Tag Archives: SUNY Geneseo

by | December 8, 2015 · 11:14 am

Melissa Paravati

Atelophobia

There’s a common misconception about perfectionism making someone flawless. Mine doesn’t do that at all. My perfectionism is the devastating disappointment I feel when I don’t accomplish what I’ve decided I should. My perfectionism is my refusal to write in pen when completing assignments, the ulcer that developed after my first semester of college, and the dark bags that exist semi-permanently under my eyes. My perfectionism is the way I counted calories for months, but stopped when I decided that eating a nutritious diet was more important to an impeccable life than knowing how many calories are in an apple (ninety-five). My perfectionism became the pedometer strapped tightly around my wrist, constantly reminding me of how much exercise I had gotten that day and how much time was left for me to do more.

My sister expressed her perfectionism with much more impressive outlets. She had a perfect grade point average, a resumé that took up over three pages single spaced, and had enough scholarships that her PhD program was paying her to attend. If you didn’t hear her anxious sobbing at night, you might be fooled into believing the idealistic image that she projected.

My mother was affected as well, but she kept it under control better than I ever could. It had taken me eighteen years of my own neuroticism to recognize that the lipstick she hastily applied before her pre-dawn coffee run was masking lips tired from smiling all the time, and that she cooked dinner every night so that she could measure out her own carefully controlled portion.

My sister wore her expectations like the tassel hanging limply from her graduation cap. My mother painted her impossibly high standards on her face in gaudy hues. I fastened mine around my wrist.

On one of the rare occasions where my sister allowed herself to relax, she and I decided to watch television. We were flicking through channels when we found a documentary on a woman living with agoraphobia. Probably in an attempt to convince ourselves that we were normal, she and I watched the entirety of the film in fascinated silence.

The woman panicked even when she was opening the door to leave her home. She talked about feeling trapped, not by the four walls enclosing her and the restrictions she had placed upon herself, but by the boundless freedom outside. There was too much space, too much room, too much uncertainty.

When it was over, my sister stood and stretched. The hollow strip of skin exposed under her shirt reminded me that I had just spent over an hour sitting sedentary and needed to work out. For a moment, anxiety pulsed in my body like a heartbeat. I checked my watch and saw that I still had plenty of time, and I released the breath I did not even realize I was holding.

“That was so stupid,” my sister decided. “No one’s afraid of freedom.”

“You’re right. She’s probably just looking for attention.”

A week or two later, my pedometer died.

I was in the middle of a long run, 3.63 miles in, and the screen went blank. I slowed to a stop and stared for a moment incredulously. The wind pushed into me impatiently, demanding that I keep moving. But how could I, when I didn’t even know how far I could go. My life was measureless. I felt myself shrinking back inside of my body, unwilling to take a step further, because it was all too… free. How would I know if I had done enough exercise that day if I didn’t even know how much exercise I had done?

I trudged back home, each step pointless without something with which I could measure it. I loosened the watch and removed it, thrust it into my pocket, and suddenly my wrist seemed very bare. There was a tan line where the watch had been, a thin stripe going from golden brown to startling white. It reminded me of the summer days spent running, or biking, or making up excuses for why I couldn’t go out for ice cream with my friends.

The cool air felt good on my body. I paid more attention to the trees changing color when I walked instead of running, to the way that my footsteps struck the leaves on the sidewalk like thunder, how the clouds drifted lazily from one side of the sky to the next.

When I got back I thought about sucking down a protein shake. But I couldn’t shake the memory of missed ice cream sundaes from my thoughts, so I walked into the kitchen, a rebellious thrill pumping through my body. I reminded myself that these were my rules, so I wasn’t technically breaking them—just amending.

My brother was sitting at the table, eyes trained on his phone. I expected him to comment on how different and calm I seemed, but he didn’t even lift his head, he was so focused intently on what was in front of him. I deflated slightly, but the thought of eating what I wanted kept me moving towards the fridge. It was full of fruit and vegetables. That was the only snack that my mother and I bought while grocery shopping. But I knew in the back there was a secret stash of chocolates, something my mother had bought during a particularly stressful month and hadn’t touched. She had needed the reassurance that she was, at least, good at controlling herself.

I pushed aside cartons of sickly sweet berries and wilting lettuce. There they were: a crooked stack of three small chocolates, wrapped in shiny purple foil. They looked out of place amongst the produce, like coal wrapped in pretty paper. But I took all three and closed the refrigerator door.

My brother lifted his head, and I waited proudly and expectantly for him to comment his approval on the progress I had made.

“Hey,” he said, glancing down at his phone and back at me. His eyes were distant, almost glazed. “Do you know how many calories are in an apple?”

<< The Boy Who Loved to Dance 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Bones >>

Melissa Paravati is a junior at SUNY Geneseo, from New Hartford, New York, studying early childhood education and English. This is her first publication. Melissa is the National Communication Coordinator for Inter-Residence Council, an active member of the National Residence Hall Honorary, a Resident Assistant, a tutor for Perry Literacy Center, and a Zumba instructor. She would get along swimmingly with Hermione Granger.

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by | May 8, 2015 · 11:48 am

A Semester in Review: Launching Issue 3.2

Posted by Anna Watson, GD CNF Reader & Art Curator for 3.2

Hey, all of you wonderful fans!

Yesterday was the launch party for our spring issue of Gandy Dancer. I’ll try not to be too overly sentimental about the whole experience; however, as a first-time Editing and Production Workshop student—and a soon-to-be alumna of SUNY Geneseo—I feel like I learned a surplus of invaluable knowledge regarding all the hard work and communication (between readers, editors, and writers, alike) that goes into producing a literary journal. Continue reading →

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by | May 7, 2015 · 8:26 am

Monica Wendel

Vilnius

In Lithuania

my roommate made art

about hating Jews—

I escaped to a field

where I watched boys play soccer,

some universal sport

even in dream.

But things were dangerous.

I rode the elevator back up to the apartment

pushed her against the wall

shouting about soldiers

looking for people like me.

She looked surprised

that ideas could have consequences.

I didn’t destroy her art.

I woke up instead

and turned off the air conditioner

and took the dog out.

Grey clouds marbled over red brick buildings,

over the old factory we live in.

You were still sleeping.

In darkness, at night, your paintings

become the flags ships use

to signal each other

across wide empty spaces—

this one for civic pride,

this one for genocide.

English Kills

I’ve been singing

in a dead language

about the sun.

The children know

it can come back to life;

just ask the Israelis

who made up words

they couldn’t find in the Torah—

T-shirt, rainbow.

But rainbow must have been there.

Maybe I’m remembering this wrong.

In my dream, I was on a farm,

presenting a PowerPoint.

One slide was a picture of a mother

kneeling by her child,

the other was a backyard

abutting the Newton Creek,

and then the computer

stopped working. In real life

the creek branches

into English Kills and Maspeth Creek.

Don’t be alarmed:

Kills was only Dutch for something.

Was it stream. Was it water.

They’re all dead now,

those first discoverers.

My mother is scared

of the tunnels the Gazans

are building

but I am scared of any prison

no matter how large

and must always take the side

against the guards.

Call it my stubborn calling.

She told me once

that language is a river,

not a fish tank.

You can never capture

all the words.

Bushwick, Brooklyn

Admit it: you lose more keys

than all the travelers in the hostel combined.

And a summer storm is riding from the sidewalk

when the downstairs neighbor says,

“Did you know, there are apartments

above the coffee shop?” You say, yes,

because, look, this whole street

is buildings with three floors,

what did she think was there?

And she, coke hungover, says, “But where

is the door? How do they get upstairs?”

then huffs off. At least the front door

is open now. In your dream last night

you were in a red-lit basement

flooding with water. Sometimes the delivery

dealer rings your doorbell by accident.

The coffee shop has a lost-key app

on an iPad by the register.

Go there. They’ll let you in, next time.

They always do.

Monica Wendel is the author of the collection No Apocalypse (Georgetown Review Press, 2013) and the chapbooks Call it a Window (Midwest Writing Center, 2012) and Pioneer (Thrush Press, 2014). She would be best friends with the pioneer Ántonia from Willa Cather’s My Ántonia. In 2013, she was the writer-in-residence at the Jack Kerouac Project of Orlando, Florida. She holds a B.A. from SUNY Geneseo and a M.F.A. from NYU.

 

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by | April 29, 2015 · 11:47 am

Keara Hagerty

Mr. Davey, President of The World

There was a long dirt road that fell parallel to the edge of the farm. Neither his father nor his mother ever used it as it was the service road, designated for the farm hands and infrequent deliveries made to their house. The road was the closest thing to the outside world Davey could see from the sprawling acres and he watched it with fervor from the backyard in the sun and from the covered porch in the rain. His mother suffered from nervousness and so she spent the majority of her time watching Davey watch the road, calling from inside the house if he ventured past the fence and into the cow field. This was the farthest he could go while her eyes bore on him. The farm was in a secluded patch of Wyoming, too far from any town and too far from the small school for the bus to reach. His mother homeschooled him, skipping over math, global studies, and language, spending hours on religion, reading from dusty books she kept locked in a cupboard next to the stairs, allowing Davey thirty minutes of free time while she took a nap on the sofa in the front room, as prescribed by the doctor.

“Matthew: 13.” His mother struck a match, letting the end of her cigarette burn, folding in on itself between her pink lips. Her blue eyes were intense and unblinking.

Davey looked around the room. When he was younger he had enjoyed the Bible, fascinated by the plagues, Moses, Eden, and Jesus. The years of memorization had taken the enjoyment out of the tales, which felt stale and robotic as he recited them.

“That’s the parable of the sower.”

“Good. Do you remember what it means?” Davey’s mother took a long sip of her iced tea, the glass fogging with the mixture of hot breath and ice.

Davey nodded. “A man’s reception of God’s Word is determined by the condition of his heart.”

“Amen. Now go play.”

Davey made his way up the steps to the porch, skipping over the last one, which had become rotten with water from the snow that past winter. His legs ached with puberty, growing so rapidly he half expected his bones to break through his skin. The house had fallen into disrepair in the last few years from a combination of the weather, money troubles, and his father’s frequent trips across state to look for better land. Davey remembered the hopeful conversations once tossed between his parents like coins in a well, plans to leave the farm in search of better land before the start of the next season, which came and went year in and year out. From his spot on the steps Davey watched the last farm hand, Trevor, feeding the cows at their bushel. They pushed with their noses, greedily lapping at the hay with purple tongues until he couldn’t tell one from the other.

The sun bore down enough to make the early spring air bearable and cast patches of warm greenery on the field beyond the dirt road. Twenty-six acres, only a third of which he had explored. From inside the house, Davey could hear his mother snoring sharply, as if someone had just surprised her. He walked to the edge of the fence before kicking off his brown leather shoes, knowing his mother would spy any dirt on them from a mile away. The ground was moist and dry all at the same time and Davey winced as he walked through the field, knowing that cow shit lurked beneath the milk thistles and grass. Halfway between the house and the road Davey turned around. He thought he heard his mother, but it was impossible to hear anything over the satisfied sounds of the cows feasting. He reached out to touch one of them as he walked past, the hide wincing as he brushed it. From behind the bushel Davey could hear someone coming. He crouched down until his small body was hidden amongst the herd, too busy to acknowledge his presence. Trevor set down two buckets of water next to the cow, only feet away from Davey.

“Move, go on,” Trevor called. “Let me get in here you fat heifers.” He tossed the water sloppily into the trough behind the hay, bits of water hitting Davey in the face. He knew Trevor would tell his mother where he had been; he took any excuse to talk to her. Davey would watch his eyes flit up and down his mother’s body until she excused herself from the conversation.

“Your mother is a fine lady, you hear me?” Trevor would say as he made his way back to the barn. “A real fine woman.” Davey knew his mother was a beautiful woman; her clear blue eyes and sunflower yellow hair had been the envy of all the women in the last town. She hadn’t wanted to move out to the farm when his father came back from the war, but there was no arguing with him—stoic and unnerving in his distance, they packed up and followed his dreams of isolation.

Davey waited until Trevor’s footsteps were too far to hear and he slowly began making his way toward the dirt road. The fence at the edge of the field was rusted and his shirt, a red and white striped crew neck, ripped at the seam as he crouched underneath it.

“Shit.” Davey sucked in his breath quickly, sure that his mother, Jesus, and the rest of the God-fearing county of Washakie had heard him. If he turned around now he would have enough time to sneak back into the house and change before his mother awoke, but instead he passed under the fence and onto the road. The dirt felt velvety under his feet and Davey marveled at how narrow the road looked close up, how small his house looked from where he stood now. There were only a few feet between him and the edge of the woods and so he walked toward them, cautiously at first, but then quickly, as if they were calling to him.

He had only been walking for what felt like a second when he stopped to look around. On all sides and in every direction thick masses of trees surrounded him. The path from the road had disappeared behind the leaves, and the footprints indented in the ground moss had inflated again, leaving him motionless and utterly lost.

“Hello?” Davey called. Somewhere in the distance a bird chirped and fluttered from branch to branch, its blue wings splattered like paint against the trees. He tried to calculate how long he had been gone—ten minutes? An hour? The sun was still casting small patches of light through the canopy of green and so Davey figured it couldn’t have been that long, at least he hoped. From the corner of his eye, Davey spotted what looked like a house in the distance. It was partially covered with vines that twisted around the roof and through the crumbling chimney, thick and knotted. He thought it might be a lodge for hikers that often came through the county on their way to the Continental Divide Trail, a famous route that even the most geographically ignorant were taught about. It reminded him of his house, with its sunken steps and chipped paint. Davey walked up to the porch and stopped, listening for the sounds of the house’s inhabitants—people or animals.

It was only silence that greeted Davey, and he knocked on the door for good measure before turning the knob and opening it.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Davey surveyed the room—a small coal-burning oven, a couple of pots and pans, a sturdy set of bunk beds stripped down to the wood. Bottles of every shape, size, and color hung suspended by rope from the rafters, clinking gently against one another in the breeze.

“What are you doing in here?” The voice was old and hoarse, and through the muddled clinking of the bottles he thought he recognized it. Davey froze, paralyzed by thoughts of his father finding him in the middle of the woods without explanation; his ass clenched instinctively, readying itself for the belt. Davey could only remember a couple instances in which his father’s belt had been fully removed—when he forgot to latch the chicken coop and three of the largest hens were ripped to shreds by the neighboring fox, and when Davey had called his mother a bitch just loudly enough that his father, passing through the kitchen, heard him—although his mother had not. Mostly it was unbuckled and pulled out far enough to strike fear into Davey that struck harder than the leather against skin.

“I’m sorry. I was walking and I got lost,” Davey stumbled over his words. “I thought someone might be in here.”

“I’m someone.” The man moved close enough so Davey could smell alcohol on his breath, “Don’t I look like a goddamned someone to you, kid?”

“Yes sir, I’m sorry.” The sun was setting outside and Davey knew he only had twenty minutes, tops, before it was pitch black. “I’ll just go now.”

“Whoa, whoa there.” The man grabbed Davey by the shoulder. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you scared?”

Davey wanted nothing more than to be nose deep in the Bible, vowing to never cross that road again. “No.” Before his father had gone off to “fight the good fight,” as he called it, he took Davey aside and told him one thing: a man has nothing to fear but what lies inside of him.

“Good.” The man pulled a chair out from the small table pushed in the corner and motioned for him to sit. “It’s just, I don’t usually have company and I like a little time to prepare. Tidy up, cook a seven course meal, maybe shave if I’m entertaining ladies.” He grabbed two beers from a cooler. “But there ain’t no ladies as far as I can see.” The man cracked one open and set the other down in front of Davey. It was the same brand his father drank; Davey recognized it from the small rounded bottle and red and white striped label. He used to peel them off from the dozens he would find strewn around the garage.

“Go on, have some.” The man popped off the cap and pushed it closer. “What, your old man never give you a beer?”

Davey shook his head.

“That’s a damn shame. What’s your name anyway?”

Davey took a sip. The taste of it—bitter and metallic—took him by surprise and he struggled to swallow it, choking on the last few drops. “Davey.”

“Well, Davey, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like John F. Kennedy?”

Davey shook his head. He had seen some of the young politician’s inaugural speech with his mother who, after much pleading on his part, allowed him to watch the history unfold on their small black and white television. Davey had watched her usual tight-lipped expression soften as the speech began, unable to hide her fascination and, he suspected, desire for the leader. She was captivated by his dark hair, chiseled jaw, and baby blue eyes as all women were; he was captivated by his voice: strong, respectful, and mesmerizing.

“Ask not what your country can do for you,” Davey spoke slowly, careful to correctly recite the quote that had stuck with him, “ask what you can do for your country.”

“He speaks!” The man took a cigarette out and stuck it between his two front teeth, yellowing and chipped.

“What’s your name?” Davey asked. The man recoiled at the question and Davey felt a pang of fear run through his chest.

“Name…name…” He pulled at his long, graying beard. “Well, I can’t for the life of me remember my real name, kid, but you can call me Randall. That was my brother’s name. Good man.”

“What are you doing here? I mean, in this cabin?” Davey asked.

“Hitchin’ my way over to Cali-for-nia.” The word poured smoothly out of Randall’s mouth and Davey could almost feel the warmth of the West Coast sun pouring down upon him.

“Caught the freight up this far before the conductor started doin’ night checks.” Night. Davey looked outside the small scratched window, the trees casting dark shadows on one another.

“Could you point me toward Route 6, sir?” Davey followed Randall out into the woods that darkened slightly, colder without the patches of sun. They walked together for a while in silence when they came to the edge of the trees and the start of the road. Davey stopped and watched Randall walk back towards his house, his gray beard the last thing to disappear in the early evening haze. As he came closer to the house, he could see soft yellow light cascading through the windows, the silhouette of his mother in the kitchen preparing dinner. Davey could feel his heart attempting to escape his chest as he made his way to the door. Imagined fury in his mother’s eyes would burn like two spotlights as she heard the door close and her jaw would clench when she saw the giant rip in his shirt and mud on his feet. Davey looked down—he had forgotten his shoes back at the fence, but it had started to rain and they wouldn’t help him now.

“There’s cornbread in the oven, could you grab it?” Davey’s mother leaned over a vat of steaming broth, mixing lumps of indistinguishable ingredients further into the milky liquid. She didn’t look up at Davey whose feet tracked a line of dirt across the floor as he walked toward the stove. A gust of heat hit him, prickling his cheeks and making his skin itch.

His mother filled two glasses with milk and set down a beer in front of his father’s place. She must have been ignoring his absence, not wanting to address the issue while his father was home. Davey knew his father would find a way to blame his mother as he always did. When he was younger their love was obvious, open, and enormous. Pet names for his mother and lingering embraces passed between them like steam. It was obvious to Davey even as a twelve year old that there was something gone between them; the conversations that once hummed in the dead of night were now shouting matches that lasted until his mother had to retire. The three sat in silence at the table. His mother watched his father eat, inhaling food between swigs of beer.

“So, Pop, you think we’ll move any time soon?”

“Don’t be a fool, boy,” his father grunted. “We’re never getting out of here.”

Davey’s throat lurched. Never. Davey thought of himself as an old man, still reciting parables and sitting on the porch in the afternoon, looking out over the trees rooted in the ground—still freer than him. Suddenly his fork felt like lead in his hand and he let it drop to the floor before pushing away from the table in silence.

From his bedroom, Davey could hear his mother trying to sway attention away from his exit. “Davey is really getting good at reciting the parables, Peter.” Her voice jumped an octave—whether out of fear or excitement Davey couldn’t tell. “Basically has all of them memorized.” She picked up her fork, taking small bites from her plate, which seemed to be eternally full. His father grunted before making his way out to the garage for the remainder of the evening.

That night, Davey lay awake in bed dreading the next morning when he would surely meet his fate. His mother woke him at six with two poached eggs and black coffee. It was the only vice she allowed him and he clung to it, draining the cup within minutes as she took drags on a Marlboro—the first of many. As promised, they continued where they had left off but his fate had yet to arrive. The day crept on until his mother lay down for her nap so seamlessly, he was unsure if she had ever awoken.

The walk to the road felt shorter than before and Davey curtailed around the cows gathered by the hay, picking up his shoes, caked with mud and shit around the edges. He walked aimlessly, letting the trees guide him.

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by | · 11:47 am

Sarah Hopkins

Galatea in Blue

Elsie, on the beach, in a plastic yellow raincoat, soaked in salt water. Arms spread out, face turned toward the pale sun. I can see myself writing it. Sitting with my computer in bed, at work, or in the coffee shop down the street. Her paper skin. Her inky blood. Her curling, adolescent blue hair, bluer than the dreary sky, bluer than the slate gray ocean before her.

“Else!” I call out to her. I’m leaning against the hood of my car, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “We should get back—I can see lightning!”

And I can. When she turns around and looks at me, I can see it in the space behind her eyes. She kicks up wet sand around her.

“Well, I don’t hear anything,” she teases as her hair blows out in front of her, her wet ponytail tangling and whipping around in the salt breeze. The front of her white dress is soaked through and I can see her neon green bra, her soft stomach.

It is all a mistake, really. It is always a mistake to do what Elsie wants. Things like that get people like me in trouble. When I woke up to a text message from her begging me to pull her out of class, I should not have listened. After all, I had been Elsie-free for a month and change. I should not have called in sick to work. I should not have gone to pick her up at her high school, if only to see her run out the front doors looking almost like she’s happy to see me. I should have deleted her name from my phone and rolled over and gone back to sleep and never thought of her again.

But I am too much of an idiot for that. And by ‘that,’ of course, I mean ‘Elsie.’

“I should take you back to school,” I say as we climb back in the car. Rain pounds down on the windshield like a drum. “Don’t you have SATs to study for or something? They must be coming up for you.”

Elsie pinches the front of her wet dress with both hands, looking down through it, and she shakes her head. “I think this violates the dress code. Come on, let’s do something fun! You never want to do anything fun with me.”

“I should just take you home,” I admit, turning the key in the ignition. The engine stutters for a moment before the beat-up minivan comes back to life.

“My mom’ll kill me if I come home early looking like this,” Elsie whines, hugging her knees to her chest. “She’ll scream her head off, David, doesn’t that make you sad for me?”

In truth, I’m happy that she’s putting up such a fight. I hate to be apart from Elsie, but I also hate having to initiate any interaction with her. It always seems wrong, like seeing a raccoon in the daytime. Fortunately, Elsie is the type who will often show up at one’s doorstep unbidden. She’s so bright-eyed and innocent. I shouldn’t interrupt that.

“Well,” I say, chewing my lip for a moment. I don’t want to let her go. I have gotten into the habit of milking everything I can out of an Elsie day. “I guess we could just go get something to eat.”

Her smile is twisty and young. Her teeth are crooked with a little gap up front, but white and charming. Her wet hair sticks to the back of her neck, brown roots growing long through the blue, down to her ears. The windows match the drapes. Her eyes are brown too. Her spindly fingers with their chipped black nail polish button up the front of her raincoat to conceal her wet dress.

I pull up to a diner and she tumbles out of the car before I can go to open the door for her. I hope the other patrons will think that I’m her older brother. Or, I don’t know, her dad’s friend or something. It’s always hard to go out with Elsie, to feel so many eyes boring into the back of my neck.

“We should go to the mall later,” she says over pickles and coleslaw. “Some of the guys want to meet you. And then maybe we can do something else after that. And I need you to buy me a new bowl.”

“What happened to your old one?” I ask, wanting to know what had become of my previous investment.

She laughs and goes on to tell a story about some person named “Bones.” I can’t remember who Bones is, really, but I know he’s a member of Elsie’s ever-increasing cast of characters. She’s behaving as though I know him. She’s probably introduced me to him once, pulled poor Bones to the side of a party or a concert or a rave to meet her famous friend. He might be tall, with black hair and even blacker lipstick. Or he could be the one with the bike leathers and the crossed-out tattoo of his ex’s face on his shoulder blade. They both seem like they could maybe be called “Bones.”

“They love your book,” Elsie says. A lot of people love my book. It doesn’t mean they understand it.

“Who? Bones?”

She laughs and replies, “No, the guys we’re meeting at the mall. Seth and Rainbow and Tyler and all them. They think you’re like William fucking Burroughs or something. It’s kind of hilarious.”

I grin at my waffles and demur, saying, “Well, that’s flattering. I’d rather be Jack fucking Kerouac though.”

“Rainbow wants to get you to sign her arm. Then she’s gonna tattoo it. She’s got a collection. She’s got all sorts of people.”

“People?”

“Autographs.”

“Oh.”

Elsie laughs again, putting her tongue between her teeth. “She like, jizzed herself when I told her I knew you.”

I want to ask her if that was why she had called me this morning, after nearly a month and a half of silence. So that her friends could get my autograph. I don’t say anything. I just tip the waitress a little less. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but I suppose it was worth a try. Sometimes you have to communicate frustration. But other times, in my opinion, it is more helpful to simply punish the universe around you for the crime of being unhelpful. Unentertaining. Unfulfilling. Get the sunlight to bend toward you instead of having to twist yourself toward it.

The fat waitress waves us off as we head back to my car. Elsie gets in front of me, walking backwards over the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. She squints at my stormy expression.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks.

I skirt around her to unlock my door. “Your friends won’t like me,” I say. I know I’m falling back on my bad habit of self-pity, but I can’t help myself. “I’m not who they think I am. I haven’t written anything good since I was like, twenty. I’m a one-hit wonder.” If I actually put out what was in my head, they wouldn’t even understand it. My mind is a labyrinth, a puzzle box that not even I have the power to solve. No one could even imagine the complexity I possess.

“Oh my God, suck it up,” she says, laughing at my expense. “You sound like such a pussy.”

“I am a pussy,” I reply, and I smile in spite of myself.

We don’t talk much on the way to the mall. She puts her feet up on my dashboard, and I see that she has drawn all over her faded red sneakers with a ballpoint pen.

She’s just a kid.

“What a gross day,” Elsie says. “It was so sunny this morning, too, that’s why I wanted to go down to the shore. Augh, look at the sky.”

I simply nod in response. I don’t look at the sky. I look at the road ahead. It’s getting congested—a mixture of bad weather and the prelude to rush hour. I wish I had stayed in bed for a moment, but Elsie’s presence beside me is comforting. Even though I could never reach across to hold her hand, the physical possibility of interaction with her is good enough.

Elsie’s friends are waiting for us in front of the mall’s movie theatre, right near where we first met each other. The memory makes me smile.

A movie theatre is a temple. It is where we all gather to hold hands and examine our place in the universe. And it is where I go to sleep. My whole life, I’ve never been able to sleep without the television on, and for a long time after they turned my magnum opus into some god-awful romantic comedy, I found myself falling asleep in the back of movie theatres as well. It was like being hypnotized out of hysteria, it was like crying on the subway, it was sleep-catharsis. To say the least, it was a bad habit.

And a gateway drug to Elsie.

I had fallen asleep during an anniversary screening of Pretty Woman. I remember her thin, pale hand reaching down to my shoulder and shaking me.

Hey, wake up.

I wondered why she was alone too. Why she was like me. Like a teenaged version of myself that was somehow not horribly depressing. Or horribly embarrassing. I stammered out an apology and she said I could repay her by giving her a ride home. Her father was a cop and he was dead and her mother was a bitch and she was still at work.

I decided to repay her off-putting honesty with a truth of my own. I told her who I was, and she wrote my number on her arm with a pen that she borrowed from me. I hate those numbers. I hate that pen. I love that arm.

One of Elsie’s friends—the short one—scratches his own arm and throws his cigarette to the ground. The girl with red hair grinds it under her toes. The tall one is holding an umbrella.

Elsie introduces us.

The tall one is Seth. The girl is Rainbow. The short one is Tyler. I am David Fallow.

Nice to meet me.

“I can’t believe this!” Rainbow says as we get inside. The mall, a relic from the eighties, is mostly empty of people, even though it’s a stormy day. It’s made of concrete and dirt and linoleum, and it smells like perfume and sweat. “I’ve wanted to meet you like my whole life. I thought you would be older, I don’t know why. Maybe ’cause you wrote a whole book.”

I am old. Too old, that is.

Rainbow is much fatter than I anticipated, not as alluring as the girl that my mind had conjured up: the rainbow spirit who was lithe-limbed and rosy, with a sleeve of names on her arm. The kind of girl I imagined hung out with Elsie.

“I’m, uh, twenty-seven. I wrote the book when I was just a little older than you, actually. That’s probably why I’ve retained my, er, youthful glow.”

Rainbow laughs. Elsie doesn’t. She’s heard this joke before. And she’s never even read my book. I wouldn’t want her to, anyway.

Elsie is someone to be written about, not someone who should read.

“So what are you working on right now?” Seth asks eagerly. “Is it another book?”

Yes and no. I tend to think of all my interactions with Elsie as “working on another book.” But I haven’t managed to get much on paper.

“I’m a staff writer for Ace Crime Bot. On NBC.”

I can see the excitement fade from Rainbow’s eyes. I’m not some Aspergian hipster god. I sold out. I’m just like all the rest of them. Fuck, I’m not even the show runner. I’m just a guy who sits with twelve other guys around a table, saying, “Maybe there should be more crimes.”

“Do you work in the city?” Tyler asks.

“…Long Island City, actually.”

It goes on that way for some hours, with them gradually becoming less and less interested in me until I fade into the background. At one point, Rainbow pulls up her sleeve to show off all the names written all over her arm like spider webs.

“Oh,” I say, looking at an autograph on her fat upper arm, pink and bumpy like chicken skin. “I like Zach Braff.”

“Yeah,” she says, the timbre of her voice becoming bored and far away. All right. I guess she’s bored with me. I’m bored with her too.

“So, uh, did you want me to sign it?” I ask, unsure of how she wanted to go about the situation.

She shrugs, which is not very flattering, and says, “Yeah, whatever. Probably later.”

Elsie tries on a dress made of blue lace, like her hair. We all admire how it hugs to her slim, perfect body. The sheer sleeves, the gold zipper. One of her red tennis shoes turns in toward the other as she grins at her reflection in the mirror. I watch her soft white hands smooth down her front. She’s probably imagining herself older, at a grown-up party, with a glass of wine in hand. She’s being hugged to the side of someone smart and attractive. Laughing at his stories. Smiling and listening to what he has to say. Turning her head intimately toward his ear. Everyone else looking at him and envying the smartly-dressed young woman on his arm. Oh, this is Elsie Pierglass. Isn’t she charming? Even more charming behind closed doors.

“It’s too bad that it’s so much money,” Rainbow says. “This is why you can’t try on shit that’s over a hundred.”

Elsie nods, saying, “I know,” before biting her bottom lip and retreating back into the dressing room. I stand by a display of half-off tees and watch the gap between the door and the carpet. Her small socked feet slip out of her shoes and the dress slides down her body and then her legs before she has to bend and reach a slender, bare arm toward the ground to pick it up again. I set my teeth.

“Shit,” I say as we are leaving the store a few minutes later. “I left my keys in there. You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a second.”

Elsie waves me off as Tyler and Seth collectively shrug. They don’t even notice that I have another shopping bag with me when I catch up with them fifteen minutes later.

I go back and forth over when the best time to give her the dress would be, but I figure that I should do it when we are alone.

That’s more special.

“All right,” Elsie says, patting my arm and disturbing my train of thought. “Well, I’ll see you around, David!”

“Wait, you’re going off with them?” I say, and I take a half step toward her. I realize that I’m leaning over her slightly, but that’s probably just because of our height difference. “You don’t want me to give you a ride?”

Rainbow frowns. I realize that she has never actually asked me to sign her arm.

“I’m fine,” Elsie says. She reaches forward to pat my arm, like she’s calming down a wild animal. “Seth has a car. So I’m gonna go.”

“I, uh, wanted to drive you home, that’s all. I just…’cause I have a surprise for you.”

“Well, what is it?” Elsie asks, grinning.

Rainbow rolls her eyes and says, “We’ll just meet you in the car, Else.” She and the two boys make a quick exit. Elsie turns to me, her eyebrows raised.

I hold the bag out to her and she takes the paper loops in both her hands, looking inside.

“…Oh,” she says. I had expected her to pull out the dress and twirl around with it hugging the front of her body. Instead she closes the bag and looks up with the sort of sad smile that goes right through me. “Oh, David. You didn’t have to…you really didn’t have to do this. Um, why did you do this?”

“You just, I saw that you liked it so much, but you couldn’t, um, afford it. So I bought it for you. It’s not a big deal for me, or anything. It’s yours. That dress belongs to you, it really does. I didn’t want anyone else to, er, to have it.”

“Oh, cool. That’s…that’s very nice of you. I’ll, uh, see you around, Dave.”

I say goodbye to the back of her head.

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by | · 11:45 am

Margaret Thon

The Ballad of Summer ’72

Dewey met Dawn exactly one month after he became a graduate of Coburg High School and exactly two weeks after becoming a full time employee of the creamery in Springfield.

She rolled into town with suede boots up to her knees, shorts up to her belly button, and a white collared blouse tucked neatly in. His best friend Peter hadn’t warned him about her arrival. Why would he? She was Peter’s cousin from Seattle and her divorcing parents wanted her to spend time in the Oregon countryside for the summer, away from the city, away from the mess of ending a twenty-year marriage. The city burst from her like her round breasts burst out between the buttons of her blouse. That first day, Dewey sat on Peter’s orange loveseat, and listened to her sing-song voice jabber away about everything he had never heard about before in Coburg.

“Have you listened to the new Pink Floyd album yet?” Dawn asked. Dewey knew the band, but didn’t care to keep up with their album releases. Music didn’t really interest him all that much. “Oh come on, man, you’ve got to! It’s gotta be their best one yet!” She released an exasperated breath. Her teeth were so straight, and her pale thighs were porcelain against the eggplant armchair. Dewey wished he had changed from his work boots and sweat-stiff T-shirt before coming over to Peter’s house. He searched his brain, desperately trying to think of something interesting to say to Dawn.

“I work at a creamery. We make yogurt.” The words tumbled from his mouth, having nothing to do with the latest music trends, and causing heat to rush from his toes to his eyebrows.

“Nice one, tomato face,” Peter whispered low enough for only Dewey to hear.

“Ooooooh.” Dawn opened her eyes wide. “That is so awesome. I love yogurt. Seriously, it seems like that’s all I eat now. I’ve been a vegetarian for two weeks. I read some article in Mother Earth News and it talked about all the shit meat production does to the environment and all the people who are starving that could be fed using the land we keep cattle on.”

Dewey ran his fingers nervously through his greasy brown hair—he didn’t know how to respond. How was she filled with so much knowledge? He felt like he knew so little.

“Yeah, yeah, I thought about doing that once,” Dewey lied.

“No, you have NOT, you had a triple-dog-hot-dog at dinner last night.” Peter ratted Dewey out.

Dawn just smiled, ignoring her cousin. “Well, I could give you some pointers if you wanted to try again.”

Dewey realized she was the kind of girl who always knew what to say.

“I’d like that.” His green eyes locked with her brown ones, and Dewey swore they could hear his heart beating all the way to the silent monasteries of India.

“So what’re you boys doing tomorrow night? It is Saturday, after all.” Dawn raised her eyebrows mischievously.

“Uh, drinking some beers. Maybe having a fire out back by the barn,” Peter responded. Dewey and Peter had been taking every chance they got to enjoy the summer—the risk of getting drafted was always in the back of Dewey’s mind, but never discussed. Dewey felt as if they had an unspoken agreement; if one of them got sent, the other would go too. That was just the kind of friends they were.

“Fire, yes. Beers, nah. I’ve got a better idea.”

The first time Dawn kissed Dewey, he was high on her Seattle peyote, and the willow tree he was standing under looked like it was part of a comic book. His fingers tangled themselves desperately in her blonde ponytail, each individual strand becoming its own spaghetti entity on his sweaty skin. His eyes widened as her cubic face moved toward him and her pillow lips grazed his sandpaper ones. A few feet away, the fire crackled to the beat of Dewey’s heart, and Peter was staring at the ground, captivated by the movement of his tennis shoe in the dirt.

“I like you, Dewey, even though you’ve got a silly name. It’s like a nickname you’d give your friend who is always doing something. Or do you just have a perpetual sheen of morning dew on you?” Dawn’s words sounded mish-mashed to Dewey, and the flames of the fire framed her body, creating a soft cocoon around her and making her pale skin glow.

“It’s my grandpa’s name, and I like you too, Dawn.” This time Dewey glued his lips to hers, wishing the adhesive was permanent. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was Jimi Hendrix’s staticky solo on the transistor radio in the background, but in that moment Dewey knew Dawn Montgomery was definitely going to be his girl.

Every day after work, Dewey would speed to Peter’s house on his bicycle, straight out of the city of Springfield and into Coburg’s rolling fields of corn and looming red silos reaching for the sky. He would run into Peter’s house to call his grandma and tell her he would be home late. His fingertips still ripe with the scent of sour milk, he would walk hand in hand with Dawn, around the quaint dairy farm. They never had a destination, until the day they found the small knoll in the woods behind the barn. They would lay down, letting the sun warm their bodies and the grass tickle them through their shirts, their hands always finding the neck or arm or thigh of the other. The sugary aroma of the flowers filled their nostrils and the KWRS station on Dawn’s radio whispered tunes that Dewey had never heard.

Dewey couldn’t get enough of talking to Dawn. Words flowed from his mouth as easily as the honey yogurt at the creamery stirred in the big silver vat. She told him she wanted to go to college after she graduated next year, and he told her about his dream to partner up with Peter and make the dairy farm into a state-wide business. Her nose scrunched at their plan—he should go to school and get a business degree, plus the farm was way better off staying local and homegrown, she said. Dewey shrugged it off, telling her that he had known since the sixth grade that college wasn’t for him. His grandma barely made enough money as a secretary to support the two of them, even with his full-time job, let alone pay for school. Dawn suggested he pick up more hours and save, and then they could go to Oregon State together in a year. He nodded, even though he knew he would never be smart enough to get in.

Nonetheless, on the Monday following the conversation about their futures, Dewey walked into the creamery with a mission. As he entered the cool building, the early August sweat on his face began to dry. He mazed his way through the stainless steel mixers, the refrigeration systems, and his coworkers before arriving at his labeling station. He straightened the pile of white labels with maroon print and immediately began gluing them to the plastic cups.

“Off to an early start this morning, Dewey.” The shift manager placed his hand on Dewey’s shoulder.

“Hey, Mr. Brown, I was wondering if I could pick up a few shifts here or there? I’m trying to save.” Dewey looked up eagerly at his six-foot-three manager.

“I don’t know, Dewey. You already work forty hour weeks,” Mr. Brown said. Dewey picked at the pile of labels in front of him.

“Please.” Dewey could only think about Dawn—and her hopes for him.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but the creamery isn’t doing so well. We’re deciding who to let off—you being a new employee isn’t really in your favor right now, Dewey.”

“What can I do?” Dewey asked. He would have to start looking for a second job tomorrow. Maybe Peter’s dad would hire him part time; he could do odd jobs around the farm.

“Actually, maybe there is something you can do. There’s a big band coming to town. The owners know them, I guess, and they’re coming here to play a benefit. They’ve got a huge following or something. Said they want to help save a local business—it’s what they stand for or something. Anyway, tell your friends, and buy some tickets. This is really the creamery’s last chance.”

“I’ll take three.”

The first time Dewey brought Dawn home to meet his grandmother, he was even more nervous than when he was a participant in Coburg’s fifth annual third grade spelling bee. He was hoping this case of the nerves wouldn’t impact him as much as when he was eight, as he had had to run out the gym and throw up in the bathroom before he had even spelled out one word.

Dewey tried to squash the churning in his stomach with his fist as he walked into the living room. He had already put away his blanket and pillow—he didn’t want Dawn to know his bedroom was their living room as well. Dewey had already told Dawn about his house but she hadn’t actually faced the situation yet. The once fluffed brown carpet was worn down flat, the upholstery on the chair and couch was frayed, and their small kitchen was littered with pill bottles—evidence of his grandma’s age. In her younger years, she had kept the house in tip-top shape, making its small size seem insignificant. Nowadays, his grandmother’s fading health and full-time job made housekeeping too large of a task at the end of the day. One day, Dewey knew he would buy his grandmother the nice home that she deserved to retire in, with floral furniture and a big window to set her chair by.

“When’s she getting here, Dewey?” His grandmother asked. “The chili’s going to get cold.” His grandmother’s opinion of Dawn was yet another worry of the night. He glanced out the window, his foot tapping repetitively on the floor.

“Soon, Grandma, soon. Be nice to her, okay? I really like this girl.”

“Really liking a girl at your age is trouble.” His grandma frowned. She had been strict with him growing up, but fair. She’d been stuck with him ever since his mom, her daughter, died in childbirth, and his dad skipped out of town a year later. Dewey knew he was lucky to have her. His hands flushed with sweat when he heard the doorbell ring. He leaped from the chair, wanting to get to the door before his grandma.

“Hey, Dawn!” He sounded overly enthused for having seen her only an hour before. She scrunched her eyebrows in a look that said he was acting weird.

“Hi, Mrs. Douglas, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Dewey has only ever had great things to say about you.” Dawn towered over his grandma as she hugged her.

His grandma put a hand to her chest, laughing, “Oh, now does he? I guess he failed to mention my reaction to the time the neighbors caught him leaving a paper bag of cow poo on their doorstep for the next innocent victim?”

“Did he really do that? What an awful child. He deserved every bit of punishment for that one.” Dawn laughed as Dewey’s grandma led her by the shoulders into the kitchen. Dawn turned her head back to Dewey, winked, and mouthed, “I got this.”

And for the rest of the night, Dawn did have it. He could barely get a word in edgewise while the two women in his life, old and new, chattered away.

“I don’t think I like them all that much,” Peter said, looking skeptically at the ticket before shoving it back into his pocket and picking up a rake.

“C’mon, you can’t miss out on these guys. They are so far out!” Dewey shoveled a pile of manure into the heaping wheelbarrow. Peter’s dad had agreed to hire him in the afternoons after all. It was the first time he had really hung out with Peter since Dawn had arrived.

“Dawn told you all that, didn’t she? You’ve never even listened to them, have you?” Peter asked.

“Well, not really. But they are cool. And this will help the creamery! C’mon, man, we’re like blood brothers and you need to help a brother out,” Dewey begged.

“I guess I owe them something for all the milk they supplied me in elementary school,” Peter said scratching his head. “I’ll go, but don’t expect me to stand around and watch you throw yourself at Dawn the whole time. She’s just a flirt, stringing you along for the summer.” Peter had stopped raking out the hay and grabbed Dewey’s shoulder.

“I just think she is so…perfect. I think she might be–”

Peter’s arm fell back to his side. “Shit, man. Don’t even say it. Dawn is not the girl you are going to marry. She’s here for the summer and that will be fun, but after that she’s off to senior year and then college. She’s always had big plans. Not to mention, she has plenty of dudes falling over her in Seattle, I’m sure. Ones that are going to be lawyers and doctors. Do I have to smack some sense into that thick tomato head?”

“We’ll be business men soon, Peter,” Dewey said.

“Are you stupid? That’s never going to happen, Dewey, that was just us kids talking. For all we know, we’re both going to get called up to Vietnam tomorrow. If not, well, I’m going to work on the farm until my dad’s back gives out for good, then I’ll take over completely. You, you’re going to work at the creamery, maybe move through the ranks to shift manager. We aren’t going anywhere, Dewey. Got it?”

Dewey nodded, but he didn’t get it. Peter’s words sounded to him like jealous slurs. Dewey knew that Peter was upset that he was spending so much time with Dawn, and so little with him. He was upset that Dewey’s life was coming together so quickly, and his was the one going nowhere. Dewey wasn’t going to let Peter’s jealousies convince him that his feelings for Dawn were false. He wasn’t going to let Peter degrade the dream they had talked about since they were young. The friends worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon, breathing in the potent fumes of cow manure.

When Dewey arrived at Peter’s house the day of the benefit concert, sweat was already soaked through his T-shirt, and the late August heat was baking him like a cake in the oven. As he walked up the uneven steps of Peter’s house, Dewey wondered if his friend would be joining them. He hadn’t seen him since their confrontation in the barn. Before he even got to the door, a twirling Dawn exploded through it and into his arms.

“I am so unbelievably excited for today!” she sang.

“Me too!” Dewey tried to match her enthusiasm as he looked over her shoulder trying to see if Peter was in the foyer.

“But you have no idea how long I’ve waited to see this band. Oh my, I’m sorry but I would leave you for any one of them. I’ve missed the Seattle music scene so much.”

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Jason Guisao

Our Babies Are Coming Home

In the half-light, Loulie wakes from a hazy nostalgia. Oaken-sharp bangs lick at her eyelids, paper thin. A foreign scent drifts throughout the bedroom, sweet and sour from the incense ash and something else. Her husband Amos stands in the currents of light pouring in from the bedroom window. The curtains, pushed aside, reveal the entirety of the front lawn and the boulevard below. Amos is naked, his undergarments scattered on the carpeted floor. Burn scars embellish his buttermilk back, while motes of dust dance along the lines of his silhouette. There is a deep stain stamped into the sheets where he slept hours before.

I can see them standing there, Lucretia. Just beyond the patio, Amos says.

Did you take your medicine?

I don’t remember.

Amos turns to his wife as she rises, the sheets and woolen covers falling from her body like flaking skin. She stands tall, her beige nightgown kissing her kneecaps. She considers herself a plain woman. Thin lips, with a small sharp nose, and shallow cheekbones. An oval dimple sits perfectly at the tip of her chin. Irises like the black of night glint in the rays of the sun as if stardust had been molded into their center. Loulie grabs a towel from the closet and ties a knot at her husband’s middle. He glances at the wet stain on the bed. She notices and cups his face in her callused hands.

It’s okay, she says. Go bathe.

He leaves for the bathroom as Loulie pulls the dampened sheet from the bed. Amos’s feet stamp into the ground like miniature mortar shells. Outside the window, the bayou rises from its sleep. Dew like droplets of wine rest on the sea of green below. The paperboy is up and about, his bronze skin sleek as a new penny on the grit road. He throws the newspaper against the door and catches Loulie’s gaze from the window. She smiles and waves, and he nods in return. It is an August Sunday and the Baton Rouge mugginess enters the house from every crack and crevice. The wooden plank flooring groans and the stairs whisper at each step. Loulie strides like a ballerina, soundless and nimble. Each movement of her foot, the next step in a familiar dance.

The kitchen is simple. Amidst the hanging pots and pans, there is an overwhelming quaintness hammered into the wallpaper and the floor tiles. A breeze arrives from the window, bringing the marshland with it. Loulie drops the sheet effortlessly into the sink and turns the glossy faucet. She grabs a bar of soap from the chestnut cabinet above and scrubs away. Her hands move briskly and sternly, as if she has been washing sheets all her life. As if work is all she has ever known. She can only think of Amos upstairs in the bathroom, washing the smell of urine from his body. She can only think of January 15, when the Creole woman from across the street flung herself out of her front door and onto the pebbled road, hollering: Good Lord, Nixon said it’s over! Our babies are coming home!

Loulie opens the front door and steps out onto the patio. She hangs the scrubbed sheet up on the clothesline and steps back into her home, fastening the door shut. She grabs pecans from the glass bowl centered on the dining table and toasts them in a skillet until they are fragrant and browned. In a few minutes the pecan waffle breakfast is complete. The aromas barrage her nose. She smiles to herself, satisfied, and pours orange juice into a cup. Amos enters, fully clothed, and constantly glances out to the patio. He sits at the table and smiles grimly—all he can muster. Loulie has made no food for herself. She simply sits across from Amos, a glass of tap water in her hands, observing him as he saws at the waffles with his knife. His wifebeater tight against his broad chest and tucked into carpenter jeans. His musk springs from his jagged arms. Loulie takes a sip of water and studies his windswept face over the glass cup, the shadow around his lips so prominent in the dimly lit kitchen. His shrill cheekbones and warped nose. His eyes like sapphires chiseled into the top of his face. Loulie thinks he is beautiful.

It’s good? she asks.

Yes, ma’am. It’s always good.

It’s beautiful out today.

He grunts gently in approval, chewing with his mouth closed, pecans crunching between his teeth. She thinks back to his naked body at the window. Amos glances at the lawn beyond the patio once more before his next bite. There are two waffles left.

You thinking about working with Reggie again?

Yes, ma’am. Figured I’d see him tomorrow, he says.

You think you’re up to it, with the headaches and all?

I don’t know.

You gave me a scare this morning, Amos.

I know. I’m sorry.

Did you take your medicine?

Yes, ma’am.

Okay. That’s good. Are you feeling better?

The headache is gone. Reckon it’s the painkillers that did that.

Good. You keep taking your medicine and get more sleep, and soon the rest will get better too.

Yes, ma’am.

Love you.

I know, he says, finishing his last waffle.

By midday, Loulie is fast asleep in the rocking chair on the patio, the skin of her lids rippling above her musing eyes. In her dreams, she is a younger woman, her clean fingernails brushing through violent coarse stalks. The sun dips into the horizon, contusing the sky purple, red, and orange. She is home with her father in Macon. He sits alone on the wooden porch, his eyes unmoving and far off. The lines etched in his brow and lips are like the rings spiraling in the base of a tree. She can see antiquation in his eyes and in his graying mane, a plague ripping her in two. She stands against the tides of weathering and time, naïve and unaware that her efforts to cure her father’s dementia are in vain. She watches him fall asleep in the black of the night, remembering the quickening of her beating heart when she grabbed the Drano from his shaking hands. He had mistaken it for milk.

Loulie opens her eyes at the sound of rushing water. Half of the sky is still lit by the setting sun. The moon, in its milky ferocity, rises and begins to illuminate the sky. She follows the noise into the house. Upstairs a light shines brightly from underneath the door of the bathroom. She frantically climbs the staircase, her feet scraping against the edge of each step. She reaches the top within seconds and swings open the door. Amos is in the bathtub, water falling against his clothed figure from the shower nozzle. Dirt falls from his body into the tub like sins cascading in clumps. He shivers, his eyes scanning the room in milliseconds and soon resting on hers. Loulie crouches in front of him, her large eyes as soft and sparkly as pooling honey. He stops hyperventilating. His eyes focus on her fingers, then her lips.

I’m so dirty, he says.

I know. It’s okay.

The water is cold against his skin, trickling down into the trenches of the burn scar along his back. Loulie unloops the buttons on his overalls and pulls his legs out, the left leg first and then the right. Her hands pull the wife beater from his chest like a scissor piercing through the cloth. Loulie places her hand on his brow and feels for warmth but finds none. The swirling wind beyond the pane howls her name. And then the bayou goes silent. She can smell gumbo radiating from the backyard several houses down the road. An afternoon barbecue fills the air. Amos is motionless, unsure of what to do. His panting is at an end, but his heart punches his ribs. His wife grabs a bar of soap from the cabinet adjacent to the sink. He grabs her hand, his eyes pleading with hers.

I’m sorry. Please, he says.

Come, Amos. Let’s make you clean.

In the half-light, Loulie wakes from a hazy nostalgia, a thin line of spittle protruding from the corner of her mouth. The bedroom is tranquil in its gloom. The radiance of the sun peeks through the translucent drapes. Morning bird chirps trail up and down the boulevard. Loulie places her hand over her yawn. Amos is naked, his undergarments scattered on the carpeted floor. Goosebumps pepper the nape of his thick neck and shoulder blades. The blood passes like bullets in the veins coating his forearms. Loulie rises from a dune of bedspreads and joins her partner by the window.

They’re on the patio now, Lucretia, Amos says.

No one is on the patio.

They’re so close now.

Did you take your medicine?

I don’t remember.

Loulie sighs and makes the bed as Amos stands unmoving. Her thin wrists fold the blankets back, fatigue under her sockets like eyeliner. She grabs a towel from the closet and ties a knot at her husband’s middle. She leads him to the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. Capsules and bottles of pills crowd each shelf, but she grabs the white bottle of pain killers. Amos never blinks. As he bathes, Loulie leaves for the porch. A new paint odor stems from the planks. She is alone on the porch, despite her husband’s unnerving visions. The lush bayou is crisp in the gaze of the sun. She plans to make chamomile tea.

When Amos arrives, beads of water dribble down his arms. Loulie tells him that she has decided to call in sick: Who needs welders anymore anyway, the war is over. And I’d rather spend my time with you. She sips from her tea. I don’t think you’re healthy enough to work with Reggie, she says.

Okay.

They won’t go away unless you get more sleep and take your medicine, Amos.

Lucretia, what if you’re wrong? What if they never go away?

Her father appears in her mind’s eye, his ragged baggy overalls covering his skeletal limbs. Placing his lips to a bowl of milk. Walking him to the dinner table. Washing the caked grime from his body and praying that the decrepitude is soaped away as well.

It’ll all go away, Amos, because I’m taking care of you, she says.

Amos leaves for the upstairs bedroom. Loulie follows him with her large eyes, his calves coolly flexing at each stair. She turns to the sink and washes her mug of tea. Soap suds cast themselves onto her thin wrists. She turns the tap off and dries the mug with a nearby hand towel, then opens the front door. She stands alone once again, passions bottled in her stomach like the child she had always wanted. Always needed. There is a thought in the form of saliva on the tip of her cracked, sundried lips, so fragile and hopeless.

Leave us be, she whispers to the shadows on the patio.

Her hair rises against the bayou’s sugarcoated drafts. And for the first time in countless years, she sobs. Not for her father, or for the husband in the bedroom: she weeps only for herself. Her hands tremble and wipe the salt from her cheeks and mouth. Snot drips from the tip of her nose. In the distance trees sway like the ebb and flow of the ocean. A small car speeds by, the exhaust from the muffler dispersing into the atmosphere. The noxious air, a black, and then a purple, and then no more. A stifled thud echoes off the walls inside the house. Loulie turns and sticks her head into the house and listens.

Amos? She hollers up the staircase.

There is the vehement shuffling of feet and then a bang. Loulie latches the door behind her and rushes up the stairway. A dresser blocks her way into the upstairs hallway, a barricade to keep out his visions. Amos grabs the nightstand from the bedroom corner and lodges it against the dresser, his eyes wild and tortured. He tries to grab a small table at the end of the hall, but Loulie lobs herself over the barricade and catches him by the arm, his muscles pulsating against her hand. She squeezes with all of her strength. He stops, his back to her. All is quiet in the house but Amos’s labored breathing.

Hush now, she says.

She leads him into the bedroom and sits him in a chair in the corner. She lets go of his arm, a red handprint tattooed into his tricep. He can see the brokenness in her eyes, the layers of fatigue carved into her skin. Her slouched shoulders, her greying hair and gaunt cheeks, her sugared irises dimming.

I’ll get your medicine. Don’t be sorry.

Yes, ma’am.

Loulie moves the dresser and the nightstand from the staircase and enters the bathroom, grabbing two pills from a white box in a nearby cabinet. She grabs a plastic cup from a bag above the toilet and pours tap water into it. Amos is in the room, his eyes unmoving and far-off. She feeds him the two pills and hands him the cup of water. The lights are off. The drapes are pulled over the window, the bayou a blurred painting beyond the glass. Their body heat warms the room; their skin is the only illumination as the sun outside reaches the highest point in the sky. She hands Amos the glass and he finishes it within seconds, the veins lining his Adam’s apple flailing at each other like meandering rods. He falls asleep with the glass gripped firmly in his right hand. She removes his sweatpants gently so as to not wake him, and with her remaining strength lays him in the bed.

In the half-light, Loulie wakes from a hazy nostalgia. The chair is lodged underneath the door knob. Amos is naked, his undergarments scattered on the carpeted floor. His body is curled into a ball in the farthest corner of the room. Loulie leaps from the bed and scurries to him. He’s got his hands over his eyes like a blinded child.

They’re in the room, Lucretia, he says.

It’s just me.

I tried to keep them out, he says, pointing to the chair-lodged door, his eyes never leaving his lap.

Amos, please. Let it pass.

You said you’d make them go away.

She pulls him onto her chest, wraps her arms like boas around his expansive back. His deep breaths synchronize with hers in the dimly lit room. There is a muffled whine between her breasts, followed by a wetness. Out beyond, the skyline is bleached. The bayou’s trees are beginning to change with the coming season. Richard Nixon gives his second inaugural speech. The World Trade Center officially opens in New York City. The last soldier is called home from Vietnam. The paperboy is up and about.

Jason Guisao was born in the village of Floral Park, New York. He writes fiction—and poetry, when he doesn’t feel like undertaking ten-page-long projects. His idols include Raymond Carver, Ray Bradbury, and Cormac McCarthy. He considers himself best friends with Anton Chigurh from No Country for Old Men because deep down, Jason wants to be an assassin and a never-before-seen force of evil.

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by | · 11:43 am

Angela Rollins

Missing Photos

The nurse taking his blood pressure reminds Bailey of his teacher from the eighth grade, the one with wide hips.

“What did you do?” she asks as he moves the straw out from between his lips. It seems like she cares.

“It was a stroke,” he says, adding quickly, “but I think I’m gonna be okay.” Bailey smiles, but with little sincerity. He wants to show the nurse he is stronger than age, so he pulls out his wallet and a photo of a smiling woman. “This is my wife,” he proclaims, “isn’t she beautiful? She’s always been the best looking woman. Don’t you think she’s beautiful? We married in the heart of spring. Isn’t she beautiful?”

When he looks around the doctor’s office, he imagines flowers blooming in every direction, the white dress blinding. He wishes his wife would have bought the red dress, forget the customs. She is red, not white. She is infinite passion. He remembers the suit was too tight, his gut crushed. He can’t breathe, but she is beautiful with her stomach swollen. He loves her. His daughter comes out in a red gush. How can something so small mean so much? The world nestled within his arms.

He watches the nurse as she writes down notes and thinks he must be missing something.

“Let’s wait for the doctor,” the nurse says. She smiles because she is sorry for him.

Bailey coughs into the autumn air. His daughter is quiet, stiff against his shoulder until she finally whispers, a nursing home will be good for you, for us, we love you. She holds his hand, will not let go or look away. When he is settled into his new room they visit. Someone gives him pictures and reminds him of the names: Georgie, Sharon, Beth, that was your wife, you remember your wife, don’t you? Look at your daughter, they are so much alike.

He remembers his daughter’s hand slipping away, cold like the end of summer, the first day of fall. She dressed in all white and he never wanted her to change. While they took their wedding portraits, Bailey thought he would suffocate. Daddy, she told him, you’ll always be number one. The grandkids came out looking like pink worms. He wants to love them.

Someone is asking him, Bailey, Bailey, what did you do?

He notices the grandkids burying coins into the cushions, like bugs building a nest. Their eyes are big and curious. They look infinite beside him. The photos pass from hand to hand. Look at all the things you did. They smile with gaps of gum, the little worms.

When they leave, Bailey notices the pictures are all smiling faces. Where are the frowns? He wants to know what happened to the frowns. He walks down the hall, the doors all look the same. Come watch TV, the nurse says. She is pulling him to the couch.

Where did my daughter go, he wonders. Where is my home? Take me home to the red house. The old truck. There was a willow. Bailey remembers the red paint chipping year after year. His red was chipping.

What did I do? What did I do?

it is cold outside the window. it is winter. they find veins for needles and there are smiling faces. the needle is shining. when he falls, it is like glass on pavement. he is shattered. sorry, he tells the nurse when she lifts him from the floor. i’m so sorry. sorry. she is smiling. it hurts to see her smile. people smile when they say goodbye. he is rolling in his dreams. he slips out of bed like a snowflake. he feels weightless.

Bailey? someone asks. Bailey tell us, what did you do? look at your daughter and your wife, they look so alike, don’t you remember? and Bailey remembers playing ball. he is a champion of the eighth grade. he is in detention with spit balls on the ceiling. he says they will last forever. he is infinite. Bailey what did you do? he is smiling.

the nurse takes his hand, his pulse between her fingers. his daughter is holding the pictures to his face. that’s Georgie, I know you remember Georgie, he had the red pickup truck. you took turns driving it, remember?

Bailey is driving home, the windows are rolled down. he can breathe infinity into his lungs. he doesn’t see the deer until there is red blood and he asks himself what did I do, what did I do. the worms are at his feet and he is telling them about his adventures. their eyes widen; they are excited and scared. on the first floor Bailey is flirting with the receptionist. she is smiling, very polite, but sees the ring on his finger. do you know which room is yours? he wants the one that is red.

the sun is sinking. Bailey watches the sun. he waits for it to rise. there is someone knocking on the door, but he is dreaming of red clay. like when he went west. the grand canyon is infinite, he can not find the end. he decides there is no end. someone is shaking him. he opens his eyes. he is alone.

Bailey, Bailey. the nurse says his name. Daddy, do you remember? Bailey, what did you do?

he is walking down the corridor. his room is shining. they want him to watch TV, but he keeps walking. the sunset is red. he must reach the red. he is tired of falling in his dreams, but he won’t wake up. what did you do? he asks the photos. they pat him on the back, he is champion. the ball is round. he holds it over his head. he is shining with victory in his hands. he is infinite.

where are the frowns? damnit, he can’t find the frowns—he remembers

in the summer there were doctors doing nothing his wife beeps into infinity there is a coffin and people dressed in black there are tears and a red pickup truck the sun is too hot the air is too dry he can not breathe he is suffocating there is nothing left the sunset is covered in gray clouds he is weighed down what did you do to get that one someone asks she was a great woman there is nothing left Bailey watches a plane fly overhead will it drop he wishes it would fall on his home it is empty things are missing there is nothing here but smiling photos Bailey asks them what did you do he falls asleep when he awakes he tells the nurse

was just a stroke going to be okay married in the heart of spring Bailey is still but infinite he watches the smiling faces the canyon was red always wanted the red to envelop him suffocate him the photos shift in and out of vision the frowns are missing he is missing smiling something

missing

Angela Rollins is currently an English major at SUNY Geneseo. She spends most of her time either working at The Friendly Home, a nursing home in Rochester, or playing with her adorable dog. Her fictional best friend would definitely be Katniss Everdeen, a great example of a strong, independent, female character.

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by | · 11:41 am

Elise Silverstein

The Contract

I should remind her that, for God’s sake, when I was six, she took a sheet and tied me to my chair so I would sit and finish my dinner. She chased me around the table, slipping on the linoleum in her socks, and when she caught me, she yanked a sheet out of a nearby pile of laundry and tied my torso to the back of my chair so I couldn’t get up. I must have screamed bloody murder for at least ten minutes before I started laughing my head off, still wriggling from side-to-side to get loose. She sat right next to me, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine, like I wasn’t even there. Eventually, exasperated, she slapped her hand down on the table and said, “Just eat the goddamned mac and cheese, Cooper.” And I did.

When she places a typed list entitled “New Rules” in front of my bowl of cereal, I look up at her like she has lost her mind. “Who are you and what have you done with my mother?” I ask.

“That’s cute. That’s real cute, Cooper,” she says.

Last night when I climbed in through the window at the top of the fire escape, the green numbers on the microwave glared 2:07. I had spent the preceding hours convincing myself there was no way she would still be awake, but there she sat at the kitchen table. Her back was towards me and she was hugging one knee to her chest, the conjoined foot resting on her chair, as she raptly examined her cuticles. As soon as I was fully inside the apartment with the window shut behind me, I braced myself for an explosion. To fully ensure she understood my presence, I said, “Hi,” to the back of her head, using a tone I had hoped might be taken as casual and sincere, but it came out all wrong (I had practiced it too many times in my head)—too enthusiastic, too loud, too drunk. She pretended not to hear me.

My brain hurt. My thoughts were spinning like socks in a washing machine, but I remember thinking, I wish she were the type of parent who would just beat the shit out of me. It’s what I deserve, and both of us would benefit; I wouldn’t feel guilty, and she would feel in control. In the silence, I felt the hum of the refrigerator pulsing through my body. For a moment I imagined the appliance was alive. Using the blood gushing through my veins as a vessel, parasitic sound waves were traveling from my toes up to my mind, intent on taking over.

All she said was, “I should break your fucking neck. You know that? I really should,” outwardly appearing more weary than aggravated. She wasn’t throwing plates or crying; her voice was level and controlled. I remember this confused me. She got up from the table to rinse her wine glass in the sink and without another word went to bed, leaving me standing there alone, trying to decide whether I was swaying back and forth or standing still. She didn’t even give me a chance to tell her my phone had died. That’s why I was late. That’s why I didn’t call.

Last weekend, at 1:56 a.m., I squeezed my body awkwardly through that same window. My mother came out of her bedroom, looking like a maniac—half-naked, half-asleep, screaming and slashing her pointer finger through the air. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she cried. “You need to get this through that small little brain of yours: I worked twelve hours today! Twelve hours! And then I have to wait up for you to find yourself home? So Cooper can have a good time? No text, no phone call, nothing?” She stood there staring, like she expected some sort of response with her palms extended up and out, her eyes wild, her curly hair crazy.

“Mom, the neighbors,” I said, joking. She took a plate out of the drying rack and, using all her strength, smashed it against the wall.

She looks so disgusted with me now as I sit at the kitchen table eating my cereal that I’m starting to lose my appetite. I stop eating and look up at her again, this time accusingly. “What?” I say. I haven’t yet swallowed my last spoonful of cereal before speaking and milk dribbles from my open mouth back into the bowl I’m leaning over.

“I’m not kidding with you,” she says as she begins to put dishes away, making zero effort not to bang pots together or slam cabinets shut. “I’ve had enough. I am done. You are going to read this and sign it, and you’re going to follow these rules, and if you can’t do that, then you’re going to find somewhere else to live. Because it’s not going to be here.” I resume eating as I read over the list, smirking at this unique show of determination.

Most of her demands I think I can handle until she forgets about all of this. I know exactly the way things like this work. Like how Marcus was supposed to be grounded for three months, but after three weeks his dad couldn’t stand him hanging around the house. Or how last summer Caroline was only supposed to be allowed out three nights a week, but her parents actually never kept track once she finally shut up and agreed to go along. Gradually, my mother’s restrictions will start to wear on my nerves and I will be forced to break the rules in order to regain some small facet of my sanity. At first, she’ll say, “Cooper, have you forgotten about our rules?” and she’ll pull her list off the fridge or out of the junk drawer to remind me of our contract, as if I don’t have the brain capacity for memory. I’ll say, “Yeah, Mom. Sorry.” After that, I’ll take that list and rip it into a million pieces, take it outside and watch as the pieces slip through my fingers and fall into the dark recesses of the dumpster behind our building. Finally, by the time things return to normal, her list will be recalled merely as an elaborate and impracticable effort. And both of us will remember how we knew from the beginning it would never last.

So, I know I can cook dinner once a week (as long as she doesn’t mind eating cereal for dinner) and fold her clean laundry instead of throwing it on the floor when I pull it out of the dryer. I can volunteer somewhere, and I really think I can refrain from drinking and weed for as long as it takes (although I will probably have to start smoking cigarettes), if it will make her happy. One thing that I will not be doing, however, is attending an AA meeting.

“Fine,” I tell her, agreeing to the terms she has transcribed. “But I’m not going to AA.”

“Yes, you are,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because those are the rules.”

“You think I’m an alcoholic?” I ask.

“I’m not negotiating, here. I’m telling you my expectations.” Her rising voice and raised eyebrows provisionally convert my anger into restraint.

I feel guilty thinking this but also honest. I love my mother like a boy loves his dog. When I’m home, she’s good company. We watch TV together and make fun of her terrible cooking or her terrible boyfriend’s kids. We have Lord of the Rings marathons, a bag of popcorn in each of our laps, drenched in butter and sprinkled with parmesan cheese, just the way we like it. I’m proud of her shiny hair and youthful body, the way Grandma is of her springer spaniel named Penny. (Although when my friends make rude gestures behind her back suggesting they’d like to fuck her, of course, I have to let known my capacity to fucking kill them). I try to give her the attention I know she desires, otherwise I feel neglectful. But I do not sacrifice my own happiness for hers. I do enjoy spending time with her, but sometimes I get busy. Sometimes I wish she were a dog, so she would only expect love and the occasional bacon flavored treat.

When my mother shows me that list, I begin to miss the days when the only thing expected was that there would never be expectations. The days when she didn’t pretend to be a good mother, and when I made her angry, she tied me to chairs. I remember when she was still considered a disappointment for getting pregnant at seventeen. She bagged groceries at Pathmark, and we lived in my grandparents’ basement. This was when she forgot about half-days at school and used the microwave to cook all meals requiring heat. She would roll her eyes in obstinate silence when her father asked her what exactly the plan was or when her mother said to me, “You know, she’s lucky you’re cute.” This was before she became a nurse and wore scrubs and spent her days passing out meds and changing diapers at the nursing home, before she had any interest in being an adult or dating older men or unnecessarily curtailing my freedom.

But I can tell you when all this started. It was around the time Mrs. Robinson called to tell her I was failing math. My mother looked down at me like I was the scum of the earth. “You are fourteen,” she said. “You have two responsibilities.” She held up two fingers. “Two. Be a student and stay out of trouble.” Her voice came out high and hoarse, like she was catching a cold from the difficulties I was causing her. I envisioned a scenario in which contagious flesh-eating bacteria were spawned with every wrong move I made, and with every hug or kiss, the disease spread, first to my mother, then over the entire globe.

“You need to pull yourself together,” she told me. And it’s as though just like that she decided to make it happen. She started asking me where I was going and who I was seeing. She judged my friends, told me what time to come home, and waited up for me. If I weren’t smarter than I am, I would think that the call from Mrs. Robinson was the reason. But really, I know it’s that fucker Paul.

My mother met Paul at the grocery store. They were standing next to each other, looking at bread. He glanced over at her and said, “You know of any way I can get my kids to eat wheat bread?”

“Good luck with that,” said my mother. Later she’d pretend she was offended that he pinned her for a mother, but the way she was going on, it’s just as likely she was flattered by the attention.

The next week they ran into each other at the bank. He probably thought it was fate. My mother had to admit he was handsome. “I have to say, he’s not so bad to look at,” is what she told me. As she said this I saw her considering the possibilities underneath her thin mask of disdain for this divorcé who tucked in his shirts, shopped for groceries, and chose to have two children.

Now, as I look up at her over my bowl of cereal, I think about mentioning that it’s possible I might not have gotten so drunk last night if it hadn’t been for that dinner with he-who-must-not-be-named. On second thought, though, bringing up my being drunk doesn’t seem like a great idea.

He-who-must-not-be-named is what I call Paul to my mother’s face. His sons are nine and thirteen. They wear tight clothes, do all their homework, and look like the type of boys who use body wash and brush their hair. Last night they were wearing running shoes with jeans. The three of them came over for dinner and my mother cooked pork chops and mashed potatoes, presumably trying to make it appear like she cooks intricate meals every night. Little did our guests realize, this domestic goddess cannot even open store-bought jars of pasta sauce without my assistance.

Before the dinner my mother told me, “Cooper, I would really appreciate it if you were nice.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “I’m always nice.”

She crooked her neck to one side and stared me down. “I mean it,” she said. I decided to try my best, seeing as she hadn’t been too pleased with me lately.

My mother was opening the oven when they arrived. I offered to answer the door. I pretended I was a butler and told them to come in, bowing a little and gesturing for them to enter the front hall. I even asked if I could take their coats.

I will admit I had preconceived notions about the boys-who-I-do-not-name. Firstly, they are Paul’s sons, and more importantly, my mother wishes I was more like them. Paul’s ex-wife is “psychotic,” in my mother’s words. But otherwise, Paul has a perfect little family. And my mother has me. I know Paul brags about his sons—their grades, their interest in science, and their t-ball trophies. She wishes she could say the same about me, but what can she say? Cooper knows how to swim? Cooper has friends? Cooper looks good?

My preconceptions about the boys were quickly proven true. What’s the point of a high functioning brain if you don’t understand the best way to use it? Those boys are gabbling weaklings. One look from Paul and they knew what to do. I watched Paul tap the older one’s arm with his index finger and point at his napkin, and his son unfolded his paper napkin and placed it on his lap. Then, Paul widened his eyes at the other one across the table, flapping his arms like a cranky rooster, and his son happily slid his elbows off the table. The boys chatted away like that dinner was the most fun they’d had all week, and I don’t doubt that it was. I finished my dinner in half the amount of time it took everyone else, then sat observing the embarrassing creatures in dumbfounded silence, finding it unbelievable that a group of people could be so boring.

“Adam, you could tell Meg about your science project we’ve been working on,” Paul said to the younger one.

“Well,” he said. “We’re testing how seeds grow with regular water and water that’s heated in the microwave.”

“Fascinating,” I said.

“But actually,” said Adam, “I had the weirdest dream last night. There were the plants like mine in cups of water all over on the ground and there were dinosaurs. It was the time of the dinosaurs and I was alive!”

“Isn’t that right,” said Paul.

“Excuse me, little boy, but do you really think any of us care about your freaky dinosaur dream? I thought they said you’re smart,” I wanted to say. But I kept my mouth shut, impressing myself with my self-control.

“So, Cooper,” said Paul, before realizing his mouth was full. He paused, putting his hand to his mouth and gulping down the partially chewed meat. I could see the clump of it slide down his throat and almost booted right there. “What can you tell us about high school?” He looked at his older son and flicked his chin in my direction, suggesting that he should engage with me on the topic.

I shrugged. “S’alright, I guess.” Looking at Paul’s long nose and short spiky hair across the table as he swallowed food whole was enough; I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking we were friends or ever would be by partaking in a real conversation. “May I be excused?” I asked my mother.

She narrowed her eyes and glared at me for a long moment. She was probably thinking that delaying the response could cause everyone to forget that I’d said anything at all.

“What?” I asked.

“Don’t start,” she said. So, I stayed where I was, avoided any further eye contact, and waited for dessert.

One week later my mother is dropping me off at the Lutheran church for AA. She idles out front as I walk in to ensure that I’m not planning to skip out. Before exiting the car, I say, “Seriously, don’t make me do this.”

“You want to know a secret?” She reaches out and ruffles the tips of my hair with her fingertips. I push her arm away, swatting at my head as if someone just told me it was infested with bugs. This gets me out of the car fast.

When I was little, I had a fire truck shaped bed my grandpa built me. My mother would sit on the edge of it after tucking me in, a tiny boy who still wore striped pajamas. “Do you want to hear a secret?” she’d ask. Every single night I’d shake my head ‘no’ because I knew what she was going to say, and then she’d tell me she loved me, kissing me goodnight and tickling me until I pushed her off.

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by | · 11:01 am

Oliver Diaz

A Drop Left

There are two kinds of people who wear bathrobes to pick up the paper in the morning, and Mark was the kind that got laid off.

Upstairs in his three-room apartment, a faulty ceiling fan hummed. He poured coffee into the mug his mother had left him. He got cream from the fridge—a drop left. When his mother visited she used to clean up and clear things out. Now, the cream nearly empty, Mark decided to take a walk.

On his way out, he passed his neighbor, an older gentleman, who was gathering his morning paper.

“Morning, Mark,” he said. “Figured out how you’ll pay the rent yet? Don’t forget, Roger’s coming around later.”

“I know.”

“Well, best figure something out.”

The corner deli was empty except for the man behind the counter reading the paper. Mark walked to the back and got a half carton of cream. A small TV glowed on a shelf behind the counter. The news anchor spoke, “Young man found dead in apartment fire—more at two.”

The man behind the counter said, “$2.29,” without looking up.

Mark looked at the carton. He returned it to the cooler and approached the counter again, this time pointing at the lottery tickets.

He walked back down the street, up the stairs to his apartment. Mark reheated his coffee and the crooked fan idled above him. He thumbed the scratched card in his free hand and drank his coffee black. There was a knock on the door.

Oliver Diaz is a sophomore English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo. He has tried his hand at poetry, fiction, and visual art. He hopes things will get easier but doesn’t expect them to. He would befriend Sean from Victor LaValle’s collection of short stories Slapboxing with Jesus and they would plan, fail, and plan again.

 

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