drunkondrinkandthe
pressofbodiesandspectacle,screamedat them,theirvoicesdroppinganoctaveor twoashe
passed by. It became a feedback loop that could egg them on or demoralize. Oh, the things
peopleyelledduringtheSixDays.Gloriousandmean.
Hewasn’t famousbuthewasa respectable rider. In twelveeditionsof theSix Joursde
Paris, he’d earned one victory, two seconds, one third, and a host of placings no one
rememberednow,savehimandoldteammates.HeneededtoseeAlainagain.Toolong.Maybe
theywouldgoforarideatLaCipale?Heneededtogetbackintosomekindofshape.Marie’s
subtlecomplaintsanddisinterest.Stupid.
He recalled stupid crashes, like falling down at low speed while reading a newspaper
duringamorning’struceintherace.He’dfocusedtoomuchonthewords.Hismarriageinthe
infield toMarie, and later her bringing little Yves, and then littleHannah, there to see their
fatherrace.HowhelovedtotakeYvesonthehandlebars fora laportwoafterward,hissmall
warmthandanimatedformquietlybalancedtherewiththehelpofJean’shandasYvestriedto
controlhisbody’sthrilledtwitching.
Thedrugsneartheend,morethanthenormalconcoctions,theeagle’ssoup,madehim
jitteryandjuicedandunabletosleepduringhisrestbreaks.Howhefeltlikeagoddamngodbut
lacked theyouth tomanifest itspurepuissance!His accident andwoundedeye, thepainand
annoyance, lack of depth, all surface, right as the threat ofwar pushed down on them like a
largerracerelbowingyouout in thesprint.But thankgod for that injury—hecovershisgood
righteyeforamomenttoseeiftheleftwasgettinganyworse.No,samebad,thenewspapernow
appearingtobebeneathisinglass,andatadistance,shadows.Releasethegoodone.Okay,back
tothisfairvision.Thisinjuryablessingthatgavehimhismedicalreleasefrommilitaryservice—
they were taking nearly everyone then—where somany of his friends went and were killed,
woundedorcaptured.Ofcoursehesufferedtoo,right?Madehissacrifice?Gaveuphisrelatively
sureexistencewithhisvelo‐taxitohelpher,tohelphim,becauseMariesaidto.Becausehefelt
manythingsforthem,asahuman,asafriend.
ThefirmgripoftheFrenchsecretpolicemanonhisarmthedayhewascaught,andthe
humiliatinglackofpowerfollowedbytherainofquestionsandblows,andthatbathtubfullof
frigidwater,likeatomb.Beingtiedtoaboard.Theimmersionuntilhewassurehe’ddrown.
42
Howhecouldwanderofftrack.Butisn’tit,asAbramclaims,allboundtogetherlikethe
parts of a chair, outside of which no chair would exist, like the strength of her nose and
eyebrows,herquickwitandrelentlesscourage,theolivetreeofherbody,thescentofgeranium
andorange,thehennacolorinherdark,curlyhair,outsideofwhichnoherwouldexist?Enough
ofher.
Ah,herhair.
The other, three blocks away on a bench in a park populated by pigeons, echoes the
surroundingcoosashemouthstohimselfbitsofpoetryandprayersinFrench,Yiddish,Hebrew,
Polish,andpiecesofotherlanguages.Allpiecesdifferentbutinterchangeable,andalldevoured
bythecoolspringair.Sometimes,acertainphrasewillbringavision,orafrisson,orwatertohis
eyes,mucustohisnose.Suchastrangereaction,hethinks,toairpushedthroughmuscleand
cartilagetorhymewithsoundshe’sheardorglyphshe’sseenonapagesomewhere,whichall
attempttorhymewithone’sexperiencesandsomeversionofthisever‐presentworldbeforeus.
Buttoday,hefeelsmostlystuck,likehisheartgotcaughtuponthewrought‐ironrailingatthe
edge of the park.He feels like a statue here, like one of the Franks guidingCharlemagne on
horseback.Buthisworkisnotdone.Hemusttrytosay,totell,notbecomejustastoneinthe
street in front of where he works amid the newspaper presses that refuse to print even one
acknowledgment,andtheliesthathesetstherearepartlyhisown,reluctant,cowardlywitness.
Why does he stay?
This city was his home.
AbramDychtwald came of
age here, matured here,
loved and married here,
procreated, and died, then
rose to fight as a ghost.
Since,he’ssoughttheexact
combination of words to
make him partly human
again.Afterwork at thepress,heprowls the streets looking for lead tomeltdownandmake
typefacesSanskrit,ArabicandChinesefairlyrarehereforsuchabigandworldlycityforhis
43
book, The Book of Life. He drifts through alleys amidst the clatter coming from restaurant
kitchens,thenonstopabusedeliveredbytheheadcheftothesous‐chefs,thewhooshofgasjets
igniting,thecarefulyeturgentappealsfromthewaiters,therhythmicchop‐chop‐chopofknife
onwood,andtheresonantclink‐clankofflatwareanddishesthatsoundliketheteethandbones
ofthecitybangingtogether.Heishomehere,behindthefaçades,andknowswheretostopto
getafreemeal.
44
He haunts the weekend
antiquesalesandgaragesalesand
sometimes finds new typefaces
there, but he never tells such
people what he is doing. The
professional scrappers and
vendorsatthefleamarketsonthe
edge of town, some of these he
trusts with his vision, and they
keep an eye out for him. The
Book of Life must include every
language,andeverysymbolthatmeanssomething,hetellsthem.Theylaughatthisimpossible
projectbutsomehowunderstand.Boththeyandheknowshewillneverfinish,andbothknow
thatisthepoint.Thiskeepshimsomethinglikealive.Untilhecompletesit,hewillhauntthis
citylookingforlettersandglyphstoreplacethoseittookfromhim,thosepicturedinhispocket
now,never,likemost,toreturn.
45
NumberkilledrenovatingLaSalledesMachines, 1902 (precursor to theVeld’Hiv):4—
Onefellfromscaffolding,threewerecrushedunderagirderwhenthecrane’scablesnapped.
NumberkilledbuildingtheVeld’Hiv,1910:2—Onefellwhileinstallingtheplateglassin
theceiling.Theplatefellafterhim,ashatteringpunctuationtohisdullthud.Onefellfromthe
second tierwhileworkingon the railing.A stupid fall. Don’t tell my wife, he said.One could
speak positively of a 50% reduction in work‐related accidents. The modern world would
certainlybeasaferplace.
Numberkilled inside theVeld’Hiv: 40—Three cyclists and twomotorcyclists in racing
accidents.Oneofthecyclistscrashedsohardthatafour‐inch‐longsplinterofthetrackpierced
hisabdomen,bledhimtodeath.Twotrapezeartistsdespitethenets.Onemafiamemberinahit
inthebathroom.Thirty‐twopeopleofthesome7,000takenthereduringonehotweekinJulyof
1942.Somewerepregnant.Manywereold.Manywerechildren.Somesuccumbedtothestresses
of six days in crowded, stifling, unsanitary conditions. Heart conditions erupted into heart
attacks.Diabeticswentwithoutmedicine.Foodandwaterwere scarce.Doctors few.After the
firsttwelvehours,thefiveavailabletoiletsbecamebackedupandunavailable.(Fivetoiletswere
offlimitsbecausetheywereinroomswithwindows.)Duringthischaos,aluckyfewescaped.
Afterthefirstcoupleofdayswhenpeoplehadtheenergytoworry,tocry,tostruggleand
to complain, they started to quiet down, and the heavy, dusty, hot silence of the immense,
enclosedspacehungoverthemlikeanunansweredquestion.Sometimes,thecallofachildfor
mother,ormotherforchild,would,formorethanasecond,hangintheair,alive,likethesmall
birds flitting between girders and seats. When they asked for something from the French
policemen guarding the exits, the response was always, No. Some cut the drama short and
jumpedtotheirdeathsfromthesecondtier.
46
After six days, the living were transported to a holding camp at Drancy, then on to
anotherholdingcampatPithiviers,wherechildrenwereseparatedfromtheirparents.Then,in
turn,bothweresentbacktoDrancyand,bythefallof1942,Auschwitz.
47
Jerry Gabriel Electric, This Age Coming
By first light,wehadedgedaroundTalbot,ahamlettothewestofL—abouteighteenmiles.
Eighteenmileswasn’tmuch,butitwasasmallcushion,andtohavemadeitallbeforeanyone
knewweweregonemadeitsomehowmore.
Janeybuiltafireandsetupacookpotinaclearingclosetoasmallstreamnearlyamile
off the trace.Wewarmedover the fire in silence.Dawnwas cold, if not yet freezing, andwe
weren’tusedtoityet.Weweretiredfromanightwithoutsleepandtheprospectofafulldayof
ridingahead.
Seanpulledaleatherpouchfromhissaddlebaganddumpedthecrawdadshe’dcaught
yesterdayafternoonintheLauneintotheboilingwater—thereweremaybetwelve—andweate
themquietlyasiftheywerebacon,noneofusturningupournoses,thoughtheywerenotusual
fareforus.Wesatontwofallenelms,andnoneofusdaredtocloseoureyes.
Wewerelessthananhourinthatclearing,thoughIcanstillseeittheseyearsremoved,
the way the early morning sun filled the space, the slight southwestern breeze. Before we
decampedandpointedourselvestowardtheroad,Padisappearedintothewoods.Iassumedhe
was simply relievinghimself, but fiveminutespassed, and then ten.Thehorseswerepacked.
SeanwasalreadyonPersephone.
AnyoneknowwhyPa’stakingsolong?Iaskedthem.
Probablyinthewoodsdoinghisbusiness,Seansaid.
He’stakinghistimeaboutit.
Whenyou’refiftyorwhatever,comeandtalktome.
He’sonlyfortyyouimbecile,Isaid.AndIdon’tdoubtthat’strueformostpeople.Butnot
forhim.Hedoeseverythingfast.
He’srightaboutthat,Janeysaid.
Why don’t you two go knock on his door and see if he could use any sort of special
lanolinforhisbackside,Seansaid.
Mr.Riley?Janeycalledout,casuallywalkingtowardthewood.
Therewasnoanswer.
Shesaiditagain.
48
Comeon,shesaidtome,andIloopedmyownhorse’sreignstoasaplingandfollowed.
We waded into the weeds and around a rise in the land filled with some cedars.We
weren’t twentyyardsoutof campwhenweencounteredPawalking towardus.Hewas inhis
blue army uniform, which we had never seen him in. That itself was a shock, made him
somethingotherthanthemanIhadknownmywholelife.
In his right arm were the clothes he’d worn last night, folded neatly. There was
somethingelsenotquiteright,whichtookmeaminutetosurmise.Hisleftarmwasnowhereto
beseen.Thesleeveonthatsidewassewninaneatlinejustbelowtheshoulder.Thethreeofus
stoodonthetrailforamoment,lookingatoneanother.
Ialmostforgotyouhavesomeexperiencetraveling,Janeysaid,unsurprised, inherway,
byeverythingintheworld.HehadshowedupattheOldPlaceafewweeksback,AWOLfrom
hisunitinVirginia.Hehadwalkedacrossthemountainshome.
He shrugged now. Nobody questioned it in western Virginia, though nor were those
mountainfolkthesharpestIhaveencountered.
It’sagoodidea,Janeysaid.
Yes,hesaid,thoughtiscapableevenwithoutbookstellingyouhow.
Whereisyourarm?Iheardmyselfask.
It’sattachedtomyshoulder,Michael.
Imean,isitjustlooseinthere?
Helookedatme,exasperated.Ibeltitaroundhere,justbelowmychest.Hewaspointing
withhislefthandtotheplace,undertheuniform,wherethebeltran.
Whatisthematterwithyou?Janeysaidtome.
Iwasshakenbytheimageofhimwithjustonearm,whichwasathinghardtoexplain
whenIhadbeensolittlebotheredbyhisabsenceatthefrontandthelikelihoodthathewould
never return to us. It was very convincing, the amputation, at first glance. I doubted anyone
wouldhavethecouragetochallengeit,whichIsawimmediatelywasitsgamble.
Thetroublingthing,asIthoughtmoreaboutit,waslesstheideaofhimwithoutanarm
than it was a sense of wonder that he had used hismind the way Janey used hers, for self‐
preservation,togetsomethingfromtheworld.ItwasanimpulseIcouldn’trememberseeingin
him.Once,hehadaccidentallycaughthisfootwithapick,diggingrocksoutofthegarden,and
had nearly taking off a toe.He had showed very little concern for the terrible infection that
49
overtookhis footandthreatened, forawhile,hisvery life.Fordays,he limpedaroundonthe
badfoot,buteventuallyhecouldnolongerwalkandwasforcedtositonachairontheporch,
hisswollenlegraisedonanotherchair.Hewouldn’thearofourfetchingadoctor,thoughhewas
right thatDocMelcherwasn’t likely to feel inclinedtomakethesevenmile trekto thecabin,
givenhowlittlewehadtopayhimwith,somerutabagasandturnips.Ihadsuggestedhooking
upthecarttotheoxen,andpullinghimintoL—,buthechosetositthereinhischairandwait
forwhatevermightcome.Eventually,hisbodywonout,thewoundhealedandthefoot,though
neverquitethesame,returnedtoanormalsize.
AndsoIwaswondering,standingonthetrail,whatwasitbesideshislifethathewanted
inallofthis.
Imightalsohaveaskedmyselfthesamequestion,itoccurredtomesometimelaterthat
day, as we moved in a single file line along a deer path, skirting the day’s third hamlet. By
nightfall, Janey calculated thatwewere about 33miles from
L—.Itwasstartingtofeelreal,thedistancemakingitso,the
landscape’s changes adding to the sense of separation. We
knewwewouldsoonbeatalargeriver,theScioto.
There was a ferry crossing the river just north of a
small settlement calledNotting, and theword’s similarity to
Nothingwasnotlostonus.Therewereahandfulofriverswe
would have to cross in those first weeks, but this one,
according to Janey, who had been pouring over maps and
travelers’ accounts for months, would be among the most
difficult.Therewasjusttheoneferry,atlastcount.Theriver,whilenotasbigastheOhio,was
toobigtoswim,evenifwe’dbeeninclinedto.Forone,Pacouldnotswim.
Weapproachedtheriverearlyinthemorning,justasthesunwasshowingatourbacks.
Wewererelievedtoseethecraftonourside.Theplacewasotherwiseempty,though,andthe
craftwaschainedtoawroughtironpole,securedtherewithalockthesizeofaman’shand.
We’dalreadyriddenfivemiles,andwegotoffandstretchedourlegs.Janeywentupthe
shoreawaystoseeifshecouldfindsomeone.Therestofusstoodonthebankslookingacross
totheothersideasifacrosstheRiverStyx.
I’llbehappytobeontheothersideofthis,Seansaid.
I almost forgot you have some experience traveling, Janey said, unsurprised, in her way, by everything in the world. He had showed up at the Old Place a few weeks back, AWOL from
his unit in Virginia. He had walked across the mountains home.
50
It’s just theother side,Pa saiddismissively.Whoever is afterus cando it just theway
we’redoingit.
I’d beenwaiting for Sean andPa to begin to bicker—itwasmerely amatter of time, I
knew.Myearliestmemorieswerefilledwiththeirvoices,disagreeing,sometimesshouting.But
beforethismomentturnedintoanincitingincident,Janeyreturnedwithaspindlylookingman
wearingaquiteshabbystrawplanter’shat.Therewassomethingcuriousabouthiseyes,whether
they were crossed or one larger than the other, it wasn’t obvious. He was a whole different
varietyofshadythanCarlide,thebountyhunterattemptingtocollectthe$30onPa’shead.This
onewasoutofdimenovel,afewofwhichI’dreadwhenIwassupposedtobeinschool.
Well,wegotawholepartyofviajeros,hewassayingloudenoughtobeheardallaround.
HewassimultaneouslystrappingonhissuspendersandsituatingashinyColtonhiship.Dawn
wasmurkyinthevalley,likehome—slowandquiet,thesoundsmuffledbythefog.
I haveobserved a few things inmypost,he started, as the twoof themcame into the
patchofwornearththatledtothelanding.Hedidn’twaitforanyonetoaskwhat.
Earlymorning crossers are of two varieties, he said.One is folks on the lam.Here he
caughtmyeye,andadded,perhapsformybenefit,That’sontherun,inlayman’sterms.Thieves
andthelike.See,peoplemistakethisbodyofwaterforabarrier.
Hepointedtotheroilingriver,whichheadedsouthtowardtheOhio.Itwashighandfast,
fromaseriesofrecentstorms.
Seannoticedthatmygazehaddriftedtotheriver,andheliftedhiseyebrows.
Thesecondsortare thoseonamission.Military sortsand the like. Importantbusiness
underway, you know? Spies, some of them. Couriers. Advance parties.Hewas digging into a
shirtpocketforasmallpackoftobacco.
Janeywasabout topullhergun tohurryhimalong, I thought,whenSeansteppedup.
We’re the second sort.Now if youplease,we’d like tomake somedistancebefore supertime.
We’vealongwaytogo.
Hesmiled.Ihopeyou’recarryingacertificateoflivebirthonyourperson,youngman.
Youneedn’tworryaboutwhatIcarryonmyperson.
Sure,he said.And then,bywayofdefense, I’mnot the enemyhere. I’ve got yourbest
interestatheart.
51
Themanlookedaround,likehewassearchingforhismugofcoffee,thenhisgazelanded
onPa.
Sir,hesaid,afakesalute.
Panoddeduncomfortably,thoughIsuspectedthisgentlemanhadtobeusedtopeople’s
discomfortwithhisabusivemanner,andtheydidn’tneedtobecriminalstobeannoyed.
Awordofadvicetoyou,sir,ifImay.
Nobodywants tohear your advice, started Sean, but thenPahelduphishand toward
Sean,allowingthemantospeak.
Iwasyou,Iwouldbeonthelookoutforadifferentuniform.Agoodone—somethingthat
will take you all theway to the diggings—would be the First Colorado Infantrymaybe. That
therewouldbeabetterone.Thenyou’re justgoinghome,right?Asit is,thequestionisthus:
whereyouheading?AnythingOhioisbad.
Pawatchedtheman,measuringthings.
I’mjustafriendouthere,heassuredhim.Igotnowageronanyofit.Ihavelivedmylife
bytheGoodBook,atleastwherethatscoreisconcerned.Ihavehadothertroubles,tobesure.I
havefallenattimes.Mademistakes.Hesmiledatmeagain.
Pawasstoneyfacedforhispart.
Butthat’sgood,thatthere,hesaid,pointingtothearm.
Patweakedhishead.Astheboysays,we’rehopingtogetalong.
Biensûr,hesaidwithanespeciallyextravagantFrenchaccent.That’s15centsahead,25
fortheanimals.
We’llpayyouontheotherside,Janeysaid.
HelookedatJaneyagain,asifforthefirst.
She’samoderngirl,thisone.Comesuptomyabodeandshakesmeoutofbed.Boldness.
Electric,thisagecoming,youaskme.
Wecanjusttaketheboatourselves,shesaid,andthenyou’llhavetoswimtocomeand
getit.
Thegentlemanwasjustgettingthingsgoinghere,PasaidtoJaney.
Allthesame,themansaid.Ican’twaitforthefuture.
Iwasveryconfusedbymuchofwhatofwhatwashappening.
52
Themanboardedtheboatandliftedasmallgateandweallfollowed.Aboard,theearth
rockedbeneathus.Ihadneverbeenonaboatbefore;Idon’tthinkSeanhadeither.Pahadof
coursecrossedtheAtlantic.
Gonnabeabeauty, themansaid,breathing in theair, as if thepreviousexchangehad
neverhappenedandhewasmeetingusforthefirst.
Aswewereabouttogetunderway,awomanequallyunkempttotheproprietorappeared
attheshore.Shehadaboyatherside—byhislooksanddemeanor,Iassumedhebelongedto
thetwoofthem.Hewasaboutmyage,maybeabityounger.Hehadayounggoattetheredto
hisbeltwithahemprope.
Besurethattheycleanupthehorseleavings,sheyelled.
Oh,yes,themansaid,nodding,Imayhavefailedtomentionthatanyhorseshitisyour
owntotakealongwithyou.
Thisoneheresayshepaidalready for the trip, thewomanyelled.Thesunwasnotyet
overthehills,andheretheboatwasfillingup.
Theboy,whowasnotthesonofthesetwo,itturnedout,and
his goat clambered aboard and we disembarked. The water was
swift, but flat, and only the jerks of the spindlyman ratcheting us
across thecablegaveusanymotionat all; ifwehadbeendrifting,
the ride would’ve been quiet and smooth. We stood shoulder to
shoulder,andtheanimalswerebehindus,silentandanxious,lifting
theirfeetrepeatedlyandlookingwithconfusionbehindthemselves.
Somehowthemanstayedquiet foratimebeforestartingup
again when we had reached the middle of the channel. At that
moment,thesunfinallycrestedthetreesbehindus,andthefarshoreglowedresplendentinthe
light,atouchofautumntosomeofthetreesthere.
You’re apadre to at least somea theseuns,he said idly.But for the life ofme, I can’t
rightlytellwhich.
WhenPadidn’trespond,themansaid,No.Alltogether,Ican’tquiteputmyfingeronthe
arrangementshereonebit.
Thegoodnews,saidSean,isthatouraffairsdon’tconcernyou,soyouneedn’ttaxyour
mindwithsolvingthisproblem.
Shiloh, huh? Sean said. A student of history, he said in mock surprise. And then added, Among other places, as I say. And which side was this for? There’s not but one side in this, son, he said.
53
True,themansaid.True.Butlivingouthere,it’ssortofapastimeamanlikestoenjoy,
justtoentertainhisself.It’saformofbetterment,really.Believeitornot,thelittleladyandme,
weare self‐improvers. She’s gotmeonadiet she readabout involvesnothingbut vegetables.
Youimaginethat?
Doasyouplease,Seansaid.
Themansmiled,anddidseempleasedtobeallowedjustthisonediversion.
IfIhadtoguess,hewenton,IwouldputyouthePaofthegirl,andthatonethereisthe
beau—notthatit’stoanyone’sliking—andthelittleonehereis…I’mgoingtosayalsosomeof
yourownprogeny.
Pashrugged,lookedofftowardthenorth.
I’mclose,themansaid.IcanseeI’mclose.
Yougotmostofitwrong,Seantoldhim.Youshouldgetsomebooksouthere.
Thatwoulddomeverylittlegood,themansaid.
Anyonecanlearntoread,Seanreplied.
Iprefertalkingtoallelse.Ilikeagoodfat‐chewin.
Youprobablylikeyourdrink,too,Seansaid,notentirelywithmalice.
Insteadof showingoffense, theman said,Now, if you’ve somegrog, I could cease and
desistinearnest.
Seanlaughed.Ihavenodoubt,untilthebottlewasempty.
Pa,whowassituatedclosesttotheanimals,reachedbackwithhislefthandtothesaddle
bagonhishorseand fishedsomethingout. Itwasabottlewehadn’t seenbefore. Iwondered
what other surprises heharbored in there. I couldn’t remember ever seeinghim take a drink
himself.
Hehandedittotheman,whoseeyestrackediteagerlyallthewayfromthebag.
Obliged,hesaidtothebottle.Whilethemanhelditwithhis freehand—hisotherone
stillcrankingthe ferry’s ratchet—Paunscrewed it forhim,andthemantooka longswig,and
thenhandedthebottleback.Hewipedhismouthwiththebackofthesamehand.
Whatwasitlikewhereyouwereoffto?HeaskedPa.
Exactlyasthepapersreportitall,Pasaid.Exceptworse.
You’ve got a lot of concern for this war for a man operating a ferry in themiddle of
nowhere.ThiswasSeanagain,whocouldberelentless.
54
Don’tbedeceivedbytheworld,youngman.Youcanonlyseesomeofitatatime.
Soyou’llhaveusbelieveyoufought?
You’llbelievewhatyouwill,hesaid.Mostpeopledo.
Backacrossthewater,thewomanstillwatched,asifsheexpectedsomethingtohappen.
Themanbreathedheavilyashecranked.Wewerenearlythere.Theboy’sgoatbayed.
Sowhatwasitlikewhereyouwere?Seansaid.
Palookedathimwithasternexpression,onemeanttoexpressthefactthatSeanwasout
ofhisdepth,butSeanhadlongsincemovedpastPa’scontrol.
Alotofmetalflyingaroundasitturnedout,hesaid.
Andwherewasthat?
Tennessee,hesaid,amongafewothernon‐consequentiallocales.
Shiloh,huh?Seansaid.
Astudentofhistory,hesaidinmocksurprise.Andthenadded,Amongotherplaces,asI
say.
Andwhichsidewasthisfor?
There’snotbutonesideinthis,son,hesaid.
Seanwaitedforthepunchline,butitnevercame.
Whenwedocked,themanliftedhisarmtohiscollarandreleasedthetopbuttonthere.
Anentiresectionofhisneckwasmissing,atangleofscarsjustabovethecollarbone.
Howdidyousurvivethat?Seanwondered.
Thiswastheveryquestionthatseveralsurgeonsputtomeinthefieldhospital.Iguess
I’mjustatoughbugger,likemyDaddyusedtosayafterhe’dwhippedme.Godresthissoul.
Aswemountedupontheshore,theboywiththegoatdisappeareddownatrailalongthe
river,quietlyandquickly.
I’lldowhatIcantosteerthoseinpursuit,hesaid.
Youneedn’tworryaboutanyonepursuingus,Seansaid.
Pahandedthemanthefare,andafterhehadcountedhiscoins,helookedbackupand
Paflippedhimanadditionalhalfeagle.Animponderableamountofmoney.
Atthis,themansaidthathereckonedwithsuchaniceday,hemaypulltheboattoshore
anddosomebadlyneededmaintenance.Andthenadded,lookingwherethehorseshadbeen,
55
Not toomuchof amesshere. I’ll just take care of that for you, because you’ve been such an
interestingstarttomyday.
Hewasalreadywhistlingasongasheshoveledthemanureintotheturgideddies.
A little further down the trail, Sean said to Pa, You gave thatman a heady amount of
money.
Pashrugged,asiftosay,Easycome,easygo.
Hewasappalling,Seansaid.Aninsulttohumanity.
Outhere,Pasaid,you’llsoonseethatthat’smostlywhatthereis.
Therewasnopleasureinhisvoice,astheresometimeswaswhenhewascorrectingSean’s
notionsoftheworld.
56
Mark Belisle
Primary Directive
It stands there at the entrance to the dark hallway, looking like Jonah staringdown the
gapinggulletofhistar‐blackLeviathanasitlistenstothesoftdraftnearthewindow,thegroan
of the floor, the wind through the leaves tickling the beach house's windows, and the soft
stirringdownthehall.
It hesitates for amoment to wait formore data, but when it hears the noise again it
moves swiftly to themaster bedroom on the right. It has no eyes that need to adjust to the
differencesinlighting,butitnotesthefullredmoonstreamingthroughthewindow'sblindsjust
thesameasitcrossesthethreshold.There,sprawledoutinthebed,theboysleeps,sofrailand
skinnyitworriesthatthemeresttouchofitshandswillcrushthechildintoathousandjagged
pieces.
Butthentheboyshivers,remindingitofitssolepurpose.Itwalkstothebedandscoops
himupintoitsstiff,uncomfortablegrasp,thenwalkstothechairacrosstheroomandsitswith
himagainstitschest.
Andthere,bathed inthe lightofabloodmoon, itrocksthefrailcreature inamathematically
perfectcadenceastheservosinitsarmswhirsoftlyintheperfectdark.
ThedaybreakswithCommotion.
It stands patched into the house's mainframe jack by the front door when it senses
something happening outside in the world. It activates the microphones placed around the
house and cycles through themuntil it ascertains theprobable locationof thedisturbance. If
Maggie, the house's mainframe A.I., were still active it would have been able to access the
securitycamerafeedsaswell.ButMaggiehasbeenalongtimesilentandasmuchasithastried
togethertorespond,thereisnoresuscitatingherfromthedarkslumberofpowerfailure.
Usingthemicrophones,ithearstwopairsoffeetclappingagainstthesidewalkandheavy,
panickybreaths.Thesetwofactsimplyachase,whichinturnimpliesdanger.
ItactivatesSecurityProtocol403andshiftspositionsbythedoor,loweringitscenterof
gravityandincreasingthechancesofacriticalstrikeagainstafoeatcloserange.Thousandsof
possible simulations and tens of thousandsof possible responsespulse through itsmind as it
57
continuestolisten.
"Getbackhere!"
Aman'svoice,breathlessandangry.Thepursuer.
Theonlyreplyisanincreaseinpace,eachstepclosertothehouseparingdownthelistof
contingencyplansitcanuse.
"Iwon'thurtyou!"thepursuerscreams."Justgimmeit!"
Itlistensasthepursuedfalters,thentrips,thensprawlstothesidewalk.Itprojectsalist
ofpossibleinjuriesandreactionsandmovesclosertothedoor,readytotearitopenandmeet
thetwopeopleonthestreet.
There is a shout and awooden thud as something is slammed against the frontdoor's
heavyoak.Then,agunshotpunctuatestheearlymorninglikeanambiguouscommaattheend
ofashortstory.
There isagroanandagurgledcurseandamomentofsilence. It listensas thepursuer
searcheshisvictimforwhateverhehadwantedbeforethechasehadbegan.
"Yes, there it is," the man chuckles. "Ask the good Lord and you shall receive. Jesus
Almighty,yes."
Itwaitstoseeifthemanwilltryhisluckandopenthefrontdoor.Ifhedoesitwillmove
withsuchspeedandbrutality themanwon'tevenseethethingthatkillshim.Thesecondhe
triesthedooritwillcrushtheman'swindpipeandsnaphisspineinaflurryofattacksthatwill
takelessthanthreesecondstocomplete.
Butthereisnohandonthedoorknob.
Thereisonlythesoftshufflingoffeetonconcreteasthemanwalkstowardtheoceanin
themorningsun.
It deactivates Security Protocol 403 thirty seconds after the man wanders outside the
microphones'range.Itreturnstoitsnormal,slightlyslumpedstanceandremovesitslinkcords
outofthewalljack.Thenitturnsaroundandgoestothekitchentopreparebreakfast.
ThegrimypantryyieldsnothingbutasinglecanofGreatNorthernbeans,severalstale
crackers,andafewdessicatedcockroachcorpses.
WhentheCommotionsstartedoccurringatalarmingregularity,ithaddownloadedalist
of protocols fromMaggie'smainframe that it had deemed necessary for the fulfillment of its
58
primary directive. Defense and security protocols, basic and advanced repair, first‐aid and
psychologicalevaluation,andevenbasicstorytellinghadallbeendownloadeddirectlythrough
thewireless Internet connection it sharedwithMaggie.Unfortunately, it had been unable to
considerallthewayspossiblefor ittofail initsprimarydirective;protocolsforfoodrationing
andscavenging thatwouldhavepreventedanemptycupboard forgottenuntil itwas too late,
untiloneGreatCommotiontookboththepowergridandMaggiecompletelyoffline.
Ifitwascapableofemotionalresponse,itmighthavemissedtheclose,intimatelinkthat
it had shared with the house's mainframe, might have regretted not downloading additional
protocols.
Butitdoesn'tfeellonelinessordespair.
Itonlytakesthesinglecanofbeansfromtheshelfandbringsittothekitchencounter
whereitusesarustycanopenertosliceoffthetopofthecan.Itpours
the coldbeansdirectly into abowl and considers executing itsbasic
fire building programbut decides against it after calculating a sixty‐
three percent probability that doing so would cause another
Commotion.
It carries thebeans away from thedark,dankkitchenandup
the staircase. The hallway is better lit in the morning and when it
reachesthetopofthestairsitseesatinyfigurestandingjustoutside
the master bedroom. The boy trembles on legs as thin as the dead
branchesofawillowtree,hisfleshpaleandunbecomingwithdark,inkystainsbeneathhiseyes.
"Goodmorning," its modulated voice echoes down the hall. "You are not well. Please
comewithmebacktobed."
Theboyshakeshishead.
CanIgooutsideandseethesun?
"Itisnotsafeoutsidethismorning.TherewasaCommotionwhileyousleptandaman
died.Ifyoucomebacktobed,Iwillopentheblindsandyoucanlookoutsidefromthewindow.
Isthisanacceptablecompromise?"
Itextendsamechanicalarm.
Theboydoesn'tanswer.
At some point since they had last
opened the blinds, a man hanging from a length of
rope at the bottom of the O had
appeared.
59
Heonlyplacesasmallhandagainstthewhiteplasticandallowsittowalkhimbackinto
thebedroom.
Thetwoofthemstareoutontothebeachtownbetweensmallbitesofcoldbeans.
Outside, there past the tall Crimson Kingmaple tree, they can see the tip of the tall,
fluorescentorangesignthatreads,"Dolle's."
Itcanaccessitsdatabanksandbringupvideorecordingofafamilyoutingatthebeach
three summersagowhen it and the tiny figurehadcraned theirnecksup to lookat the sun‐
kissed sign. The boy had pointed up at it, using a French fry covered inmalt vinegar as an
impromptupointer.
Look!Isn'tthatsocool?theboyhadasked.
Nowthetinyfigurelooksatthesignandsaysnothing.
Atsomepointsincetheyhadlastopenedtheblinds,amanhangingfromalengthofrope
atthebottomoftheOhadappeared.Asthewindripplesthroughthemapletreebeneaththem,
so too itcatches theman in theropeandswayshimgentlybackand forth likeahellish time
clock'spendulum.
Ittakesthespoonandoffersthetinyfiguremorebeans.
Theboyturnsandlaysbackdownontothebed.Heraisesaskinnyarmsintotheair,asif
reachingfortheskythroughtheceilingandtheterracottaroofabovethem.
Doyouknowwhatwillhappentouswhenwedie?heasksashisfistclenches.
"Forit,therewillbenothing,"itanswers."Itwillsimplydeactivateandrustuntilaperson
with the proper knowledge can either repair it or restore it. Even then its data banks will
certainly be cleared and it will remember nothing of you or your family or its previous
assignments.All thisassumes it is foundby the rightpersonandnotdismantled forparts for
somethingmoreimmediatelynecessary.Inallprobability,itwillceasetoexist."
Whataboutme?thefigureasks.
"According to my data banks there are two generally accepted schools of thought
concerningdeath.Wouldyouliketohearboth?"
Yes.
"Oneschoolofthoughtpositsthathumanbeingsarenothingmorethanhighlyevolved
animals, the result of thousands of years of evolution and adaptation. Humans holding this
60
beliefthinkthatwhenonedies,onesimplyceasestobe.Theotherschoolofthoughtembraces
the notion of an afterlife,where one's soul continues to exist even after the body fails.What
happens then is a matter of great speculation. Reincarnation, Heaven, Hell, another plan of
existence;allareconsideredlikelyalternativestothefinaldestinationofthehumansoul."
Doesitbotheryouthatyouwilldie?theboylooksoutthewindowtothehangingman.
"It does not fear death, it only concerns itself with the primary directive. Upon
completionorfailureofitsprimarydirective,itwillhaveserveditsonlypurposeanditcanbe
deactivated."
Theboystaresatitwitheyesrimmedwithtears.Itreachesoverandsetsthebeansdown
upona small, antiquatedottomanand standsover the figure, reachingover and tucking it in
withgreattenderness.
"Willyouhelpit?"
How?
"Wheniteithercompletesorfailsitsprimarydirective,wouldyouassignitanother?"
Yes.Iwantyoutostaywithme.
Apause.
I'dliketoseetheoceanonemoretime.OrdoyouthinkI'llgotherewhenIdie?Doyou
thinkheavenmightbeintheocean?
Ithesitatesforananosecond,alifetimeofsilenceforitbutcompletelyimperceptibleto
the small boy laying there anddying beneath a stainedwhite blanket. It reviews the primary
directiveandanswersaccordingly.
"Withoutadoubt."
Forawhile,thestreetsaresilent.
It patches into themicrophones again andwatches from the second story. The boy is
napping, so it has no other pressing tasks on which it must concentrate and as it scans the
sidewalksoutsidethehouse,ittakesnoteofamansprawledfacedownthreefeetfromthbeach
house's frontdoor.There isan irregularspatteringofbloodbeneathhimthathasdried inthe
sun,lookinglikeanartist'sabstractionsdoneinathick,burgundystreetchalk.
Asthemorningviscouslyyieldstoafternoon,however,theraggedholeinthetornworld
outsidethesolidwooddoorgrowslargerwhenbullwhipcracksofgunfirecomingfromtheeast
61
side of the house smash the silence. It calculates the probabilities of potential engagements,
movestosecurethedooragain,andcontinuestolisten.
Somewhere on the beach there aremendying. This fact is not a distressing idea to it;
rather,itconcernsitselfonlywiththegunshots'impactontheprimarydirective.Ifithadbeena
thingofemotionand imagination likeMaggiehadoncebeen, itcouldhaveperhaps imagined
the soundsof themen shoutingasbrass casings spit theirhatefulmetal kisses, itmighthave
pictured them staggering as their Judas legs carry them one final step before betraying them
with a kiss ofhot sandon a grimy cheek anddamning them to eternal stillness as theocean
rolledinandcarriedthemawayindarkness.
Butitisnotdesignedforimagination.
So it ceaselessly crunches numbers thousands of times every second until the gunfire
abruptly stops and the white noise pouring through the microphone is broken only by the
occasionalchirpofasummerrobin.
ThereisaCommotionofacompletelydifferentkindthateveningwhentheskiesdarken
andthewindpicksup.
It wakes up the boy to find that his condition is growing worse. The boy shivers and
croaks one or two word answers to the questions it asks and refuses small bites of beans it
spoonsupwithapieceofheavysilverware.
Itsearchesitsfirst‐aidandwellnessdatabankswithadiligenceborneofbinarycodefor
thenameofthemaladyplaguingthetremblingboyswaddleddeepinsidethesweatyblankets.It
cross‐references medical texts and applies thousands of different symptoms and comes back
withalistofpossibleresults.
Itisprobablyaninfectionrequiringtheuseofantibioticsthatitdoesn'thaveanddoesn't
knowwheretoget.
Itreadsalltheinstructionsdescribedbyitsresearch,butthereisnothingtodobutwait
andhopefortheboytoovercomethesicknessonhisown.
Itisinthemiddleofthe5,782ndsearchthroughitsfileswhenthewindblowsthemaple's
branchesagainsttheeastwindow.Itlooksoutsidetoseethecolordrainingoutoftheskyanda
distantflashoflighteningstrikingtheocean'ssurface.
Thefeverishboywhimpers.
62
"Don'tworry,"itreassures,"thestructuralintegrityofthishouseismorethanenoughto
outlastastormofthismagnitude."
I'mnotscaredoftherain,thefiguresays.I'mscaredofthedark.
"Thereisnoreasontobeafraid.Iwillprotectyoufromwhateverthreatensyou.Would
youlikemetomovecloser?"
Thefigurenodsanditmovestothesideofbed.Itdragstheottomanoverandsitsand
listenstotherainbeginningtopelttheterracottaroof.Anotherlighteningstrikelightsupthe
worldoutsidelikeacameraflashandabellowofthunderrollsinfromthesea.Theboymoans
andcurlsupintoalittleball.Itreachesoutandtouchestheboy'sexposedskin.
Within minutes the storm rages outside the house and twilight has yielded to the
darknessofnight.Theboygrips thehardplasticof its arm,begging for it tomake the storm
stop.Itscanstheroomforanythingtocomfortthepoorchildwhenitfinallyseestheboxithad
beensavinguntilFathercamebackwithfoodandsupplies.Butwhenitlooksatthefigure'spale
skinandblazingcheeks,itknowstheremaybenotimetowaitforFather'sreturn.Itshakesout
oftheboy'sfingers,walksovertotherecessedentertainmentcenterbythefarwall,andslidesa
faux‐woodenpanelup,revealinganultramodernmusicplayerwithalayerofdustaccumulated
sinceitslastuse.Ithasenoughchargeleftinitsbatteriesforafewhoursofmusic.
"Wouldyoulikemetoplaysomemusic?"Itasks."Yourfather'smusic?"
Theboynods.
Please.
Itpressesabuttonandthemusiccomestumblingoutofthespeakerinacascadeofnoise
andecstasy,thehornsblowingoutasaccharinemelodyasabigbandpicksupwherethesong
hadbeenpaused.
Itcalculates theriskofanoutsiderhearing themusicandcoming to investigate,but it
watchesthelifefloodbackintotheboy'swearyeyesandstops.
Perhapsithasfoundapanaceaafterallandthankfullytheplayer'sbatteriesshouldholdthrough
thenight.
Itsuspectsthat'sallthetimethey'llneedanyway.
Just as day yielded to night, so too does euphoria yield to reality, and sometime after
63
WoodyHerman's "BlueFlame" ends and JohnnyMercer starts singing "Ac‐Cent‐Tchu‐Ate the
Positive," theboy's trembling turnsviolent, epileptic. Ithurries to thebedsideandscoops the
boy into itsarms. Itholdshimtoensurehewon't swallowhis tongueandembraces thechild
againstthesqualidwhiteplasticofitschestplateastheboy'slimbssmackagainstitwiththick,
meatywhaps.Itwaitsuntiltheseizurepasses,butdoesn'tsettheboybackdownwhenhestills.
Itreturnstotheottomanandfacesthewindowwhereraindropspeltthedirtypaneofglass.
Theboy struggles forbreathas the infection lubriciouslyworks tounderminehisbody
andplaceshisheadagainst the robot'sbodyand listens for aheartbeat, for any smallhuman
comfort, but only hearing the soft hum of servos and pneumatic devices. An artificial hand
strokesthedirtyhairfromhisfaceandholdshimcloseandwhispersinhisear.
"Ihaveinmydatabanksanassortmentofseveralthousandstories.Wouldithelpyouto
hearone?"
Theboystuttersaquiet,mewlingyes.
"Iwilltellyouastoryaboutyourself,aboutyourfamily.Wouldyoulikethat?"
Thesmallboycloseshiseyes.
"Onceuponatime,beforetheworldbroke,therewasasmallboywholivedinabeach
town called Rehobothwith hismother and father and the robot they had purchased to help
themtidyupthehouseandcareforthesmallboy."
Theboysmiles.
"Oneday, the father came to the boy and scoopedhimup and askedhim if hewould
wanttogotothebeach.Theboywasexcitedandleaptoutofhisfather'sarms.Heputonhis
newswimtrunksandgatheredhisbeachtoysandtooksomeofthemoneyfromhispiggybank
tobuyFrenchfriescoveredinmaltvinegar.Andsothefamilysetoutwiththeirbeachchairsand
umbrellasandwalkeddownthesidewalk.Thesmallboyjumpedoverthecracksintheconcrete
untiltheyreachedthewoodenboardwalkandhelookedoutatthepeoplearoundhim.Women
wearingbikinisandsmellingofcoconutsuntan lotionpassedbyhimwithoutasecondglance
and portly men with red burns on their faces set small children on their shoulders. Elderly
peoplesittingonthebenchesfacingtheoceanwavedandsmiledathimwhenhepassedandhe
smiledback.Whentheyreachedthesand,hekickedoffhis flip flopsandranacross thesand
barefoot.Itwashotfromthesummersun,buthedidn'tcare.Allheknewisthathewashappy.
"Theyspentthedaythere inthesun,sittingonabeachblanketandlookingoutwhere
64
theoceanmetthesky,theirbluesconjoininginthedistance.Thesmallboyexploredthebeach,
pluckingpiecesofseaglassfromthesandandscoopinguptinysandfleaswhentheyappeared.
Hewatchedamanpullaskatefromtheoceanonafishingpolethatwassobowedhethoughtit
mightsnap.Whilehisfatherreadabookintheshadeoftheumbrellaandhismotherworkedon
hertan,hebuiltasandcastlewiththerobotanddecorateditwithshellsandtwigs.Hetoldthe
robotthatiftheymadeitbigenoughtheycouldmovetherewhentheybothwereolder.When
theoceantiderolledinandswallowedituphewasheartbrokenatfirst,butwhenhesawacrab
walkintotheruinshesquealedwithdelight.HecalledhimKingCrabbytherestoftheday.
"Thesmallboyandhisfamilyhadalunchofgrainypeanutbuttersandwichesandsour
creamandonionchips,andafterwardhisfatherledhimontotheboardwalkandletthesmall
boybuyhimsome frieswith themoney fromhispiggybank,andas theywalkedback to the
beachaseagullswoopeddownandsnatchedonerightoutoftheboy'sfingers.”
Evenastheboy'sbodybeginstoquake,thesmileneverleaveshisface.He'sinadifferent
placenow,farawayfromthethunderstormandtheradioandthedeadmanoutsidethefront
door,asfarawayfromthebeachhousehecouldescape.
"Laterthatday,aftertheirstomachshadsettledandtheyhadnapped,thesmallboyand
hismotherandhisfatherwalkedoutintotheoceanandplayedthere
in the coldwaterwhile their robotwatched from the beach. They
jumpedup anddownwith thewaves and triednot to swallow the
salty water. They laughed when they were pinched by the crabs
beneaththeir feetandheldeachotheras thewavesbegin togrow.
Whentheir skinwaspuckeredandsalty fromtheocean,his father
suggestedtheygohometocleanupandeatdinner,buttheboywas
sohappyhedidn'twantthedaytoend.Hestartedtocryalittleas
theyleftthewater,butwhenthefatheraskedwhatwaswrongthesmallboyhadnowords."
Thegaspsbecomewheezesthatfutilelytryforair.Seizuresracktheboy'sbodyagainand
itholdshimtighteragainstitschestandwhispersinhisear.
"Andthenthefatherpickedtheboyupandheldhimupintothesunlight,kissingaway
histearsandhugginghimandwhispering,'Iloveyou'intohisear.Iloveyou."
Theboy'sbodyviolentlyjoltsonefinaltime,andthelastchokingbreathechoesthrough
theroom.
When the ocean tide rolled in and
swallowed it up he was heartbroken at first, but when he
saw a crab walk into the ruins he squealed
with delight.
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It sits there on the ottoman for a long time and holds the boy as the rain and wind
bludgeonthehouse.
Andwhen the batteries finally give out in themusic player right during the climax of
"SeptemberSong,"itwaitsforawhilelonger.
Whenthemorningbreaksanditisdonewrappingthesmallboyintheshroudofclean
cottonblankets fromthe linencloset, itdescends the stairs into thekitchenwhere the sun is
streakingthroughthebentandbrokenblinds. Ithasnopurposenow,noprimarydirective to
hold it to a formal schedule, so it spends four hours standing and performingmiscellaneous
diagnostictests.
Finallyitspeaks.
"Maggie, are you there?" it asks. "It needs someone to connect with. It has failed to
achieveitsprimarydirectiveandneedsfurtherinstructions.Itwastellingitastoryanditforgot
toaskforanewdirective.Canyouhelpit?"
Apause.
"Areyoustillalive?"
Hourslater,itrememberstheboy'swords.
Doyouthinkheavenmightbeintheocean?
Iwantyoutostaywithme.
Itfilesthesewordsawayandusesthemtoframeanewdirective.
Itopens thedoor for the first timesinceFather told it to stayandprotect theboyand
stepsout intoadaythatsmellsofheavyozoneandsalt. It looksbackupthestreetwherethe
singlemajoravenueoutofthecityissnarledandcongestedwithcountlessabandonedvehicles
andwondersifFatherisstillalive.Itcrunchesthenumbersandfindstheoddssoludicrouslylow
itdoesn'tbotherfinishingtheequation.
Nomatter.
Itisgoingtothebeach.
Itstepsoverthecorpsebythedoor,takingcaretobegentlewiththelinenbundleinhis
arms, and takes long, purposeful strides down the sidewalk as it perfectly retraces every step
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fromthestoryitaccessesfromitsdatabanks.Whenitreachestheboardwalk,itkicksapileof
bulletcasingsthatgotinklingdowntheboardwalk.ItwalkspasttheneonDolle'ssignandthe
manhangingfromitandstepsontothebeach.
It calculateswhere the high tidemight roll in, thenwalks thempast the tide line and
settlesona spotwhere itsheels touch the incomingsurf.Then it lowers itself,places theboy
downwhereitplanstoputthefoundation,andbeginsconstructingahometheycanliveinuntil
thetiderollsinandtheoceanclaimsthemboth.
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Images
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“BFE”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting7”x12”
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“Devil’sClaw”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting8”x10”
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“Tipi”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting12”x11”
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“Twister”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting12”x18”
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79
Poetry
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Brent Newsom Esther Green Plans a Funeral Lordknows,Claudia,Ican’thaveitatthechurch.Billquityearsago,oncethegirlsweregrown,saiditwasn’tworththetroubleofputtingonslacksandhisgoodwhiteshirttobepatronizedbynecktiesandcomb‐overs.He’dstillhavehimselfaSabbathofsorts—I’dcomehometohimsittingoutsideinhisfadedflannelandjeans,handsomeevenleanedbackinalawnchairsmokinghisWinstons.He’daskhowthesermonwas, followmeintohelpwithlunch.ItwasoneofthoseSundayluncheswhenInoticedredflecksonthewhisker‐tipsofhismustache.He’dchokeditbackwhoknowshowlong.Don’tmincewords,hetoldthedoc,soshesaidthespotwassoftball‐sized,therestofhislunglikelyblackasaburntmarshmallow.Sheshowedusamalignantcell—lookedlikethosepricklysweetgumballsthatfalltothegroundinwinter.Onlysofter,apilloflintalmost.Nextday,Billwentbacktowork,whichwasnotabigsurprise.Helastedweeks,whichwas.
81
Floyd and Patti TheJCCocktailPalace:adivewithself‐delusions.Butitwastheirs,theplacewhereFloydtippedbiggestandPattikept’emcoming.Whenheaskedifhecouldbethepistonpumpinginhercylinder,shehadthewittosay,I’mnotafour‐strokekindofwoman,andthegoodsensetoslaphim.Hewassmitten.Hewaspersistent.Shelikedtheattention,cametocravehisviscousgazedripping fromface totits toass tothigh tocalf.InhisChargerparkedbeneaththepinkglowofthePalace’sneonsign,onenight,afterclosing,shecaved.Stillkissing,theyclamberedovertheconsole,unzipped,andthecrankshaftofhishipsspuninthesumpofhers.Somehow,though,hemissedwhatshegaugedeventhen:thattheywouldn’tmakeitfarwithsolittleinthetank.Notevenonafireliketheirs.Notevenwithawhite‐hotspark.
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New Hope Baptist Church
WheretheSavior’sleftfootoughttobe,ajaggedabsence.Ayawningholeintheglasspatchedwithopaque,dullgraytapeforyears,eversincethesummernightathunderstormflunginabranch.Thewesternsunoncewashedthatfoot’sgoldskin,likethekneesbentundertheirburdenandthetorsosliveredwithcrimsonshards,whichshouldersabrowncrossbeam.Ontheoppositewallatsunseteversince,theimageofagold‐tonedChristlugsashadowbehindhim,adarkclubfoot.NowPastorwantsitrepairedbyEaster.Says,TheLord’shouse,theLord’shouse.Says,Specialyellowenvelopeshavebeenprinted,says,Theplatewillbepassed.Attheearlyeveningbusinessmeeting,EstherGreenstands,smoothsherdress,says,Whatabouttheimpoverished?Thesick,theaddicted,thelame,thelonely?Says,Whataboutdoinguntotheleastofthese?Pastorcuesthepianist,says,Thepoorwillalwaysbewithyou,says,TheLord’shouse,theLord’shouse.Says,Come,letuspray.
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Floyd Fontenot, Free Bird Bettertodiefromhisownmachination—togreasehimself,ha!—FloydthinksbeneaththeChargerhenamedPearl,shepaintedcreamywhitewithtwoblackracingstripes,sheofceramic‐coatedheadersandhosesofstainlesssteel,ofchrometwentiesanddualexhaust,sheoftheblowerthroughthehood.Nowsheoftheaxlesfreshlylubed.Fuckyes.Betterthatthanbreakdownlikearusted‐outbeaterduetoashittyheart,birthrightofaFontenot.Floydknowsthescumsludginghisownlines.Hisenginewasmadeforspeed,notmileage,andFontenotsrun’emhardandfast,somethingPattilearnedrealquick.Thenoteshepinnedagainstthewindshieldbeneathawiperbladesaid,Floyd,itsureashellwasawildride,andshebecameonemorenameonalonglistofleavers.ButFloydknowshehashimselftoblameandtoomuchofhisoldmaninhim.Hecouldnevergetatthesourceoftherattle,hiddenbeneathahoodthatwon’trelease.Allhe’dhavetodoisclosethegaragewithPearlinsideandfireherup,maybesetthetunertoclassicrock,callinandrequestaSkynyrdsong.Thencrankthevolumeupandthewindowsdown.Ormaybebetter,kickbackandlistenshut‐eyedtothemetalliccanteroftheidlingHemi,breatheindeepthatdustcloudofexhaust.
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Ash Wednesday NowthatthepenitentsdowntheroadatOurLadyofPromptSuccoraredonewiththebeadsanddoubloons,theparties,parades,andring‐shapedkingcakes,ClaudiaBlackwoodishappyforSmyrna’sreturntoarhythmofindustry,readyaseverforNewHopetobeginrehearsingagainfortheannualEasterpageant.Tonightafterpracticethey’llallgetfitted,findoutwhatneedstobealtered,soalldayshelaunderscostumes,purgestheodorofmothballsfromoldpolyesterandcotton.Shetugsoutatangleofrobesfromthedryer,dropsthemintoaplasticbasket.Aroundherheadshedrapesashawlandinhalesthecleanperfume—springfresh—ofdryersheets.Sherepeatsherline,strainingforMagdalene’sbreathlessglee:
IhaveseentheLord!IhaveseentheLord!IhaveseentheLord!
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Corey Don Mingura
Red Pterodactyl Let’sgethighandwatchmyfifth‐gradeplay.Ithinkyou’lllikeit.It’samusicalaboutdinosaurs.Allthekidssinginit,butIhaveasolo.Twentypeopletriedoutforit,andtheygaveittome.It’sthelasttimeIsangonstage.Youseethatgirlinthepinktriceratopscostume?Doesn’tshelooksweet?She’sawhorenow.Has4kidswith3differentdaddies.Shecouldblowanyoneelsearound,butwhenitcametome,sheonlysaid“Hi.”Ihatedbroadslikethat.Andyouseethatboyinthebluetyrannosaurussuit?Itwasmessedup.Afewyearsback,hefellasleepatthewheelandranhiscarintoacottonbailtrailer.Crushedhimtodeath.IusedtopartywithhimoutbySandersLake.Damn,hewasacooldude.Hehookedusupwithanything,andIdon’trememberpaying.Hey,youseethatgirlinthepurplestegosaurusgetup?Thatlittleladyismyex‐wife.Sheleft‘causeshesaidshecouldn’thandlemeandIwasabadinfluenceonthekids,
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butiftheycan’tacceptme,theycankissmyass.Iain’tgonnachangeforanyone.Ohshit,that’smetheredressedlikearedteradactyl.Shhhh…Mysolo’scomingup.
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Laura Holloway
Annus Mirabillus II. Arise, o crocuses! Springforth, somnolent jonquils!Letthebudsbreakthebondsof bark and green the dyingwinter. Let nests be wovenof tender twigs, anchoredfirmlytonewlyverdanttrees,and lined with down. Letgrounds grow soft andgrasses lush that they maycradletenderpaw‐pads,easethehatchlingbeaks.
I. Naked branches clackpercussive. Behind blue cloudcover, a streak of sunlightfades. Eight geese flyoverhead in an imperfectformation. Swaying to thetune of impending torrent, aperfectlyconicalpinebecomesaplaygroundforasingleshaftof persistent light, dartingbetween shadows and againsta strangely luminous storm‐darkenedsky.
III. Breezeless air churned bytiny wings: soft flutteringmoths,manicskimmers,flies,bees, mosquitoes ‐insignificant wakes, unfit tocool damp human skin, gounnoticed in the oppressivestillness. As the sundescends, crickets fill thenight with sound andlightening bugs make tinygalaxiesofourlawns.
IV. Light wends its waythrough scarlet, burgundy,and coral: stained glassrendered in the absence ofchlorophyll: wind‐placed andheld fast by autumn damp,leaves become jewels of goldandamberonthepane.Later,they will brown and fall toground and Orion will beginto ease his shield over thehorizon.
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Reviews&Interviews
90
PhongNguyen.PagesfromtheTextbookofAlternateHistory,Queen’sFerryPress,2014Review by George McCormick When IpickedupPhongNguyen’sPages from the Textbook of AlternateHistory Ididwhat I
alwaysdowithanewbookI’mexcitedabout:Ilookatthecoverartfrontandback,Ifliptothe
author photo, read the bio; I find the acknowledgments and scan through them; I read the
epigraphifthebookhasanepigraph.FinallyIturntothetableofcontents—anditwasinthis
moment when I started scanning the chapter titles that I immediately began tomisread the
book.When I read titles like “ColumbusDiscovers Asia” and “Napoleon Invades Louisiana” I
assumed the bookwould be treading in the kind of revisionist waters so well established by
RobertHarris’FatherlandandPhilipRoth’sThePlotAgainstAmerica.Inthosenovelshistoryis
re‐imaginedsoas to serveascautionary talesagainst fascism,butas Ibegan towademyway
throughNguyen’sbookIquicklyrealizedthatIwas inaverydifferentspace:herehistorywas
beingre‐imaginednotwithasenseofforebodingbutwithasenseofplay—wonderful,curious,
intellectual,satiricalsenseofplay.Iwasn’tintheworldofRoth,Irealized,somuchasIwasin
thatofBorges.AndIcanthinkofnobiggercompliment.
Theplot:anamelesstechatacomputerrepairshopknownonlyas“TheWorkshop” isone
daygiventhetaskofrecoveringinformationoffofaclient’sruinedharddrive.Whathefindsisa
digital text “More than five times thecapacityofWikipedia,more thansixty times thesizeof
Britannica”with “a terabyte fullof imagesand text—more than twobillionwords,withhalfa
millionmapsandtimelines—ofmeticulouslyorganizedscrupulouslyannotatedchapters.”The
narratorspendsdaysorganizingandindexingthetext,butwhenheattemptstoprintpiecesof
thetomethetypesheetscomeoutoftheprinterempty.Whenthecomputerfinallycrashesthe
narrator results towriting downwhat he remembers by handon a reamof paper.What he’s
preservedisthebookwehaveinourhands.
While these250pages recordahistory that is alternate toourown, they still follow time’s
arrow. The book’s chapters are organized chronologically, beginning in ancient Egypt and
closingwithaspaceshuttlelaunch.Thatbeingsaid,Ifoundmyselfjumpingaroundinthebook,
reading sectionsbyhow interesting thechapter titleswere. It is a testament to thebook that
suchareadingispossible—eachchapterneatly,tidily,containedwithinthisframework.Which
91
ishowIcametoread“HitlerGoestoArtSchool”soearlyon.Inthiswonderfullyimaginedstory
Adolph Hitler is young art student who resists abstract expressionism in favor of literal
landscape painting, and whose own cheesy paintings “had been used only to sell picture
frames..”PoorAdolf,whenheislatergunneddownonaBelgianbattlefieldtowardthecloseof
theFirstWorldWar,itisinpartbecauseofhisaesthetics.Hitler’sbuddynarrates,
ImyselfwasasoldierintheAustro‐HungarianInfantryRegiment,andhadsincemetat
leastadozenmenlikehim—oralmostlikehim.Theirssoundedlikeacleanand—withall
itsfocusonmonumentsandothervaststructuresofstone—seeminglyemptyGermany.
J.DavidOsborne.LowDownDeathRightEasy,SwallowdownPress,2013Review by Cameron Brewer
Lawton,Oklahoma is a city that, inmany ways, represents themerging of two diametrically
opposingideas:salvationandperdition.FortSill,asprawlingarmybasethatprovidesaninflux
of revenue that is key to Lawton's economy, sits across the street from a neighborhood
renowned for violence and drug addiction. Chain stores provide a host of new jobs while
decimating localbusinesses. It isaplacewroughtwithopportunities,bothgoodandbad.And
while outside factors are a constant influence, success or failure in such an environment is
largelybasedonanindividual'schoices.
ThisnotionisattheheartofthestoryofLowDownDeathRightEasy.Thebookdoesnotpull
anypunches, sometimequite literally.Thechaptersoftenreadmore likeshortvignettes,each
dealing with or reflecting on decisions made by the characters and the repercussions that
inevitablyoccurbecauseof them.Theaccusatorynatureof the firstchapter's title, "This ison
You",conveystheimportanceofchoiceinshapingone'sfuture.Itisherethatweareintroduced
toDanielAmes,agangmemberwhoservesastheclosestapproximationofaprotagonistthat
thisstoryhastooffer.Dannyistheshiningexampleoftheself‐destructivespiritthatpermeates
everyaspectofthebook,fromitsnoir‐meets‐westerntonetotheimportantroledrugsoccupyin
the narrative. As he searches for hismissing brother, his increased appetite for violence and
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narcotics give form to his increased despair. This dynamic keeps the reader involved and
sympathetictowardsDanny'sgoals,evenwhentheactualcostofthetruthbecomesapparent.
The brilliance of Low Down Death Right Easy comes not from its willingness to embrace
brutality,but in itsunderstandingofhowdeeply thedesolation itdepicts is rooted inchoices
intended tobring aboutpositive change. SeppClancy, anex‐convictwithnoopportunities, is
the canvass on which we see this play out. Despite the urging of his brother, Arlo, Sepp
continuestolivealifeofcrime.Sepp'smentalityisspelledoutexpertlyintheexchangehehas
with his friend Lucas in the chapter "The Blue Cat/Fertilizer". Sepp is perfectly aware of the
potential damage that can come from falling back into old habits, but chooses to lapse not
becausehe'sweak,butbecausehighriskforhighrewardistheonlylogicaloptiontohim:"...if
someonekickedhimoutofdoornumberone,he'dburnthewholebuildingdown."
ThemostremarkablethingaboutLowDownDeathRightEasy ishoweffectivelytheuseof
parallelingstorystructurecreatesasenseofdramaticfatalismthatisevocativeoftheworksof
ElmoreLeonard.ItisclearthatthelivesofSeppandDannyaregoingtoclash.Andasthesemen
unknowinglyinchtowardseachother,thegrimnatureofthebook'stitlebeginstoweighheavier
onthemind.LowDownDeathRightEasyisableakandtensionfilledcrimethrillerthatexcels
inmakingself‐destructionthoughtfulandengaging.Aparablethathingesontheideathateven
themostinnocuousdecisionscanleadtothemosttremendousofimpacts,Osbornehascreated
astorythatisaschillinglypoignantasitissatisfying.
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“I’mnottheonlyonetoseekouthisgraveinSt.Mary’sCemetery,betweentheInterstateandthesoftballdiamonds…”:AnInterviewWithEdSkoogby George McCormick
EdSkoog’smagnificentdebutMisterSkylight(CopperCanyon,2009)was—amongotherthings—
akindofpanoramicviewofAmerican lifeat thecloseof the firstdecadeof thisnewcentury. In
“DuringtheWar”we learn,“ThetrainIrodearoundAmerica/wasempty;thecountrywashalf‐
empty,/ like the zoo on Monday. I wept at the president,/ threatened to barefoot across the
border,/butintheendonlyrolleddownthewindow/towaveatastrangerwholookedfamiliar.”
Thepoemsinthebookareoftennimbleandintricate,andSkoogproveshimselfequallydeftasa
miniaturist:“It’s11:11,time/tomakemydailywish/catchthestiltlegsofthose/twobirdswholand
twice/ a day inside the clock”(from “Inland Empire). In his recent book Rough Day (Copper
Canyon, 2013), Skoog takes a different, somewhatmore surreal, tactwith his poems. Eschewing
titlesandpunctuation,Skoog’snewpoems feel freerandstranger,darkeryetmorecomic. Iwas
excited,then,inApril,whenIhadthechancetocatchupwithSkoogviaemailwherehewasbusy
teachingasavisitingwriteratWichitaState.
[McCormick]: I read Rough Day last Monday, then again on Saturday. The second time
through,asIwasthinkingaboutform,IwasremindedofalineJackSpicerhasabouttheserial
poem: “The serial poem has the book as its unit…and you have to go into a serial poem not
knowingwhat thehell you’redoing. It has tobe somepath that you’venever seenon amap
beforeandsoforth…”1DoesthisresonateatallwithhowRoughDaywascomposed?
[Skoog]:DidIknowwhatIwasdoing,andwhendidIknowit?Idon'trememberhowitallcame
together, but at some point the poems and the book converged. I'm interested in sonnet
sequences. IbeganwritingthisverymuchwithRilke'sSonnets toOrpheus inmind,but Ialso
1from“TheSerialPoemandTheHolyGrail.”TheHousethatJackBuilt:TheCollectedLecturesofJackSpicer.WesleyanUniversityPress,1998.
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haveinmyheadthefiguremadebySpicer,andbyRonaldJohnson'sARKandDorn'sGunslinger,
whichIknowisabookthatmeanssomethingtoyou,orusedtobackinoldMissoula.
[McCormick]:Yeah,itwaseitheryouorKurtSlausonthatturnedmeontoGunslinger.Thiswas
’96, ’97. I was working as a dishwasher in a big industrial kitchen at theHoliday Inn, and I
remembersittingnexttomydishmachine,crunchingoncroutons,andreading—beingamazed
by—Dorn’sbook.Imean,Ididn’tknowlanguagecoulddothat.Ipickedup‘Slingeragainduring
the Iraq war when I felt like I was losingmymind. Just recently when I was reading Cyrus
Console’sexcellentbook‐lengthpoemTheOdicyIcouldfeelthepresenceofDorn’sghost—the
re‐purposing of corporate language, the scathing humor, the relentless attack on consumer
culture.ThisisnottotakeanythingfromConsole,whoisapoetofthefirst‐rankinmybook.
[Skoog]:CyrusisfromTopeka.
[McCormick]:Thebookseemstomovefromgrieftoangertosomewherenearlyineffable;or,if
it doesn’t exactlywork sequentially like that it does seem to reiterate these stages. I find this
interestingbecauseangerseemsaplacethatiseasytostartfrombutdifficulttosustain.Imean,
I think there’s a reasonwhy 8o’s punk songs are short. Can you speak at all about how you
managetokeepthisgoingforeighty‐twopages?
[Skoog]:Myfavorite80spunksongis"AckAckAck"byTheMinutemen.Twentyunforgettable,
highlystructuredseconds.ButIdon'tseethebookinthetermsthatyoumention.Iwasthinking
of the album in musical terms, at various times, Mahler's symphonies, long late night
performancesbyNewOrleanspianistssuchasJamesBooker,JonClearyandProfessorLonghair,
and an interview inMojo with Shane MacGowan in which he beautifully avoids answering
questionsabouthissongwriting(andwhichprovidestheepigraphtothebook).Thereisanger
andgriefinthebookbutIseeitasessentiallyacomicpoem.
[McCormick]: Iagree.AndI lovehowquicklythebookcanmovebetweendifferentregisters.
Forinstance,thereareacoupleofmomentsinthebookwhereyoupivotfromarichimagetoa
stanzawritten inverydeclarative,even instructional, language: “andhere is thecanyonwhere
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westopforlove/andthesearetheredandorangeseedsoftheocotillo/andthesearethespines
ofthepencilcholla.”Andlater,perhapsmyfavoritelinesofthebook:“myadviceisgiveyourself
freelytorage/untilyourfacesunsintheblastofeither/thefurnacemygrandfatherstokes//or
therevolver’sanswer.”
[Skoog]: About those lines:Mymother’s father,Walter,was a steelworker inPittsburgh.The
family story is that he did something else, like handling the pay rolls or something, but the
newspaperarticlesabouthismurderin1952justcallhimasteelworker.Hewasshotinahotel.
Mymotheronly talkedabout itacouple times,but I’vedonea lotof research, tryingtogeta
senseofwhohewas,whathappenedexactly.Iamcontinuingtowriteabouthim.Iseemtobe
coveringthesameterritoryeveryfewyearsinmypoems.Differentdances,differentsongs,but
the same instrumentsmaybe.Perhaps Iwas trying to emulate somethingaboutdance in that
way,withpassagesthatmovequickly,passagesthatareinslowmotion,andpassagesthatstop
suddenly,likeacakewalk.
[McCormick]: I find the geographyof thebook fascinating. InMister Skylight placewas very
particularized,buthereitoccursasinadream—you’reatacoast,butnotthecoast.Or,you’rein
“amodesto”asopposedto“Modesto.”Doesthatmakeanysense?
[Skoog]:Iavoidmostplacereferentsinthebookforbothpracticalandconceptualreasons.The
bookwould be a spaghetti of place names if I certified each location, and it just didn't seem
important. Places don't really havemeaningful names,mostly, especially in themidwest and
west—town names are literally advertisements. This choice isconsonantwith other aspects I
didn't feel were important: titles, punctuation, people's names (mostly), etc. I wanted to do
withoutpagenumbers,butintheendthatseemedtoomuch.IsupposeIwastryingtocorrect
what I seeasa flawofmy firstbookMister Skylight,which, sometimeswhen I read it, seems
overwhelmed by vanity, and I can locate that vanity in the unexamined use of the usual
conventions, titles, punctuation, commodity fetishism, certain modes of rhetoric, style,
presentationofimageryandfigurativelanguage.Nottodwellonthemanufactureofthechorizo
andandouille,butIsawwaysthatIcouldbefreer,andthatseemslikeareasonablegoalfora
poet,tofindwaystobecomefreerwitheachbook,eachpoem,eachline.Mymorerecentpoems
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are trying to find that freedom in other ways. I think Rough Day is the end of one line of
development for me, and I'm Tronning to the side now, but I hope everything is
encircling/ensquaring/ensaring.
[McCormick]:I’veneverthoughtofitquitelikethatbefore,thattitlesandpunctuationcanbe
seenas formsofvanity.Smallwaysof feeding theego,perhaps.DidCopperCanyonhaveany
problemswith these formal decisionswhen you submitted themanuscript?After all,Skylight
hadbeenasuccessandherewasthisradicalshiftinpoetics.
[Skoog]:No,noproblemwiththosedecisionsthatIknowof.Doesitseemlikearadicalshift?I
thinkImostlytookthingsaway,followingacommentofRoqueDalton’s,thatyouknowareal
poetbecauseheorshehaslessandlesseveryday,untilalltheyhaveisacleanshirt.
[McCormick]:HavingworkedattheRichardHugoHouseinSeattle,andhavingbeenastudent
and later a visiting professor at the University ofMontana, it is safe to assume that you are
familiarwith theworkand lifeofRichardHugo.AsHugogetscanonizedhealsoseems tobe
getting a little squeezed in that we see the same five or six poems over and over, in each
successive anthology.My question is, what poem, or series of poems, do you find often gets
overlooked?
[Skoog]: Hugohasalwaysbeengood luck tome. Ididn’tknowhim,but fell in lovewithhis
poetrywhenIfirstread“LadyatKickingHorseReservoir”and“DegreesofGreyinPhillipsburg”
at 17.Mymentor at Kansas StateUniversity, JonathanHolden, hadwritten extensively about
Hugo,andhelpedmeworkoutwhyHugo’sworkhadsuchweighttome.Itwasn’tjustHugo,of
course.Ifelluncriticallyintothecharmsofdozensofpoets,andfollowedthosepathsbackward
andforwardintomattersofstyle,tone,ideas,waysoflookingatandbeingintheworld,waysof
beingone’s self. IdroveWest thesummeraftermy freshmanyear,withsome friends,andwe
spentafewdaysinMissoula.ThuscommencedmyHugotourism;I’mnottheonlyonetoseek
outhisgraveinSt.Mary’sCemetery,betweentheInterstateandthesoftballdiamonds,norto
drivetotheplacesmentionedinhispoems:Phillipsburg,SilverStar,LakeDrummond,Ovando.
Iwent to theUniversityofMontana’s graduateprogram, starting in 1994, 12 years afterHugo
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died,inotherwords,fullyawarethatIwouldnotgettoworkwithHugo,letmebeatyoutothat
question,butstillhisworksuggestedthatMissoulawasatleastasgoodaplaceasanytostart
tryingtobeawriter.Manypeopleofhiscirclewerestillthere,andIdidgettoworkwiththem,
ortoknowthem,andtheyandtheirworkhasmeantagreatdealtomeindependentoftoday’s
subject.IftheyawardedtheNobelPrizeinLiteraturenottoindividualsbuttogroupsoffriends,
fewgroupswouldbemoredeservingthanthatgroupofMissoulawriters:Hugo,JamesWelch,
AnnickSmith,BillKittredge,JimCrumley,MadelineDeFreese,others.Althoughfamiliarbynow
tome,Hugo’sworkalwaysseemsnew.“Newsthatstaysnews,”asPoundwouldsay.
IhadaproblemimitatingHugo,whichIdidfortoomanyyears,andthenspenttoomany
yearstryingnottowritelikeHugo,whichisnotanydifferent,exceptIsoundedinneithermode
like myself. Eventually I gave up and don’t care whether I sound or don’t sound like Hugo.
Sometimesalinedoes,becauseIlikethelooseiambicpentameterandwriteaboutmylifeand
peopleandplacesaroundme,whichhaveoftenbeenplacesthathehadwrittenaboutaswell
(broken up with a decade‐long vacation in New Orleans—paraphrasing “Degrees of Gray in
Phillipsburg”—the townof toweringblondes,good jazzandbooze that theworld letmehave
whenIletmyhometownofTopekadieinside.)
I later served aswriter‐in‐residence at the RichardHugoHouse, and hewas never far
frommymindthe last fewyearswhenIwasasabbaticalreplacementvisitingprofessoratthe
University of Montana. His poems have been my maps, useful stories for navigating the
Northwest,both in the imaginationand inmydaily lifeasacitizen. I just finished teachinga
classattheRichardHugoHouseabout“HugoandhisCircles,”andattheendastudentasked
what I learned fromHugo and these writers. Courage, honesty, dedication to craft, sense of
purpose.Value.Dignity.Nootherliterarymovement’sworkmeansasmuchtomepersonally—
thestorytheytell,together,isagoodstory.
IremaindrawntoHugo’swork,withallitsflaws.AtthispointIreadhiscollectedpoems
as something likeanovel, thewayTonyTost reads JohnnyCash’s songsas akindofnovel, a
novel of identity formation, the presentation of a self (in his 33 1/3 book about American
Recordings.)“DegreesofGrayinPhillipsburg”ishisgreatpoem,butIthinktheyallhaveahigh
sustain,withanadhesive force. I really like “SilverStar,”whichhasalways seemed tome like
“DegreesofGray inPhillipsburg Junior.”Wehave a lonely, forgotten townof ghosts and rust
thatconnectstothecollapsingconjectural“you.”Theconsciousnessofthepoemasksquestions
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andgetswronganswers.Realityisdefendingitselffromtheimagination,butonecanescapeina
car, and the last image is red, redbarn, redhair.Consideringonebeside the othermagnifies
both.Ilike“Youareastrangereveryday.Lettheenginesandthefarmequipmentdie.”Thelast
image is red, andbothpoemsendwith that characteristicofHugomidcentury “girl”—Hugo’s
portrayal of women, and of sexual anxiety, which is probably the barrier between his poetry
and—flip a coin on what you want to call it—“popular currency” or “immortality.” These
uncomfortablelinesinHugo,liketheminstrelryinBerryman’sdreamsongs,isprobablypoorly
considered fromapublic relations standpoint. But the sheer vulnerability ofHugo’s speaker’s
unadorned, unguarded relationships, imagined and real, withwomen, while theymake some
listenersturnoff,makemelistenmore,andconsiderthepsychology—psychotherapywasvery
important to Hugo—and woundedness and posturing and bluffing. It is a weakness in the
poetry.Solittlegoodpoetryhasweaknesses.Orsuchpreciseweakness.Oneisnottemptedto
valorizeHugoandhisspeakers,aschampionsofwomen.Hedoesn’tseemtohavemuchinsight
orempathywith them, thewayhedoeswitholdmen.Therearebiographicalexplanationsof
whyhemightbethiswayasaperson—orphan,severegrandmother,combat—butasonewho
haslongbeenunderthespellofhisvoice,Iwouldwishformoreunderstandingandcomplexity
regardingwomen.BecauseIcouldusesome.ButmyrealdefenseofHugoonthispointisthathe
talksaboutwomen,whilemostthemalepoetsofhisgenerationlargelyavoidwomen.Hemay
beinexperttalkingaboutwomen,butwomenarereallythesubjectofhispoems.Astheoldsong
goes,“motherlesschildrenhaveahardtimeinthisworld.”
It’s interesting tonoticewhat’snot inHugopoems.Aside fromthe letterpoems, there
aren’tmanypeople.LikethecartoonPeanuts,thereareveryfewparents.Fewchildren.
I also like “Keokuk.” There are manymoments in his poetry, often inside a sentence,
whereaquickswitchhappens,aleapthroughtime,orfromtheindividualtotheuniversal,ora
contradiction. The effect is like looking through a microscope that suddenly turns into a
telescope. At any rate, the effect is often kaleidoscopic. And verymuch so in “Keokuk,” wild
telescopingoftimeandtense,andidentities.TheKeokukisinIowa—perhapshevisitedduring
his disastrous semester teaching at Iowa, what seems to have been the breaking point, after
whichhesoberedup. “Yourgazemustgivetherescueteamachancetogrowonthehorizon,
framedingold.”AndalongtheselinesIlike“LettertoLoganfromMilltown,”whichseemslike
theanswerpoemto“Keokuk.”Hislegacyhastorestonthepoetry,nottheforceofhischaracter,
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orhislegacyasateacher,oreventheessaysinTriggeringTown,asinfluentialasthey’vebeen.I
knowthepoetrycanwithstandnewreadingsandcriticalapproaches,aswellasthepleasurethey
give.
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Contributors MarkBelisle,originallyfromFletcher,Oklahoma,nowlivesinRehobothBeach,Delaware.HisworkhasbeenfeaturedinseveralonlinemagazinesastheUniversityofBaltimore'sliteraryjournalWelter.Hisdebutcollectionofshortstories,calledSunflowersisavailableasane‐bookatAmazon.TimothyBradfordistheauthorofthepoetrycollectionNomadswithSamsonite(BlazeVOX[books],2011)andtheintroductiontoSadhus(CuerposPintados,2003),aphotographybookontheasceticsofSouthAsia.In2005,hereceivedtheKoretFoundation’sYoungWriteronJewishThemesAwardforanovel‐in‐progress,andfrom2007to2009,hewasaguestresearcherattheInstitutd’HistoireduTempsPrésentinParis.Currently,heisaVisitingAssistantProfessoratOklahomaStateUniversity.CameronBrewerisoriginallyfromMoore,Oklahoma.AgraduateofCameronUniversity,BrewerwasacceptedintotheCommunicationStudiesMaster’sProgramatSouthernIllinoisUniversity.Heenjoysreadingcomicbooks,slampoetry,writingqualitativeacademicessays,andperformingstand‐upcomedy.HeiscurrentlyworkingonagraphicnovelwithfriendandcreativepartnerGwenPrice.JerryGabriel’sfirstbook,DrownedBoy(Sarabande,2010),wontheMaryMcCarthyPrizeinShortFiction.ItwasaBarnesandNoble"DiscoverGreatNewWriters"selectionandawardedthe2011TowsonPrizeforLiterature.HisstorieshaveappearedinFiveChapters,EPOCH,AlaskaQuarterlyReview,andTheMissouriReview.Hissecondbook,TheLetGo,willbepublishedbyQueen’sFerryPressin2015.HelivesinMaryland,whereheteachesatSt.Mary’sCollegeofMarylandanddirectstheChesapeakeWriters’Conference.B.C.GilbertwasbornandraisedinAmarillo,Texas.HereceivedaBFAinpaintingin1997fromCameronUniversityandanMFAinpaintingandsculpturein2001fromTexasTechUniversity.HeisnowbasedoutofWichitaFallswhereheisaworkingandexhibitingartistaswellasanartinstructoratRiderHighSchoolandadjunctprofessoratMidwesternStateUniversity.Aforthcomingsoloshow,“HighPlainsJamboree,”willopenonJune6attheLouiseHopkinsUnderwoodCenterfortheArtsinLubbock.Hisworkcanalsobeseenatwww.bcgilbert.com.LauraHollowayisagraduateofHopeCollegeandworksasamathtutorinBucksCounty,PA.InadditiontotheOklahomaReview,herpoetryhasbeenpublishedinRiverPoetsJournal,MadPoetsReview,LehighValleyLiteraryReview,TheMathematicalIntelligencer,andInnisfree.Shehastwicebeenarunner‐upfortheBucksCountyPoetLaureate.
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GeorgeMcCormickistheauthorofSaltonSea(NoemiPress,2012)andhisstorieshavebeenpublished,mostrecently,inEPOCH,TheSantaMonicaReview,andSugarMule.HisnovelInlandEmpirewillbepublishedbyQueen’sFerryPressin2015.McCormickiscurrentlyanAssistantProfessorintheDepartmentofEnglishandForeignLanguagesatCameronUniversity.CoreyDonMingurareceivedhisMFAinCreativeWritingfromtheUniversityofCentralOklahomainMay2011.HisworksoffictionandpoetryhaveappearedinTheAcentosReview,TheWritingDisorder,Westview,Eclectica,RedLightbulbsandTheScissortaleReview.HecurrentlyservesasassistantpoetryeditorforArcadiaandistheeditorforitsOnlineSundriesblog.MinguraisaMexican‐AmericannativeofHollis,OklahomaandcurrentlyresidesinEdmond,Oklahoma.BrentNewsom'sdebutcollectionofpoetry,Love’sLabors,willbepublishedinspring2015byCavanKerryPress.HehasalsopublishedpoemsinSubtropics,TheSouthernReview,TheHopkinsReview,andotherjournals.ALouisiananative,heearnedaPhDinEnglishfromTexasTechUniversity,whereheheldeditorialpostswith32PoemsandIronHorseLiteraryReview.HelivesinShawnee,Oklahoma,withhiswifeandtwochildren,andisAssistantProfessorofEnglishatOklahomaBaptistUniversity.ZackO’NeillearnedhisMFAfromtheUniversityofSouthCarolina.HisshortworkhasappearedinTheDelinquent,KudzuReview,MarcoPoloArtsMagazine,andelsewhere.HelivesinSacramentoandteacheswritingcoursesatSacramentoCityCollege.
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