PETER Mary Cornelius He was in the line ahead of her at Starbucks, Peter, the disciple. He ordered a medium Americano and a scone, something strong but not fancy. He was trying to stay under the radar. A few minutes later, the barista called his name, “Peter?” like a question and he took the cup,... Show morePETER Mary Cornelius He was in the line ahead of her at Starbucks, Peter, the disciple. He ordered a medium Americano and a scone, something strong but not fancy. He was trying to stay under the radar. A few minutes later, the barista called his name, “Peter?” like a question and he took the cup, the steam warmed his hands. In the chatter from the waiting line behind him he tried to unhear those words, this is my body, broken for you, this is my spilled blood, spiking your coffee. He was leaving as fast as he could but two feet from the door she turned and asked so quietly, “You were with him, weren't you?" that he pretended again not to hear, he kept walking. If he looked like he knew where he was going, no one would know the difference. 36 Show less
figure it out. Just think of all the things we don't know yet, like it's our iob to understand our fate so that we can pretend to control. As if the knowing will allow us to understand. As if to understand will allow us to see. Just think of how small we are, under the transfixed notion that we,... Show morefigure it out. Just think of all the things we don't know yet, like it's our iob to understand our fate so that we can pretend to control. As if the knowing will allow us to understand. As if to understand will allow us to see. Just think of how small we are, under the transfixed notion that we, human beings, Earthlings, are everything there ever was. We are iust small obiects on the planet that only we call Earth. We are objects and ideas, iust like a massive black hole is an obiect and idea. “How confused are you willing to be?" Physicist Stu Anderson asks. “Zero willingness to be confused." I tell him. "My willingness for confusion is one of your goddamned black holes." Is willing the same as wanting? Wanting, equal to willing? I do not want to know about these things, and I do not know how many times l have to say that until I believe myself. I do not want to know what will happen next. I do not want to know because thinking about it scares me. I do not want to talk about it because the only things that come to mind are all the ways I have fallen into the some black holes described by all of the scientists and fanatics. They were right. I could not get out. I am not even sure if I am out right now. Because, as quantum physicists say, 98 Show less
think anyone else knew how obsessed l was becoming about it. They iust took it as part of my “healing pro- cess." Hands were the easiest, fingerprints and all. The police detectives humored my constant requests for information about victims found with severed limbs. Obviously they felt bad for me.... Show morethink anyone else knew how obsessed l was becoming about it. They iust took it as part of my “healing pro- cess." Hands were the easiest, fingerprints and all. The police detectives humored my constant requests for information about victims found with severed limbs. Obviously they felt bad for me. Mrs. Cho, left hand, she didn't make it, unfortunately. She seemed like a really nice lady from what I gathered. I went and visited her grave, left some flowers. Her husband asked to kiss her/my hand and asked me to touch his cheek the way she always had. It was awkward, but I couldn't refuse. He closed his eyes and wept. I felt bad because here he was having a beautiful, unexpected reunion with his dead wife and all I could focus on was my excitement upon being able to feel the tears on my hand. Mr. Johnson, right hand, was a pianist and a piano teacher. That was pretty tragic. They gave him an el- derly woman's hand, not strong enough to push the keys down. We tried to play a duet, but I kept fucking it up. He got really angry, but we both knew he wasn't really angry at me, iust at the situation and the future. He started to apologize but one look at me, and he knew he didn't have to finish. I understood. My left calf belonged to that teenager that went missing a year ago. Police matched it to the one they found nearby when they found his body, most of it. It's strong. Kinda freaky that they still had his body parts. The kid's mom was really upset about that. They told her it was evidence since the limbs had been carved up with symbols and shit. Really grim stuff when you think about it. She only got to bury his head and torso, at least those parts hadn't been separated. She thanked me though, for coming to see her. She comes over and brings me baked goods every few months. I think it helps her feel like a mother again. My whole right leg belonged to a fashion model. She was really kind about it, taught me how to shave the hard to reach spots and what types of razors to buy. The doctors gave her a prosthetic, so she gets around all right. She still models too, though it's harder because most places don't want “disabled” people in their advertisements. That's really aggravating. It's not her fault someone stole her leg, and it's not like people with stolen legs don't want to dress nice or buy air fresheners and all that other shit. I met almost all the others too, eventually, the ones that were still alive. As much as | feel like a senti- mental prick for saying it, I think meeting them or at least learning who they were really did help me adiust, emotionally, to everything. I still haven't figured out the ethics of getting turned on by my sexy model leg. And I still feel rather strange calling them my hands, my legs, my ears. But most of the time I try to think about how amaling it is to share something so intimate with so many former strangers who l now feel such a strong community with. I don't know if they'll ever catch the fucked up surgeon(s) who did this to us. I think if they do I'll iust ask them why they did this. What were you trying to prove? Also, whose nose am I using? 58 Show less
I was bullet free. God had picked me to fulfill my destiny. It was up me to be the hero. And I knew that it was my time to run And save my broken family. I carried my children and my husband and run. And I never looked back. I knew some of the men who iniured my family. They were my neighbors, I... Show moreI was bullet free. God had picked me to fulfill my destiny. It was up me to be the hero. And I knew that it was my time to run And save my broken family. I carried my children and my husband and run. And I never looked back. I knew some of the men who iniured my family. They were my neighbors, I called them my sons. 92 Show less
has a name that is almost the same as mine, only the last two letters are different, which cracks me up. The ex—in-laws had a dog whose name started with the same letter as the ex's name. The ex-father-in-law would constantly call her by the dog‘s name and the dog by hers. The thought of her... Show morehas a name that is almost the same as mine, only the last two letters are different, which cracks me up. The ex—in-laws had a dog whose name started with the same letter as the ex's name. The ex-father-in-law would constantly call her by the dog‘s name and the dog by hers. The thought of her father constantly calling his new san-in-law by my name gives me a little joy. Aside from that, her new husband is actually a pretty cool guy and we get along quite well. My wife is learning to deal with the ex being around all the time. She doesn't like it, which is understandable from every point of View. But she does know that there is a history, and in that history existed a relationship that lasted for T l years. The awkwardness between the ex and me has lessened but remains. The awkwardness between my friends and me has mostly subsided. Once in a while i see a glimpse of hesitance while a story is being told. Especially when both the ex and I are in the same room. I ran into the ex-in-Iaws at the store the other day. The ex-father-in-Iaw didn't recognize me at first and the ex-mother-in-law looked afraid to get off her phone. But that was the first time I had seen them in 5 years. They looked more uncomfortable than I felt. D.A.M.N. still exists, many of us have remarried or at least are in serious committed relationships with kids and the accessories that come with them. Some of us have left Audi, only one Carey is still there, but we remain in contact with the other two as well as the rest. I think we've all moved on. We do still talk about it once in a while, and whenever someone runs into an issue with their ex we still vent about it to each other. I hope the other 844,000 divorcees from 2009 had a system of support and a few loyal friends who were tried and true. 22 Show less
WHAT CHEER, IA Rowan Smith There was a moment, talking in the funeral parlor, when the mortician, unseen by anyone but me, lifted my grandfather's dead arm into the air and removed the mandolin from his weak grip before closing the coffin. I wondered, distracted from my conversation, who would... Show moreWHAT CHEER, IA Rowan Smith There was a moment, talking in the funeral parlor, when the mortician, unseen by anyone but me, lifted my grandfather's dead arm into the air and removed the mandolin from his weak grip before closing the coffin. I wondered, distracted from my conversation, who would claim the shiny red instrument, now stained by oilless death-fingers. Not me. Back in Oskaloosa, Gus and I walked two miles to the Hy-Vee and bought Four Loko and a sixer of Fat Tire. We drank against an abandoned brick warehouse, throwing empties into the overgrown parking lot, glass breaking breaking breaking. i tried to remember what girls smell like. I wanted to throw up blood into an anthill and drown the bugs in bile. I wanted showers, sleek skin sliding smoothly against mine beneath the stream. Instead, I dragged myself back to the Walmart where the tweekers rode their bikes to buy baking powder to cut their drugs and belts to hang themselves from rafters. There, in the bleached-light parking lot, downhill from my sleeping mother, recently orphaned, I sat down on a broken children's carousel, gum iammed in the coin slot and left myself. Show less
just a few suggestions. Hell, you should probably iust sleep it off. Sleep it all off. Sleep until you can't remember the day before—- who you talked to, where you were, what you read. Then we can continue on like nothing ever happened. See look, I am transforming this essay into a scientific... Show morejust a few suggestions. Hell, you should probably iust sleep it off. Sleep it all off. Sleep until you can't remember the day before—- who you talked to, where you were, what you read. Then we can continue on like nothing ever happened. See look, I am transforming this essay into a scientific analysis of the endocrine gland. You will not want to read this. It's going to get dry very quickly. I can already feel the paper crumbling in my hands. Endocrine glands are glands of the endocrine system that secrete their products, hormones, directly into the blood rather than through a duct. The maior glands of the endocrine system include the pineal gland, pituitary gland, pancreas, ovaries, testes, thyroid gland, parathyroid gland, hypothalamus, gastrointestinal tract and adrenal glands. The hypothal- amus and pituitary gland are neuroendocrine organs. Local chemical messengers, not generally considered part of the endocrine system, include autocrines, which act on the cells that secrete them, and paracrines, which act on a different cell type nearby. Are you still there? No, you have to stop. This is not a stylistic form that l have chosen to pull you further and further into this piece. It is not. I do not give a fuck about stylistic choices. Or grammar that for that matter. Speling kan goe fuch itselph. What are you looking for? Are you looking for anything? I think that last paragraph had some spelling mistakes. I'm not sure. Maybe you should go back there, up above to the previous paragraph, fix it up a little, and stay there. Stay there and polish up that paragraph and make it neat and presentable and perfect. Read it back to yourself over and over again before you go to bed. This will send the monster away, snarling shadow breath after breath after breath. Fuck You Really Fuck You This has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Are you looking for a sweet, delicious conclusion? I can assure you that it is not here. Not here in this piece. Not here in life. Not here. If you are looking for a vision into my life, then here. If that is what you read for, then here. Take this and leave: I am six years old. I am on the dock at my family‘s cabin in Brainerd, Minnesota. Brandon, who is 4, is walking beside me. We are friends. My parents and their friends are sitting on the pontoon with bloody marys and margaritas. A fuuy cassette of Jimmy Buffet crackles through the speakers. He is singing about cheeseburgers in paradise. Brandon and I are walking down the dock to his house. We want to play with trucks or action figures or puzzles. Show less
Waking in Cuba Steven Saari This morning, I understood the sun— my separation from it the endless waves, the distant hills and from the frame of this Havana window my mind is a raging fire on the ocean floor with the invisible lines that embrace a massive wall drawn by the slow hand of indifference... Show moreWaking in Cuba Steven Saari This morning, I understood the sun— my separation from it the endless waves, the distant hills and from the frame of this Havana window my mind is a raging fire on the ocean floor with the invisible lines that embrace a massive wall drawn by the slow hand of indifference, the longing of chalk, starving sidewalks beneath the wandering dog, the watchful eyes of a feral cat trace the face of a mickey mouse And so I slide into my broken machine— temptation melting the uneven plastic of its own invention, the brilliant colors - toxic and wild, yielding to the desperate heat. And so I dive into the burning water to challenge the fathoms towards the unknowable shore with the empire plastered upon my body naked the call of Yemana falling into these arms. The ascension of passage, the wake of its thought illuminated by modern maps that cover the truth of fading street lights where we explode from unseen corners, all rhythms at once— follow the waves that carry all journeys home to the warmth of a rising star where the rooster rings louder than the clanging bell, the balcony that spent its tricks on the sill, the teasing of time to a ticking clock, the rickety cart and the sculpted horse pull the weighted moments into this embedded head— display the electric revolutions in the mechanics of dawn. And so now, on the tip of my tongue, a rolling silence. Murphy Square 27 Show less
away. “Hey, I’m not done with my corn.” “Too bad,” she said. The smile was gone. She looked up at the clock, shaped like a big red rooster. “You have exactly five minutes to get up there." I knew Jimmy was coming over. I was not stupid. "You’re not supposed to have anyone over when you are... Show moreaway. “Hey, I’m not done with my corn.” “Too bad,” she said. The smile was gone. She looked up at the clock, shaped like a big red rooster. “You have exactly five minutes to get up there." I knew Jimmy was coming over. I was not stupid. "You’re not supposed to have anyone over when you are watching me.” “Go!” she yelled. Then she leaned in close and whispered. “Or I’ll tell Mom and Dad you wet the bed." “I don’t wet the bed and I’m not a baby!” I yelled over my shoulder as I ran down the hall and into their bedroom. The door slammed shut behind me as I flung myself across the great bed. Father had his chair, but the bedroom was really Mom’s. It had rosy colored walls and a fluffy bedspread with great big flowers printed all over. It felt like a silky garden with velvet green pillows. I could smell my mom‘s powder in the folds, sweet like taffy. Her long white satin robe was draped over her chair, her perfumes, all in miniature glass vials, were lined up along her matching table. The silver hairbrush was set, always on the right hand side. Father’s TV, a colored one, sat on the top of the white dresser, at the end of the bed. Even though being in the bedroom was a rare thing, all night was too long for me. I was up to the “I” World Book and was hoping to read about igua- nas. Detective Friday was on the TV, taking notes while he interviewed a suspect. His suit was the same in black and white or in color. Why did I have to do what she said anyway? The TV was still on as I closed the door behind me; she’d think Iwas still there. Jen was in the bathroom; the heavy flower smell of Aqua Net seeped from cracks in the door. The hissing sound went on and off. I tiptoed quickly down the stairs and into the living room. Then I settled behind the chair to read. She would never find me there. The doorbell rang. I heard thuds as Jen jumped down the stairs and ran to the door. I could hear Jimmy’s voice, it went low, and then high with little squeaks in between. He got his words mixed up when he talked with my Father, but he was pretty nice to me. They talked for a few minutes and then went into the kitchen. I heard the cupboard doors open and close, plates clattering, glasses tinkling. My sister never handled the dishes carefully like me, sometimes she even broke them. Jimmy and my sister were boring, always talking about people at school I didn’t know. So I ignored them. Iguanas were more interesting, with their green scales and long tongues. The voices faded into the background. I was reading about Inuits when I noticed it was much quieter. But something made muffled sounds. Jen and Jimmy weren’t talking anymore; they were not eating either. I could hear them breathing. Jimmy had a little whistle that came out his nose, especially after he had been running. They were moving around, maybe shifting how they sat on the sofa. The springs made little popping noises. I wanted to stretch and remembered the cookies in the kitchen. Carefully, I peeked around the side of the chair. I couldn‘t see them, but I could hear them on the couch, making little sounds, soft humming sounds. “How long before your parents get home?” Jimmy said. “Not for a long, long time,” Jen giggled. “Why, you got something in Murphy Square 23 Show less
gag Dear Maple Grove, Steven Saari Sitting in my car, in this manicured parking lot, I prayed for your immediate destruction. Or at least a mediocre riot. A fire. A flood. Something original, refreshing, preferably uncomfortable. Anything except plastic time, bought and sold. Within walls of pushed... Show moregag Dear Maple Grove, Steven Saari Sitting in my car, in this manicured parking lot, I prayed for your immediate destruction. Or at least a mediocre riot. A fire. A flood. Something original, refreshing, preferably uncomfortable. Anything except plastic time, bought and sold. Within walls of pushed and piled dirt that consume thoughts of shopper stop, the busy spinning and stripping before convention, blinded by the attraction of buying in. Tugging on loose fabric, renewed disinterest, naked under a common and collective sigh. Humming along in the subtle drone, the desolate dirge of another coercive morning. The buried prairie silenced beneath the clearance rack: to $qu in panted stare, panic the forgotten soil abandoned in dead weed dirt. The loose conveyor belt, its exposed innards shuffle those lost in maps and malls, all tap dancing inside a machine. The mechanically balletic with bleeding and separated parts captive and lilting retail flowers. Erased by sterility as someone arrives at the vehicle parked next to mine to progress the path before them as everything goes on sale. Murphy Square 17 Show less
He opened his eyes, and the white morning sun was blinding through the glass of the greenhouse. His bladder ached painfully. He really needed to pee. He unrolled himself and got up slowly. He fought with his belt, his fingers numb and chilled. Before he could get his pants unzipped a wave of urine... Show moreHe opened his eyes, and the white morning sun was blinding through the glass of the greenhouse. His bladder ached painfully. He really needed to pee. He unrolled himself and got up slowly. He fought with his belt, his fingers numb and chilled. Before he could get his pants unzipped a wave of urine spilled forth. Stop, he moaned under his breath, but it was uncontrollable. By the time he got his pants down, the front of the material was soaked, and only a slow dribble was left. He felt helpless. He was an old helpless man. He pushed open the door of the greenhouse, dislodging the fresh snow. He wearin trudged up the soft, deeply-covered hill, the wetness of his pants stick- ing to his leg. He followed his lightly covered tracks around the side of the house. He passed the hand—dug valleys of snow from the previous night. He leaned his back up against the small mound of snow by the front door. He was so tired and cold. He could smell the rich scent of his urine as he perched over his knees. Bill sat on the front step, and he waited for Julie. 84 Murphy Square Show less
Pam Abeni Hill I thought I was low to be taken advantage of to be beaten my sisters stripped of their dignity and innocence simply because they were born with the wrong parts the wrong skin color the wrong attitude. Now I realize we have turned against each other “too black” “not black enough”... Show morePam Abeni Hill I thought I was low to be taken advantage of to be beaten my sisters stripped of their dignity and innocence simply because they were born with the wrong parts the wrong skin color the wrong attitude. Now I realize we have turned against each other “too black” “not black enough” mind twisting that knife counter-clock wise I never felt so isolated. Why are you so light? They say you are too exotic to be just another black girl. What does it matter to you? I am your sister I experience everything you do except you think I get better treatment because of my lighter skin and if it wasn’t bad enough to hear that type of stuff from my own people. I hear far worse things from others “hey slut” girlfriends say to each other as they embrace each other warmly “bitch you know I love you" if they had said that to me I would have stopped them in their tracks getting slapped in the face only to turn the other cheek and get slapped again NO! That, the oppressor isn’t in the way anymore we do it to our selves all of the time. Murphy Square 85 Show less
I slept with Helen for the next ten years, through high school, into col- lege. Helen didn’t like other women very much. She got jealous. I tried convincing Helen to enter the ménage a trois world, but she wouldn’t have it. Like most mannequins Helen was a good listener. I’d sit in the apart-... Show moreI slept with Helen for the next ten years, through high school, into col- lege. Helen didn’t like other women very much. She got jealous. I tried convincing Helen to enter the ménage a trois world, but she wouldn’t have it. Like most mannequins Helen was a good listener. I’d sit in the apart- ment, my hand in hers, until we both fell asleep. Seven years into our relationship Helen lost one of her arms; two years later she lost a leg. It was difficult, ya know. You can only hold a mannequin so long before your arms get tired. 36 Murphy Square Show less
kitchen making dinner. By the time the ambulance arrived there was nothing they could do. Bill stayed in the house after the funeral, even though she was every- where, her smell, her clothes, strands of her hair he kept finding on the pillow. He threw her medicines in the trash, so good to rid the... Show morekitchen making dinner. By the time the ambulance arrived there was nothing they could do. Bill stayed in the house after the funeral, even though she was every- where, her smell, her clothes, strands of her hair he kept finding on the pillow. He threw her medicines in the trash, so good to rid the place of everything that had reduced her to helplessness. But everything else that was hers, that reminded him of the Kathryn he knew, he kept. Julie had been home for the summer, and in the wake of Kathryn’s death, her boyfriend had driven up from Chicago, a shaggy-haired guy with ripped jeans and a subdued manner. They spent a lot of time in Julie’s room, emerging to rummage through the fridge, J ulie’s eyes red-rimmed, clothes tousled. Bill knew they were having sex in there. Why wouldn’t they? They were kids. But it both- ered him in his curdling anguish, her mother passing, and those two huddled up having mopey-sad grief sex. Bill picked a fight with her over the dishes piling up in the kitchen, maybe he had been drinking a little, maybe he had thrown a few plates out the back door to split in pieces on the sloping lawn. Julie and the guy had packed up the car and driven back to Chicago, and Bill was relieved and only a little sad to see the car disappear down the street, J ulie’s middle finger raised high out the window. Bill had had only brief phone calls and visits from her for a few years, then she had moved back this way, to a place in Minneapolis, opening a small restaurant with a partner. “This is what you get with a college degree—to wait on people?” Bill had said. She had married about five years ago in a ceremony in an old hotel in the city’s downtown. The husband was a corporate-lawyer type, whom Bill could safely disregard, illiterate in all the important things, except how to make a buck. They had a child too, a couple years old, with a squawk and tem- per like her mom‘s. Bill snuck the kid mints when they visited, brokering a new ally, despite Julie’s protests about choking hazards. Last year, while taking a piss, Bill had noticed an odd lump in his balls. He called Julie, and she took him to the doctor. When the tests came back, the elderly Klaiber looked at him intently and gave him the news. He was so grave and obvious in his manner that Bill almost laughed out loud. “Testicular cancer?” Bill had said. “Christ Doc, you can cut off my balls. I don’t need them. Go for it.” Julie had wanted him to come stay with her while he was undergoing treatment, but Bill was sanguine. He could handle it, been doing it on his own for a few years. He didn’t drive anymore though, and Julie came to pick him up for his appointments. They had the same never-ending conversation about how he was managing or not managing. “I’m doing okay, Julie," he said. “Dying as best I can, each day.” She had no sense of humor or patience. In the frigid darkness of the greenhouse, dozing in and out, unable to sleep properly, his digits feeling like ice, he had a dream. Kathryn as she was in the late sixties, coming back from studying abroad in Florence, skin tanned brown from the Mediterranean sun, her hair long and pulled back. She was hold- ing a book he couldn’t read the title of, and he wanted to know what it was. She walked past him in the airport crowd, and he followed. She was walking swiftly. He tried to catch up to her, but he badly needed to go to the bathroom. Wait, wait, he called, but when he looked again, she was lost, the inside of the terminal flushing with bright light. Murphy Square 83 Show less
