RECIPE Rebecca Reilly Ginger. Nutmeg. Paprika. Sweet and sour sauce, to mix it up. Remember rice noodles and pastry squares. Remember— 4 am — he will be there. Dreary. Dulled under store fluorescence. Behind quick snatches of cash, and the springs of drawers and clips. I am his only hope for tips.... Show moreRECIPE Rebecca Reilly Ginger. Nutmeg. Paprika. Sweet and sour sauce, to mix it up. Remember rice noodles and pastry squares. Remember— 4 am — he will be there. Dreary. Dulled under store fluorescence. Behind quick snatches of cash, and the springs of drawers and clips. I am his only hope for tips. Time to spring for real butter—sexier than margarine. Dreamy, with night-shift weariness, for once a gentle, lotioned hand will offer his fingers crisp cash to grasp—and, dreamy, will long to hold, to caress. “So whens your break?" I‘ll finally ask. It‘s at 5:15. We‘ll smoke KOOLs together, and he‘ll laugh, “You seem like the type to shop at Lund’s. not here." I'll nod, drag on my cigarette, and let the silence of the morning linger, simmering between us. He‘ll realize I’m here for him -—that time I bought just cherries and apricot jam --all for him --that time I stood in line with only a single lime --0nly for him --and ignored the other lanes where idle cashiers wait... By now my subtle perfume should create in him the doughy, spicy scents he can anticipate. The shared, senseless, steamy softness for which I wait. I know the way to a fat man‘s heart: follow the unwritten tortilla recipe by the morning star, chase drinks with sweetness through the afternoon, meander through meal courses that will make him swoon, and follow the heart‘s instructions rather than recipe card traditions. Almonds. Brie. Cumin. 37 Show less
EPIDEMIC Malena Thoson Vilify me, make me malicious—- when I speak when I write when I think. Vilify me, make me the femme fatale-- who coyly steals your boyfriend, and your girlfriend, who stands on chairs to flee rationality. Vilify me, make me the apathetic wealthy-— who sip dry martinis, who... Show moreEPIDEMIC Malena Thoson Vilify me, make me malicious—- when I speak when I write when I think. Vilify me, make me the femme fatale-- who coyly steals your boyfriend, and your girlfriend, who stands on chairs to flee rationality. Vilify me, make me the apathetic wealthy-— who sip dry martinis, who throw pennies at fortune—500 charities, who blame your genes for your fiscal plight. Vilify me, make me the unmotivated poor—— who smell, who plague you for spare change, who just haven't tried hard enough. Vilify me, make me the incompetent servant-- who spits in your latte, who works too slow, who forgets to smile. Vilify me, make me the parasitic immigrant-— who steals yourjobs, who pollutes your schools, who drags your property value down. Vilify me, make me the deranged soldier-- who blindly follows authority, who basks in immorality, who kills in cold blood. Vilify me, make me my unfit age-- too young to know the rules, too old to have fun, 50 Show less
INTRODUCTION I remember, when I was eleven or twelve and first had the concept of the Internet explained to me (I was a late bloomer, technologically speaking), think- ing to myself, “What’s the point?" I lived my life by the page—books, newspapers, and, archaic as it sounds, hand-written letters... Show moreINTRODUCTION I remember, when I was eleven or twelve and first had the concept of the Internet explained to me (I was a late bloomer, technologically speaking), think- ing to myself, “What’s the point?" I lived my life by the page—books, newspapers, and, archaic as it sounds, hand-written letters—and saw little utility or glamour in the screen. Now, as I have, along with most of the world, become acculturated to life online, such naiveté is not only comic, but seems to carry a terribly ironic foreboding. It's a hard blow for us bookish types, but pointless to deny: Internet killed the publishing star, and the era of the printed word has ended. What, then, is the value of ajournal like Murphy Square? Are we clinging to tradition, to nostalgia, to a romantic notion of a heyday so few among us ever wit— nessed? Are we dating ourselves, fogeyishly trying to resuscitate a dying practice, or are we simply enjoying what is becoming more and more of a novelty? What, in short, is the point? This one year I have worked on Murphy Square has absolutely convinced me of the merit of a printed journal. It's a statement of faith that the work published has enough to say to be worthy of something more permanent, more physical than an open browser on a computer screen. It‘s a statement that is more impor— tant now than ever, when everyone, notjust the publishing industry, is struggling, when we cannot help but think in terms of debt and deficit, and when the expres- sion of creativity can feel more like luxury or vanity than human need. What you hold in your hands is our declaration of this need, of our trust and faith in this work, and of our celebration of creativity—one resource, at least, that we still have in abundance. Kayla Skarbakka Associate Editor Show less
I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM OF THE TRAIN Kayla Skarbakka I wish we had been subtler than to up so swiftly westbound through these evening—softened pastures, thick with droves of cattle, clover-fed, yet bred in the grim mercenary way. They bear a skittish witness as the windows dim. Need he know this... Show moreI SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM OF THE TRAIN Kayla Skarbakka I wish we had been subtler than to up so swiftly westbound through these evening—softened pastures, thick with droves of cattle, clover-fed, yet bred in the grim mercenary way. They bear a skittish witness as the windows dim. Need he know this is the slowest I have ever moved towards him? There is a snaking through the carriage— a lick of clammy air. But we don't mind; we’re going west, and know what‘s waiting there. I’ve never been this way before, but I swear I know this country. I will recognize this shore, the cliffs, the hills, stone—walled villages that I will walk alone, imagining him in every house I see. How dear they'll be as I pass by in silent admiration, as they keep their secrets locked away from me. Safety lights snap on; beyond the pane the world snaps black. Peering out, I can‘t see through my face staring back. I love the empty stony streets that I may stroll unfettered. Better I should walk them slowly, that before I reach the curbside, creeping fingers of afternoon shadows will have passed me by. There will be time to pause there, sift through all that is or was there, time to reason, sort, collect, confront, confound it all again— and even standing still, I move too fast. The brakes shrill. Passengers grapple with their baggage, I with my reservations, but not for long— we are coming to the station. Or suppose that I leave town—for mightn’t he be anywhere? Suppose I move on to stand on white cliffs and be splattered with rock-dashed foam that whips like spittle, salty indicators of something slate—hard and engulfing. Suppose my cheeks grow numb from buffets 34 Show less
IT WOOS Hanna Cushing Left foot, right foot left foot, right foot and so on and forth in silence except for the dry crunch of gravel like gritted teeth and the wind whistling its song through my hair and over the mouth of the open bottle softly. first winding around its neck then entering slightly... Show moreIT WOOS Hanna Cushing Left foot, right foot left foot, right foot and so on and forth in silence except for the dry crunch of gravel like gritted teeth and the wind whistling its song through my hair and over the mouth of the open bottle softly. first winding around its neck then entering slightly but soon shooting off like a solar flare It woos. 30 Show less
TRANSFORMATIONS Emily Hanson In front of the house of Franz Kafka I say I am a moth Standing next to Franz Kafka I place my hand in his armhole Attempt to hold hands in copper At half past three aprés midi I turn Cartwheels across the Charles Bridge Exclaiming I am a moth in flight Rotating into a... Show moreTRANSFORMATIONS Emily Hanson In front of the house of Franz Kafka I say I am a moth Standing next to Franz Kafka I place my hand in his armhole Attempt to hold hands in copper At half past three aprés midi I turn Cartwheels across the Charles Bridge Exclaiming I am a moth in flight Rotating into a metamorphosis of sorts Before I leave Kafka The man, the statue, and Czech Republic I stumble upon a salesman and say Hodne stesti good luck in Czech 13 Show less
“Hello?” I whispered, but nothing moved. I opened my left eye, then my right. The fox started back with brown eyes that didn’t blink. They were kind and always searching for something other than what was tangible. “You,” I said. And he cocked his head as if to say, “Me.” Itjumped off my stomach... Show more“Hello?” I whispered, but nothing moved. I opened my left eye, then my right. The fox started back with brown eyes that didn’t blink. They were kind and always searching for something other than what was tangible. “You,” I said. And he cocked his head as if to say, “Me.” Itjumped off my stomach and I gasped for breath. It disappeared into a row of corn. “Come back,” I said and stepped through the row. It was gone. I stepped back and found his white face staring at me. “Help me," I said and my voice was shak- ing. “Please.” The fox cocked its head again. Everything was still. Nothing groped out for me. I begged with my eyes. “Which way do I go?" I said, and couldn‘t sob enough. I loved the fox because it was there with me. It might hurt me, I thought, and I tried to collect myself. I knew that I would rather be hurt and dying than be drowning in all of this com. I wanted him to run at me, remind me that I was still alive, that I was still breath- ing. But he turned and ran, and because I had nothing else, I followed. I couldn't see through the com. I couldn‘t blink away my tears or the rain fast enough. Heavy leaves hit me in the face and I lost sight of the fox‘s tail ifI tried to weave out of the way. “Slow down,” I cried out, and he ran faster. "Please," I said and then he sped up and disappeared altogether. “Come back,” I said. “I’m sorry.“ I sat doxm and put my face in my hands. They were covered in slimy dirt. “I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I said. “Mary!” someone said far away. “Mary, where are you!?“ I heard it again and believed this time that it was real. “Mary,” I said to a cornstalk, and the fox ran past me so hard and fast that he knocked me to the ground. I stood up and the fox was jumping back and forth, waiting. I took a step, and then I was running. He stopped just as he changed rows so I could see its tail. I followed his hesitation and took off running. He hadn‘t left me alone after all. I could only see where he turned and bent a small stalk. The wind was working against us and the sky was getting lighter and lighter. Everything stung, and the wind made me shiver again. It was raining harder here, and the fox‘s tail was almost imaginary as it ducked inside green row after green row. We were picking up speed and I could barely keep up. “Wait,” I begged, and I tripped over a rock the size of my shoe and fell with my hands out in front of me. I shut my eyes and fell, defeated, finally. I exhaled and opened my eyes. My hand was in grass, not dirt. I looked up. I knew this place. I looked up and saw the living room window where I should be sitting. the sandbox where I liadjust played. I turned around and thought I saw a flash of white tail turn into a corn stalk. I stood up. My dress was covered in dirt. My hands were green. my knees red. "Mary!" I heard Aggie across the street. I turned to look for the fox one last time. but only a mouse was running back into the field for shelter from the storm. I Show less
SEA GLASS, COBH Kayla Skarbakka The belt of brackish beach between retaining wall and wave, fish—stinking, kelp—devoured, half-eclipsed by sodden latticework of leaf and spray and dross, fosters motley communes of soft—washed shards from fishing floats, mirrors, plates, but mostly (you can hear... Show moreSEA GLASS, COBH Kayla Skarbakka The belt of brackish beach between retaining wall and wave, fish—stinking, kelp—devoured, half-eclipsed by sodden latticework of leaf and spray and dross, fosters motley communes of soft—washed shards from fishing floats, mirrors, plates, but mostly (you can hear children in a nasal chorus sing) five thousand bottles of beer from the wall, thrown in green and amber shatters, smudged by lips and foam, filmed in fish oil, scraped scales, crusted lines of spume. Enthusiasts dig in, assume the beauty of smooth edges, fractures soothed, fragments no longer of a whole. Nature‘s pretty way with things that break (they may say, ignoring grit, ignoring grating glass on stone, ocean’s soft attack—the lonely fact that after change there is no going back), ultimately gentle in the face of violence (ignoring the possibility that these pieces—soft —edged though they are— could be SO unwillingly; that they, after years-long grinds and battles, could regret the inability to scar). They tap together, scratch, rub and slide and quake, minor geologies, victims of monotony. What do you do with such assorted bits of human history? You sit, dig fingers in, bury your own smooth—skinned hands, and then you leave. pockets empty. 53 Show less
and the cold spray knocks rne dumb. Perhaps I‘ll see him then; perhaps he'll know why I have come. We cling to our possessions—they to theirs, and me to mine, and one by one we drop off at the stub-end of the line, 35
A SHRIMP DINNER Sammie Guck At first, the frozen shrimp meant nothing, simply dinner, as impersonal as anything I'd ever eaten. But then she cut the bag open and the shrimp tumbled stiffly into the soft plastic ofa green bowl and I recognized something in them that I wished I had not. Like the... Show moreA SHRIMP DINNER Sammie Guck At first, the frozen shrimp meant nothing, simply dinner, as impersonal as anything I'd ever eaten. But then she cut the bag open and the shrimp tumbled stiffly into the soft plastic ofa green bowl and I recognized something in them that I wished I had not. Like the victims of some half—completed holocaust they lay, guiltless and rigid, slumped coils of former life, dead, but rife with the memory of breathing these pink wrinkles these curled—up thumbs huddled together in the cruel gel ofa liquid more akin to ice than water. Seeing them there, I conceived happier times, far away from all of this, when these shrimp swam and ate, and thought little of anything else, when the whole of their existence was yellow sand, flapping waves bubbles of air and no awareness of Skillets or a sensation called suffering. But now they were here, In a place so far from the sea that their past read like the unkind remembrance ofa good dream as they winced, naked and shivering in the scowling light of a cramped kitchen. 38 Show less
EXECUTIONER BLUES (Excerpt) Joel Enright The Executioner’s home was kept over a mile from the outskirts of town. It lay among a tall grass—field, littered with defunct cars stripped of all valuable compo- nents, and an old yellow school bus which sat like the commander of a defeated army. It was... Show moreEXECUTIONER BLUES (Excerpt) Joel Enright The Executioner’s home was kept over a mile from the outskirts of town. It lay among a tall grass—field, littered with defunct cars stripped of all valuable compo- nents, and an old yellow school bus which sat like the commander of a defeated army. It was from the bare seats of this bus that David would sit, rusty springs baring khaki into the flesh, peeking cautiously out the windows at the Execution— er’s home. A ramshackle dirt road, inundated on both sides by leaning stalks of grass, ran from the town straight into the white garage door, which was attached to a single story affair which blushed pink in the rising sun, and clouded scarlet with its falling. Blank-faced windows, outlined by fading white trim, sat in front of never parted blinds. The only times when David witnessed the Executioner, a balding, stocky fellow whose bushy moustache creased quickly over the corners of his ever—pouting- lips, was when he went to attend to his garden, a square of earth behind his home shaved from the grass-sea which enveloped the land. Every afternoon he would knee] in the dirt and pick weeds, taking time to stop and caress the leaves and stalks of depressed plants, occasionally whispering inaudible words to them as if encouraging a child tojump into a cold lake. David had discovered the house a few weeks previous, having wandered past the dirt road leading to it on his roundaboutjourney from school to his un— pleasant home life. He had walked down the uneven path, letting his hand waft through the trembling mass of grass, until he came to its end at the small home. He was quite taken aback; nobody he knew lived in such things. Single family homes were something only talked about by his grandfather while fondly remi— niscing, relics ofthe past, as ancient to him as stone castles. Everyone lived in the high-rise apartments of the city now. It appeared to be vaguely occupied. perhaps lived in occasionally by drifters or a recluse with some connection to the government. He climbed into the rust yellow school bus, and with eyes oh-so minutely crested over a side windows metal horizon, he began to watch the house. It did not take long for its occupant to reveal himself, emerging soon thereafter to attend to garden duties. Dan'd's hands clenched tightly together. He recognized the man immediately, he had watched him work on the gallows time and time again since the age of ten. He was taken aback, he had expected the home to be occupied by some vagrant who had stumbled across it and made it his ramshackle abode, but to find this deso~ late development in the hands of the Executioner? His hands began to clench, throat became dry and lips trembled in his state of enthusiastic bewitchment. Each day the Executioner breathed out his back door and into the garden. and with this ritual of gardening, David bound his own ritual of watching, making his way to his spying spot every day after school. He noted each touch, every wliis» pering made and how each stalk and leaf responded to the presence, to the 31 Show less
to the haze created by the ammonia fumes mixed with the hay dust. All around me were furious chickens flapping and squawking and desperately trying to stay clear of the hooks. They knew what was up. Chickens trying to get airborne are about as graceful as beached walruses trying to amble off a dry... Show moreto the haze created by the ammonia fumes mixed with the hay dust. All around me were furious chickens flapping and squawking and desperately trying to stay clear of the hooks. They knew what was up. Chickens trying to get airborne are about as graceful as beached walruses trying to amble off a dry rock into the sea. My eyes watered as the fumes stung the inside of my nose. I fumbled around blindly, aiming low for a chicken leg. The faster one got in and out, the better for all concerned. The idea was to hook a chicken around the ankle, yank it up and carry it out to the butcher block. Oh how they protested, flapping their wings and squawking their heads off (poor choice of words, I know), trying hopelessly to escape. But there was no escape from Hatchet Woman. Once at “the block," my Aunt Marge would commence with the behead— ing. One swift, deftly applied thwack separated the bird from its brain. It still makes me shudder to think of those headless, hapless bodies flopping around on the ground until the life literally left them. It always took their hearts a couple minutes to figure out they were no longer receiving messages from the brain to continue. The barn cats would lurk nearby, transfixed by the spectacle. They knew to keep their distance. I could tell they were a little spooked by the headless crea- tures. Once the birds stopped flopping around, dutiful Brenda would skip around the barnyard, moving quickly from one little carcass to another tying baling twine around the ankles. I slouched along the wall of the tool shed, emotionally exhausted, ready to throw up, and offering a little prayer for the dearly departed. I pretended I was Catholic and crossed myself. Mom hated that. She was a dedi- cated Methodist. Grandma said I shouldn‘t spend so much time in front of the teleyision as it was making me too “theatrical.” Chicken butchering was a natural part of life. she said. I believed it to be barbaric. Why couldn't we get our chicken from the Piggly Wiggly like everyone else? Once the little corpses were gathered up, we would carry them over to large cauldrons filled with hot water. Each bird was left to soak for a few minutes so the feathers would be easier to pluck. This is the point at which I washed my hands of the whole process and refused to participate any further. If you‘ve never witnessed the spectacle of cleaning chickens, you simply can‘t imagine the medi— eval sense of it all. My mother, embarrassed by her pitiful—excuse-for—a—farm-girl daughter, just shook her head, fully knowing she would have to deal with profuse and unending projectile vomiting from me otherwise. The woman knew when to cut her losses. Later, when enough chickens had been murdered to fill our freezers for the Winter, the aforementioned gang of barn cats would ceremoniously trail out after us to the trees. There behind the shed. my mom and Aunt Marge strung the little carcasses up to clean them. They had a lovely little area back there. Years earlier, my uncle had cut out the brush, leaving a clearingjust for this annual event. He had found two trees several feet apart and placed a large branch in between them. 19 Show less
the armrests hard like the wooden handle of an axe, again hoping she would see he was ready to leave this place. “Are you telling the truth, Jed?" She snarled and chewed her lip as she spat the words out. “I, um...” Jed had not wanted to continue, but the darkness of the walls pressed in on him... Show morethe armrests hard like the wooden handle of an axe, again hoping she would see he was ready to leave this place. “Are you telling the truth, Jed?" She snarled and chewed her lip as she spat the words out. “I, um...” Jed had not wanted to continue, but the darkness of the walls pressed in on him and the straps around his arms clenched him tighter and tighter, urging him on. The whispering in his ears began again, demanding that she would know his soul, that he would tell her what he really saw, what he really was. IfJed could just go on with the family thing he thought, insist that‘s what it was, she wouldn’t know. He resisted the whispers for a moment, for she was only Dr. Z. How could she be anything else? “N-no, it was my family," he insisted. “Alright Jed, we’ll try this again sometime when we feel like telling the truth.” She stood and turned to the little box on the wall. “Guard, I‘m —“ “No, no—no," he pleaded. “I can tell the truth." “Hang on, Hank, we're going to try some more." She turned back, adjusted her black calf— length skirt, and took her seat again, adjusting the pad and pen with intent to take more notes and dig deeper into Jed’s dream. “I saw — Well, I saw those faces." He tried to explain as carefully as he could. The death he had seen in his dream, the faces, contorted in pain, sliced down to the skull in places. Body parts didn't all fit together, but they whispered at him anyway; the mangled faces told him to cut the wood, Jed, cut the wood so he could be big and strong like his Pop. “The people you killed?” She suggested. Jed wished he had his pills now; he had been hiding them under the tiles in the corner of his room. Jed knew he didn't really need them all the time, but he liked to take them as he felt he needed them. He wanted one right then because the chair was tightening its grasp and the walls were pressing in. He gripped the hand rests and looked straight into Dr. Z's eyes. The flame in them flickered and looked as if it could sear her brow, but the fire was contained in her eyes as they stared back at him from out of the dark— ness. She waiting for his response. “I don't think I killed those faces. I couldn‘t have." He didn't know. He didn't remember that he had killed those faces in his dream. He knew he recognized them, but he hadn’t killed them. He thought about it some more. She had always been trying to trick him into saying he had killed the people in his dreams. Who knew how they had died? He could see her eyes glowing redder still while the room whispered in his ear, Maybe you did kill them. Jed. “Alright, Jed, I think we‘re done for today. You seem awfully excited. Is every- thing okay?" She seemed sincere, but Jed knew better. He was the one tied to the chair; his eyes were not on fire. She was the one in the cave office; she was the one who stared down and passedjudgment on him. She was not “OK.” Jed struggled f with the straps, but they cut off his circulation and he couldn't move his hands. His feet kicked helplessly, unable to reach the floor, so he tried twisting and . contorted himself to try and break the bonds that held him down and whispered I 25 Show less
whizzed by me, trying grab hold, and the wheels of doom kept turning in an at— tempt to stop my progress. Suddenly I began to become amused by this spectacle. I was running circles around a parking lot with multiple biker cops and foot officers chasing me with clubs and shooting mace at me. A... Show morewhizzed by me, trying grab hold, and the wheels of doom kept turning in an at— tempt to stop my progress. Suddenly I began to become amused by this spectacle. I was running circles around a parking lot with multiple biker cops and foot officers chasing me with clubs and shooting mace at me. A large smile began to form on my face. Time seemed to slow down a bit and then I decided to talk trash. “ Ohhh, almost... that was close... come on, fatboy, catch me...” and so on. Whooping and smiling, I continued to run in circles when I spotted my chance at freedom. The police line stretched out and a weak point emerged. I started to make a dead sprint straight to this point when I felt a little pinch in my back, immediately followed by an ex- plosion oflight and pain throughout my whole body. I fell to my knees, and with one graceful move I spun my torso and ripped the tazer’s wires from my back and got back up and continued to run. I felt my blood surging, my heart pumping, my muscles swelling, the adrena- line pumping in my receptors, my lungs contracting with my breath. I felt the ground beneath my feet as I continued to float along the asphalt surface. I felt the air touching every inch of my body. I could see clearly all the colors of the smoky summer polluted sky, and I knew everything I needed to know at that moment. I could only describe that feeling in the term of Satori used by the Japanese Zen masters. I was fully aware of my existence as a free human being. I was fully aware of my individual self, and of all the selves and things that were present to me in that moment of time. I have never run so fast in my life. I approached the police line like a mad man. My heart knew no fear as I approached this line of masked thugs with guns and clubs. At this point I was above it all and running for my right as a free individual. I gave a shake of my shoulders, and the cop took the bait and moved left as I ran to the right, smashing through the line, and with one giant leap of faith, Ijumped over his police cruiser. And then there was nothing but open road. I ran with everything I had left. I tasted freedom and smelled victory, for I knew it layjust beyond the horizon. I glanced back to see my foes continuing the chase. I made for an alley and over some boxes, and around some trashcans I made my dash. Ijumped over a fence, then some bushes, and found myself in the square of an apartment complex. I could see friendly's sitting on their porches, observing the fiasco called a demon— stration. I began to slow down immensely due to an intense pain in my lungs and back, followed by vomiting. I continued to move my feet in front of one another as I wiped the contents of my stomach from my mouth. In a last stand effort, I staggered forward as I swiveled my head around just in time to see a man in a blue uniform flying through the air at me and, closely behind him, his comrades in arms. We crashed and skidded across the dirt in a cloud of dust. I tried to push myself up when a baton connected to the back of my head, followed immediately by another. I put my hands to my face and tried to protect my head. At first I didn't feel the fists hitting me, but I could hear the 41 Show less
