The Spring Fever

The
Casserole
Spring Fever
Issue II
contents
contents
Editor’s Note
Masthead
Mandala... adalyn ordono
American Marriage... Laura Kiselevach
Clink... Joe Nicholas
A Life Almost Sustained... Joe Nicholas
Monogamy... Nate Crocker
The Puzzle PLayer... Jenny Chou
Lies... Kathy Rudin
Bingo Blues...Adam Rose
The Wells I Dug... William Doreski
Sights and Sounds... Michael Gentry
Making it All One... d.n. Simmers
The Couple Upstairs... Jacob Shelton
Keep Kissing...Jacob Shelton
Unleashed...Yvette a. Schnoeker-Shorb
In This Skin... Valeria Ryrak
siren... adalyn Ordono
Four Sketches... Alex L. Schwartzentruber
Translate... Davin Allan
Footnote... Geraldine Inoa
A Function of the Land... Thomas N. Manella
Onan... George Held
Ma... jenny chou
Contributor Bios
Matroshka doll... emily story
I have mixed feelings about
Spring. On one hand, the weather
is so promising that I generally
shirk all responsibilities to try
on each one of my Spring outfits and take them on a trip to
the Seven-Eleven for a chocolate
popsicle. You know—the 59 cent,
half-water kind of popsicle that
tastes more like nostalgia than
chocolate. That’s the kind I adore.
My Spring outfits adore them too.
Some of them still have the stain
to prove it.
On the other hand, I sometimes get the feeling that I should
be doing staying productive. Why
haven’t I planted a balcony garden
yet? I should really join a class—
what about improv? or pilates? Is
there such a class as improv pilates?
The Casserole team takes
heart with anxious Springers. It’s
the time of year when people feel
the need to renew themselves,
do great things, feel invigorated. That can be a lot of pressure
when all you want is a chocolate
popsicle.
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We’ve concocted a magazine
of literary and artistic delights
that are so fresh, you’ll feel like
a newborn baby or an emerging
butterfly after you indulge in our
dish. So go ahead, dig in.
Thank you to my wonderful
and supportive team members, the
writers and artists that contributed and this issue and you, our
dedicated reader.
Sincerely,
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Matt Long
Sara Peters
Fiction Editor
Editor in Chief & Lead Designer
Matt Spadafora
Madeleine Brown
Non Fiction Editor
Administrative Assistance
Hannah Vanden Boomen
Submissions Manager
Muzzammil Abdur-Razak
Poetry Editor
Suzanne Irwin
Online Editor
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The Casserole
Issue II
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AS SEEN ON TV, Laura Kiselevach
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Joe Nicholas
clink, clink, clink,
the ice sings
against the glass, and it’s barely
evening and I’m drunk
on whiskey and she’s drunk
on beer and the whole damn world’s drunk
on something—
on booze and blood and money and birds
and God and love and suffering, and I’m sweating and the ice
can barely stay hard, and I watch it,
Joe Nicholas
on wheat bread and hummus,
and bed bugs, and wine stains, and empty
cupboards, accounts, conversations,
and ringworm and words and chapped lips and fucking
and fighting and damp socks and dreams and overdue
bills, books, promises, and television
and bars and burning and broken glass and staying
sane, and staying
alive while dying.
hoping
that the same thing
doesn’t happen to me
later.
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10
Nate Crocker
Mo
nogamy
It seemed so spiritual and truthful.
The world around me put it in an
ultimate light that stood for security and
emotional wellness. I was going to be a part
of the Monogamy Club!
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Monogamy. I feel so twenty-first
century using that word. It permits a
freedom in acknowledging that there is
something other than it. There always
has been, but now, I am totally free to
explore it.
For the better part of four years, I
was anything but a monogamist, and then
the opportunity fell right into my lap.
This great guy (thank you, OKCupid!),
Phil, is 20 and goes to Pratt for architecture. He is skinny as all-get-out and is
really into me. The first time I kissed him
I kept my eyes closed the entire time, a
common practice for me as I had always
been a “wham-bam-thank-you-mam”
kind of guy (according to some sad sap
I shagged one night in a van). When I
opened my eyes I was overwhelmed to
find that the guy I was kissing was the
same guy I had been going out with for
the past three weeks. Kissing and Caring
had never been sisters in my novel and
now I was feeling like something straight
out of a critically-acclaimed-commercially-disappointing-gay-cinema-masterpiece.
I was in heaven!
Phil and I agreed to wait three
months between our first date and sex. I
haven’t gone three months without sex
since that sad night at LAVISH nightclub
when I lost my virginity in a stall when
I was 16 (I’m 19 now). This was going to
be tough shit!
I was so excited by the word
“monogamy.” It seemed so spiritual and
truthful. The world around me put it in
an ultimate light that stood for security
and emotional wellness. I was going to be
a part of the Monogamy Club! This was
big shit for early 2000s Ado Annie.
***
I came close to ruining my first
serious relationship tonight. As Christian,
the Grindr lovebot, messaged me when
he got to my door, an overwhelming assuredness came over me. I let him in. He
came in and spoke loudly. I had to quiet
him down – my roommates were upstairs.
He smelled of cigarettes and red wine,
with purple stains on his lips to prove it.
He was cuddly and dying to be fresh; an
amalgamation of Winnie the Pooh and
Sally Bowles. I told him immediately I
couldn’t do it, but something held me in
that darkened part of my basement with
him. He got very close to me. I began to
forget about Phil.
He was cuddly and
dying to be fresh; an
amalgamation of
Winnie the Pooh and
Sally Bowles.
“You told me you wanted this,” he
whispered.
Where am I right now? I was
caught in the moment, glamorizing my
promiscuity.
“You wanted this and there is nothing wrong with that,” he continued.
“Man, you have to leave,” I said as
he touched my stomach with his. He
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wrapped his arms around my back as
MatFontaine played in the background.
(Mat Fontaine. Of all people,
right? It just had to be my fourth grade
best friend’s Soundcloud underscoring
this particularly unfortunate moment
of my life. To top it all off, Mat’s now
the finest in Alberta’s pop music scene. I
can’t write this stuff.)
He put his hands toward the back
of my hips and extended his fingers into
the top of my pants. His forehead pressed
against my right cheek. I made faces of
disbelief to the imaginary friend I have
created on the wall to help me
through this situation, and I
began to pretend that this
all may have been a part
of some hip mid-90’s TV
show. His hands went
down my pants. I stepped
away.
“You’ve gotta go... I
have a boyfriend...”
His hands remained
where they were. They moved
toward the front and came close to
me. I pulled away and moved his hands
back to his body. He was hard and wasn’t
trying to hide it. He wore red sweat
pants, and God, how I hate people who
wear bright colored sweat pants outside
of their homes. He stepped toward me
again but I didn’t take another step back.
I just let him be close to me. He said I
was gorgeous. Why do I love being idolized? Phil’s face ran through my head. I
could feel Phil’s body in my arms, but all
that was there was Christian, breathing
heavily into my right cheek.
All he said was, “It’ll be OK.”
All I said was, “You have to go.”
He hugged me and I hugged him
back. We stood in this embrace for a long
while. I could feel him through his tasteless sweats and my own women’s yoga
pants from ABC Superstore. For me, this
hug was sad. What the hell was I doing?
I had a great boyfriend who really liked
me and was way sexier than any Grindr-Findr. Maybe monogamy wasn’t the
Utopian experience I had always seen
it as. Maybe it was something far more
complicated. Who would I be without
my sexual freedom, and why had I
chosen now to challenge it? All
I smelled were eaten cigarettes and all I felt were the
arms of a stranger. It’s a
feeling I knew all too well.
The cigarettes got to me
and I was strong enough to
go to the door.
“Alright, I know I’m
an asshole, but you have got
to go,” I said with my best mid90s cuteness; after all, I still wanted
him to desire me. Why wasn’t I strong
enough to just love someone wholly?
It’s because you don’t know what it is to
love yourself unconditionally yet, a voice
whispered in my head. I opened the door
for him.
“Oh, I’m Nate, by the way.” He
came in so quickly I forgot to introduce
myself. How many times had that happened, when I’ve actually gone through
with the sex?
“I’m Christian. So if you ever
break up with your boyfriend... you know
All he said was,
“It’ll be OK.”
All I said was, “You
have to go.”
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where to find me.”
He went in for a kiss but I stepped
out of his way. I smiled and ran my fingers through my hair. He looked back. I
closed the door on Christian and was left
alone with my shame. I felt like Queen
Elizabeth I, Cate Blanchett’s voice running through my head: “I will keep you
alive to remind me forever how close I
came to death.”
Cate Blanchett is a wonder, and I
had had blue balls in Brooklyn for five
hours.
***
It didn’t work out. I broke up with
Phil three days later. I don’t think I’m
ready for the “Monogamy Club” yet.
There may come a day, but not too soon.
I need freedom now, whatever that is. I
feel like I’ve shot myself in the foot a bit.
Phil was so right, in so many ways. Fuck!
He’s probably Mr. Right, for all I know.
But he isn’t Mr. Right-Now, and I’m not
quite sure who is. It may be Christian, or
my neighbor, or tonight it may just be my
hand. I think he’ll come in many different
forms, because my love keeps changing.
Maybe that’s what the club means:
I am ready to accept this ever-changing
love as my sole romantic attachment until
I can no longer flourish. Who knows? I’m
sure it means a whole lot more, but that’s
what it means to me tonight. And that’s
the guy I’m going to be: Mr. Right-Now.
The Puzzle Player
Jenny Chou
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Lies I
by
Kathy Rudin
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Lies II
by
Kathy Rudin
16
ADAM ROSE
BINGO
BLUES
Leek spent the day popping Vicodin and sipping Mad Dog 20/20. Barely any custom-
ers came by his booth but that gave him more time to think about his financial dilemma. The
organ grinder blasted from the cobwebbed speakers, pushing fun onto the desert fairway. Leek
crammed a piece of popcorn in both ears but it didn’t help him focus. He had no family to
tap into or at least no family that would speak to him. Mindy’s kids wrote her off the day she
shacked up with him. The idea of robbing a convenience store seemed more and more doable.
Lies III
by
Kathy Rudin
Unfortunately, Leek doubted they’d have the two grand he needed. After his shift, he hitch
hiked home and drank until he passed out on the couch.
The morning sun shot Leek in the face; sunburned frown lines, red bulbous nose, and
eyes too small for his head. His ears itched like a mutt’s flea bitten floppers.
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It gave him quite a start when he scratched and touched flattened kernels. For a minute,
Leek thought he’d reached brain.
stamps.”
Leek put on his change apron and groped around his back to tie the drawstring. He
“I had enough for the coke and I’m not walking into no dollar store with government
Mindy shuffled over to the to the coffee table and banged a leg with a dirty pink bunny
felt his left shoulder pop but welcomed the pain. It distracted him from the massive hang
slipper. “There’s leftover In N’ Out in the fridge. Acid reflux jumped up my windpipe so fast I
over. On top of the boozing at the park, two empty bottles of Wild Turkey sat on the
nearly threw up. Some white paper hatted moron escorted me out but I insisted on getting a
kitchen table. One looked like a botched attempt at making a ship in the bottle with half-
to-go bag so don’t say I don’t think of you.”
smoked cigarettes and dental floss.
Leek looked at her suspiciously. “You didn’t throw up on the grub?”
Mindy was offended and ignored him by taking a cigarette out from her bra strap. The
Leek found Mindy in the kitchen. She thought it was about time to get her teeth in
order so she started mixing cinnamon floss with three fingers of whiskey. She twirled the
thought of any leftover coke distracted Leek. He saw ground up powder on a little girl’s pink
red floss into a heap at the bottom of a glass filled with an amber content and handed it to
mirror almost bounce off the table.
Leek
“Watch it!”
“Wait.”
He crouched. One of his knees tightened up where the cadaver’s tendon replaced a bad
ACL. He abused the hell out of both knees back in his arena football days, stayed involved for
She took the drink back, pulled a half-eaten orange from the trash and rubbed it
against the rim and handed it back to him. He took a sip.
two seasons too many. He worked the carnival back then but only in the offseason and he got
It tasted like a trip to the dentist. “Festive.”
to work security. Man, he was hot shit back then! All the local high school girls wanted to be
She smiled.
with him and all the boys wanted to be him. Sure, he was twice their age but he felt like a king.
“I’m calling it Whiskey Spice.”
He’d get them drunk; they’d watch online videos of his best Arena days. The one interception
“Any coffee?”
he had against a former NFL player had the most hits.
Her chuckle was enough of a no but she didn’t leave it at that. She rubbed his back with
her elbows. He felt the knots begin to untangle before she abruptly stopped.
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He admired his reflection in the toy mirror after he licked it clean. One of the perks of
working the games was pocketing a prize or two. Leek used to work the air rifle games but got
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demoted to darts after he shot a customer in the leg. Luckily, the victim was happy to take
“This?”
Leek’s pay for the week and not pursue any legal action. Now he had to get to work early and
dull the darts just enough to bounce off the balloons spread over the wall. His nostrils started
scream. Can record it and make a mint on the interweb. Gonna have a series of practical jokes
to burn and the back of his throat dried up like a sponge abandoned under the sink.
on little kids with a fairy tale theme. Zeebo wants to call it ‘Fucked Up Fairy Tales’ but I’m
“What was that shit?”
thinking we might have to tone it down to get sponsors.”
Mindy crushed another couple pills on a turned over fishbowl. She sucked them up her
“Kids love slushies. I’m putting out a tray of free drinks just to watch em spit and
Leek looked at the little yellow skull and crossbones on each jug. She noticed and
nose with an ancient green Starbucks straw. “Not sure. Lost and Found sold ‘em to me fer a
explained.
handie.”
“I won’t let them drink it. They’re all in on it. I’ll pretend to drink it. Just enough to be
funny for a million hits worth. The last one’s already up to 19,000 and they said I’d get ads
Leek’s jaw ached and he was too late to argue with her about getting ripped off. He
drew a frowny face on the mirror with his index finger. “You used to get a lot more for a hand
job. You still could.”
The compliment swept her off her feet. Mindy smiled. “You want one? Before you go?”
once it reached 100,000.”
“Who said?”
“Nah.”
“FAQ said.”
“FAQ?”
Leek found a serviceable pair of cargo shorts on the floor. They made a peeling sound
“I know how to use the computer and Zeebo showed me some stuff.”
but, under close scrutiny, appeared stain free. He considered telling Mindy about the money
but didn’t want to worry her. He’d figure it out on his own; just needed time to clear his head
across the way and fancied himself a next-generation prankster. Ever hear of the mustache
and think.
bandit? He was the guy throwing mustaches up on every yellow light in Encino. He got cocky
and wandered over to Sherman Oaks but a cop pulled him over for jaywalking. That sort of
He stepped over a palette of blue detergent jugs and opened the screen door. “Get
some air. I’ll be back with some grub after my shift.” He looked down at the jugs. “What’s all
Her last one was a video of her flashing a series of different delivery boys. Zeebo lived
took the piss out him, but he still claims “edgy shit” as his catch phrase for anything
borderline illegal. He shot her in the buff and thought it was a moneymaker.
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Leek recognized the skinny broad on the morning talk show. She was yammering away
about the perfect quiche. After ten minutes of zoning out to her bacon broccoli kale quiche
like a crooked hiking trail.
recipes, it dawned on him. Quiche wasn’t going to save his ass. He went out on the porch with
“Yo! That would be a killer tat bro. Tribal.”
out saying goodbye. They weren’t the kissy type unless they had a really good buzz going or
Leek didn’t want to talk anymore. He was thirsty. The
scored some E.
thought of a grape soda mixed with cola syrup sounded like
mana from heaven. The bike’s seat was wet and soaked his ass. The cheap Lycra rubbed off
Zeebo tossed a bag that missed. The bag contorted in the air and hit his driveway with
a splat; it looked like Sheppard’s pie oozing from a tear. Leek pretended not to hear Zeebo. He
long before it was Leek’s bike and the foam absorbed moisture like a diaper left out in the rain.
didn’t want to know what was going down. Zeebo crossed the street just as Leek lit the last
He hoped the wet spot would be gone by the time he made it to work. Secretly, he felt a little
smoke in his pack.
cleaner, a poor man’s bidet.
“Need a ride man? Can’t believe you got no wheels dog. Know what I’m saying?”
Zeebo was out of breath from the fifteen-foot jog across the street. His skull, freshly
the street in his Star Wars pajamas. It would have been cute if Milky weren’t a twenty-nine-
Zeebo’s attention was drawn away towards Milky. Milky was standing in the middle of
shaved, had a swirly design twisting around the top like a maze to his brain.
Leek thought about the offer. God dang, he missed driving. Lost his license for the third
year old man the size of a Fiat. Milky lived with his grandmother and could barely string a
and final time a year ago. He looked at his powder blue Swatch watch. A reject prize the guys
Zeebo screamed at him. “Milky! Get the fuck out of the street, ya tard.”
from the Frog Flip made him wear on a bet a couple years ago and now just felt like a part of
Milky smiled and waved, his hand went side to side and then he poked his eye. Zeebo
him.
“I’m alright. Don’t have to be in for another thirty.” He didn’t want to owe Zeebo any
bent over laughing and Milky laughed too. Milky turned around and shuffled back toward his
more than his old lady already did. The bike lay on its side behind the front bushes.
bought on Ebay. She was more of a private drunk, never came over to party and if she did,
it was only to mooch their booze. She kept Milky around for the government dough. Leek
Zeebo chortled as Leek pulled it from the dead shrub. “Brosuf, you’re lucky nobody
lifted that shit round here.”
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The bike came free with one last tug that cost Leek a scrape down his shin that looked
sentence together.
house. His grandma was probably passed out on the sofa, surrounded by little glass penguins
sometimes played tic tac toe with him in the dirt. He never let him win. Thought it toughened
Milky up to know how the world worked.
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Milky cried the last time they played. Leek beat him seven out of nine, fair and square.
eye shadow flaked onto the roll of orange tickets waiting to be handed out to the evening
“Milky, you gotta watch the diagonal. Folks always coming at ya from an angle.
crowds.
World don’t play in neat little rows, trust me and if you can get the center square, take that
shit.” Milky wiped the tears off his five o’clock shadowed face and smiled.
Milky picked up a stick on the sidewalk to tempt Leek into a match. Leek ignored him.
be good to bring Milky in to sweep up. He’d pay him in cotton candy and take credit for the
He pushed off and started pedaling. Zeebo jogged alongside him for a second. “Your chick is
him. She must be new. He admired her spayed on tan for a minute and thought about getting
whack a doo man, Tubers dig her!” He started wheezing. “She tell you about the slushie gag?
Milky to hand out business cards or flyers too. Before he could finish patting his own back,
Going to be killer.” Leek pedaled harder and Zeebo had to stop and hock up a serious sound
Sebastian chucked a basketball at him. It bounced off his head and landed in a pile of pony
ing loogie. A moment of freedom washed over Leek as he glided down the hill. Ventura
shit.
Boulevard was busy and hotter than the side streets. The pavement pulsated twenty feet
ahead. All the talk about slushies made him thirsty but he didn’t want to spend a nickel and
over the basketball booth and slipped a hand into his front pocket.
one of the concession gals would hook him up at the park.
Leek knew the rolls of pennies were in there, begging to be taken for a spin on his face.
***
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Sugar Candy Amusements traveled all winter but stayed put in the summer. Their flag
Peanut shells from the night before covered the fairway and Leek thought it might
clean-up. He bent over to pick up a Spearmint Rhino index card. Indigo Falls smiled up at
“What the hell Leek! Look what you did! Pick it up and clean it off.” Sebastian leaped
The cocktail umbrella jutted out of his mouth and did figure eights as his tongue worked it
around. Everything about Sebastian was weaponized. He worked the basketball booth as a
was firmly planted in the ground of Encino lot 49 behind a small trailer park Leek wished
front. He was really the local bookie.
they lived in but Mindy preferred renting a house. The Tilt a Whirl was already spinning and
that meant Leek was late. He hopped off his bike and let it crash into the back of the ticket
sized hand grabbed his shoulder.
booth. The booth was shaped like an obese penguin. Its mouth was the window. It begged for
“No need. Your apron will do just fine.”
money or fish to be slid under the Plexiglas. Shelly smacked her gum and didn’t say a word
Leek looked at Sebastian and almost opened his mouth but thought better of it. He
about Leek’s bike spanking the penguin’s ass. She barely looked up as he walked by. Her green
witnessed what happened to folks that declined any Sebastian request. He picked up the ball.
“My mistake. Let me get a towel to wipe it off with.” Leek turned away but an oven mitt
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It was slightly warped to make it nearly impossible to sink into the equally disfigured rims
Fortunately, the pony poop was mostly hay and flaked off like thick dust. The change apron
down. “You broke my finger!”
would stink for the rest of the day but he could tolerate it.
Leek cradled his busted finger and let out a slight whimper.
Sebastian looked disappointed. His gorilla arms stretched over his head revealing a set
of tattoos depicting the grim reaper and a samurai in process of seppuku. His voice came in a
yawn. “My daughter needs a prom dress.”
“That’s nice.”
Sebastian laughed. “I know. Man, there was no thinking. Pure instinct. Too easy.
“Dude, don’t be such a pussy. It was a clean break, hit the infirmary, they got some of
those braces around. Man, that was a rush!”
“That mean we’re even?” Leek sounded too hopeful.
Sebastian sniffed the air and stuck a finger in his ear. “You’re a riot.” He stomped the
side
“Yeah, except they cost about what you owe and she needs it
of Leek’s left knee. It buckled where the ligaments used to be. “Hard to believe you played any
by tomorrow. I tried to warn you against that bet, didn’t I?
thing. Arena football my ass. I’m thirsty.”
USC was never going to cover. The interest alone puts you
He turned around and Leek imagined jumping on his back and eating his face like a pet
way down the rabbit hole. The way I see it, you owe my
chimp who finally had enough.
daughter and you having anything to do with my daughter
Sebastian pivoted back. “Don’t do anything stupid. Every hour your late is another
kind of makes me want to puke my dry heave until yesterday’s
hundred bucks or I switch from breaking bones to tenderizing meat. Either get the money or
chili burger hits you in the face.”
steal a fancy prom dress.”
Leek seized the opportunity for small talk. “Chili? You hit
Leek rubbed the side of his knee. “Really? If I steal a dress, we’re cool?”
“No, that was a joke asshole. You think I want my little girl wearing something your ass
Tommy’s? You know they
don’t like serving ‘em without chili?”
fingers touched? You get the money or we meet for another chat.”
He grabbed Leek’s hand and snapped back his index finger. The crack and lightning
Leek watched Sebastian walk towards Spooky Mirror Manor. His finger throbbed with
pain came all at once.
pain. He limped towards the infirmary. It was more of a supply closet and after pulling half a
Leek pulled away but managed not to scream. His lower lip was bloody from biting
dozen stuffed snakes off a shelf he found a box of finger braces. He gingerly put the brace on
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the finger. There wasn’t any medical tape but he did find some fluorescent yellow electrical
ber from too many Tokyo drifts on Ventura mixed with rotting palm trees. Leek could hear
tape. The tape twirled around the finger and brace, it made him feel protected, and in some
a distant series of honks from the 405 and felt a brief sense of satisfaction for never dealing
small way, accomplished.
with a commute in this town.
He lifted the chain link cage off the balloon booth. The secret compartment had a
fourth of gin and two half smoked cigars. Leek guzzled the remnants of the bottle to numb
est gondolas rocked to the rhythm of their inmates like hobby horses possessed by succubi. A
his throbbing finger. His knee felt untrustworthy like it could buckle on its own any moment.
pair of polka dot panties floated down and landed right in front of Leek. He picked them up
He zoned out as a round boy and his mother slapped their money on the counter. The pop
and gave a deep whiff. No one saw him stuff them into his back pocket for further use back
ping of a balloon woke him from his daydream. A little boy somehow popped a balloon. Leek
home. Mindy loved it when he wore stuff from lost and found around the house.
cursed himself for not dulling the tips of his darts when he got to work.
landed on his bad finger the second time. The pain shot through him like a dentist’s drill
“Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!” The boy pointed up at the giant stuffed pink panther, his triple
He wasn’t as drunk as he hoped and only fell off his bike twice on the way home. He
chinned mother dared Leek to dispute the choice of prize and he was too far gone to get into
carving its initials on the side of his brain. A new billboard in Spanish had some slick looking
it. He reached up with his prize stick and hooked the panther around its blue collar. The boy
lawyer with a word balloon above his head. It said, “Accidentes, Accidentes, Accidentes.” Leek
lunged for it.
didn’t get why it repeated the word accident but the handsome lawyer was smiling and held a
“Watch it kid, that hook could poke ya.”
fan of hundreds in both hands. Maybe a slip and fall at work could save him? Nah, too much
Leek watched the mother and boy waddle away and thought about Mindy and Zeebo’s
of a long game and a fake neck brace would give him a rash.
big plan with the neighborhood kids. Maybe Mindy needed to demand an advance this time.
Her flasher series raked in close to ten thousand bucks for Zeebo and all they got out of it was
recognized most of the little booger eaters. The kids had heaping plates of knock off Oreos
a case of whiskey and enough pills to choke a horse.
but no drinks. They were tossing them back with abandon. All their folks worked the night
shift at the Easter egg factory. Plastic eggs, fake green grass, and wicker baskets were being
A green glow covered the carnival towards the end of the night. All the families were
gone while stoned teenagers and degenerates remained. The valley air smelled of burnt rub
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The Ferris Wheel kept couples up top longer than they did in the afternoon.The high
The lights were on inside and the dining room had five of the neighborhood kids. He
churned out overtime for the next couple weeks. Their sitter, Milky’s granny, was too busy
30
drinking boxed wine and watching Wheel of Fortune across the street to have noticed the
an orange blur. Zeebo yelled over the kids and into the camera’s mic. exodus to Leek’s abode.He saw Mindy wearing a dirty pink bunny costume, stirring a stain
less steel cauldron with Zeebo pointing a camera at her. Leek could hear her speaking to the
nothing to drink? Answer: kids that’ll drink anything!”
camera. “Santa’s got coal and I got pellets! Bad kids about to get schooled by the Evil Easter
Bunny.”
engorged on white cream filling and black cookie shards. His eyes rolled into the back of his
Milky lumbered over from his house when he saw Leek.
skull like a shark throwing back its prey.
“Can I come in too?” He danced in place like a kid who had to take a piss.
“Give a guy a second to catch his breath!” Leek tossed the bike into the bushes.
Milky had a pad and pencil in his shirt pocket. Leek noticed the empty Bingo board
on top of the pad. The pencil lines were relatively straight. It looked like it took a serious
amount of focus. He handed Leek the pad and pencil. Leek almost tore it up but didn’t have it
in him. He gripped the pencil with his good hand and jabbed an X into the center square and
Milky caught up with the kids around the table. He was like a giant among dwarves. He
“Zeebo, we need to talk about some sort of money up front for Mindy.”
“Not now bro. We’re shooting. She’s already snorted half her pay.”
Zeebo’s camera zoomed in on Mindy placing mugs on a tray. One of her floppy ears
dipped into a mug and came out with a blue tip.
“Shit Mindy, you save me any?” Leek forgot his original plan when he heard the word
handed the pad back to a beaming Milky.
snort and Mindy.
She carried the tray out from the kitchen. “Check the upstairs bathroom.” Mindy
redirected her attention back on Milky and the kids. “Who wants a bunny’s beverage to wash
Milky saw the piles of cookies in the living room. A freckled kid looked at Milky and
Leek and opened his mouth to reveal rivulets of black drool as he gave them the finger. Milky
forgot all about the Bingo and looked at Leek with the eyes of a begging dog at the dinner
down their treats?”
She wrinkled her nose and it almost looked cute. Milky and the four brats raised their
table. Leek walked up the stairs and opened the screen door.
hands in unison. Zeebo zoomed his camera in on the empty detergent bottles. The kids were
“Come on.”
all in on the gag. Even reality wasn’t real anymore.
The kids chowed down on the cookies as Zeebo went back and forth from them and
Zeebo made one more announcement. “Cue the dramatic music.”
Mindy stirring. She took a carrot and popped it in and out of her mouth so fast it looked like
31
“Question to our audience: what do you get when you mix dry knock off cookies with
Leek took two stairs at a time and made it to the bathroom. He found the mirror resting
32
on the furry toilet seat cover. The seat reminded him of Mindy. He rolled a dirty dollar bill
nice and tight. Downstairs, the sound of kids spitting and cursing was followed by a shocked
silence. Leek heard Mindy scream and Zeebo yell, “Dude!” For a second, Leek thought about
Sebastian coming early but then a scarier truth rushed through him like a ghost crawling up
his spine.
The Wells I Dug
William Doreski
The mirror flipped off his lap as he slid off the bath mat towards the hall. A few know
ing whimpers came from Mindy. Leek reached the living room to see Milky bang the empty
mug onto the table, a ring of blue detergent around his lips, helping his grin cover the room.
Now that I’m old the wells I dug
in my youth have silted, filled in
or gone dry. Little danger
of a child falling in and drowning.
Little danger of those holes piercing
the crust and letting magma leak.
You note that my brain has become
milky pale and stuttery. My hands
wrestle in my lap. My hair stalks
in several odd directions. Snow-light
bleeding through the window suggests
the nude of fabulous daydreams.
You’re glad those wells have collapsed
or plugged or sealed themselves
with cement. You hate the thought
of an underground teeming with seeds
of evolution. How platonic
you’d prefer the world to become.
I may be old and shuddery but
the ooze of primal creation
still froths and foams in the corners
of my speech. I can still mouth words
33
like paradise, metaphor, hotel.
With my lobster claws I could rake
the snow and discover birdseed
spilled early in this season when
Father Christmas lurked in the pines.
Under so much snow the scars of wells
dug sixty years ago have healed.
A fluster of weeds will conceal
any last regrets. You predict
fire-creatures arriving with spring
to devour the palest tissues,
those I think define me. You mistake
the naked sheet of paper
for the figure of bombastic ideals,
so with a flourish of metal foil
you misread me in terms of age
that only apply to monuments.
34
Sights
and Sounds
Michael Gentry
In a society barren of
kindness and good will, I’m occasionally
struck by tiny acts of consideration performed by those around me. For example,
today while sitting on the toilet in the
men’s room, the gentleman seated in the
stall next to me was thoughtful enough
to courtesy flush following his trumpet
and trombone performance performed in
A minor. This act alone showed me that
this individual is not only aware of those
around him, but he cares about their
comfort and contentment. For this, I was
grateful. And it got me thinking about
proper restroom etiquette.
Sometimes the patron beyond the
thin metal wall is thoughtful enough to
cover the sounds of defecation with a fake
cough or throat clear. While it may be
extremely superficial, it is much appreciated. For someone to employ such strategy and timing takes an honest effort.
35
And the awareness to wait for a
flush or running water to sound off is
always rewarded with thoughts of gratitude.
When it comes to stall etiquette,
the rules should be hard and fast.
Though, if the situation is a serious
emergency, common courtesy may momentarily be set aside. It is clearly a time
sensitive situation when the pooper next
to you launches himself onto the toilet,
music starting before flesh hits the porcelain, pants lain lifelessly on the filthy
floor; heels high, toes pressed onto the
square tiles. Typically the fire hose eruption is followed by a euphoric and thankful sigh. In these cases, I feel compelled
to forgive.
...
“the gentleman seated in the stall next
to me was thoughtful
enough to courtesy
flush”
...
After a situation like this, when
approaching the sinks to wash up, I am
also grateful when this person avoids eye
contact, or waits for me to leave altogether. There is nothing more awkward than
the nonverbal exchanges of apology and
is scarring moments like these that leave
me staring deep into the semi-gloss coat
of white above the urinal.
In any event, there is no place I
appreciate common courtesy and decency
more than the restroom. So thank you.
Thanks for the courtesy flushes, the fake
coughs, the strategic timing and look
aways. These gestures do not go unnoticed.
Making it All One
d.n. Simmers
“O may the moon and the
sunlight seem one inextricable
beam.”
- W. B. Yeats
Mixing them all together.
One color. All uniform.
With a flavour.
A cross between cream and
Lemon. With a squash of dates.
A tart tang of toast.
In the morning. When the
the first light sings
With newly hatched things. Fresh wings.
Not worn or torn.
Flying like mad drugged aviators
That have just obtained a license,
Doing wheelies in the air.
Sounds wrap around them
into hollowed out wood,
Forcing them inside
To play until the sun,
which must always set, goes down.
And the moon is listening like
a first time lover
all night long.
36
The Couple Upstairs
Jacob Shelton
Lately the couple above me has been having very loud sex. It
just so happens that my ex girlfriend Deidra and her new beau
Thornton are my upstairs neighbours. I know it sounds implausible but I’m pretty sure they were literally banging on pots and
pans.
I’m almost one hundred percent certain they were smashing
wooden spoons into sauce pots. Ninety nine percent. Ninety
eight. I doubt that they laid out our old cookery on the floor and
fucked on top of it, but I suppose anything is possible.
Somehow they managed to break two beds last night. I even
heard them say “get the other bed.” Get the other bed? Since
when could she afford a second bed?
37
Keep Kissing
Jacob Shelton
After Glyndolyn's mother caught us
kissing in that little hallway between the
kitchen and the other hallway that connects the kitchen to the bedrooms she
suggested that we see Dr. John Schmakeschmocter. His name should have been
the first indicator that something was
awry, but we didn't want to seem rude.
Even as Dr. Schmakeschmocter's mustache fell off his face—he was
beginning to look awfully similar to
Glyndolyn's father, Vladimir—he continued to give us advice. "You can't keep
kissing. It's bad for your tongues. Men
and women who continue to kiss after
their mothers, and the very reputable
doctors that their mothers pay good
damn money for, tell them to cut it out...
well... one hundred percent of them die."
I ran my tongue over Glyndolyn's teeth
and she shuddered, unafraid of death.
Doctor Schmakeschmocter grumbled
something about people making out in his
damn guest house but I couldn't hear the
whole thing over our lips smacking.
38
him, as it always did. The jerk threw his dog on the ground and turned his head my way. A lit
cigarette hung from his ashtray lips.
When he saw me coming from across the grass, he shoved his sweaty baseball cap up
from his forehead and hissed, “What do you want?”
...
Unleashed
Yvette A.
Schnoeker-Shorb
“He didn’t even offer the
courtesy of a full voice,
but more of a loud, slithery
whisper.”
...
I killed him. Yes, I killed him because he deserved to die. He tripped me with his dog’s
leash, and my broken arm cost me $5,000 for the Emergency Room visit alone. He wasn’t
even worth $5,000. It was a cheap death for such an expensive crime, so I killed him—in my
The mind is a funny thing. It reiterates the worst and swells with the hope of revenge.
Kill him, kill him, kill him, kill that stupid, smoking, sub-sandwich-eating bubba, my mind
chanted.
And I just knew that I would feel much better if I did.
The first time I went back to St. August Park, where it happened, he was there again,
unloading his dog from the back of his pickup truck. The small, black terrier thing growled at
39
He didn’t even offer the courtesy of a full voice, but more of a loud, slithery whisper. A
very mean man, he was, I tell you, a very depressed, sad, mad man—quite miserable.
mind.
When I reached him, I shoved my cast in front of his face so he could contemplate my
injury, his deed.
“You did this to me,” I said.
“You shouldn’t have been walking so fast.”
If he had apologized, things might be different now.
I pretended, however, that this was the beginning of a conversation.
40
“You shouldn’t have let your dog run across the sidewalk to pee on the curb opposite
from where you were standing.” Remaining diplomatic, I added, “The sudden force on the
leash when it caught my foot could have strangled your dog.”
I was pleasant; I did not even add that retractable leashes like his were technically ille
gal in the park because of their potential to violate the six-foot leash law.
“Oh, screw you!”
I don’t much like bullies, which is why, at that point, I imagined him dead.
And then he was.
I killed him in my mind. At first.
He never showed any suspicion of my right hand, which I kept casually by my side,
slightly hidden behind my back. I’m left-handed, you know, so lifting and aiming the gun with
my right arm was very inconvenient. Maybe it would have been easier, less messy, if I could
have used my left hand. But, somehow, using the right hand seemed appropriate because kill
ing him was the right thing to do.
Valeria Ryrak
In This Skin
“I’ve seen middle-aged women, with their
middle-class, mid-town, menopausal bodies
squatting mid-table like a wedding day cake
on a platter, probably believing that as
dilettante artists themselves—for models
often see themselves as such—they were
somehow contributing to the grand scheme
of the world’s artistic design. Not so.”
It was over quite fast. The dog seemed indifferent. So, being that we had that in com
mon, I freed it from the leash, which I returned to the owner, by gently wrapping it around his
neck.
And that’s what happened. Do lawyers like dogs? Because, if you do, this poor dog is
now available and in need of a home. I’m sure that you would be a much more responsible
owner than that horrible man, rest his soul.
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42
43
So yes, it was I who wanted to go and check things out for myself; I take full
wanted some time to think and to reflect and to learn in an empirical way, and Jordan’s
responsibility for that. Ever since I heard Jordan say, “Hey, Antoine, they’re having this life
proposition offered a kind of starting point.
drawing class at Marley’s Saturday night, come with me, will you?” I was intrigued.
count. I’ve seen middle-aged women, with their middle-class, mid-town, menopausal bodies
Intrigued, I say, not because among all my acquaintances Jordan came closest to the
Now, understand that in my day I’ve sat through life drawing classes too numerous to
rank of best friend, and as a fellow art school grad I owed it to him to go where no sane,
squatting mid-table like a wedding day cake on a platter, probably believing that as dilettante
self-respecting, non-art-school-graduate human being would venture, but because this idea of
artists themselves—for models often see themselves as such—they were somehow
his seemed genuinely compelling to me.
contributing to the grand scheme of the world’s artistic design. Not so. I, for one, found
nothing inspiring in their imperious contortions as they twisted this way and that, daring us
You see, in those days I’d just graduated with my BFA and wasn’t really doing much,
just loafing around, waiting tables at Crazy Joe’s, you get what I mean. I was also thinking
students to make eye contact. Everything from the sallowness of their leathery skin to their
about life a lot, what it’s like being me, or any other person, and trying endlessly to have
self-assured grandeur bespoke an old-maiden kind of egotism.
my mind contain it all; with the help of a particular organic psychoactive element I often
found my thoughts discovering new lands, so to say. Like a cart wheel leaving its rut and
frigidly frightened. They were a blank canvas at the session’s beginning, and remained so
becoming motorized by conviction, I was quickly shedding my principles and acquiring a wide
until the session’s end. They really had nothing to contribute to the inspiration-fueled field
array of new and equally arcane ones. In short, this is what made me agree to go, and as I
of art modeling, and were motivated exclusively by the exigencies of their financial situation.
explained to Jordan, my purpose in going was solely for the philosophy of the experience.
Which wasn’t much for us artists to go on, you have to agree. Male models they almost never
used at my school; why, I can’t say. Perhaps they feared some homoerotic wavelengths devel-
Back then, although I was still quite young, I’d all but given up on having an art career,
The younger ones—I’d say in their early twenties—were like does, shy, white, and
and was seriously, dejectedly considering applying my short array of skills to a more prac-
oping halfway through the session, but if it was up to me, I’d draw a male model over a female
tical—and no doubt more secure, not to mention respectable—career in arts administration.
one any day. Fewer emotional barriers to break through, more insouciance delivered from the
A master’s in fine arts seemed like a natural next step—who cares if my already corpulent
model. Jordan, you see, has always disagreed, and it was in trying to convince me otherwise
student loan was to acquire a few more pounds?—but before I could make the commitment, I
that he got me to come out to this art class. So one stinky subway ride and an $80 fee later, I
44
45
was trudging through snowy puddles in my sodden shoes to Marley’s Hotel at the less-than-
left, right and centre from universities, art-stream high schools, private tutors and even some
central end of Queen St. West. I had to walk quite a way, too, my ears, lips, and the tip of my
well-established urban artists. “Gosh, she could be the next Elizabeth Siddal or Dora Maar,”
nose threatening frostnip under the grinding cold, and when I got there I felt my phone
Jordan had exclaimed, cheeks on fire. I, of course, stayed true to my nature and didn’t believe
vibrate through my coat lining.
him. Now, understand that only when you really need a model do you start to appreciate the
value a good one brings to your craft. Thus only an art student or professional can truly ap-
“Sorry A. I’m not coming down tonight my girlfriend just texted and she’s having a
tough time dealing with this new puppy of hers—”
preciate her contribution. What would have become of Rossetti or Gauguin or even Picasso if
I didn’t finish reading the entire thing.
not for their models? A good model can make or break a career, I really believe that. And this
Ridiculous. Absurd. Fucking disastrous. What more could I say? The shabby hotel
one was supposed to be the best of what our small Toronto artist community had to offer.
loomed before me, an embodiment of the city’s inner dereliction, but the brave crowd of
urbane middle-agers was already filtering through the mauve-painted doors. I hovered
crown. As someone who did yoga, she knew how to pose and hold that pose without contort
between anger and despondency. It was his idea, his grand premise, and now there was no
ing her facial expression into one synonymous with pain. Like I said before, I was curious
Jordan because of some new puppy. Women will always trump everything else, right? I
enough to see for myself despite my wet shoes and my absentee friend, so in I went, through
wavered on my tippy-toes for some five minutes, then boldly went in. Nope, not going to
the double doors and down the stairway to the large basement auditorium that I imagined was
waste $80, not on a waiter’s salary.
only used for art classes and religious ministry. Ugh, I could smell the leftover piety, and won
dered if it was going to interfere with what promised to be a spiritually transcendent session
But the real reason I agreed to attend—and Jordan so eagerly arranged this—was be
Jordan had mentioned that she was an actual artist herself, not a mere pretender to the
cause of the model. Jordan, who, to be honest with you, was back then and still is much more
of life drawing.
involved in the art scene than I could ever be, had been hearing word travel about her for over
a year. So he’d said, anyhow. Rumour had it that she wasn’t some old quack exuding motherly
so nowhere to hide—I glanced about me. A few younger amateurs I could see here and there,
(or even grandmotherly) affection as you tried to get the tilt of her bosom just right, but a
sharpening their pencils, whispering to each other anxiously, clearly giddy before their first
young woman who, as Jordan described hearing, “just had it.” She was getting commissions
real nude. I remember mine... an art student never forgets his first nude. She wasn’t bad, a
Positioning myself in the last right-aisle seat of the back row—there were only four,
46
afterwards I went around my high school in a daze, fancying myself in love with her. By sec
the same one she wore on lazy Saturday mornings while eating cereal.
Andrea walked over to the nondescript CD player in the corner and turned on some odd
ond semester we were—hypothetically—already having children, and by grade twelve I
soundscape music. The sound of dolphins and water lapping over stones, that kind of thing. It
understood how it went. There’s a reason why they don’t use the same model for long at a
suited her well, I thought in the end, as she untied the belt holding the two sides of her robe
single institution. So what did I expect of that night’s session, you ask? Like I explained
together, flinging it on the back of a nearby chair.
before, to muse about what it’s like for her to be sitting there, in bare flesh, before me and my
scribbling pencil and my runaway mind. To try and embody this experience.
her right foot underneath her bum, and propped her head on her left knee by making a frame
with her elbows. The peculiar pose—must’ve been from yoga—afforded us sketchers not only
short brunette with an aquiline nose, well-endowed hips and elegantly arched brows. For days
47
The older members of the crowd—one would never guess how many adults rely on art
She climbed onto the table before us, bending her left leg at the knee as she sat, curling
as an outlet for insanity—had begun to apply eye drops, use asthma puffers; one lady was even
the challenge of getting the bend in the legs and the slight twist in the hips just right, for
reapplying her mascara when the lights buzzed and cut. This is so cliché, I thought, in the
the overall composition was truly impressive and one felt the inherent value of capturing it
movie that is our life, but then light returned, followed by a very non-cliché apology from a
perfectly on paper, but also allowed for a full display of her vulva, open, tender, mysteriously
disembodied voice somewhere in the room.
unshaven, due to the left knee’s bend.
“What shit electric work! I didn’t pay $800 rent to hold a class in semi-darkness!” A tall,
That was the real artistic challenge, relaying the elegance and the furtive promise of
almost gaunt man of no more than forty, wearing a tweed jacket and a feather in his fedora,
her pubis, and I knew that I could never do it justice. So I switched over to my other—and
came forward, furiously wiping his glasses. After regaining control of his temper, he contin-
perhaps more important—task of the evening: musing on the philosophy of the experience.
ued, “And so, ladies and gentlemen, what all of you have come here for. The one and only An
What can it possibly be that makes Andrea—her brown eyes soft and curious, her haircut
drea.” Like a circus magician unveiling a tiger underneath his magical cape, the art teacher—
New Age (shaved short on the sides, but long and pinned up at the back), her breathing a most
though he never did a minute of teaching during the course of the hour— summoned forth a
welcome substitute for the ticking of the clock —be so comfortable when on display before us.
woman of flesh and blood from a side door. She wore a lily-coloured fleece bathrobe, not some
Her look was natural, a look of Gauguin’s Tahitian women, as if she had not been raised in
oriental imitation-silk kimono that was the de rigueur model wear. It was without question
a culture that fetishized the naked body. But here she was, doing it naturally, our equal
48
49
unclothed before us clothed, and fine with it.
Her next pose mimicked the mermaid statue in Denmark, but that is all I remember,
instructor reemerged to signal the session’s end did I wake from my evening stupor, almost
for the next time we made eye contact, a hiccup in my mind caused me to—as it were—join
mine.
minds with her. For a while, I became Andrea, felt my belly rise and fall with each breath, was
slightly put off by the puckering of the skin with goosebumps in response to being naked in
supplies, papers shuffling, zippers zipping. Feeling concerned for my sanity, I stumbled my
a poorly heated room in the middle of January. At that moment my sense of being was the
way to the lavatory to douse my face with icy water. In the grimy mirror I looked slightly pal
strongest I’ve ever felt before or since. I was a real-life maquette of humanity from whose
lid, felt feverish. By the time I came out the crowd was gone, the instructor’s fedora visible as
essence the gods could create other races; I was something out of which formations could be
it slipped out the door. I made my way to my seat to pack up but was stopped by a young lady
made. My eyes made their way across the room, from the high school student furiously
in a pear-green coat and home-knit scarf.
erasing something from her sketchbook, frowning, to a silver-haired lady in round glasses
keeping her portable lap desk elegantly balanced on the knee as she sat, immobile, legs
series of awkward responses in my head while her earnest face bore into mine, searching for a
crossed, the tip of the pencil lightly grazing the paper. I sensed the turbulence of consider
response. “Were the poses too mundane perhaps?”
ation regarding my next pose, what it could be, how to transition from this one to that one
Now I couldn’t very well have replied, “I was too busy being you, you see.”
without visibly shivering, then followed through.
“Well,” I started, “I came here more for the philosophy of the experience.”
“My experience or yours?” she shot back immediately, but not in an accosting, more
I next saw a middle-aged man measuring me—Andrea, that is—with a pencil, then fu-
falling off my chair as I hit reality reflected in the deep amber eyes of Andrea digging into
The dolphin music had been replaced with the clamour of people packing up their art
“Hey you, you’re the one who didn’t draw anything. How come?” I blundered through a
riously scribbling on his pad. The determination with which he pressed the lead to the paper,
an incredulous, tone. I couldn’t say whether she knew about what had happened or not, but
crossing, then re-crossing his legs with slight agitation, betrayed the undeniable hard-on. I
the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health was just around the corner, so I decided to keep
felt myself smile and move on. My next observation was of myself, my head propped up on
mum.
my right elbow, my pencil on the floor, eyes staring into space. Everyone but me was en-
“No, it’s just that I was a little shocked throughout the session.”
grossed in their drawings, successes, failures, hard-ons, but I, I was Andrea, and only when the
Bad word choice, but too late.
50
She raised her eyebrows, which I could scarcely see due to the dark russet bangs that
up to draw me?”
lay scattered across her forehead. I might’ve perceived a half-smile twinkling on her lips.
lit up a little, and a slight smile appeared.
“Shocked? Well, aren’t you an art student? Or haven’t you seen a naked woman before?”
Her question was its own answer, my silence confirmed it. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes
By now mock concern pierced her voice and it became thinner, losing its rich melody. “But it
must’ve been very well advertised that this session would feature a live model. I don’t know
ment over and over again. Many times I’ve tried to think it through, rationalize why everyone
how you could have been unaware—”
seems to view my way of posing as somehow new... or different... but I can’t say what it is. I’m
a painter myself, so I know that helps. I use the poses that I personally would be interested
“It’s not that.” I cut her off and felt bad about it. “I’m sorry but... what I’m trying to say
is—”
“I can’t really describe what it is, but I will admit that I’ve been given the same compli-
in drawing, and taking yoga helps with the flexibility and endurance, of course. Though not
She appeared taken aback, replying with some hesitation, “Oh, so this is what you’re
with the cold... never with the cold.”
leading on to. I do have a boyfriend, so please, let’s not even breach the topic. It’s just a life
She half-laughed, half-sneezed into her palm. I stood there waiting, hoping for more.
drawing class, and you’ve no idea how many times I’ve heard this same skit before.”
“My first time was really jumping the gun,” she continued. “I was in class and the
actual model never showed up, so instead of letting the day go to nothing, I promptly
Now I was becoming anxious, mostly because there appeared to be some affectation in
her manner, as if she didn’t mean half of what she was saying. As if she were acting. Now
undressed and sat before my class, friends, the professor. The first two, three minutes were
was the time to tell her.
terrifying, but at the same time electrifying. Then I felt it, you know. In nature it’s called
moulting. Birds, snakes, insects do it. When you shed old skin, feathers, anything, that’s how it
“Actually, I was going to ask how you can do what you do with such... almost other
worldly ease. I am an art student indeed—was, anyway, I’ve graduated now—and thus have
feels. When you shed your clothes in public, you sort of feel reborn, as strange as that
sat through countless life drawing classes where none of the models... had what you have.
sounds.”
Whatever it is you have.”
I finished and took a deep breath; I’ve always found such explanations exhausting.
her to elaborate.
“You mean how I can be so comfortable in my own skin, before any old Joe that shows
51
“Oh.” I really couldn’t find anything to reply, and she saw it. My lack of response forced
“It’s not easy to explain. All I can say is... when you do something like this, something
52
that’s a little taboo in society, you gain this realization that half the things you thought
mattered, they actually don’t. We live clothed in both garments and ideas our whole lives, and
when we’re about to die we realize that it all never actually mattered to begin with. And
things like nakedness, hair, skin, old age—they’re all part of our collective experience, even
though we usually think of them as individual. And when you get to the true human
condition, this is what you find. Full exposure. Zero fraudulence. Quite invigorating, I’d
say. Not that I’m for public indecency, don’t get me wrong, but the feeling I get while posing
in this room, for example, where I get to make eye contact and observe people consumed by
their effort, and maybe even make a few newbies uncomfortable, is that it’s just skin. It’s all
just skin.”
I nodded. Boy, what a talker; I never would have thought. “Thanks, Andrea.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, philosopher king. Say hello to Jordan for me, and do tell him that
he should’ve come out tonight, and that I HATE dogs.”
Siren
by
Adalyn Ordono
53
54
Books that
fart
when you
open them.
A bunch of naked
Abraham Lincolns
but still
with the top hat on.
James Brown
and Albert
Einstein
making out
on puffy
white clouds.
Alex L. Schwartzentruber
55
Mark Twain
tatted up.
Your
Mom.
56
Translate
Davin Allan
got one in the Gloucester blah blah blah blah blah blah
Geraldine Inoa
Footnote
the first thing is to admit you have a problem.
But I’m not there. only because my feet when John comes out a little blah blah blah blah blah
that’s because the sweet crab meat is called
blah blah blah blah blah oh damn pitiful …but how much are you, let’s bather more mountains
with a screech
stay in bed and sleep, more willing to kick the tea index somnambulism
blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah this is over a
smiling Kim…
blah blah blah though Costco merchandise, I was glad.
for the record, the translate button is terrible.
57
Soon-to-be-drunk coeds litter
Third Avenue. I weave through them,
feeling an almost palpable disdain. They
can do something I can’t. They can freely
(ab)use their livers while mine remains
stalely untouched. It’s been over seven
months. As I approach my room, I feel a
lump in my throat. I know the tears are
only seconds away. Why am I crying?
Perhaps I’m in mourning. Mourning for
the reckless abandonment that used to
govern my life.
Now my life is full of structure,
routine, and most importantly, constraint.
It was a trade-off I was forced to make,
a trade-off I’m willing to accept (most
days), but it does not ward off a painful
longing that hits me especially strongly
on weekend nights. I could do it, though.
I could pick up where I left off, start up
again with the life I once had. I could
willingly submit myself to the perpetual
hangover and anxiety, the youthful recklessness. It would be so easy—I would
just have to walk one avenue south and I
could have my pick of my next nervous
breakdown. A breakdown that comes in
a variety of people, places, and things:
rum, whiskey, vodka, mixed drinks with
semi-clever names, darkened bars and
pubs made for awkward sexual conversation, a pack-a-day habit, and endless
nights of crying and wishing that it
could end, that I could make it end.
They say the first thing to do is
to admit you have a problem. But I’m not
there. An epic poem or gulf stands
58
between admission and me. I am buried
matter—the only thing that matin the abyss that is recognition, the lonetered was my tenacity in self-destruction.
liness of a disease I’m barely old enough
My need for self-destruction took a front
to legally suffer. I could go to meetings,
seat to everything: my health, my sanity,
sit around with people three times my
and my will to live all sat back while my
age who offer conventional wisdom beself-destruction drove me to a collapse.
tween coffee breaks or unsolicited mono
They say that everyone has a
logues designed to give inspiration but
different place of starting, that the orithat really make me feel tiny, stupid and
gins of recovery are rooted in your own
young, not nearly as fucked up as I’d like
personal rock bottom. My rock bottom
to be. I could get a hobby, immerse myoccurred March 30, 2012. It was a Friday.
self in a banal project of self-imI had left New York in a huff. The
provement, take up knitting,
air was still lightly frosted in a
I
was
an
quit smoking and be a better
winter chill. I was severely
person. Whatever that
underweight. My body
Equal Opportunimeans.
was frail, my spirits low.
ty
Drunk:
no
drink
was
No, I’m not goAbout two weeks prior
ing to stop smoking.
too strong, no drink was my ex-boyfriend had
Every cigarette is a
broken up with me over
finite,
size
did
not
matter—
silent protest, a signal
text in such a cavalier
that I’m still alive and
manner that I felt like
the
only
thing
that
matthat there’s a just a bit
I had been erased from
tered was my tenacity the world. As if I were in
more recklessness left
inside me. The date of my
an Etch-A-Sketch someone
in
self-destruction.
last drink is embedded in my
shook ‘til I was gone. I had left
memory: April 16, 2012. Like the
New York for Connecticut. Gone
<!-date I lost my virginity, ex-boyfriends’
to visit a friend. It was all very hurried
birthdays, and the date I got into college,
and unplanned. I wanted to leave myself
this date has become immortalized in my
behind so I left New York. It worked for
mind; it’s grown into a legend.
a few hours until I finally caught up with
My memory plays tricks on me. It
myself.
glorifies things, makes them larger than
After I sat through my friend’s play, she
life and fills them with a false glow. Facts
took me to a cast party. The alcohol was
are edged out, feelings are swapped. It’s
expensive and the people were stuffy.
an emotional pretense. The last drink
People drank, (sipped), while converswas divided into two margaritas. One
ing about the most pedestrian of topics.
mine, one not. I was notorious for finishIt was at a two-story house on campus
ing other people’s drinks. I was an Equal
supposedly for a traveling acapella group.
Opportunity Drunk: no drink was too
Spread out across the kitchen counter
strong, no drink was finite, size did not
were red Solo cups (a college staple),
59
60
occasionally throwing up. Even though I
was blackout drunk, I could feel myself
half-celebrating for creating such a mess
and causing myself such agony. In my
drunken stupor, I could feel self-loathing
radiate from my body. I was hot and cold,
passed out, and near what I hoped was
death.
I woke up still fully clothed in a
hospital in Connecticut. It was around
7 a.m. I had briefly forgotten that I was
in Connecticut. They explained to me
the events of the night prior, handed me
some literature on alcoholism and sent
me on my way. I took a cab back to campus. I quietly sobbed in the back of the
cab. By the time my tears dried, I started
to feel the worst hangover of my life. It
was all quickly settling in. Two weeks
later, I quit drinking. My last drink left
me sick and unable to walk.
Now, nearly three months out of
rehab, plump and sober, I still feel an ache
in my heart at the sight of drunken individuals. Occasionally my head buzzes
too loudly with the same old routine of
self-loathing and self-deprecation, but
the silver lining is that, due to my recent
lifestyle changes, I’ve ensured for myself
a long, long life. And all of this—this
mistreatment of my body, this existential crisis and this state of being young,
senseless and rash—will be a footnote, an
ancillary detail that only informs but does
not define.
Thomas N. Mannella
A Fuction
of the Land
Photos by Mike Smith
sodas to serve as chasers, and massive
amounts of alcohol.
My eyes perked up. I had found my
solace, if only temporarily. I picked up a
red cup and drank two shots. My friend
urged me to not fill the cups so high,
that what I was pouring was more than a
shot. And she was right: what I was pouring was an accelerant to a fire that had
already been sparked. We went upstairs. There was music playing. Cast members from the play
were still in their makeup. It was like my
own private theatre of misery and the
house was completely full. I found a beer
in a refrigerator. I downed it. From the
moment the party began to the moment
I hit rock bottom, I was on autopilot,
subservient to the thoughts in my head
that played like a broken record: recycled
sayings from my parents, insults from
ex-boyfriends, the sing-songy chants of
supposedly harmless teasing from grade
school, middle school and high school.
They swirled around, louder and louder.
The only way to drown them out was to
drink. So I drank and drank and drank.
Eventually, I went back downstairs
and made myself another “shot,” a cup
full of vodka filled to the rim and gulped
down in seconds. I drank from the bottle of wine I found. Germs were the last
thing I was thinking of. I drank another
beer. My memory stops there.
From what I was told, a few more
drinks went down my throat— nearly
In October I met my brother, Nicky, for the first time in
months,to loosen our jaws with liquid truth in the ambrosial valley. I saved my deepest
breaths for the stretch along the winery road, that sweet-smelling space on my drive through
the village to his house where the wood stove embers were likely cracking and popping. I
sensed a vast chill in the swath of air above the nearby vineyards. This was autumn in Naples,
New York. My visit was unannounced but would not be a surprise.
Approaching the porch, candles burned on a table next to the upholstered chair that
sprouted its stuffing, the chair where, for years, Nicky had taken to his intoxicated slumbers as
61
62
satisfied as a hummingbird after a sugar-pool bath. He sought immediate rewards at the
and rusted wire. Widmer’s Winery had long since abandoned the steep slopes where we slept.
expense of those that were large and delayed, and that, I thought, was why he had recently
been in jail.
bled a survival kit—a duffel bag stuffed with supplies to sustain us in the wilds surrounding
Weasel, Nicky’s golden retriever, barked.
our home. We had no guns. We provisioned band aids and black electrician’s tape for treating
“Howdy, pardner,” Nicky said, smoke jumping from his mouth with each syllable.
flesh wounds, lengths of twine from our neighbor’s horse barn for detaining enemies, match
He set a bottle at his feet and we greeted each other with a brotherly hug.
es from a tin canister in Mom’s pantry for fires, dog biscuits for sustenance (because we were
Our purpose tonight, or mine, was to be together.
roughing it), pencil-drawn maps that marked the summit of East Hill, the creek, the cemetery,
At ages nine and ten, in our boyhood quest to be tough, to be men, Nicky and I assem-
We ascended West Hill behind his house. Light touched our faces through the treetops.
We had done this since we were young boys and tonight we were prepared to sleep outdoors.
our house. The prized possession of the kit was our Papa’s multi-tool pocketknife.
I looked through the trees toward a scene I’d scrutinized throughout my life: rows of vine
would keep us out of her kitchen. When Papa saw us sharpening the tip of our hunting spear
yards striping the valley floor like rumpled corduroy.
with it, he said, “I’ll have to show you my knife.” Of course, it was our knife now and we
performed many emergency surgeries in the woods with it. Amputations. Appendectomies.
We built a fire. In the coming dark, my breath floated from my mouth in the cool air,
“Be careful,” Grandma had said when she handed it over. She probably hoped the knife
rising with the wood smoke and dissolving among the branches. We talked about the land on
Lobotomies. Tracheotomies. Transplants. We were prepared for anything. The knife was
which we trespassed. We toasted bread and melted cheese and roasted a purple onion on the
vital, isolated as we were within our imaginations and dependent upon our wits for survival.
flames. We washed our food down with Cabernet Sauvignon and Foch and I took the oppor
tunity to remind him of the time in high school he brought grape juice to the Phish concert
removing my shirt and revealing the gummy white line from the heart surgery I had in kin
instead of wine.
dergarten. In the forest with Nicky, I felt more comfortable about my scar than anywhere else.
“Well shit,” was all he said.
There were no secrets between us. He knew who I really was, the ways I was different and
West Hill had been terraced a century ago for vineyard cultivation here in the Finger
damaged. Blood brothers, we were. I would lie on a mattress of leaves, the roots of a maple
Lakes. As we ambled along a ridge after dinner, we found our boots tangled in sprawling vines
63
Possessing a scar that wrapped around my side from sternum to spine, I was the patient,
tree my pillow, the terraced hillside of an abandoned vineyard a reclining hospital bed. Nicky
64
would press the cold steel of the dull blade to my skin and open me up, reenacting my operation or whatever procedure was necessary that day. I always survived these childhood games.
We were now ambivalent about these same terraced hillsides: less grape growing, but more
space to wander. The duties of adopted ownership honored us. In high school, we had built
a lean-to of sticks tethered with twine as the headquarters of our cherished post. We were
“Nickywould press the cold
steel of the dull blade
to my skin and open me
up, reenacting my operation or whatever procedure was necessary that
day. I always survived
these childhood games.”.
never too old to build a fort.
Nicky tossed pieces of bread to Weasel and poked at the fire.
We drank more wine.
“Thanks for replying to my letter,” Nicky said. “You were one of the few.” It was
the first I had ever written to somebody in jail. We both stared into the fire. Then Nicky
opened up and began to describe his demise.
The details of his arrest remained mysterious and he replayed them in his mind many
times. That summer, a few nights after he was fired from his job on the winery’s processing
line, he drank several bottles of wine. In the middle of the night, he had found himself step
ping over the sill of Mrs. Carpenter’s porch window and slipping between lace curtains one
leg at a time, into the darkness. In her kitchen, he finished off another bottle of 1990 Meri
tage and rummaged through the old woman’s cabinets for alcohol. He then came upon a stair
way. He didn’t remember climbing the steps so much as floating up to the foot of her bed.
Moonlight dusted her shrouded body in pulsing phosphorescence and cast barred shadows
from her headboard onto the wall. He drifted through the room in a semiconscious state
65
66
collecting items to redeem at a pawnshop out of town. A bronze incense tray decorated with
repeated, again and again. Remember the time in high school when we snuck those girls up
robed men, a jeweled rosary, and an antique painting of “The Last Supper” framed in gold
the hill to the lean-to? When, sober as stones, we abandoned our apprehensions and clothes
that he had lifted off a nail. Booze money. Drug money. Food money. Rent.
and one by one splashed in the snow? We howled to the world because we were alive. Into the
drifts we dove like swimmers, naked and rolling through the white sandy surf, needles prick
The residential street had been dark and silent until he misjudged the distance between
his car and the Volvo parked behind it, reversing into its headlight with a crack and triggering
ing our skin under ancient light from billions of white bulbs in a blue-black ceiling. Nothing
an anti-theft alarm. The neighbours roused to investigate. He sped away. At the village limits
went numb. We backstroked nowhere in the icy air and involuntary tears flooded our vision.
a deer materialized in the road, hypnotized by his headlights. Spooked, he jerked the steering
For a moment, we floated on the snow under a cloud of my breath. We reached toward the
wheel and rolled his minivan, skidding into a guardrail at the top of a gully. Mrs. Carpenter’s
mysterious sky to unscrew the stars and retrieve the unknown.
belongings scattered across the pavement and glimmered in the high beams of the responding
police cars, Nicky’s vehicle wedged upside-down under the twisted metal barrier.
Tawny Port up to the firelight.
“Bottled at the bottom of this hill,” he said, handing it to me.
he was my brother, I felt it too.
“The good stuff, for special occasions only.” I pulled the cork, drank, and passed the bot
tle back.
“Trespassing, theft, DWI,” Nicky said. “I felt so much poised against me.” And because
In jail, he thought often about the company of friends and what they shared, the compa
Nicky tossed a few sticks on the fire and rummaged through his backpack. He held a
ny of fools and what could be learned. He wondered if any of us would visit him or send him
letters or remember him in conversations. Flooding regret accompanied his thoughts. Jealou
onds at the altar.”
sy soaked his core like wine into a cork.
trees back and forth, their silhouettes waving at the sky. Branches snared starlight and pulled
“Wondering what you all were doing outside the walls consumed me,” he continued.
“We only get one sip of that divine nectar,” he said, taking his drink. “Can’t ask for sec
We looked at one another in the eye for a moment. A breeze pushed the surrounding
Then, a moment later: “It’s not possible to light a moment’s ashes on fire again.”
gleaming rivers of cosmic glow together. We remained silent, absorbed in the flames licking
the cold air and the confessions and celebrations, communions and blessings of our time to
So, without naming what we were doing, we reminisced about moments when we were
all together, to squash that lingering wondering Nicky did in jail. Remember the time…we
67
gether. The sustainability of our friendship seemed to be a function of the land.
68
To complete the ritual, Nicky stood, lit a joint and and took a drag. When he exhaled,
the smoke rose, curling up into the night sky, and with it a part of him that savored lying in
an open field drinking the stars from a summer evening. He passed the joint to me and I did
the same, exhaling deeply, our vaporous breath searched for escape in the elusive sky. Accom
plices. We had a lot to leave behind so we let a little bit of ourselves fly free.
Around midnight, when the moon centered in the space above our position, I reclined
on a bed of leaves, swaddled in my sleep sack. I listened. The snap of the fire, the slosh of
Nicky draining his drink, the scratch of a lighter and the push of air bending the treetops.
Nicky began a monologue about the land, continually returning to its pre-human form
despite our interference. “Control is lost, which is control in itself,” he said.
Vegetation sprouts randomly in this earth. Erosion and maple trees round the stepped
corners, roots gnawing and pinching away like a fist closing in the mud. I told Nicky good
night and cozied up to the fire.
“In a month,” he slurred, “many of these trees will be bare, their naked branches reach
ing out to the sun during the day and stars at night, waiting for the quiet of the snows.”
Suddenly he vomited into the fire, a purple jet of puke. Weasel barked. I was not sur
prised. This was routine. I laughed with a grimace.
69
“Shit, man,” he said, “Goddamn!” and wiped his lips and chin with his sleeve.
In the morning we woke to fingers of light poking through the forest.
“What do you say we go to the bagel shop for breakfast?” Nicky said.
70
“What do you say we go to the bagel shop for breakfast?” Nicky said.
shoulder, unsure what to say.
“Nah,” I replied.
He stretched his arms and scratched the unruly nest of golden curls atop his head. He
flashlights our pupils enlarged and adjusted perfectly. We followed our feet, the stony trail
Soon we were rambling up the terraced hill again through the black night. Without
eyed the chunky splattering of food and wine near his pillow.
to the water tower mapped across our minds. I looked downhill through the woods, smooth
“How come you never want to go to breakfast with me?” he asked.
maple trunks played peek-a-boo with the village lights, the night air tangy and wet in the al
“I guess I’m not hungry,” I said, petting Weasel with one hand and separating the coals
most-winter woods.
in the fire with a stick. “I digested my dinner.”
of good ole Naples hooch between us. Tractor-trailers passed through town silently—float
Nicky mumbled something I couldn’t understand and together we packed up and
At the water tower, we sat on a rock bench and gazed at the village below, passing a jug
walked home in silence. He seemed simultaneously offended and apologetic.
ing light-bulb rectangles like display cases about to illuminate the unknown—and then disap
“Hike tonight?” he asked as we parted ways.
peared between hills, beyond the acres of vineyards.
“Sure,” I said.
“Yessir.”
That evening, I ascended his porch steps, hoping the dust had settled.
“Mmm, hmm.”
“I see you’re feeling fine,” I said.
A truck shifted gears leaving town.
After a time we wandered into the woods, taking the long way home. We trickled down
“Glad we could do this again.” He handed me a folded page from his journal:
And when I die
Don’t bury me at all.
Just pickle my bones
In alcohol.
71
hill like rainwater, slip-surfing on loose shale that clattered as we passed. Bullfrogs burped like
bubbling mud in a nearby bog. We paused in the middle of the vineyard and craned our necks
upward for shooting stars and the constellations that told us this was home.
Put a bottle of wine
At my feet and my head
And if I don’t rise
You’ll know I’m dead.
I refolded the paper and slid it into Nicky’s shirt pocket. I clapped my hand on his
72
Onan
George Held
Ma
Jenny Chou
—Genesis 38.9
For “spilling my seed” my name has become
Opprobrious, onanism the euphemism
For masturbation, as if I’d merely
Gratified myself. The rabbis, at least,
Condemned me only for failing to procreate.
It was the Enlightenment that cast
A scientific eye upon my deed, that
Made it deplorable to ease the self.
Who cared that spilling seed denied
A chance for life in a world already
Thick with brats? The issue wasn’t issue
But that anyone might please the self,
Danny and Hannah Jepson came to school with lice. Ma cut off my hair, so I wouldn't get bugs.
I went toad catching in the little pond with Eric.
Ma cut off my hands, so my fingernails wouldn't get dirty.
Pa drank some and beat up Ma.
Ma cut off my arms, so I wouldn't swing at girls.
Ma cut off my tongue, so I could never speak dirty.
Ma cut off my legs, so I would always be by her side.
Ma wrapped a rag around my eyes, so I wouldn't see grief in the world.
Ma cut off my ears, so I could hear the sound of my soul. Might prefer solitude and the power
Of the imagination to create
More delicious images of desire
Than real bodies could flesh out,
Might know better than anyone else
The speed and pressure of the stroke.
To maximize the, ah, pleasure,
With no unwelcome outcome.
73
74
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Adam Rose lives in Los Angeles with his amazing wife and two chubby cheeked
kids. He has another piece featured in The Milo Review’s winter issue: http://themiloreview.com/round-trip/ and his All Ages graphic novel, Playground, will be
coming out later this year.
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Jacob Shelton is a writer, traveler and co-founder of
It's Made of People, a
comedy/art group in Austin, TX. His work has been published in several print and
online publications, including Dead Flowers, Furious Gazelle, and Blackheart Mag-
puns, and
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Laura Kiselevach is a native of
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Thomas N. Mannella III earned a B.A. in writing from St. Lawrence Univer-
sity and a Masters from St. John Fisher College, both in New York. His writing has
most recently appeared in the Spring 2014 issue of Jet Fuel Review(http://www.
jetfuelreview.com/). Currently, he teaches English and Environmental Literature in
Naples, NY, where he lives with his wife and sons around the corner from the house
he grew up in. Valeria Ry
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William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire, and teaches at Keene
77
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Matryoshka Doll by Emily Story
State College. His most recent book of poetry is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013).
He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors.
His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.