PROMPT Issue 2016

8/19/2019 PROMPT Issue 2016

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P R O M

P T

L I T E R A R Y M A G A

Z I N E


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able o Contents

Cover Art: Brush 1 // Wilson Smith

Brush 3a // Wilson SmithI Tink Tis Poem is or You // Kori AlstonUntitled Photograph // Caroline OlsenAmy // Kaitlin Jennrich

Brush 4c // Wilson SmithNWANNA OCHA // Onyinyechi OgwumikePatchy // Danny Kelleher

Brush 1a // Wilson Smith\\23. // Onyinyechi OgwumikeHow to Live Here // Danny KelleherStocking // Daniel Moynihan


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I Tink Tis Poem Is For You

By Kori Alston

BluebirdKey-changedAnd latch-keyedIn the cellarSold shortWings clippedFell shortlyAfer ever aferInto the handsO a boyWith a tight gripAnd a curled lipAnd something to prove to his ather.

It’s easiero remember the girlWith reckled shouldersWhose heart you brokeo prove that your heartWasn’t the only one

Tat could shatterAnd leave shardsO poetic bullshitOn the floorFor you to step on.


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Photograph by Caroline Olsen


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Amy

By Kaitlin Jennrich

Amy’s brother came to live with her afer the war. Or,

rather, first he lived with his girlriend, who had long, shimmer-ing brown hair and a scab on her lip, who called up Amy andcried on the phone, I just can’t do it anymore. Amy drove downto the city through the night with the windows down, the wholeway, and her hair was in knots by the time the girlriend buzzedher up. All the light moved slowly in that dusty, dirty apartment,like they were underwater and treading through murk and seagrasses and small silvery fish. Te girlriend curled up in a chairand watched them with slitted eyes. She didn’t say anything whenAmy and her brother went out the door, and into the car, anda hundred miles away. Tere were flies smashed up against theglass o the windows, and a red bowl o cornflakes on the table.Amy dreamed about that apartment sometimes, afer that.

Her brother’s name was Cal, and they had the samewhite-blonde hair. As kids, she’d cut her hair short and he’d let hisgrow a little long, so they almost looked the same—almost, butnot quite, like a unhouse mirror. Tey hadn’t seen each other ina long time. Amy thought, Who do I look like now? as they weredriving back through the corn-ripened countryside and Cal waspretending to nap instead o talking to her. Cal looked a thousand

years older. Cal looked like someone she didn’t know. He had called her, once, rom a bus station in Nashville.She hadn’t recognized his voice. “Amy?” he had said. “Amy?”

Amy lived in a armhouse. She hadn’t always lived in aarmhouse. First she lived in a yellow house, with Cal and their

parents. Ten she had lived in an apartment, and then anoth-er apartment, and then another apartment. Ten she lived in a


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armhouse, except not a armhouse with fields and crops and acheery red barn. When she turned onto the driveway, long andwinding like a sand-colored river, Cal spoke or the first time. He said, “Shit.”

Every building on the property leaned or collapsed orrotted: the barn, the tractor shed, the wood shed. Rust streakedthe silo dark red. Next to the old barn, flowering vines snakedthrough the windows o a rusted-out truck, and young treespushed their way out o the caved-in barn roo; swallows werenesting in the bright green branches. Te shingles o the househad turned grey and weather-beaten years ago. Everythingaround the house was overgrown and nettle-poisoned, exceptor the small circle o neatly mowed green grass where Amy hadbeen beating back the thistles or months. Beyond the house’ssloping silhouette, the overgrown fields were whiskey colored inthe sunlight, trees like charcoal sketches against the sky. Amy said, “Rent’s cheap.”

It was. Te rent was cheap. Te soil was poisoned, peoplesaid. No one could grow a thing. Amy had known a person whohad tried to grow a garden o roses, once. Te nettles came romunderneath, and the thistles came rom the lef, and the wildparsnip came down and gobbled it whole. Cal didn’t say anything. He snorted. He didn’t want to bethere. Cal didn’t want to be anywhere. Amy knew the eeling.

Amy hadn’t lived with Cal since they were teenagers,

years ago, with ripped jeans and curews. Ten again, she sup-posed that was the way o siblings: sixteen years spent under thesame roo, sharing the same bathroom, hiding in the same nookunder the eaves o the attic, and then or the next sixty years, yousee them less than you see your boyriend, your children, your

coworkers, the lady who bags your groceries.


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Amy showed Cal where his bedroom was. She didn’t haveanother bed, so they carried up the soa rom the living room. Calwore a hunter orange shirt with the sleeves cut off. While theylifed and strained to push it up the narrow staircase and through

the doorway to his room, his tattoos moved like they were danc-ing. Te tattoos were all o women, black-haired women and red-headed women and sirens whose hair was wavy green seaweed,women with owl wings soaring across his orearm, women withclocks where their eyes should be, women whose mouths were acavern o stars. I he noticed her staring, he didn’t say anything.Possibly, Amy thought, it was not the kind o thing he couldexplain to his sister. Possibly it was not the kind o thing he couldexplain to anybody. “I’ll bring you some sheets,” said Amy. “And a pillow.” Cal nodded. “I work in town.” He had gone to the window and waslooking out over the land again, as i he wanted to convince him-

sel that it was real, or a dream. “About twenty minutes away, atthe diner. Tere’s only the one car.” She waited to see i he wouldcomplain, but he just twitched the curtain back over the window.“I need it during the day, but I guess you can have it at night, iyou need it, I guess.” Cal turned and nodded at her again, and she realized he just wanted her out o the room.

“Well,” she said. “Okay, then. Sandwich meat in theridge, bread in the breadbox. Just holler i you need anything.” He was already leaning down to unzip his suitcase asshe finished speaking. When she closed the door behind her, sheimagined their twin exhales o relie. Ten she shook her head athersel, or thinking she could imagine anything about Cal any-more.

At the diner, Henry and Christina cornered her in thekitchen. Henry was the short order cook; Christina was the pret-tiest waitress. Henry wore black and yellow striped che ’s pants,


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like a smoke-wreathed bumblebee. Christina said, “Why did you ask off work yesterday?”She smacked cinnamon gum between her teeth with every sylla-ble.

Henry said, “Tere’s a guy, isn’t there?” “Please, Henry ,” said Christina, rolling her eyes as i thiswere an argument they’d been having or hours. “Sort o,” said Amy. “I knew it,” said Henry. “Jesus Christ, it’s good to finallyhave someone else out there with you.” Amy said, “My brother,” and Christina whacked Henry inthe back o the head. “I told you,” she said. “You didn’t say it was a brother!” said Henry, rubbing theback o his head and looking wounded. “You said it was a amilyemergency!” “I think this qualifies.” Christina grabbed Amy’s arm and

spun her out o the kitchen and towards the cash register, overHenry’s plaintive cries o, “No air!” Low, in Amy’s ear, she said,“Your brother was overseas, right?” Cinnamon-scented breathswirled past Amy’s ace. “What’s he doing here?” “Just needed a place to stay or a while,” said Amy. “I’vegot all those extra rooms.” “Tat’s good o you.” Christina waved at the Bakers, said,

“Y’all can take your regular seats and I’ll be right with you!” Ten,to Amy, she said, “I one o my brothers wanted to stay with me,I’d tell him to get a damn motel, I’m not a goddamn bed andbreakast.” Amy smiled weakly. “But I guess I’m not close with my brothers,” said Chris-tina, grabbing the pen rom behind her ear. “It must be nice, to

have close amily like that.” “Sure,” said Amy to Christina’s back, “I guess.” Al


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Instead, she just worked and weeded, a pile o nettles andwild parsnip growing next to her. Eventually Cal hopped off theporch and called, “Night,” and drove off in her car. It had been just her or so long. She had orgotten what the silence was like

when someone was always leaving.

At work, Henry told her, “It’s good or you to be out therewith someone else. I just haven’t elt right about it, since every-thing happened.” “Oh, come on, Henry,” she said. “It’s not like you everneeded to confiscate the ucking razor blades or anything.” Andlater, because she elt guilty about being mean, she bought hima pack o cigarettes and wrapped them in a napkin to make himsmile. Christina told her that she’d met Cal at the bars, they allhad, and he was awully quiet, wasn’t he? She said, “He’s kind olike a tortured hero, huh? You know, like someone rom a Nicho-

las Sparks movie or something?” “Shit, Christina, I don’t know,” said Amy. Tey wererefilling ketchup bottles, and Amy was counting her tips in herhead, trying to see i she’d been shortchanged by a busboy. “He just doesn’t talk much.” “Mm-hmm,” said Christina knowingly, flipping aroundher long black ponytail. “Secrets.”

At night, Cal screamed, and Amy learned not to jump

up out o bed and run and crouch in ront o his door and wait,agonizing, floorboards cold and warped against her eet. Shedreamed o her childhood, and the time Cal had climbed all theway to the top o the oak tree in their backyard and allen, andhow he had begged her not to tell their parents even though his

arm was curved and his ace gone white. She dreamed o themurky underwater air in that small apartment, o all the women


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on Cal’s arms unpeeling themselves rom his skin and dancingaround in slow, lugubrious motions like mermaids, o his girl-riend’s narrowed eyes in the dark. She dreamed o the phoneringing, over and over again. Te voice on the phone said, “Amy?

Amy? Amy?” but when she spoke, the voice went silent. “You okay?” she asked Cal once, in the morning, whenhe’d come down or some water. He looked at her blankly. White-blonde hair stuck up inthe back o his head like dandelion fluff. “Yeah?” he said, and hesitated. A robin scolded some-thing outside the kitchen window, bright and insistent. He lookedaround at the kitchen, and the dining room, and the burnt cara-mel tiles, and the peeling floral wallpaper, and Amy saw a ques-tion orming in the lines o his mouth. But as quickly as it wasthere, it was gone, and Cal took his glass o water upstairs.

Six days afer Cal moved in, Amy came home late rom

work, a long shif, a shif rom hell, because Christina had gottenthe stomach flu and Nicki had been so high that eventually Amytold her to just go home, and then it was only Amy, or hours,alone in that tiny linoleum place, and the old vets wouldn’t stopasking her, “And how’s that brother o yours doing?” and she liedand lied and lied. Te sky had darkened and bats wheeled aroundthe old barn by the time she pushed her way through the ront

door. Cal sat at the dining room table, staring glassily into space.Tere was a bottle o whiskey, whiskey she had known to be ull just a ew days ago, empty on the table next to him. She thoughtabout what Christina had said: He’s kind of like a tortured hero—

you know, someone from a Nicholas Sparks movie. Somethinghard and unorgiving rose in her throat. Cal said, “You know what you need in this godorsaken

hellhole?” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Cable. Who thehell only has five television stations?”


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Amy shrugged. Cal laughed, and went to pour morewhiskey, and then remembered the bottle was empty. “Fuck this,” he said. “Fuck this place.” Amy dug her nails into her palms and started counting

to five. When she got to three, Cal tilted the chair on two legsand pointed at her. “What the uck,” he said, “Are you torturingyoursel or?” “What are you talking about?” said Amy. “Look at you,look at yoursel, and you think I’m the one—?” “Look at myself? ” repeated Cal, thickly, like his lips hadstopped working. Amy didn’t say anything. “Look at mysel?” he said. “I just wonder,” she said, quickly, “I maybe you’re drink-ing just a little too—” Cal dropped the chair back onto all our legs, and theslam in that quiet room made Amy jump. “You bitch,” he said.

“You abso-ucking-lutely unbelievable bitch.” “Cal.” “Fuck you,” said Cal. “I just think—” “Fuck what you think.” Amy pulled back her hair until it hurt. Cal’s eyes shonewetly, rimmed with red.

“I’m going upstairs,” she said. “Fuck you.” He was breathing loudly, and hollowly, likesomething was rattling loose in his chest. “You don’t give a shit.You don’t give two shits about anyone, do you. Bitch.” Amy’s chest was burning, but she swallowed and said,“Goodnight, Cal.” “Fuck you,” said Cal one more time, and then Amy

turned and went upstairs. When she reached the top o thestaircase, she wrapped her right hand around her lef wrist and


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squeezed until her bones shifed. Stop it, she thought to hersel. Stop it . But she didn’t stop until she heard Cal push his chair awayrom the table, and then she went into her room and locked thedoor.

Te days passed.

Cal drank, and slept, and woke when the sun set. Amy

worked, and in the evenings she would weed and prune and mow.Te arm was a living creature, a hydra o nettles and thistles andwild parsnip. Weeds were the only thing that could grow here,but they grew like viruses. Tey were clever; they created deepnetworks o roots so that even when Amy thought she had pulledthe last o them up, they could bloom again in a week. Te nettlesbrushed up against her neck and her cheeks, and lef angry redwelts that burned or hours. When the coyotes started to yip, aroff in the burned-out fields, she’d put away her trowel and her

shears and go make hersel dinner. She liked the arm best in the time between day andnight. Te hills turned purple, and bats chittered as they sweptout o the attic, and she could watch the stars come out, one-by-one, until the whole sky was lit up in a sea o constellations. Teweeds whispered, through the open windows, though i they weresaying something to her then she would not listen to them. Cal

made sof sounds, up in his room, but never came out until shehad gone into her room and latched the door behind her. Tenshe would hear the crunching o his boots on the gravel, and thecoughing rattle o her car, and he would disappear until the moonwas already setting. In the night, then, each night, there was screaming. Amystared out the window and chewed at the sof skin around her

thumb until everything went quiet. Te whole sky was awashwith stars. Te whole house was awash with dreams.


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“Amy?” the voice on the phone had said, a long time ago.“Amy?” Amy had held one arm across her stomach to keep romthrowing up, and she pressed the phone against her ear, and she

tried to curl her toes into the floor to steady hersel, but the floorwas tile and her toenails just scrabbled against it. “Amy, it’s me,” said the voice, and cracked. Tings erupt-ed rom that crack; Amy couldn’t see, her vision had gone spi-derwebbed and smeared, but even then she could see the darkscuttling creatures coming rom the crack and disappearing intoa purple horizon. “Me,” she said, or maybe she didn’t. Her arm wasn’t doingenough. She bent over and retched all over the floor. “I’m in Nashville,” the voice said in a tight, desperate way. She made another retching noise. “Amy?” Her vomit smelled like bourbon and wine, or-ange and pink all over the tiles. “I need your help. I need help.”

“Who…?” “I can’t—” By now, the voice was really crying and hic-cupping. Amy couldn’t match up the voice with any o the acesin her head, she didn’t understand what it was saying, she didn’tknow where she was. She stuck her finger in the back o herthroat, and retched again, because in a uzzy and stupid way shethought it might help.

“I have to go,” she said into the phone, or into thin air.She didn’t say it like that. She said Ihuvtogo. She said it with hertongue loose and flopping around. Amy threw the phone underthe table and, in the morning, waking up with her cheek pressedinto her own vomit, she came to as i lurching rom a nightmare.

She knew that voice.

She knew that voice. She knew that voice.


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When Amy came home rom work on a dusky Turs-day night, nine days afer Cal had moved in and three days aferhe had disappeared rom sight, he was downstairs and lookingrelatively bright-eyed in the cool dark o the dining room. Amy

flinched, when she came through the door. He was like a eralanimal she had let into her attic and orgotten about, and nowthat he was roaming around in the open, she ound she was araido him. “Hey,” said Cal, in a rust-covered voice. “Let’s go to a bar.” “Um,” said Amy. “Okay.” Tey went to a bar. Amy picked Kleemann’s, because it was the least smoky,and because Henry and Christina preerred Puempel’s. She hadn’tbeen to the bars in a year. Kleemann’s was a lot like what sheremembered: wood paneling, and scary stuffed animals on thewalls, and a scratched-up bar, and smoke coming rom undeter-mined places whirling around the ceiling.

Cal ordered a beer, and Amy ordered a whiskey, and Calbarely raised his eyebrows, but he still raised them. He clinkedhis glass against her and drank, or a long time, while old men’sconversations ebbed and flowed around them. Ten he said, “Your riend Henry. He told me somethings. He doesn’t really stop talking, have you noticed that?” Amy couldn’t help it; she laughed, or what elt like the

first time in a long time, and she thought, How stupid, that I hav-en’t been laughing . Cal wasn’t laughing, but his mouth twisted upin almost a smile. Ten he drummed his fingers on the bar like hewas working himsel up. Finally, he said, “Why did you stay?” Amy took a sip o whiskey—it burned, in ways both bit-tersweet and pleasant—and, afer a little while, said, “I didn’t have

anywhere to go.” Tat was true and not-true. Cal still hadn’tlowered his eyebrows, so she tried again. “By the time I gotaround to finally eeling like I could move,


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I just didn’t—I didn’t want to. Maybe I should have.” “You were punishing yoursel?” said Cal without lookingat her. “No.” rue and not-true. “A lot had gone wrong. At that

point. Most o everything, actually, had gone wrong. All I hadwas my stupid job, and this stupid town, and the stupid, uck-ing arm.” She stopped again, and laughed, but this time angrily.“Why are we talking about me, anyway? Tere isn’t anythingtragic about me. Why don’t we ever ucking talk about you?” Cal twisted up his mouth, and then they didn’t talk ora long time. Te bartender, Randy, came over and refilled Cal’sbeer. Te women on Cal’s arms were staring at Amy, she could just eel them, they were staring at her and accusing her orcrimes she kept trying to orget. She had allen in love, and it hadgone badly, and she had been lef alone. Cal had called her, andhis voice had cracked, and she had been drinking, and she hadbeen heartsick, and she hadn’t known what to do.

She wondered, not or the first time and not or the lasttime, what Cal had wanted to say to her. She finished her whiskey, and Randy poured her anotherone and smiled at her. Cal sat like a stranger next to her. Amy . “Some things,” said Amy, and paused. Te smell o oldsmoke rose up out o the wood o the bar table, like ghosts. Shesaid, “Some things grow inside—they choke you. We lose—

things. I lost things.” “Your boy,” said Cal. He was pushing his beer stein backand orth between his hands so that brown waves rose up andalmost spilled over the glass. Amy rubbed her eyes with the back o her hand. “Tattoo,” she said. “I lost that too.” Jim yler put on his avorite sad old country song on the

jukebox, and hal the bar groaned.


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“I wish you would have told me,” said Cal, in the kindway o someone who is drunk enough to orget about things.“You could have gotten in touch and told me what happened.” Amy tipped back the rest o her drink, and then smiled.

“You could’ve too.” Cal squinted at her and then said, considering, “Well,uck. I guess I could’ve.” Slowly, hesitantly, Amy put her hand on Cal’s shoulder.She hadn’t touched him in a long time. He turned his head andgave her a sideways smile, and in that moment, just in a briesecond beore his ace settled back into its amiliar new lines, helooked like someone she had known. “God,” said Amy. “I need another drink.” Soon, both o them would be too drunk to drive, andsomeone was going to have to give them a lif back to the arm,and Christina would need to come in the morning to get Amy orwork, teasing her the whole time, asking i this meant the reign

o abstinence was over. But Amy didn’t want to leave. She knew,surely, deeply, that once they lef, nothing would have changed. Inthe morning, Cal would wake up with a rotten taste in his mouthand remember all the things he kept trying to orget. He’d go backto slowly drinking himsel to death, and picking fights with herwhen she looked at him the wrong way, and moving around thehouse like a shadow. One day, maybe soon, he’d disappear, and

then Amy would be lef behind with her dreams and the weedsand the ghosts. So she called Randy over, and flirted to keep himrom cutting her off, and told Cal long and rambling and hal-true stories about their childhood, and spun slowly with KevinOtt across the sticky floor to all o Jim yler’s sad, lonely countrysongs. She could hear Cal laughing in the haze o the bar, some-where ar away and close by at the same time, and he was saying,

“Amy, Amy, Amy,” he was laughing and clapping and he wassaying her name, Amy, Amy, Amy.


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NWANNE OCHA

Father Lord, parfum me with the fragrance of favour By Onyinyechi Ogwumike

Chamomile, honey and 2% hydroquinone,mornings Ngozi rubs down her clavicles with iger balm anddrops lavender oil behind her ears.

Amongst the grooves o her fingerprint and the walls o her nailbeds she shares pomegranate stains and the upbeats o StevieWonder (magnolia, olive oil.)Momma brings her into the kitchen,Where she is made busy with humming and dough (buttermilk)She kneads (white flesh lapping up to peck her brown knuckles sugar

kisses pooling on the backs o her hands)

Momma needs Ngozi’s arms(there is jojoba oil in the dimples in her shoulder blades)in turning a jar.And they lock at the elbows,Applying pressures through the damp ace o a worn green towel.

(Dawn Ultra with Olay in cucumber + melon, water, benignkitchen bacteria)Ngozi’s palm skews plum and rose with the curdling o blood,Her mouth waters with effort (peach and ginger) until mommasays,Don’t worry I will try another.

Ngozi wanders back to the edge o the kitchen, leans. (rying palm oil)


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Back to where there is clutter and atop a makeshif shel a basin o garri.owering over yam tubers with shoots extending into the roomLike fine fingers

Like long dark hairs rom the ashen chins o old auntiesWhose husbands always smiled wide and toothy at her and sistaat the clan meetings.Women with their blanched skin laden with powder as i they’dstuck their made-up aces into a similar expanse o ground cassa- va.At the last party,One o the men called one o the air-skinned girls nwanne ocha.Everyone laughed,A quiet reverence in their wet eyes,pulpy admiration spilled into the air’s rolling cologne,brandy cooked the room.

Along Ngozi’s hairlinefine bleached-copper strokesgather light.She cracks open the window to let out the thick smellsWhich taste caustic on her tongue,Which run coarse and greedy on the interior o her lungWhich are like the sharp exhale o ancestry giving

( heavy parum, amber, brown paper).Ngozi lathers creamy whites onto the deep yet yielding browns oher cal, thigh,the tender flesh on the underbelly o her arm,bubbling orth are moles rich blackshe looks at themas pockmarks on flyblown meat

her rusting baby hairs like the ochre crown o kwashiorkor.


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Her nose is tight and sharp.Her orehead is churning,tied in inumerous knots like the beaded joints o a weeping cher-ry branch

she slips her ringing nostrils under the window sill into the rusho outside’s breezeit is sweet outside.she remembers there was a sweet wind which cloaked Chidiebelewhen she saw him last.she wants to rest in that windshe cannot be heavy to rest in that windshe must be light,and it will be easier,sauntering without skin o lead.

I I pale away into a night where all I smell is cypress,tell momma

Not all stretch marks result rom growth.


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Patchy

By Danny Kelleher

Te boy had been running the sink on and off or min-

utes, and the sound o it, muffled and vacant as it creeped outrom under the bathroom door, had the mother’s interior writh-ing. She fidgeted in their bedroom and waited or it to cease. She hadn’t heard him enter, but that wasn’t something toret. Te ather had been home ar too early again, with whiskeyand cheap cologne seeping off his shoulder blades, and she hadbeen screeching at him with remarkable volume, chastising himor his lethargy and ar-too-visible apathy. She figured the boymust’ve slipped in during the caterwaul. Tere was always something to scream about in theirliving room-bedroom-guest room; all it took was a little remind-er – a mold stain spattered on one o the meekly boiled potatoesthey called dinner or the inevitable tear o a worn-to-parchment

blouse – to resume the perpetual quarrel. oday it had been theclock, which had reused, inexplicably, to keep ticking at 3:44. “Don’t you think I ain’t listenin’ to that aucet,” the moth-er said. Te boy said nothing as the water resumed its herky-jerkrhythm. Most o his indignant bathroom trips happened when his

ace had been maimed during or afer school. He’d snake throughthe door with his hands on his cheeks, silent despite the violentleakage rom his nostrils. Somehow his ace could always becomemore asymmetrical than it was already, and his cheeks or chincould invariably spare another bump or divot where smooth-ness should have maintained. But or whatever reason, perhapsbecause the boy’s muscles were developing an adult firmness that

the mother sometimes elt with her eet – or, more likely, he wassimply learning to strike first – it had been months since that was


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last the case. “Tink I ain’t hearin’ that aucet?” his mother hissedagain. “Sure as shit not me gonna be payin’ or it,” his ather

added this time. Still no response. Somehow, as it went a begrudgingly requent amount othe time, the mother and ather were now stroking each other, ig-noring the shrieking and slamming and slapping o less than halan hour prior (though the clock’s state lef them uncertain even othat). Tey were now turning the vitriol into something roughlysensual, as they would likely be doing even i the boy were in theroom. When he was young, lying perpendicular to them at theedge o the bed, he never spoke out against their thuggish love-making, never even moved a muscle. And one particular night,when the post-coital moon had been low and reflective throughtheir caged-up window, she’d accidentally glanced at the boy and

almost squealed. He’d been lying on his back, stiff as a mummybesides his shivering, and within the sunken cavities o his ace,somehow even more withdrawn and rotted than they appearedin daylight, she’d seen his two gray eyes, differently sized and un-mistakably wide open as they peered up at the ceiling. Somethingabout their utter blankness had terrified her; it was as i he wasully awake and not awake at all. Te image o it was still vividly

stamped inside her. “Get out here!” the ather said. Te mother wondered again what could be the cause othe boy’s preoccupation. She thought back to when he’d last holedup in their reezing little bathroom: it had been early morning,beore any o them usually woke, when she rose to find him outo the bed. Irritation seeped through her lungs when she noticed

the bathroom door had already been closed, but it was only whenshe’d stepped onto the cement floor and elt the moisture on her


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toes that she knew his reason or hiding. She lunged her hands atthe edge o the bed and elt the wetness as she howled. When theboy finally came out, shaking and naked with ollicles on edge,the ather bent him over and made sure it never occurred again.

As the ather now glanced at the belt by his clothing pile, themother realized they were recalling the same scene. “Swear to god, boy, you wetted this bed again,” the atherhollered. “You rotten p–” Te mother paused. Te aucet hadn’tbeen running the first time he’d done it; it didn’t make sense. Sheran her hand over the sheets. Dry. What in God’s name could he be doing? She racked her vicious mind or an explanation but ound nothing within grasp. “Get to work,” she told the ather. “Ain’t helpin’ nothing,your stayin’ here.” “Don’t dare start that with me right now,” the athersnapped back, “more money swimmin’ down the sink this minute

than I’d make out there anyway.” As they brought their mouths together, she thoughtagain. What lord almighty Christ was that ungrateul boy doing?It hit her right then. “You son-o–” she said as she pulled away,

“I’ma be checkin’ that tongue or bruises. I’ma know whatyou done.” Te ather looked at her with bloodshot eyes inflated,

cheeks boiling through the cold. “You thinkin’ he’s– spankin’–boy you get the uck out here!” Movement made their necks whip as the door creakedopen jerkily, a ew hesitant inches, beore it slapped shut again. Te ather bolted up. His fists clenched white with redsplotches – a macabre sort o Rorshach test – as he stomped in abeeline toward the door. He grabbed the handle beore the boy

could slide the latch back on. For a moment, the boy attempted aeeble resistance rom behind the door, but it was only a matter o


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seconds beore the ather ripped it open. Te mother and ather beheld the boy as the doorknobclanged against their tattered wall. He had his lef hand in apost-beating position, gripping his scarred ace as he stared

straight through the mother and ather. But there was no blood,and it wasn’t until the mother looked down that she saw the otherwas holding the ather’s rusted straight razor. Water dripped offthe edges o his hand as she realized he’d been shaving. “Tat’s what you been doin’? Wastin’ our water or ashave without a mirror?” the mother asked. “Makes or a spotty shave,” the ather chuckled. Hegrabbed the boy’s hand and ripped it off his ace. For a moment there was silence. Te mother glanced atthe boy’s visage as memory o the low-moon night stepped or-ward in her mind. She understood then that it was all the same:the thin little gray lips, chapped and cracked; the misshapen andorward-acing ears; the expression as immoveable as the floor’s

cement. But then she looked harder and saw something new.Jutting out rom a bumpy cheek and part o his upper lip werepatches o uzzy acial hair, barely visible in the pale afernoon.Te ather had been right: the boy had missed some spots. Sheocused harder, fixating on them, until she saw it. Swept bydisbelie, she stared until she knew that what she was looking at

couldn’t be blinked away. Te breath parted rom her lungs, likeheat rom the cracks o the ront door, as she tore her gaze to theside. Te hairs weren’t brown, like the wires that came outrom his scalp. Tey weren’t salty black, like his ather’s. No; inront o the mother’s eyes, she’d seen hairs sprouting out o theboy that were conclusively, jarringly, blue.

Slowly, the mother turned back to him. Te blueness wasstill there, almost synthetic in its vibrancy despite the hairs’ aint,


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young stage. She looked up instinctively, attempting to confirmher reality with another orm o lie. But she ound no such solacein the boy’s gaze, and as the ather reached or the belt and said,“Don’t know what else you expect,” and the boy stared right back,

all the mother could do was stay rozen. Peering at those cavern-ous eyes, neutral in mortification as they were in elation, she hada sudden sense that somehow, in the depths o their crumblinghome, she and the ather had created something colder than thebathroom.


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\\23.

By Onyinyechi Ogwumike

Morning has three tongues,

each o them stripe off o his throat, blisterand then pour into my lap with the remnants o my palms, myeyes and cheeks.

Tey visited and they wanted to know when their ada’s belly willcurl.i did ( yes), saw split-rooster-scalp red flowing down into thecracks o her eetorming a paste with the amapu clay saw her stomp our good times say“ear in this house! di na-atu m, ujo na-atu m, and i cannot eelhim.”

i cannot eel him. his eyes are ar rom me and i am a ool. the air behind my eyes stirred and the pink o my tongue stoodon alert,and my sista,o whom i am o common choler,

in whom i see the same spinning pink underlid,i told her to bathe three evenings in the river when the sun issitting in it.i told her to be acquainted with red and orangeand bring me three bags o good groundnutto be sure it is goodso she will bear a good child.

“eh heh,


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ezi nwa for the good mother: ezinneher mother’s name as well is ezinneit is a good name;

dalu.”

Her ather’s eyes are yellow with a taupe peck just beneath theglossy black o the iris,he loves his daughter very muchloves his wie,wants this love to bloomwants his eyes to water or sweeter mornings very soon,he would crack his calves, split the knotted bone at his templesshif skull to say sweeter dawns come soonand have honesty in his eyes as he does so,he knows his wie tires o his lying eyes

he tires o his lying eyeshe wonders when his iris got so opaque, so good at sealing.

afer they leave i sit in the northwest corner o my room,stick my orehead into the soilthe cool just above the earth is plump beneath the skin o myeyelids

and i sob into ita wet anger which keeps skipping in my throat and catching onmy tongue and then alls out limpand sleeps in the corner’s condensationchi,babayou like to see me cry oh

“Deje”


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ada will not be seeing babes scurrying afer her chickens,she will always hold their limp necks in her palms

i will never run the bloom o my thumb down the unkempt hairs

behind his neck,even i i love himwelleven with a good namei am so araidi am so acquainted with red and orangei am so raw,angry have i done well here baba,heh?am i pink?“Deje, dalu”


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How o Live Here

By Danny Kelleher

Upstairs Bathroom Sink

Careul o this aucet. Something’s not right with it. Momhad two different inspectors come by and check it out. Te firstone was a brown man with a glass eye, and Dad wouldn’t stopbarking at him, as he’s liable to do. Make sure you really get inthere, he said as the man squatted under the sink. You’ve checkedyour measurement tools, yes? Tey’re up to date? You need asecond pair o– er, um, some more eyes? Te second one seemed Wisconsin born and bred. Teway he said ma’aaaam was sheep-y. I remember his lanky arms,behind the short sleeves, and how spit would get on his bushymustache when he moved his mouth. Looks perectly alright to me, ma’am, no problems here,he said.

Tat just can’t be true, Dad blurted with his arms crossedas he stood behind Mom. Araid I don’t know what to tell you, I don’t see a damnnear hint o mercury in any o these pipes! Did you check way up there? In the back? Dad asked. My son is not okay, not alright at all, Mom said as shechewed her lower lip.

I’m not gonna do that, no offense, the inspector said. I’vegot another inspection at two. And besides that. I ardy told you,no offense, there’s no damn mercury in here. Don’t you understand? Something is wrong here! Some-thing is inecting my son! Mom screamed as she petted Justin likea sick dog. Well you can go ahead and cross off mercury rom the

suspect list, he said as he gathered his tools up. Give us our money back, Dad demanded. He put a hand


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on Mom’s shoulder and Justin looked down. No can do, the inspector said as he hurled his hands uplike a touchdown and walked out the door.

* * *

Living room window Te glass here is liable to break. Don’t let pets sleep onthe ledge. First time it gave in, we were playing with our neighborsoutside, Kick the Can, something like that. Probably about noonwhen Justin started mumbling and I went up to him slow, like Iknew to do.

What’s wrong? I asked. Street’s too hot, he said. Feet are burnin’. Smiling one second, crying the same. Happened in lightspeed. Usually the neighbors just turned away when Justin startedgoing, but this time Ellen Roover made the mistake o askingwhat’s wrong. He twitched and shrieked and threw his hands

up beore he picked a rock up and chucked it straight through. Ipulled him inside and told him to blame me. He shook his head. Justin! Shook it again. Justin goddamn it! Why not? He pursed his lips and just kept on shaking.

By the time Dad came home I could tell Justin hadcalmed down. I was reading one o Mom’s magazines and he wasnext to me on the couch, pattering his knee in triplets with his in-dex and middle. Dad came in and ripped the headphones straightoff his head. F– H– What is this? he said. Fuck happened? Justin looked like he saw a ghost as he umbled or the

headphones and Dad grabbed his arm like a claw.Tey lef up to Justin’s room and I picked up the


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headphones and listened. Hampton was playing, his avorite.* * *

Master bedroom fireplace Noise carries rom here. Remember that. Mom and Dad

should’ve known that. Tey may have known that. Tey pulled me in when I was twelve and spoke in voicesnot sof enough. Look, buddy, Dad said, I know it’s new here, but you’lllike it, I really think you will. A woman at the store was just telling me they’ve got agreat baseball club team or kids your age, Mom said and grinnedat me. We’re gonna like it here, I really think you will, Dad said. Okay, I said. Look, buddy, I know it’s not quite easy, yeah? But EagleRiver’ll be better or your big brother, alright? We need to thinkabout that, okay? He’s a special type o guy, he needs to be taken

care o specially, see? More nature will be good or him. You love him and we love him too, Mom said. I nodded. Te look Justin gave me when I walked back into ourroom, wide-eyed and almost scared, was the same one he’d hadon when Mom told me I couldn’t get the Hulk toy back at theucson oys ‘R Us. Never chatted about it, but I knew he heard.

* * *

Piano room Noise also carries rom here. Noise just carries.It was 2 a.m., maybe even later, when I elt the light shaking inmy sleep. I woke up and heard the music coming rom the ront.Justin wasn’t in bed. Dad flicked the light on across the hall andwalked down. Justin! Buddy!

Justin couldn’t hear. He was pounding the keys, erociousas a carpenter.


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Dad hopped ast down the stairs. Justin! Buddy! Whatare you doing? It’s the middle o the night! he shouted. I watched rom the top o the stairs as Justin turned tohim. Was in my head, he said. Wanted to get it out.

F– Can you– Wh– Your mom’s tryin’ to sleep. Cut it off!he said as he walked back upstairs. For at least an hour Justin didn’t come back to bed as Ilaid there awake, and or short moments, when the wind took abreather and the heater was calm, I could hear the aint sound othe piano, tip-toeing under our door.

* * *Kitchen cupboard Wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep snacks in here. Least,that’s what we’d do. Mom let me eat whatever I pleased more orless, but with Justin she narrowed the options. Whole grains. Nopesticides. Fruit, only ruit, afer dinner. Never cared much about what was in the lunch bag. Most

days at the middle school I’d work trades with Davis or Grantand get some stuff I wanted anyway. With Justin it always had tobe particular, though. Apple sauce on the lower lef, Sun Chips(plain) to the right o them, ham sandwich swiss cheese no mayothree squirts mustard in the main compartment. Tree com-ponents total, always. Mom would leave little notes in his bag,saying things like Smile today! and Remember to give Ms. Graves

the essay she was nice to give you extra time! and March to yourown drum – your rhythm is catchy!

* * *Bedroom shelf Not a bad place or some speakers, especially i youdecide to keep this as the kids’ room. Ryder or Jason always DJedon the drives to club games, and when I liked what they played I’d

get back with my cap and cleats still on and play whatever it wasor Justin. Most every time he’d give me this wry, pity-ull smile.


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I’d get rustrated. When we were younger the rustration wasbecause I couldn’t get his approval. When I got older it changedto ticked-ness about his general stubbornness, about how badly Iwished he would just pretend to nod and be normal. For his own

sake. Or maybe or mine. Or maybe I just wished he would say heappreciated the effort. I kept getting more irked with it, whateverit was, until it built up and built up and built up so much, heat-ing my noggin, that one day pretty recently, afer I put on a songLaney showed me and he pursed his lips and gave that same pas-sive rejection o a grin, I spoke up, as I’m not all that liable to do. You think your music’s so different than mine, I said. He shrugged. I think you just don’t like saying you enjoy much o any-thing other than the shit you find yoursel, I continued. Not sure Ibelieved what I was saying even then. I think you just like your shit so you can hold it over ev-eryone else’s head, I said, I think that i you could just practice in

here, maybe, just maybe, you could pick up a girlriend or seemnormal or just a second. He got up all the sudden and I was scared in a way Inever was around him. I stayed on the ground, ready to deendmysel and already eeling terrible. But he just motioned to ollow him, saying nothing, andthat’s what I did. All the way downstairs to the piano, where he

sat down and told me to sit down too. He reached out his right hand and with his thumb andpinkie equally ar rom his middle finger hit three white notes.riad – major, he said as he put his fingers up in hooks, “Happy.” He took his lef and did the same thing, a little lower onthe piano. riad – minor, he said, “Sad”. He kept looking at thepiano.

Ten he picked his hands up and did both at once. Jazz,he said as he turned to me and prayed I would get it. In between,


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he said, Us.* * *

Pool heater Don’t try making it work in the winter. Won’t get hal as

warm as the screen number says. Parker Foley’s Mom probablysays it’s all Justin’s ault, he’s a mini little devil. But I was there.Parker kept saying, come on Justin, let’s just swim, what’s theissue, don’tcha wanna, what’s the issue, come on, let’s just get in,what’s wrong it’s heated up, come on, what’s the issue, can weplease just swim a bit, what’s your issue, until finally Justin mum-bled out, Fine. It was too cold. I knew that and Justin knew that andParker should’ve known that. I could see on Justin’s ace that hewas cooking in there. But even still he didn’t do anything, just satthere politely as we swum around. Justin was nicer than Parkerdeserved o him i you ask me. Wasn’t even Justin who wantedthe play date. Mom set it up I bet, as she was liable to do, even

though Justin never said once he was eeling lonely. Mom andDad just couldn’t get that Hampton and Burrell and Ellingtonwere good riends to him. Parker said, Come on, let’s wrestle! and I said, Bad idea,and Justin shook his head and looked down, teeth chatteringslightly. Even still, Justin kept cool. It was only when Parkerstarted jumping on Justin and Justin shook his head and tried to

push him off but still Parker kept on with it that Justin turned andshouted and thrust Parker’s noggin into the brick o our poolsidelike a re testing a ball beore game time. His head leaked or a while as I called Ms. Foley, andMom cried into her hands on the living room couch as Dadstroked her back that night. Te next day they asked again, Why’d you do it?

Didn’t mean to, Justin mumbled. What do you mean didn’t mean to? What was meant?


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Mom asked. Justin shook his head. SPEAK! Dad said calmly. I don’t know, Justin said.

* * *Living room mantle Good spot or photos you want to keep seeing. Maybeyour baby’s first birthday party, or a vacation where the strangerhappened to get it all, the moment and the lighting and every-thing you elt right there and then. Course that’s never reallyliable to happen, but you made something didn’t you, somethingthat reminds you o the sheer amount o everything that existedright then, existing in ways different and similar now? Mom and Dad, at some costume party way back when,sat at the spot urthest right. Dad in some bunny-type outfit,trying and ailing in little ways to keep his ace all straight andserious; Mom leaning orward in her robe, one hand on Dad and

the other on her Gandal staff with a ace flushed red and moistrom laughing too hard. Both their eyes so awake. Neither knowswhat the joke was anymore, but looking at it sometimes even so, Ialmost laugh with them. On the lef we kept one o me rom when Mom and Idrove to Sedona just us two a couple years back, climbing rocksand hiking over the April desert as it warmed beneath our tennis

shoes. Was just a night, an extra day we had afer the SpringBreak trip back to ucson. At Devil’s Peak Mom said I could goout on the rocky ledge, nothing below it or hundreds and hun-dreds o eet, but she didn’t want me doing any more than that.When I sat and dangled my eet over the ledge anyway I couldtell she was perking up and getting all rigid, nervous. But thenshe exhaled and shook her head and took another photo, smiling,

and said, Alright, that’s enough, get down. Te middle o the mantle had the one Dad says he loves


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but makes him sad, too. It’s the our o us, all on the old couch,me no older than two, Justin about three. We’re in the middle,Mom and Dad on either side. Justin’s got his arms around myshoulders, gripping me in our matching little checkered shirts.

I’m gazing up at him as his eyes look straight ahead, straight atthe camera, something Dad said my big brother wasn’t alwaysliable to do or much longer.

* * *Inside dryer Hum a song. Hum it. What noise can you make in thismoment right now? Not the sax in the background, not the hi-hatrunning the swing. Not a chord either. All you can do and allyou’ll ever do is a note afer a note afer another note, one at atime and afer another. You can hear a chord in your head I bet,all o it synthesized at once. But all you’ll get humming or sing-ing, no matter how hard you slave to do better? One little note. Aminiature little snippet that means nothing close to what it’s sup-

posed to without the rest o it going too. What the hell sound areyou making then? And how are you supposed to tell me all thelittle details that your one-note mouth can’t get out? All you’vegiven me is something beore and afer. Let’s say you took the time to hum all o it, every littlenote that makes up every little chord. You really think I’ll everhear it all at once, like we’re all liable to assume, like it’s inside

your noggin?* * *

Front staircase landing Keep the rails to the stairs as they are, i you can. Tere’sa comort in them. I’d never get tired o just laying here, lookingout between the white wood o the beams and thinking aboutwhatever I happened to think. Can’t be counted, I don’t imagine,

the wasted hours buried in the nooks and vacancies o this oldplace.


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I liked it right here though, between these stairs, whennothing but passing cars or antsy woodpeckers layered the quiet,or when I’d be lost mulling on something too long and wake uprom it as Freddie Hubbard starting coming out all muffled rom

the closed bedroom door, or when Mom would see me and stopto ask about my homework and I would tell her, It’s not bad, real-ly, and she would say, Alright, sounds good.

* * * Also inside dryer You really think your lef-to-right words work any better?

* * * Downstairs bathroom Te one spot where sound doesn’t carry quite wellenough. Wasn’t even awake or most o it. Only knew the sirensweren’t part o my dream when Mom shook me up and they werestill there. Justin’s gotta go to the hospital, she said, sobbing, He hurt

himsel, he’s hurt himsel bad. Te ambulance is here, she went on. What the hell you mean? I asked her as I heard ootstepsand shouts coming through the house. It was still dark out.I have to– I’m s– I have to go, she said and bolted out the door.Learned a ew hours later, just beore dawn. On some new medsJustin had become convinced there was a diamond in his shoul-

der, so sure o it when he looked in the mirror that he starteditching at it and when that still didn’t get it started clawing at itand digging into it and when that still didn’t get it started drag-ging a scissor up and down and through his skin till blood got allover the mirror and his body squished like wet rubber. Luckily hehit a rame over when he ainted, and Mom and Dad got him tothe hospital quick enough to keep his lie going.

His arm looked like he’d pitched way too much when hefinally got back home a couple days afer. His brain was cooking,


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he said when I asked him about it, cooking too hot. We have to go, have to leave, Mom said to me a ewmornings later as she shook and sobbed more. And so we did, aswe’re liable to do.

* * *Bedroom windowsill Te night afer he breaks the window during Kick theCan, Justin’s showing me a Steve Lacy song with the lights off. It’sback when we still have bedtimes, and we’re up way past them.He crawls into bed when the song ends. We both lay there, silent,or a long while. He finally says, Sorry I’m difficult. How do you figure you’re difficult? I ask, and or somereason right then we both start laughing, quiet at first, but as itbecomes something larger than one joke, something truthul andtender and unspeakable and painul and happy and sad and inbetween all at once, it gets louder, louder and louder and louder,

till we’re laughing so hard that Dad comes into the doorway. Guys, he says as he flips the lights on. It’s way too late orthis. Sorry, I say. Sorry, Justin says as he starts giggling a little again. Dad pauses, looks down then back up again. Don’t worryabout it, he says as he smiles a little. Love you guys. Night.

Can you hear the chord?


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Stocking

By Daniel Moynihan

Can we talk about the ricking sock gnomes or once?

No one ever wants to discuss it, but the act o the matteris that these creatures steal your socks. My dad and I live in anold building where they can use the trash and mail chutes, and—Isuspect—even the deunct dumbwaiter or their shenanigans. I have to be careul doing stuff like checking the post-age tubes though, because my dad’s pretty popular around thebuilding. In the halls, they say “howdy Marty!” and stop to jawwith him. He cracks jokes on the elevator, even though he knowsI hate talking on elevators. ‘I’m just being polite, Hank!’ he tellsme. But he’s not, he’s being popular. oday, afer doing our wash,on the ride up rom the laundry room, dad updates some baggysenior with an unfiltered cigarette habit on the well-being o oldMrs. Hauser rom up our hall. Dad claims she reminds him o

his mother. I don’t really buy it; rom what I remember aboutGramma, she was mean as a cornered cat, but he says it. Back in the apartment I ound I’ve lost three socks in theprocess o washing this load. Tree! I’m down to fify individu-als—which sounds like a nice round number, but in point o actevery one that disappeared was a different type, so three orphanswere created out o what had been three pairs. I need to do

something. I am not going to wear mismatched socks.So I decide to run an experiment. Why not, it’s Saturday

morning and I don’t have to go to my awul job as a counsel-or-in-training at the neighborhood camp. I gather all my laundryagain and tell my dad it didn’t get all the way dry. But in reality,I’m planning on washing it over and over again until I figure outhow the sock gnomes go about their nearious work.


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I’m watching cartoons with my clothes already tumblingdry in the basement when my dad comes back in.

“Hey there buddy,” he says. “Listen, I’ve got to ask thatyou please do me a avor and stow your gear. You think you can

do that? I have company coming tonight and I’m hoping to makethe place look as neat as possible. Tanks!” He pushes a chairaside as he heads towards his room. I stack my books into mybook-basket and carry it to the closet off the oyer where my oth-er boxes are. Te room with the couch where I sleep is also theliving room, so I have to be ready to move out or an evening ata moment’s notice. He’s getting me a bed soon, or at least replac-ing the couch with a oldout since the springs on the current onemake my back ache. I go back to watching V.

At the end o the episode I ride the elevator down to thehumid laundry room to advance my wash. But once I get there Irealize I orgot the dryer sheets. Cursing the mental rather thanphysical nature o this mistake, I rush upstairs to collect them.

Back on our floor, Mrs. Hauser hovers outside her apart-ment with her at sof skin hanging off her chalky bones, kind olike she’s melting— you know how old people are. I attempt tohurry by, conveying with a smile a sense o harried riendlinessand a demurral o all invitations to present or uture interactions.She smiles back and reaches out, mumbling. I’m orced to stop.In the creases descending rom the corners o her mouth little

tributaries o saliva gleam.“Marty?” she asks.I nod, then realize I’m not sure i she’s asking i I’m his or

i I’m him.“Marty?” she asks again. Her hand creeps towards my

arm and clamps on.“Yeah—I’m his son,” I say. She shows me her greyed

teeth.“Marty.” And beore I can correct her she turns away and


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trundles off, old-lady-bag swinging rom her sof orearm. Fora moment I stand in the hallway, rattled. Ten I remember mymission and head to the apartment.

O course the lock sticks, because our darn lock sticks at

all the worst times. Ten I find the detergent and dryer-sheetsmissing rom under the sink where I’m almost sure I lef them,and waste ten minutes trying to find them. Tey turn up in oneo my boxes in the hall closet. Dad must have moved them— he’sa dry-cleaning type o guy.

Back downstairs I’m relieved to find everything look-ing undisturbed. Te washer doors still open at the angles Ilef them. I miscount my socks as I transer them to the dryer,recount, then recount again to confirm that I have not, in act,miscounted in the first place— one sock has already disappeared.I’m not gnashing my teeth, but this is making me wish I knewhow. I need an entirely new system.

Back in the apartment, I old the warm clothes, cocoon-ing the socks into pairs; my new security plan covers every stepo the process, so I need to pace everything out to implementit. Dad comes in and finds me cross-legged in the middle o thepiles. He laughs, kind o, at the back o his throat. “Still working on that cleanup, huh?” he says. “I wantedto let you know that you can sleep in my bed tonight i you want,

buddy. I’m going to head over to a riend’s place or the latterportion o the evening and likely spend the night there. Youknow something, Hank? Don’t shrug me off, Hanky-man. Youknow something? I love you.”

I’m pretty excited not to sleep on the couch, but I don’tsay anything, just keep olding. He wanders off into the kitchenand afer a moment I hear the click o ice in a glass.


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I try like hell, I really do, to make the security systemwork, but things go wrong rom the start. I replace my usualplastic grocery bag—or ear that holes might orm—but the newcanvas tote’s so overull I keep dropping the already twice-cleaned

clothes in the hall. Old Mrs. Hauser leers at me, rummaging inher shapeless canvass bag or her door-key. By the time I get tothe basement I’m bursting or a pee— I mean, it’s a real emer-gency. I dump in the wash, dash to the restroom, and dash backwithout washing my hands, but still the load comes out a sockshort.

I check the washer and dryer again, or holes and secretdoors, I don’t know. Te search turns up nothing. Te sockgnomes taunting me then. Tey must know I’m onto them.

I move the clothes orward and keep watch, as per theintended plan, over the tumbling dryer. It’s meditative. ‘Sockgnomes’ is a koan on which I ruminate. I I continue to pursuethe sock gnomes will the attrition continue to accelerate? I I

back off and try to orget about this whole thing will they stop ha-rassing me and only take a sock here and there when they reallyneed it? Or have I awakened in their scaled-down hearts a wraththat will cause them to pursue a vendetta against me until I amdestitute o stockings?

I must be quite wrapped up in these weighty queries,because I jolt awake to the dry cycle beeping its completion—I’ve

ricking dozed off, lulled to sleep by the warmth o the room. Ileap up, and my count reveals another two socks have been takenrom right under my nose. Can this even be possible? It’s worse than I thought.Tose little monsters are more powerul than I had everimagined.


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Discouraged and down to orty-six socks, I ascend to theapartment. I dump my clothes out on the living room floor andlie on the pile until dark.

At last I decide it’s time to admit deeat, to attempt to

orget my shin-high nemeses and hope that they too will orgetme. I set a matched pair o my best argyles in ront o our door asa peace offering. When I check again about an hour later they’regone, so I allow mysel to hope that the creatures have under-stood and accepted my gesture. I count and old or one lasttime my remaining socks with all the careul dignity o a beatengeneral laying out the uniorm he will wear to surrender. Ten my dad comes in and sees my laundry still spreadaround. He smiles and I know he’s mad.

“Hank, I’m just not going to ask you again to clean thisplace up. I need it done now, okay buddy? And as soon as you’redone go help Mrs. Hauser, I promised I’d send you over to movesome boxes. I’d have done it mysel, but right now I’ve got to get

everything ready. Folks will be getting here any minute.” I knowhe won’t understand, so I don’t bother to tell him that I’ve justgiven up one o the great pursuits o our time. In any case, hedoesn’t know I’ve been pursuing it. He heads towards the kitchenand I salute at his back.

I pick up my clothes box and drag it into the closet. Istand in the darkness or a moment, thinking about what a good

guy my dad is, and how much he loves me, and how he’s alwaystaken care o me. I eel around in the air or the light-string, findit at last, and give a tug. As the bare bulb sticking out o the ceil-ing glows to lie, the shelves around me emerge rom the shad-ows, my dad’s stuff piled up on them in the haphazard bachelor’sway I ound so appealing when I decided to move here. Ten,behind some stacked-up shirts still rigid with starch in their dry

cleaner plastic, I see a package. I pull it out and open it up. In-side lie three unworn, untouched, absolutely pristine pairs o


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black dress socks.Te string o plastic connecting the first set gives a pop

as I break it. I take off my shoes as well as the unworthy ragsbeneath them, and ease these new beauties on using the roll-out

technique that minimizes leg-hair pull. Tey are spectacular. Nocrowding in the toe, no bagging in the heel. I eel it must be asign rom the sock gnomes. O peace, o prosperity—o a newbeginning.

I walk shoeless down the hall, brand-new-besocked andsuffused with a sense o wellbeing that is not diminished in theleast by the act that when old Mrs. Hauser opens her door she just says “oh, Marty, good, you’re here” beore beckoning meinside and pointing to a tower o cardboard moving boxes. I hefthe blocks off the tower one by one and transer them to a closetat the back o her bedroom that she indicates rom her seat onthe bed. I work to shorten the stack, enjoying the slide as my eetmove along the floor.

Te last box is not taped shut, and afer I have set it downwith the others I lif aside the flap to peek in.It’s filled to the top with socks.I turn to where Mrs. Hauser sits on the bed, her right

shoe now off, bending with groans o discomort over her legs toremove sock afer sock afer sock rom her oot.

“Te socks…” I say. She looks up at me.

“Marty?” “Te socks… you.” “Oh Marty, don’t be so dramatic, they’re only stockings.” “It was you. It was you all along. You stole all thosesocks!”

“Me? Oh no, Marty, it wasn’t me,” she says, removinganother layer rom her oot with a swipe o her skeletal hand and

revealing still more white abric.“It was the sock gnomes, honey!”


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Prompt Staff

Editor-in-Chie: Erin Holiday

Managing Editor: Miriam Gilbert

Poetry Editor: Jaclyn Zhou

Outreach Chair: Rachel D’Amato

Prose Editors: Annie Boniace and Kyndal Tomas

Art Editor: Helen Murphey

Webmasters: Lucy Henningsgaard and aylor Mikulski

Graphic Designer: Andie Linker

Workshop Chair: Ally Fion

Documents

PROMPT Issue 2016