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
30 BELOW CONSCIOUS Hanna Cushng It is so cold that the sewers are belching opaque white steam, ghosts emerging from the cockroach infested undergirdings of the city. I drive through them in my car that won't warm up until I reach wherever it is that I am going. At home, I hover around radiators,... Show more30 BELOW CONSCIOUS Hanna Cushng It is so cold that the sewers are belching opaque white steam, ghosts emerging from the cockroach infested undergirdings of the city. I drive through them in my car that won't warm up until I reach wherever it is that I am going. At home, I hover around radiators, wish my landlord would install new windows. The crispness of the frigid air amplifies each empty space, each cmnching footstep, each drip of the faucet, a reminder of absence, creeping slowness, and the unbearable lightness of air drifting through gaps left in windows unheeded. This cold it permeates everything it touches. The walls are cold. The floors are cold. It pierces to the foundation. At night the fn‘gidity radiates from the wall above my head. I shield myself with pillows, But my sheets won't warm up until well after I have gone to sleep, 28 Show less
A horrific crack shot in the air interrupted Javier, and the bullet from Hank‘s pistol dug deep into Javier’s back. His eyes rolled back deep within his head, and his body fell to the sand, Motionless and lifeless, his body lay face down in the sand. “Looks like there is no one here to protect you... Show moreA horrific crack shot in the air interrupted Javier, and the bullet from Hank‘s pistol dug deep into Javier’s back. His eyes rolled back deep within his head, and his body fell to the sand, Motionless and lifeless, his body lay face down in the sand. “Looks like there is no one here to protect you now chica," laughed Hank. VIII. They were both approaching her as she sat leaning over Javier‘s body. Teresa hurried to her feet and turned to run, but Hank grabbed a handful of her dark brown hair and threw her back down to the ground. “You can thank your cheap boyfriend for this," he said as he pinned her down again. “All I asked for was $500 more dollars and I guess you just weren’t worth it.” He trailed his hands down the slit of her blouse and ripped it at the seam. He brought his hands to her neck before he sat up to say, “Damn it, Marian! Can I get a little privacy?" Marian, visibly upset, turned and headed back for the SUV. “That’s better," Hank said. “Now where were we?" Hank lowered his face to Teresa‘s and smelt the perfume on her neck. His scarred tongue trailed up her neck and to her cheek. This was worse than any nightmare she had ever had. Her fiancé lay face down in the sand, dead, and she was on the cusp of the becoming the sexual release for these rapists. Javier would have never let this happen, but after all, he did let it happen. She felt betrayed by her fiancé, but she would not let herself die in the desert. She waited as Hank's tongue moved across her cheek to her lips. She waited forjust enough of the tongue to emerge before she reached out and bit down as hard as she could. She hit the whole way through. Her mouth was filled with blood which she spat back into his face. Hank reached for his mouth and rolled off Teresa as blood poured from both sides. “What happened?" called Marian as he ran toward Teresa. “She's getting away. Teresa rolled to her feet and sprinted to the only safe spot she could see, the black SUV, but Marian was still between them. As the two closed in on each oth— er. Teresa hurled her bag towards Marian's face. He caught the bag with a chuckle that was interrupted by Teresa's right foot connecting to his groin. Marian fell to the ground, and Teresa ran for the SUV. She got in and turned on the car. She shifted the car into drive and the tires spun as the SUV's headlights turned on. And there it was. The opening in the fence had been less than 100 yards away the entire time. The tires finally found traction in the sand and she sped off. lean'ng Hank and Marian, and Javier, behind. I 57 Show less
GREY CARPET Eric Tankel The shades were drawn and the room was still. Light poured through the edges of the covered windows. I shifted slightly in bed. It was time to get up. The alarm clock sounded a chain of piercing beeps. I fumbled for the snooze button, sweeping my hand across the bedside... Show moreGREY CARPET Eric Tankel The shades were drawn and the room was still. Light poured through the edges of the covered windows. I shifted slightly in bed. It was time to get up. The alarm clock sounded a chain of piercing beeps. I fumbled for the snooze button, sweeping my hand across the bedside table. I heard a splash and then a thud. I sat up quickly and looked beneath the table in dismay. I had knocked over the tall cup of fluid that rested on the bed stand. I ran for the bathroom to grab a towel. The cup had been full, to the rim, with my urine. I had a rare condition called interstitial cystitis, a disease that affected the uri— nary tract. The doctor suggested that I abstain from spicy and acidic food, sodas and juices, and a whole list of other things that I enjoyed. I did, but more than a month after my diagnosis, I was still having problems. It seemed no matter what I put in my body my bladder and kidneys would swell and bleed. I had to get up to pee twenty times in a night. It was then I decided to keep a large cup by the bed. This was the second time I knocked over my piss receptacle that week. “Fucking shit,” I muttered as I sopped up the fluid from the carpet with my last good towel. The carpet was old shag that may have started its life twenty years ago as white. It had become more of a soiled gray color. My urine, a deep orange filled with clumps of white blood cells and small bits of bladder, had created a yel- low amoeba shaped stain by the bed. I thought, for a moment, what the future residents of this apartment would say as they arranged their bedroom set in the space. “Oh honey," the husband would say to his newlywed wife, “we should put the bed on the far wall. That way the armoire can hide this enormous piss stain." Hands moist, I tossed the soggy towel into the bathtub. I was running late. I yanked open the curtains. The sun was up past the horizon and the sky was light blue. I pulled some dirty clothes from the hamper and threw them on. The bus stop was half a mile away. It was a nice walk really, down a canal that ran behind a row of houses. Ijogged for a while until I was out of breath. The grass was wet with dew that soaked through my shoes and into my socks. I could feel sweat mnning down my back. I cut through an unfenced yard and walked the rest ofthe way on the street. People were leaving their homes to begin the day. There was a waitress in black pants and a stiff collared shirt. She carried a small black binder and folded apron at her side. There was a tradesman loading tools into the back of his pickup. A young businessman in an Italian suit set his briefcase in the back seat of a long black sedan. I walked dragging my feet in the pebbles along the side of street. I arrived at the bus stop early and sat down on the curb. I withdrew a small handful of change from my pocket and counted out the $1.30 fare. The coins were 44 Show less
cold in my sweaty hand. The bus came rumbling down the road, pulling a cloud of diesel smoke. It stopped by the sidewalk and the doors parted. I climbed inside and chose a seat next to a young Asian woman. “Hello,” I said offering the most sincere smile I could muster. “No English,” she replied... Show morecold in my sweaty hand. The bus came rumbling down the road, pulling a cloud of diesel smoke. It stopped by the sidewalk and the doors parted. I climbed inside and chose a seat next to a young Asian woman. “Hello,” I said offering the most sincere smile I could muster. “No English,” she replied and looked away, planting her gaze out the window. The bus was loud and dirty, every available surface covered in permanent marker. Scrawled on the back of the seat ahead of me was the word Obey, written in large stylized letters. Surrounded by cheerless and tired faces, I felt suffocated. Work was only three stops from my house. I could have easily walked there every- day ifI woke up a half hour earlier. It had been my New Year‘s resolution to stop taking the bus. I could save $2.60 every day and get back in shape. It was June, and I hadn’t walked to work once. I was employed at an electronics packaging plant. It was an enormous ware- house located in the back of a business development. Myjob was simple. I stood at one of thirty stations next to a long conveyer belt. Cell phones and cell phone accessories traveled down the belt and at each station they were boxed up and sent on their way. We were expected to package about three products a minute and our progress was logged on an elaborate computer system. Working there, I developed a new appreciation for consumer goods. Every time I purchased a package oflifesavers or a new pair of socks, I thought of the poor bastards that had thrown them into cardboard boxes to be shipped to retail- ers. I clocked in. The day had just begun and I was already dying to go home. I shoved items into packages and tried to keep busy. Other employees labored slowly with their heads hung low. The fluorescent lights hummed and buzzed. I wasn‘t all that close to anyone I worked with, but most days at lunchtime we would retreat to the woods behind the building to get high. Being stoned almost made work tolerable. The worst part was the pay. A temp agency had found me the job in two days, but they skimmed 20 percent off my check. It was maddening to know that I was surrounded by people that all made four dollars more than me. I couldn‘t seem to find anotherjob. The dull pain in my bladder grew sharper. I was allowed two bathroom breaks a shift so I had to make them count. I would wait until the grief was too much to bear and I would dash to the restroom. The doctor had said that holding my urine would worsen the condition, but I was afraid to ask my manager for special treatment. I took my first pee break halfway through the morning. My hands were coarse and covered in paper cuts. The soap stung as I washed them in the sink. After lunch, I looked around and cringed. I wanted everyone to look miserable and depressed, but instead most appeared content. They were stoned. They stood at their stations working methodically. At the end of every day, sheets were posted in the lounge displzm'ng our pro— ductivity. I examined my standing before clocking out for the night. I traced my 45 Show less
distinct wet thudding sound of fists hitting skin. I could guess their numbers to be about 4 or 5 from the amount oflimbs striking and grabbing at my body. They continued to punch my face, head, and neck, as other officers grabbed my legs and kneed my ribs. I resisted none at all andjust took the... Show moredistinct wet thudding sound of fists hitting skin. I could guess their numbers to be about 4 or 5 from the amount oflimbs striking and grabbing at my body. They continued to punch my face, head, and neck, as other officers grabbed my legs and kneed my ribs. I resisted none at all andjust took the beating, for I knew what self-defense meant in this situation. I felt once again an explosion of electric pain course through the fibers of my body. Surprisingly, I never lost conscious- ness, and was well aware of what was happening: I was getting beaten. Knowing that if they wanted to arrest me they would have to stop beating me, the police stopped pumping my veins full of electricity and hitting my face. Lying there face down in the dirt, blood pouring from my nose and face, my eyes swollen shut, my skin burning from the mace, my hands contorted behind me, and an officer slamming my face repeatedly up and down with his knee in my neck, I could do nothing but laugh. I let out a tremendous roar oflaughter and couldn‘t stop. It probably wasn't the best of circumstances, but deep down I felt good about my choice not to lie down and submit. I turned my face a little when the mechanical like voice spewed out, “Stop re— sisting arrest.” I continued to laugh as to say fuck you, you can break my body but you can't break my spirits. And with that, he shoved the can towards my face and proceeded to unload its chemical contents onto it. After what seemed like a blurry dream, they began to drag me towards a car that had pulled up. I could hear residents in the apartments yelling at the police and telling them off, and I could hear them shouting encouragement and com- passion at me (can’t recall exact words, but could feel the intentions behind the voices). I could also hear the uneasy tension in the officers' voices as the crowd grew larger. They quickly shuttled me off. They drove for a while, then got out. It was hard to cognize anything at this point; my ears rang and my body trembled, still twitching with electricity. I was blind. All the physical feeling I had left was pain of some sort. I could feel the blood pouring from my face, and I had lost all my senses to some degree, but my inner voice was as clear as ever and I could feel something deep inside that was calm and peaceful. After a while, they got back in and began to berate me with false accusations and lies and were threatening me. “You were rioting, you had a weapon, you were throwing fireworks, you assaulted an officer, you damaged property..." I laughed and thought to myself, by weapon do you mean that apple that was in my pocket? By rioting do you mean running from people aiming assault rifles at me? By fireworks do you mean those exploding grenades that were being shot at me? By assault do you mean not letting someone hit me with a club and shoot me with a tazer? By damage to property do you mean that patch of dirt stained with my blood? My only response was silence. I sat in the back of the police cruiser, bloodied and bruised, refusing to be broken and still smiling through my newly chipped teeth as we drove off into the dark streets of St. Paul towards the concrete fortress known as jail. I 42 Show less
FALLING (Excerpt) David Siegfried Jed gripped the hard wooden armrests in both of his thick brawny hands. The arm rests were, he was sure, not made with the intent to be smashed under the grip of stress and fear. Jed knew he was gripping them far tighter than what was even good for his hands, but... Show moreFALLING (Excerpt) David Siegfried Jed gripped the hard wooden armrests in both of his thick brawny hands. The arm rests were, he was sure, not made with the intent to be smashed under the grip of stress and fear. Jed knew he was gripping them far tighter than what was even good for his hands, but he couldn’t help it. He knew she knew too. She was his psychologist. Jed was gripping the chair as hard as he could because he knew what he had to tell her, and he knew she would not rest; he would not rest until he spilled his guts, and told her everything. “So...” she continued, leaning in, in anticipation. The question on the table was about Jed's dreams. Every time he would tell her a dream he felt as if she was receiving not a dream, rather a piece of his very soul. As if she was a surgeon learning about the heart, when he told her a dream she would get her tools out and dissect it. However, Jed could not resist either. “I had another dream.” He began, not knowing how to make this particular dream sound rosy. Jed wanted her to know he was okay so he could leave this place. He wanted her to say he was better, but his dreams never led her to that conclusion. He scanned the office, perhaps in a last minute effort to forge a new dream out of his broken imagination. Her walls were dark wooden panels that sucked the life out of the room. The books on the shelves had maybe once been lightly colored, bright and filled with illumination. In the dark room lit by two dull brass floor lamps, the books looked old; they were dusty, they were books of spells she could use against him, and he hated her for it. Yet something pushed him on. Jed hesitantly set his gaze on her eyes. “I was falling." That was a bad way to begin. “Another falling dream, Jed?” Jed knew she would be disappointed that he hadn’t made any progress in the last few sessions. He was having the falling dream almost twice a week now. Jed glanced at the carpet; the bland brown and dark red bits were arranged in a pattern of tiny squares that made up bigger and bigger ones. “You know very well what falling dreams are about, Jed, right?" She said look— ing at him, her pointed glasses seeming only to aid her pointy nose as she stared , down over it. He could feel the heat of her glance but could not bring himself to i raise his head and allow himself to meet her menacing gaze again. i i “Is it bad?" Jed asked. hoping her answer would change. but not raising his head for fear that her answer would be the same as last week. He glanced up as she marked some notes on her legal pad. The yellow paper shone brightly and was the only thing in the dark room that reminded him of the free outside air and the sun. The rest of her office was a cave: she was a cave. She , dressed in all black, hair Cut like she was an army general, Short and jagged. Her eyes, Jed knew, were brown in the light; he had seen her in the courtyard. In the dark of the offiCe, however, they were as black as everything else. Show less
the molecules moving as slowly as the seconds passing. I lie huddled like the lightest of ghosts, dreams belching from the sewer of my consciousness. , I drive through them until I reach wherever it is that I am going, ‘ and hope that when I get there, i it is warm. 29
too wrinkled to contribute. Vilify me, make me my unholy religion—— that is wrong, ludicrous, dangerous. Vilify me, make me my color-coded skin-- that delimits who I am, what I believe, what I’ll do. Vilify me, make me make villains-- out of men, out of women, out of all our human blood. 51
