MY MOTHER LOVED TURflUOlSE Judyjolmsan It was an odd thing to remetnberjust as my friend Carol pressed her thick brass necklace into my hand while we were having lunch. "I want you to have this.“ Carol said. "I was sitting in church this morning and my mother said ‘Give this to your little friend... Show moreMY MOTHER LOVED TURflUOlSE Judyjolmsan It was an odd thing to remetnberjust as my friend Carol pressed her thick brass necklace into my hand while we were having lunch. "I want you to have this.“ Carol said. "I was sitting in church this morning and my mother said ‘Give this to your little friend over there. I want her to have it.‘~ "l ( an‘t take this." I answered back. “It‘s too much." “No.” she said. “I \\ ant you to have it, and I always do what my mother tells me. even if she‘s dead," May be it was the mention ofthe word "mother“ that brought this sweeping back into my mind May be it was because (Iarol was an artist. much like my tnother. and had bright eyes and colorful clothing. But when Carol placed the intricate patterned necklace on my palm. I felt the density ofthe tnetal: my hand sank from the weight. And I remembered \\'e lived in New Mexico fora few years. back in the late 30’s. Mom fell in love with the landscape. the red plateaus against a deep blue sky. She traded bland Scandinavian cui- sine for spit y salsas and smiled chili peppers. She loved the adobe houses with great cedar beams. She was fascinated with the Indian cultttre and people. And she developed an obses— sion with turquois jewelry. She \\ as so taken with the artistry and color that in a moment of rare indulgence. she bought several turquoise squash blossom necklaces. They were designed by a friend. a silver smith. who folded the heavy silver into deli— cate leaves that \\ rapped around the large polished stones. The massive necklaces resembled intricate vines or ancient cave paintings straddling from shoulder to shoulder. Each necklace weighed over a pound. Tiny imprints along the silver edges formed a geometric pattern out— lining the turquoise, The stones hues ranged from the color ofa robin‘s egg to the saturated blue oftw ilight. My mother .said the stone captured the sky. stretching from mountain to mountain. sometimes broken by feather clouds orjet streams. she would say. “Then you know it is “.\|\\ays look for the natural veins in the stone. real. and not that fake powder stuff," \\’hen Mom placed one ofthe squash blossom necklaces in my hands. it was heavy ‘lver. black tarnish nestled in the crevasses. I felt the soft and cold. I ran my linger along tht stone. and the slight indentation along a sand—colored vein. She watched me feel the neck- lace. become familiar \\ ith it. Then she took it back. as ifshe couldn‘t bear to watch it rest in another‘s hand. “For safe keeping." she always said as she packed it awa'. My mother never wore the squash blossom necklaces. but kept them in a Red “ing shoe- box on the top shelfof her closet. wrapped irt felt. She said they gave her a headache. pulled too much on her neck. She had smaller turquoise necklaces for special events, and she had a large oval turquoise ring she wore every day until arthritis finally made her take it off. But the squash blossoms stayed out of reach, unseen. in a cardboard shoebos \Iy sisters and I were considered too young to be responsible for them. even when we reached our middle ages. "When I die. you girls can each have a necklace. They are your inheritance." she would tell my sisters and [tie every time we brought up the subject. The waitress brought Carol and me more coffee. 20 Murphy Square Show less
every place selling food is hosting a private party. I finally find a place to eat. “Sherpa‘s De- light." a Tibetan restaurant beckons me inside. Luckily for me, Tibetans celebrate their New Year. Losar. in March. I finish my cigarette, throw it into the concrete gutter and go inside. Timidly... Show moreevery place selling food is hosting a private party. I finally find a place to eat. “Sherpa‘s De- light." a Tibetan restaurant beckons me inside. Luckily for me, Tibetans celebrate their New Year. Losar. in March. I finish my cigarette, throw it into the concrete gutter and go inside. Timidly poking my head inside the door reveals a small room with six or so plastic tables, all empty except for one. At the only occupied table sits three young Tibetan men playing cards and smoking. They glance at me. turn down the stereo. which is playing “Hotel Cali- fornia" by The Eagles. and motion for me to sit at one ol‘the tablesxjust not theirs. One turns tip the volume on the stereo while belting, “Livin‘ it up at the Hotel California!" along with the song. Sitting in a plastic chair and muttering about having no idea where I was. I pick up a menu without looking at it. I consider making my protagonist a Tibetan like the three guys play ing’ cards. Perhaps I could write about “Exile in India." or “From Shangri-La to the \\'orld." That could be interesting. .\lter scanning the menu {or a minute or so. Seeingy no roti or dahl. I look over at the card game. which had grown lairly boisterous while I scanned my menu. I presumed one of‘the card—playing Tibetans to be a waiter of sorts. Sure enough. one notices me, lays down his cards. and walks over. "I'll have the chicken momos." I say. pointing to the item on the menu in case he doesn‘t speak linglish. “Steamed or fried.“ They‘re loads better steamed. But that‘sjust my opinion.” says my waiter in perfect English. “Steamed. then." I reply. trying to disguise my disappointment at having been easily understood. The waiter nods his head and walks away singing “Life in the last lane. guaranteed to loooose your mind!" along with The Eagles. I sit disheartened at my table. You‘re supposed to have to work to order food in India It’s supposed to be a challenge. You're supposed to have to practically go back to the sweltering. unhygienic kitchen and show the cook what ingredients to make your food with. Your waiter is supposed to totally luck up your order and bring you something not even on the menu. You‘re supposed to have to argue at the register that you did not order seven masala teas so there‘s no w a) you're paying for them. There aren't supposed to be napkins or a bathroom. and il‘you‘vc got things right. there should be disease—ridden mice darting around the dirt lloor. Not only was there a tray ol‘napkins on my table. a bathroom down the hall. and no mice to speak ol‘. my waiter understood my order to a T: he even gave a helpful suggestion. That was lar too easy for this really to be India. “Maybe the cook won‘t wash his hands and I‘ll get food poisoning," I mutter to myself. Alter lilteen minutes ol'spying on the Tibetans playing cards in the corner. I hear a bell "ding!" and out come my steaming inomos. "Tu-chuh-chel" I say to my waiter as he ptits down my food. which. according to the guide book I was hiding under the table. means “thank you" in Tibetan. “\\'elcome." he says. turning around and walking back to the card game. 'I'rying not to stare alter him land wishing he‘d said something back in Tibetan), I tuck in to my momos. Dipping one into the red chili sauce that came with them, I stulI‘one into my mouth. Boiling hot chicken juices burst in my closed mouth and I grunt with pain. “Too hot to handle?" one Tibetan yells from behind his cards. 68 Murphy Square Show less
INSECURITY Ellery Davis Stands outside ui‘m)‘ house The twilight bruism his face The buttons on hisjackcl are tiny mirrnrx‘ His cufflinks arr Gordian knots I pull the string that (lows 1hr blind< As his fingernail taps on 11w glzns. 51 Murphy Square
WHAT TIME IS IT? Laura Morales Bu“ hglnm‘rs . Ruxh hunr ulKu'cl (‘I(‘[)|lkll‘ll\', Your ([00]) \‘niu' in u 11i\'(' Ul‘honvy bt't's. ‘\ \lnl‘lll n11mxlcmly inlpntirm‘v. In (lixxunann- with th' cooling gluxs. 60 Murphy Square
CRUMBLE Kevin Butcher Ci'umhle \\'ings ol‘birds 5“ ing [eyerishly As ears hluze (tirelessly by. Tires burn into asphalt As [huts press the pedal to the “001’. learlessly. The wind rips grass from mots And the sun seolds (TOPS onee crushed. Turning (0101:. .10 (lust. By boots that bind dirt... Show moreCRUMBLE Kevin Butcher Ci'umhle \\'ings ol‘birds 5“ ing [eyerishly As ears hluze (tirelessly by. Tires burn into asphalt As [huts press the pedal to the “001’. learlessly. The wind rips grass from mots And the sun seolds (TOPS onee crushed. Turning (0101:. .10 (lust. By boots that bind dirt encrusted lbotS. Bell buekles rel‘leet seorehing light Into frantically flying hird§ sight. They erash into the ground. her over rhirken leet. As dry grass blades eut into lelit wing then righL \\'2mn rocks become leatureless hires As the sun races away: The evening's spotlight illuminates exnt‘tly Htm' being alone tastes. Fouls gold sparkles dully in the sky Offering false hope to those who he Benealhulust lying there. only to stare. \Yutehing the world slowly (rumble. 57 Murphy Square Show less
UNTITLED Colin Stan/Jill () liurlh. Ur-rcality. .\li1‘thliil 21nd nu‘lzim‘holy. all, (Inmo into me (15 I do you. all-ways. (Imningling runsriousnms with turning. going. lingering Sn what ilil‘m a vessel * .\ L‘nnIlurntc nl'lhrcos? Imagination and will my Iools‘ .\pi1chm‘ Shilpl‘d by its (‘unlcnl§... Show moreUNTITLED Colin Stan/Jill () liurlh. Ur-rcality. .\li1‘thliil 21nd nu‘lzim‘holy. all, (Inmo into me (15 I do you. all-ways. (Imningling runsriousnms with turning. going. lingering Sn what ilil‘m a vessel * .\ L‘nnIlurntc nl'lhrcos? Imagination and will my Iools‘ .\pi1chm‘ Shilpl‘d by its (‘unlcnl§ chamctcrs. Ycl you say I‘m wearing a woman's hat. .\n(l I my. "Flck ll‘l‘nlrrhv lirllk. This is Muylu-zmu'rita Basliun nl‘lmslards Homo in No One Hgiycn only nl‘cunimings anyone) and goings (cvvrhou'V‘W"mm" Whatever that means_ 42 Murphy Square Show less
OCTOBER Elle 7770712' You are no Christmas angel. your halo is woolen and woven with cigarette smoke. Your shoulders too. once mantels of sunlight now gesture (lismally toward your \t't‘eping wings. \\'hat (lust! lt Clings so still and solemn to your Blues-man boots. the (lust ol‘death. ol‘those... Show moreOCTOBER Elle 7770712' You are no Christmas angel. your halo is woolen and woven with cigarette smoke. Your shoulders too. once mantels of sunlight now gesture (lismally toward your \t't‘eping wings. \\'hat (lust! lt Clings so still and solemn to your Blues-man boots. the (lust ol‘death. ol‘those who have “alked that ground belon- us. Autumn arrives. mid-funeral expet'ting to be fed by eyei'y tree. .\Iy ou‘n boots scratch against their ol‘li'rings. green and gold, reminding me that Change is the natural way ol'things. I walk on. ghosting down the l’ranklin Avenue. seeing bicyclists pass like glass-blown ornaments. There is a light on in the upstairs window antl the shape ola (‘llllfl staring out at me. lask his forgiveness: l)a|)e. please lorgiye me. \\'e are not (lead. we are only dreaming about death. To you. it may look as though the world is ending * hut il‘sjust the season \ye‘rt- passing through. * * * * * l sau a ehiltl \\ ith a light on in the upstairs \\ inclou' and thought that I saw an angel. But which one \tas the angel the Child or the light? 18 Murphy Square Show less
ing. his mother, and the velvety darkness ofthe cold night that had settled upon the city. Suddenly a light turned on in an apartment across the courtyard. The introduction oflight, ofanother life form, was unsettling. He assttmed that he was entirely alone with the sleeping city. Now his eyes... Show moreing. his mother, and the velvety darkness ofthe cold night that had settled upon the city. Suddenly a light turned on in an apartment across the courtyard. The introduction oflight, ofanother life form, was unsettling. He assttmed that he was entirely alone with the sleeping city. Now his eyes were drawn towards the square oflight and he waited for whatever sign of life that had turned it on to appear. Then he saw her. the creature that came with the light. Her back was turned to the window but he could see she had long black hair that matched the midnight sky. She turned to face the window, but Elliot was too far away to make out any defining feature other than that she was naked. He pressed his face against the cold window, the courtyard seemed to stretch ottt before him. growing longer. distancing him from the girl and from the bright beam oflight she had brought into the night. His vision became cloudy. the world was hazy. His ears started to buzz and beads ofsweat formed on his upper lip. It was as if he was going to faint. He‘d never felt more cognizant that he did at that moment. The room began to swirl around him. It was a good dizziness that came with the spinning, although he had a feeling that at any moment the entire situation could sour and he would be sick rather than exhila- ratetl. The sound of rushing wind filled his ears and he forgot where he w . The square of light across the courtyard turned to blackness and Elliot plummeted from his euphoria into the reality ofthe dark night. Who was she? He did his best to commit her figure to memory. He stared for a longtime. willing her to come back. lilliot lit a t rette. inhaled. and knocked the ash from the tip onto the windowsill. The papery flakes scattered in the chilly night wind that snuck in through his closed win- dow. He wanted to know more about the strange girl who hadjust appeared to him. hlaybe she had been looking for him. Elliot felt as ifshe had made herselfknown to him on purpose. She obviously meant to spark his interest: after all it was she who had presented her naked body to him. He decided to paint the outline ofthe figure in the window. His paintbrush was drawn to the canvas like a magnet. Something had taken over him. As he whisked the brush across the page he imagined what it would be like to meet her. He would be sitting in the courtyard beneath the blazing maple when she would Spot him, although he wouldn‘t notice her. She would leave her apartment, perhaps feigning an errand to run. She would lightly kick through the piles ofleaves lining the sidewalk as she ap- proaehed him. eoyly attempting to steal his attention away from the ground, or the cigarette in his hand. or the leaves. He would hear her footsteps but he would assume they were the steps ofa stranger bustling by. The footsteps would stop right in front ofhim although the girl would remain silent. Slowly Elliot would lift his gaze, noticing her small red boots, then her thick gray tights. then her lacy black dress hidden beneath a coat three sizes too big for her. She would smile at him, maybe she would even laugh. Her laugh would be light, but it would float all around him like fresh snowflakes on the winter breeze. Elliot dropped the paintbrush into his brush box and stepped back to look at his creation. It was missing a lot, but it was a start. He needed to see her again, needed to fill the empty spaces on the canvas with the details of her body. Patience. The girl would show her— selfto him again. and then he would be able to add whatever she required so that she could come alive on the easel. He went back to the window andjammed his cigarette into the ashtray on the sill. The window across the courtyard was still dark. He pressed his nose against the glass and searched the darkness, looking for any sort ofdetail ofthe room behind the window. Noth- ing. A siren roared across the city, and a gust ofwind shook his windows violently. He closed his eyes and recalled the girl. her curve, her hair. Again sweat began to form on his lip and his dizzy head floated upward, away from his body, away from his apartment. His ears 54 Murphy Square Show less
green grace ol‘dcer eyes and the forest rains of the Pacific Northwest. You threw it all away. For what.J For these savage nights and broken days, to live and (lie on the streets of LA. Old Flame Arcade Fire l’oot stomps open into a wheeze ol‘accordion. as the guitar beats out notes like it could... Show moregreen grace ol‘dcer eyes and the forest rains of the Pacific Northwest. You threw it all away. For what.J For these savage nights and broken days, to live and (lie on the streets of LA. Old Flame Arcade Fire l’oot stomps open into a wheeze ol‘accordion. as the guitar beats out notes like it could play a piano. A melancholic howli' “You knew in five minutes / and I knew in a sentence. A lhrum olK-iolin rises to the sweep ofthe chorus: So why do we go through all ofthis again? / Your eyes are fluttering / such pretty wings / a moth flyin’ into me / same old flame again / it never ends." The cover ol‘the album uses the fine lines Ola turquoise pen, the intricate ntotil‘ol‘slained glass patterns. Victorian scrawl. The Sicilian used to draw for you like that, (lelit’att'ly tangled hearts and skulls and flowers with your name. They sit in a box. covered and avoided, dodged like a bad street full oftrcspassing memories. Because after you left* all the calls he never answered. all the messages he never returned. And then after days and \\'eeks and months. alter you‘ve gotten used to this rupture ofthe heart. this empty space, sloppily patched and plugged. a letter comes and he says. “Will you come back home?" For so longy that was all you wanted to hear. But still. You freeze. “'here do you stay, where do you go? Do you stay? Or do you go? 10 Murphy Square Show less
ADVENTURES IN FOAM Kevin Ehrman Solherg with the broken lights and the broken faces with their broken teeth and I’ve broken and and and And it‘s spinning, my mind is spinning, a hamster wheel powered by fear and domestic violence, but not my fault, the lawyer will sort it out. She shouldn‘t have... Show moreADVENTURES IN FOAM Kevin Ehrman Solherg with the broken lights and the broken faces with their broken teeth and I’ve broken and and and And it‘s spinning, my mind is spinning, a hamster wheel powered by fear and domestic violence, but not my fault, the lawyer will sort it out. She shouldn‘t have said what she said and it’s not my fault, never meant for this to happen, fato profagus, driven by fate, carried ashore a beach of bologna sandwiches and cavity searches and rubber slippers with no laces and body odor that smells like justice. Tastes sharp and steeled and full ofconviction. 'Ihe holding cell is cold. Make a small imprint, but can’t look weak. weakness is next to cowardliness is next to cleanliness is next to the guy sprawled out on the one ofthe concrete benches like a dime store Caesar. There's a roll of toilet paper lying around, use it as a pillow, set up shop in the lap ofpenal luxury, a Caligula of the petty criminals. Floor cutting into my back. the pebble-cement like thousands oftiny nails, and then that dark stain where the floor meets the cinder block wall; looks like blood. Looks like her blood. “Yo white boy, what the fuck you doing with that toilet paper?" “Fuck off. I'm just trying to catch some sleep before fingerprinting." Hard, firm, (phallic), response. He laughs, his jowls and cheeks move like jelly wrapped in skin and it‘s the sound ofcatfish slapping against the hull ofa boat “You white ass mo’fuckers be crazy, using that toilet paper like a pillow." laugh, laugh, laugh: slap-thud, slap-thud, slap-thud. A short walk in a long cell block and submerged in waiting and waiting and waiting. One cell, new cell, another cell, tossed around waiting and waiting. Waiting for court, waiting for lawyer, waiting for justice. waiting for meal time and so hungry. always so hungry and god damn I hate bologna sandwiches. Taken from the academy, marooned on foreign shores, Aeneas among the Phoenicians and now their savage queen wears the crown of justice and she has no eyes. “Yo white boy, you play spades?" Yeah I play spades, I know how to play spades. Count when you're waiting, or waiting to count, or both. Confuse the waiting with maths and numbers and algorithms like the one they use to decide how many years to give you. Brackets and spreadsheets and grids and “felony points" that breed with “extenuating circumstances" and “charges run concurrent." And the resulting love child has a number on its beastly head and that is how many years you have to wait before you can shit behind closed doors again. “Come on fam, let's partner up. Redbone over there says he got 2 bars on you can't make your books. But i see you been reading and shit, let's run his ass." But Redbone is right i can’t make my books. At leasr that's what the lawyer said, The Judge agreed. Cafeteria open, inmates report for chow, report for chow. The light goes from green to yellow, signals the bar doors, the doors open, my feet open, 1 open and I go, but don't bump shoulders, don't bump shoulders, look mean, look mean. Fato Profugus, a shipwrecked meager mind. laughing pyrite. New arrivals, fresh meat vacuum sealed, spill out ofholding tanks. don’t recognize, so keep moving keep moving. don’t bump shoulders, don’t bump shoulders. A face, it's all sandpaper and spit; B-low. I know B—low. I walk by B-low, two is safer than one. “What you on?" “Waiting to get shipped out." “How many points they give you?" Show less
CATCHING DELHI 0N DIWALI Ted Conaver I sling my suitcase on the hard guesthouse bed and make sure the door is shut and bolted. I‘irecrackers burst and pop outside the filthy screen on the poorly installed sliding door, erooked on its hinges so that it has to be chained shut. Even inside hotel... Show moreCATCHING DELHI 0N DIWALI Ted Conaver I sling my suitcase on the hard guesthouse bed and make sure the door is shut and bolted. I‘irecrackers burst and pop outside the filthy screen on the poorly installed sliding door, erooked on its hinges so that it has to be chained shut. Even inside hotel rooms Delhi smells ofsmoke the haze. Ripping through my backpack I grasp my folded and refolded notebook \\ ith a perfect bind so that I could break it in my eager hands. I look down at my chicken- seratch notes from the last month. starting from page one. I always must start from page one, to see what I have there; my worst fear is that an idea gets buried in an unread notebook. My scribbles are chaotic. with arrows and X‘s. loops. exclamation points. stars. The deeper I go the more Violent the notes become, with whole sentences crossed out. some so fervently that the pen had gone through the paper. The good sentences get an asterisk; the bad ones get the axe. Impatient. I flip faster. taking pages two to three at a time until I halt on a page two thirds throttgh the composition notebook. On the night train from Mumbai. which I‘d taken to Delhi the night before. I had written a haiku: A/y Inc/Ia fife bin/@d path on white (pages reach Co/ors not fhoron of L'nder the poetn I had drawn a clear line delineating a change on the paper and in my coneiseness, Below it is a reminder. a cotntnand: in large letters and with a box around it: The Gaze. L'ntler it is clean blank space. Pristine. \‘irgin paper. I begin to write. I M215? o/e {he on/y man 5/2‘2‘m3 (2/or7e in his room in Z'h/5 Moment in a// of De/hi. OldSIde, Z‘he Chaoflc Ce/eo’raz‘fons of Erma/I, the Y/inda new year, are eXf/od/hj with «Isa/Emma firewore’S 12nd {he 5hr.” of >‘/in<{f mats/c. flap/7y 206,7! 777s wind/r13 al/eys ouz‘sxde my hoz‘e/ are a neVer—enc/x'nj Mow-[nth of co/orfa/ hang/’15 lights that‘ reflect off of‘lpoo/cs of fat/d water and (141// Concrete Instead of white Show fife C hrIKSz‘rr/GS 43/715, 'fhere In {he sz‘reez‘ are rzzwéoned spice merchants, star/:75 flééa—Men, errant Vendors Se/fi'ng o’ananas and Strings of mango/cl flowerS, crooked 5e35ar5 syorz‘inj wooden staff‘s rind 5//ver pal/5 /2(// of single (apes coins, inexp/fcaA/y /arje groups of Men (art/1 (he same lid/r6411 5fuafii/73 Z‘ojez‘her, chewing fad/t and opl‘z‘z‘i’nj onto the spud/Ll street, éeautlfa/ young women in val/5 carry/r13 their (5:215:25 in tied up é/anéetts flung omr their oaths, Maghfnj ricéshaw drivers for 0:76: 2702‘ arguing the price of a flare, Ailing/C CowS 4/075 In ,m/es ofjaréaje, 5CreaM/nj Children darting Z‘hroajh Z‘he Me/ee, /f_<}hz‘in5 firecracferS. The pen falls to the ground and I gasp. Ah! My hand seizes and cramps from gripping the ballpoint too hard. Slide/1 [I am *Slre/r/t il (II/I. I take a deep breath and for the first time look around my hotel rootn. It is small and surprisingly elean. No sign ol‘cockroaehes. Even a balcony past the filthy screen door. Have to check it out to have a smoke later. Look under the bed, no bedbugs, I hope. That girl from 64 Murphy Square Show less
