Quarterly One: Fall '13

7/27/2019 Quarterly One: Fall '13

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PARABLE PRESS

Quartely Issue One Fall 2013


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table of contents ictionMandy Alyss Brown The Last Silver Button

Bryan Howie Its Not About Sex, Its About Power

Amy Locke Exit Strategy

Richard Thomas Vision Quest

non-ictionJonathan Alston Missing

poetryKarissa Knox Sorrell Two Poems


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ction


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THE LAST SILVER BUTTONMy nger circles a button in my jacket

pocket as I walk across the parking lot, bitingmy lip. I thought o Mom when I ound it hid-

den away in a dusty jewelry box. I hadnt seenher in a while, and it seemed appropriate thatI should nd this button just in time to go seeher. Even in my adulthood, she stuck to melike sticky paper to a y.

***Shit, did I orget to pack your lunch

again? Mom asked as I walked through theront door.

Its okay, Mom, I said. Jana sharedwith me.

Tat cripple kid?What does cripple mean? I asked as

I pulled out rom the ridge and cabinets thethings or my avorite snack as a kindergarten-er, peanut butter and jelly.

Shit, did I say that out loud? Momasked toward her room. Matt stayed there any-

time I was around. Mom said it was better thatway.How are you today, Matt? I yelled into

Moms bedroom as I jumped on the couch.Te apartment smelled spicy again.

Hes ne, Sweetie, Mom said. I have aheadache.

Mom, I asked tentatively. How long isDads vacation going to be?

Mom looked at the television set,though it wasnt on. She scratched the ridge oher nose, went to the kitchen, and pulled a bago crystals out rom under the sink. Ten shewent to her room. I have a headache, she saidagain as she walked away. I crinkled my noseas she le. Te apartment would start to smelllike old cats soon, and then Mom would lighther incense, but that usually made it worse.

When spicy smoke stopped pluming rom un-der her bedroom door, I knew she was asleep,and I could open the windows to let the cat

smell out without waking her. I wondered iMatt liked the smoke too.

Te old cat smell and Matt had visitedmore oen now that Dad was on vacation,though I had no idea where Divorce was andwhy Dad would want to go there. I thoughtDivorce must be a close place because Dadwould come visit me every other weekend orso. One day I checked out the atlas rom the

school library, and when Dad came or one ohis weekend visits, I opened its large pages andasked him: Dad, where is Divorce?

Do you want to go to the store? Dadasked.

Yes!We raced to the subway, and Dad took

me to a beautiul Macys with big red letters onthe ront. As I surveyed the collection o new,

shiny boots and touched the silky abric o theblouses hung along the aisles, I stopped at amannequin o a little girl about my size andstood in awe o the display beore me. Frozenin mid-skip, she wore a beautiul green coatwith three silver buttons the size o quarters,and her ather and mother stood on either sideo her, holding her hands and smiling playul-ly.

My heart beat rapidly with envy. I want-ed her coat. I wanted to wrap mysel in its love.I wanted to rub the silver buttons like a genielamp and make wishes like a princess trappedin a castle.

Dad, I said timidly. I want to havethat coat.

He walked over to the display, pickedup the tag, and urrowed his brow. Not today,


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Sweetheart, he said.I reused to hold Dads hand on the walk

to the subway or even look at him on the rideback. When we got home, I caved into Momsarms. She stared suspiciously at Dad whoshrugged and explained why my tears wereolding into her blouse. He le, and Mom spentthe rest o the evening stroking my hair andsoothing me until I again asked her when Dadwould come home rom his vacation. She mademe sit up, and then she stared into the emptytelevision set. Im gonna go be with Matt now,she said aer some time. She walked into herroom and closed the door, but I could hear heras she began to argue. I cant handle this. Whatdid you do with it, Matt? Im all out, and I know

you took it, she said. Get out, she screamed.Youre worthless. Piece o shit! Tey oughtthrough the night, but I dont know i Matt everle.

Te next morning Dad showed up withan oblong box tied neatly with yellow ribbon.Mom scowled as I eagerly reached or the box.She whispered harshly at him while I careullytugged at the bow as I would to deuse a bomb.

I tentatively pulled the tissue rom the box toreveal the orest green coat with silver buttons.

Tank you, Daddy! I cried, racing to hisknees and hugging them tightly. I ran into thebathroom to see how I looked in my newoundtreasure. I pulled its sleeves on to my small armsand buttoned each hole with care, brushing mylong hair out o the way. I turned in the mirrorto see mysel rom every side. I skipped once,

twice, and then stared intently at my reection.I smiled, concluding I looked exactly like the lit-tle girl rom the store.

I heard Mom and Dad arguing in theliving room. Mom asked or money while Dadsaid he had none or her. Mom said somethingin a hushed tone I didnt catch, and Dads voicebecame violent. I sank to the oor and wrappedmysel tighter in my coat, rubbing the silver but-

tons. Mom and Dad said more things I couldntmake out. Ten I heard the ront door slamTen the sound o Moms door slamming, likean echo.

She didnt come out o her room when Ile or school, but it didnt matter because mycoat surrounded me like armor. Te other kidsdidnt seem to notice my magical coat, but Ididnt mind. When I thought o what had hap-pened with Matt and Mom, I rubbed the geniebuttons, sure that when I got home, all would bewell.

I took o my coat only once that day

One day I checked out the atlas romthe school library, and when Dadcame or one o his weekend visits, Iopened its large pages and asked him

Dad, where is Divorce?because I didnt want it to get dirty. I hung itcareully on the ence around the schools play-ground so I could play with Jana while waitingor Mom to come and get me. I had learned anew word the day Jana and I had met: Amputa-tion, she had said, because o cancer.

I like your coat, she said, pointing to theence with a nub lacking its hand.


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Tanks, I smiled.What does Matt look like? Jana asked

aer a while.I dont know. Mom never tells me, I said.We played through the aernoon, and

Jana le. But when Mom came, my coat wasgone. I rantically looked or it, climbing thetrees and calling out or it as I would a lost pup-py. Mom helped me look too.

Aer an hour o searching, I elt cold.Mom reached out or me. Maybe a kid stoleit, she said. I trudged to the car, slumped inthe seat, and stared out the window as we drovehome, hoping we would pass the thie.

When we got home, Mom called Dad.I need you to watch her or a while. I have to

go to the store. . . Well, I obviously got somedidnt I? . . . Just tell me when you can get here.She slammed the receiver down with a plasticsmack.

Dad came. Mom le. Wheres your newcoat? He asked. I never saw you in it. Hangingmy head, I told him. He rowned and reachedout or me. Im sorry, Honey, but you have tobe more careul in the uture, okay? I nodded,

sucking up my tears, and we spent the rest othe evening watching the television and playingboard games. I also told him about Janas arm,and he rowned.

Mom came back late. She smelled spicy.Dad had me go to my room, and they startedyelling. I searched about my room or comort,nally eeing to my closet. Dad yelled aboutMoms smell. I yanked down my clothes, pull-

ing everything o its hanger. Mom yelled backabout money. I put every piece on, layering my-sel in warmth. Dad yelled about a coat, my coat.I pinched my eyes shut and reached or geniebuttons, wincing when I didnt nd them. Myclothes werent the same. Tey didnt have themagic to save me. I cried out. Dads tone shiedinto a hush, so I put my ear against the wall to-ward the living room.

You did what?! he said. Shes yourdaughter. She doesnt ask or much.

We needed some more, She deended.Youre unbelievable!I had to have some. I was going to die,

She insisted.Dad punched the wall then, and eeling

the vibration, I bounced away. Tere were morewords, some angry and loud, others muedand harshly quiet. But I didnt try to eavesdropanymore. Longing or silver buttons, I curled upin bed still under six layers o clothing and won-dered what my parents words had meant as Iell asleep.

Te next morning Dad came to pick meup. I ound your coat, he said.

Tank you, Daddy! I said, putting it onand hugging him tightly as he knelt down.

Dont let your mother have it, he whis-pered soly in my ear. She might try to take itback.

I had suspicions the coats magic was tar-nished. But upon putting it on and caressing thebuttons, I began to eel its warmth again. How-ever, as I sat in class, a dread started to grow in

my stomach as i a weed had begun to sproutI itched my neck restlessly. My ngers ounda plastic tag. Funny, I thought. Hadnt I pulledthat o yesterday? I wondered why Mom wouldtake my coat back to the store and why she camehome smelling o spices. I wanted to keep myenchanted coat, stop her rom taking away mywishing buttons and ruining everything.

I rubbed the buttons anxiously, bufng

inspiration out o their smooth suraces un-til I knew what to do. I scrounged through mybackpack, searching or scissors. When I didntnd any, I dropped my backpack and wrenchedo my coat. Furiously, I pulled at the buttonsyanked at them determinedly, using my teeth toweaken the threads. I tore each one o, throw-ing them into the depths o my bag so no onewould know where to nd them.


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At the end o the school day, I walked tothe playground and careully hung my coat onthe ence. I played with Jana until Mom cameto pick me up. Oh, Honey, you lost your coatagain, she observed. I shrugged and got in thecar.

Dad again came to watch me that evening,though begrudgingly. Mom came home earlierthan the night beore. She dragged hersel upthe stairs and through the ront door. ossingmy coat at me, she groaned, Matt ound yourcoat. Her arms were all scratched up and herace gleamed with sweat. She robotically walkedinto her room and shut the door.

Dad looked at the coat and then at me,puzzled. Examining it, he asked in a hushed

tone, Why didnt she take it back?She cant. It doesnt have the magic any-

more. I smiled proudly. When he didnt un-derstand, I got my backpack and rummagedthrough, producing two silver buttons, greenthread still looped in them. He stared at me inamazement. Grandma can sew them back on,I concluded, grabbing his hand. Lets go. I puton my coat, olding it over me with one arm,

and we le together, hand in hand.Quietly I thought about divorce as we

walked away rom the apartment. Youre noton vacation, are you? I asked aer a ew mo-ments o silence.

No, Honey, he said. Divorce is dier-ent.

Is divorce like Janas arm?For me and your mom it is.

Will I have to go back? He shook hishead no.

Good, I said. I never smelled the spicysmoke or the old cat smell ever again.

***But I did see Mom a ew months later in a

hospital.Moms sick? I asked as the elevator

hummed. I polished the two silver buttons on

my coat.Remember Matt, Dad explained.Yeah, I said.Well, adults arent supposed to have

imaginary riends, Dad said. When they dothat means theyre sick.

Oh.Mom sat in a chair with her neck craned

toward the ceiling. Her eyes were grey, and shereminded me o a cocoon I had ound once onthe playground with Jana. I had been so excitedto nd the rst buttery o spring that I crackedit open. But nothing but spiders crawled out. Isat next to Mom hesitantly araid spiders mightcrawl out o her.

I ound a job in Houston, and I want

you to see her beore we move away, Dad saidto her. Im sorry youre not well. I wish thingscould have been dierent.

Mom cocked her head, mouth ajar. Iwatched her empty eyes ollow the yellowingceiling an as it spun around lazily. A bulb ick-ered and nally zzled out.

Hes taking her away, Matt, she whis-pered in a dry voice. Her skeleton ngers

reached or a button on my coat. I inched andso did Dad, but Mom didnt turn to look at me.She ngered the button careully while staringat the dying ceiling an.

Tats a beautiul coat, Mom said to meIt looks magical. Can I have some magic too?

No, I said.What? She looked at me, and her n-

gers tightened around the button. You cant

leave me without the magic.Dad placed an arm between us. Let her

go. Youre scaring her.Matt, he wont share, Mom growled.Its my magic, I said rantic.Shes mine, she said. She grasped my

coat and stood up, liing me o the chair. Imher mother.

I need help over here, Dad shouted. He


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stepped between us and grabbed her wrist. Heyanked her hand away.

No, she shouted. I want her too! Matt,they wont share. Men in white coats stepped into help Dad, and they took Mom away then. Itwasnt until we got in the elevator that I noticedmy coat only had one button le.

***Tat was the last time in my childhood I

saw my mother. Now I walk through the driedgrass yard to the ront doors o the home shesbeen put in by the state. It smells like old cat too,but thats because there are dozens o them liv-ing under the gray, crumbled building. I crinkle

my nose as I walk through thegloomy the ront door.

Mom cocked her head,mouth ajar. I watchedher empty eyes ollowthe yellowing ceiling

an as it spun aroundlazily. A bulb ickered

and nally zzled out.Sign in, a nurse says

without looking up.

I scratch my name with a pen thats run-ning out o ink.

I called ahead o time, I say timidly.Im here to see Louise Elmer. Shes my moth-er.

Te nurse points and says, Down thishallway, orth door on your le.

Tank you.I walk down the hallway, ghting my

instincts to run as I smell bleach in the walls.I notice the vomit orange o the carpet andcringe. I reach her door and eel or the buttonin my pocket. Its still there, silver chips o paintthreatening to ee its surace with another pol-

ish. I knock. Te door swings open lazily.Mom sits in a chair, staring at the parking

lot through her window. She doesnt turn to seewho I am.

Hi, Lula, I say, rattled by the sound omy own voice. I eel like Im out o my own bodywatching mysel stand in the doorway. Do youremember me?

Matt, you told me she would comesomeday, she says looking at the chair acrossrom her.Matt shouldnt be here, Lula, I say cautiously.Hes not, she says looking up at me. He toldme when I came here that you would nd me i

I stayed here. So I stayed. How is Jana?I look out the window at my car. I dont want totalk about her, I say.She shrugs.When I called, the nurse said that you arent eat-

ing, I say.Tey poison the ood, she replies rankly.Well, I brought you something that wont let thepoison hurt you, I say. I walk up to her and placethe worn button in her hand. Its magic.Mom stares at it in awe. Tank you, she whis-pers. She brings the button up to her mouth andrubs the smooth surace against her chapped lipsYou have to eat, or I wont be able to come on


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more visits.Youre going to come again? she asks,

child-like tones in her voice.Maybe. But you have to eat, I say. My

skin is starting to crawl. I can hear Jana whisper-ing in my ear. I have to go now. But I thought Iwould bring you some treats next time i youveeaten. What would you like?

Pictures.Pictures?Yes, o you, o everything I missed. And

a pint o ice cream.For the rst time, I smile. Okay, I say.

As long as you eat and take your meds.

She nods. I have the awkward impressionI should hug her, but I ignore it. See you laterMom, I say.

I reach the car in a blur. My hands areshaking as I wipe a tear rom the corner o myeye.

Its okay, Jana says, reaching to hold myhand with a nub.

You have to leave, Jana, I say, wishingor the taste o tar to leave my mouth. I had kepther in the car because I didnt want Mom to seeme with her, didnt want the nurses to see mewith her. Adults arent supposed to have imagi-nary riends.

Mandy Brown is a write-at-home motherin Central exas and the 2013 recipient oA Room o Her Own Foundations illieOlsen Fellowship. Her poetry and ctionhas been published in Bartleby Snopes,433, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Ex-tract(s), and more. Follow her progress atmandyalyssbrown.weebly.com.


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ITS NOT ABOUT SEX,

ITS ABOUT POWERIm not sure Im ready. Rosie reached

over the shotgun on the bench-seat to rest herhand on Billys knee. Te rusted 78 Chevy Ca-price trembled in idle, a green glow rom theradio lighting the interior o the car. Te un-lit gravel road lead to a darkened double-widetrailer.

Shit, Rosie. Nobodys ready until they

do it. Billy pulled her hand up his thigh. Es-pecially not girls.

Te car stunk o skunked beer. On theradio, a deep voice sang about the moon anda single star shining. Rosie looked at the darksky. Te clouds covered any light. I know. ButI dont know i I can.

Billy le her hand on his cock and liedher skirt. Even in the radio glow, his ngers

were the color o dried red clay. Tere wasntbut six skinny inches o his body not that col-or. O course you can. It isnt like its impossi-ble. But do you want to?

With a moan, Rosie parted her legs andleaned back. Yes. I want to. But Im scared.Empty beer cans rattled when her eet as sheraised her hips.

Billy worked his ngers beneath her

cotton panties. What are you scared o? Youscared it will hurt?

Te trailer barely visible through theogging window, Rosie stared at the ickeringtelevision lights o the master bedroom at theback. Im scared it wont hurt.

Billy pulled away rom Rosie. He n-gered a cigarette loose rom the pack in his

ront pocket. He bit down on the lter, lit thecigarette, and blew smoke out through hisnose. I dont get it.

Absently, she continued stroking him.Her throat tightened as she swallowed. Imscared Ill like it.

Youll like it. Billy moved her handrom him to the gun between them. Te muz-

zle o the sawed-o shotgun pointed at theceiling. He set her ngers on the barrel. Notat rst, maybe. Most people dont know whattheyre gonna get the rst time. Its not likewhat you expect or youve heard about.

Smoke dried across her eyes. Te bar-rel warmed in her grip. Did you like it yourrst time?

Billy smoked, chewing on the cigarette

lter. Yes. I did. I know people, guys, whodidnt. But, I did.

Te radio lights reected on the barrel.She covered the glare with her hand. Whatabout girls?

Billy sucked in his bottom lip as he tooka drag rom the cigarette. He scraped wet,dead skin rom the corners o his mouth witha thumbnail. I guess I never known a girl who

liked it the rst time.Rosie turned to the dark house again

while she took the gun. Te stock had beencut, too. Maybe I will?

Billy shook his head. No. Not at rst.Shit, maybe youre not ready. He rolled downthe window with a slow cranking o the han-dle. Youre just a child.


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I am not a child. I want to do this. Rosiegripped the shotgun.

Billy reached an arm behind the backrestand grabbed a can o Heidelberg rom the caseon the oor. You want to do this?

I need to do this. Rosie bowed herhead. You dont know the things Ive had doneto me.

You told me. Rosie.

Smoke drifed across her eyes. Te barrel warmed in her grip. Didyou like it your rst time?

I didnt tell you anything.Billy held out the beer to Rosie. Maybe

anotherll help.Shaking her head, Rosie eyed the trigger.

I dont want any more beer.I do. Te smoke swirled as cool air

spilled into the car. Billy did not shiver. Heopened the beer and took a swig. A long drago the cigarette brought the cherry to the lter.Im not trying to make you.

Youre not. Her nger lingered on thetrigger guard.

Because Im not that type o guy. Bil-

ly dropped the dead cigarette out the window.You have to want to do this, too.

Im going to do this. With or withoutyou, its going to happen.

Okay. Billy drained the beer, crumpledthe can, and tossed it near Rosies eet. Rosiessmall hands slid over the tarnished shotgun.Billy took it away rom her. But not with that.He nodded toward the back o the Chevy.

A revolver rested in the center o thebackseat. As Rosie got to her knees and leanedover the seat, Billy watched her skirt li over herass.

She sat back down, cradling the revolverHow do we do it?

A slow wind stirred Billys thin, longbangs into his eyes. Well, well just sneak inWell go to the bedroom and do it.

Rosie nodded. What i we get caught?Billie opened the door, put one oot onto

the gravel driveway. Ten Im going to prisonYou wont get in much trouble. Youre unde

eighteen.Im under een. Rosie opened her door

A beer can ell to the ground.Outside the Chevy, Billy stared at Rosie

standing next to the car. Her outline was shorand chubby. He pushed his door shut. Te caidled on. Oh, I know how old you are.

So, are we going to do this? Rosie startedwalking to the house.

Yeah. Billy crossed in ront o the cawith long strides that soon had him at Rosieside. And dont you pussy out on me.

Rosie didnt answer. Her ballerina shoemade little noise on the gravel and none on thewet lawn. She led Billy to the door.

In the dark, Billy put a nger to his lips. Heopened the ront door and walked in. Rosie tooko her shoes and ollowed him as he crossed th


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kitchen and walked down the hall. He stoppedin ront o the bedroom door.

Rosie stepped in ront o Billy. Shecurled her toes, kneading the uzzy carpet.With closed eyes, she spread her palm on

the door and drew a breath so deep that her ribsspread and ached. Her hand slid down as she ex-haled. Her hand closed on the knob.

She opened the door, waited as her eyes ad-justed to the rippling television light, and

Bryan Howie lives in the American Inland Northwest. He loves photogra-phy and motorcycle riding, but has a hard time doing both simultaneously.

His short story Your Mothers Smile was eatured inVolume 6 o Te Best o Carve Magazine. ides wasincluded in the anthology Solarcide Presents: NovaParade. Links to his work can be ound at his website,

bryanhowie.com.


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E X I T S T R A T E G YDont panic. Break the window. Get

out.Te words are already there when you

wake up. Tey are brain ller, like uy in-sulation stuck between the walls o everythingelse you try to think about. Work, ood, mon-ey, the internet, women, your childhood, youruturenone o it is any good. Every thoughtis bloated with the inescapable words. Youvecaught yoursel saying them out in public, likesome old woman mumbling the rosary intoher beaded bosom.

Its been months. You thought youwould have shaken them by now, but they sitrmly in your mind and itch at the back oyour throat. Dont panic. Break the window.Get out. You wish you couldve told her. Youstill want to tell her, not that it would makeany dierence.

You write them down, as suggested byyour therapist. You keep on writing, tacking

on everything else you might say i you could.Tere is I miss you and I love you, but thereis also I hate you. Tere is how could yoube so stupid? And you are weak and whydidnt you try harder? and every other point-less, poisonous thought thats occurred to yousince the day your wie drove o the bridge.

Writing the letter doesnt make you eelbetter. Not even aer you light a match and

watch all those words blacken into ash.You long or obscurity, or a gasp-ing breath o vagueness. But the crispy cleartruths o police ofcers and coroners, some-how meant to set your mind at ease, haveclosed around you like a net, leaving no roomor wondering, no room or orgiveness. Yes,she was texting when it happened. Yes, shecalled 911. No, she couldnt get out. Yes,

she drowned.In your ofce with the door closed, you

stare at the cupcake on your desk. It was stu-

pid o you to buy it. When you rst saw therainbow sprinkles on chocolate buttercreamicing, you elt a surge o delight, embarrass-ment, and then proound sadness.

Buying stupid things has become ahabit, lately. Almost an addiction. You stayup late scouring the internet and, led by yourever-present mantra (Dont panic. Break thewindow. Get out.), you buy book aer book

about people drowning. You dont actuallyread them. You dont even open the packages.You just stack them on your wies nightstandlike some kind o shrine, teetering on theoundation o the last book she read, with itscover eaturing a dimple-aced woman, smil-ing down on her cantaloupe-sized belly.

Yes, she was pregnant. You knew thattruth long beore the coroners did, but you still

wish they hadnt told you. Maybe you couldhave orgotten, i they hadnt told you.Dont panic. Break the window. Get

out. What are you waiting or, Sarah? Tatswhat you would have said, i she had called youin those last ew minutes as the water clutchedher calves and climbed mercilessly higher andhigher. But she didnt call you. She called 911,and heard those words rom a police dispatch-

er instead, just some dispatcher that didntknow the color o her eyes or the smell o herperume or the name she had picked or herunborn son. You should have been the lastone to speak to her, not him.

You skim the whipped rosting withyour nger and eetingly wish you had a can-dle, just one o those skinny blue candles thatlined your last birthday cake like little soldiers.


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But a candle wouldnt be appropriate, you sup-pose. Candles are to count the years, and thereare no years to count or your son. Tere is onlythis hypothetical date on which he was sup-posed to take his rst breath and never did.

You go to the window behind your deskand look outside. Its a sunny day. From here,you can see the top o the bridge but not the wa-ter beneath it. You can imagine it, though. Tewaves must be docile on a day like this, lapping

up against the bridge pillars like kittens tonguesinviting and harmless.

You bow your head to look twenty storiesdown. Crumb-sized people dot the sidewalkslike sprinkles. You push your orehead againstthe glass pane. How much pressure will it taketo squeeze the words out? Dont panic. Breakthe window. Get out. Dont panic. Break thewindow. Get out.

What are you waiting or?

Dont panic. Break the window. Get out.

Amy Locke graduated rom the University o Iowa witha BA in English. Her ction has been eatured in Bewil-dering Stories, Crack the Spine, Monkeybicycle and Downin the Dirt. She enjoys her happy, hectic lie in Iowa as a

work-at-home wie and mother.


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VISION QUESTTe rozen pack o peas that I hold to

my orehead cant block out the noise o bro-ken glass and twisted metal. Last night was an-other ailed opportunity, one o many in a longline o ailed evenings spent racing batteredcars around the city, aiming or brick wallsand concrete dividers. I was trying to undo themental anguish that had come home to reston my shoulders with a crippling weight. Teothers dont understand me, they want whatI have, hoping that their slippery catch will

yield less teeth than mine, that their visionsarent hauntingsshadows o my past.

Te dark helps. Te shades are drawndown behind thick curtains, the reclinerleaned way back, the bag on my head, the tele-

vision set muted, ashes o color sending icyspikes through my temples, so I close my eyesand take a breath. When the weight o my longdead cat settles into my lap, hot tears push out

o my eyes, and I ask him to go away. But hewont. Tis is where he always rested, wherehe came to sit and purr, the vibrations thrum-ming my legs, so I have no choice but to petthe long-haired beast, the swollen tumor in histhroat distended, as his outline shimmers inthe dimly lit living room. Te house is emptynow, too large or my newly solitary lie, butits the only thing I have le o them, and Im

unwilling to let it all go.I cant explain it, nobody can. Te med-

ical doctors just reer me to psychiatrists andthose shrinks only prescribe pills that dull theedges, nodding their heads and using wordslike closure and release.

I hear cars outside on the street, theworld slipping by, and I wonder how I got here.

Accident, what does that word meanran-dom, unintentional? Accidental. Accidents.We all have them. Im having them all the timenow.

An innocent phone call lead to a dea-ening silence to a morgue in a concrete bunkerthat I never knew existed. Every detail mademy hands shake, my head throb, the ofcerwith his hand on my shoulder, his ngersgripping into my dead muscle, the black bagspulled back one by one, each one worse than

the previous devastating knowledge.My wie was rst, asleep on the cold

metal, the gash across her head the only obvi-ous sign o the violence that started my undo-ing.

You okay? the man asked. He keptasking it over and over.

Te twins were next, still in gradeschool when the minivan skidded o the icy

road, barely in second grade.My son, a lump on the side o his head,

a seam running up the ront o his chest, histiny ribcage, and I thought o birds, wantingto get out, trying to push against the bars, andI turned and vomited into a plastic trash canthat the man standing next to me held out. Acop, the morgue guy, I cant remember who wereally was. I try not to think about it.

My daughter, I only had to look at herhand, the pink ngernails, with Hello Kittyappliqus looking up at me, orlorn.

Dont pull it back. Please. I asked. Buthe did anyway. And everything went dark.

Tat was the rst accident, the one thatstarted it all. Le to my own devices I startedto drink, whatever was in the house, every-


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thing, all o it, until the next thing I knew I cameto ying down the highway at eighty miles anhour.

Tats never a good thing.***

It took me awhile to start calling people.I just couldnt muster the strength. It wasnt realto meI didnt want to own it. But eventuallyI started calling amilymothers and grand-

mothers, brothers and sisters, all o it painuluntil it stopped being anything but a headache,a tension in my gut, snakes uncoiling inside me.Tey started showing up and I went through the

motions, the crying and the hugging, and even-tually they aded away, back to their cities andlives, araid to catch what I had brewing insideme. I understood. I welcomed their departures.Te insurance check came in and I quit my job,not that I had been going, and decided to drinkmysel to death. It seemed like the right thing todo.

It was an easy choice, barreling down the

highway, ashers in the rear view mirror, andlittle le that mattered. All I had to do was pullthe wheel hard to the le, and the moment thethought entered my head, I did it. Maybe it wasan accident, a twitch.

Te tires squealed, and the car ippedover, blackness wrapping around me, a smilepushing across my ace, dots o white lightmyhead making contact with something. I wanted

this, wished it to be over, the sickening momen-tary panic o my head being crushed, the sensethat this was more pain and more serious thananything Id ever experienced, that revelationashed across my mind, and then everythingwinked out.

A hospital, several tickets, uniorms inblue, uniorms in white. I couldnt do this righteither, the seatbelt saving my lie, a lie I had

no interest in saving. A new word was bandiedabout the room, as I dried in and out, pain radiating out o my misshapen skull, broken ngersbroken legs, broken ribs. Te word o the day

was lucky and it made me laugh until bloodsprayed out o my mouth, a coughing t, andthen they pushed me back under with meds andhands on my cold esh, and the pale outline omy daughter standing next to the bed, shakingher head slowly back and orth, disappointed inmy reckless behavior.

***Amy and Robb were riends, people I used

to work with. Amy was a slightly overweightloud-mouthed blonde who made me laugh. Shewas always placing her hand on my orearm, always touching me. I didnt mind it so much nowRobb wore glasses and a black Kangol hat, skinnyand pale, a moustache and goatee giving him theodd appearance o a oreign lmmaker, or per-haps an unemployed mime. Tey came to visime in the hospital, and ollowed up with random

I thought o birds, wanting to get out, trying to push against the bars, and I turnedand vomited into a plastic trash can that the man standing next to me held out.


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drop-ins at the house, orgiving in their judg-ment, bringing chicken wings and beer, absorb-ing my pain, listening with tight lips and barelynodding heads as I told them about my shadowdaughter, and the recent reappearance o mycat.

Its stress, Amy oered. Youre just deal-ing with it all, processing. Im sure its nothing.Robb nodded, sipping at his beer. Yeah, stress.Im sure thats all it is.

I didnt tell them about the day beorewhen I walked past my daughters room and sawher and my son playing on the oor, a bucket oLego pieces scattered across the carpet, a brickwall built up in an array o colors, repeatedlyrunning a tiny Lego car into the solid structure

theyd built, over and over again. Tey lookedup at me, and moved their lips and I stumbledover my own eet, moving past them withoutlooking back, unable to mouth the words I loveyou in return.

In time I would tell Amy and Robb aboutthat moment. I would tell them about my wieappearing in my bed, her arms wrapping aroundme, pressing her cold esh up against my bare

backside, her hand reaching around to rub mychest, nibbling at my neck, unable to stop her. Iwould tell them about all o this, about my deadwie turning me on, her hands wrapped aroundmy cock, stroking me as her breasts pressedagainst my back, my eyes squeezed shut, pre-tending it was all a dream. When I washed thesheets later that day, I sobbed and bent over thewashing machine, araid to go back to bed.

I told them all o this because I couldntkeep it to mysel.

Ive had worse wet dreams, Robb mused.Dont get me started. Clowns, old grade schoolteachers, a cousin I barely know, airies artingsparks o glitter when they came.

Over time, they started to believe me.Tey muttered things about long lost relatives,ex-boyriends that overdosed, bored with their

lives, their ofce jobs and lie in the suburbs. Ilaughed about my head injury, laughed aboutmy visions. And as the nights expanded and theconversations continued, they would place theirhands on my orehead, the bruise and the lumpading, making mental notes about the exact lo-cation.

When I told them about my son, his wor-ried look, the note he le me scrawled in theoggy mirror o the bathroom one morning, thenumbers 8 22 32 44 64 pushed together in histiny ngered script, they swallowed their beerand leaned back onto the couch. Tey were al-ways here nowthis was better than watchingtv, better than hanging out at some seedy bar. Iwas spending money on ood and drink, plow-

ing through it, buying a new car, and my ghosto a son was worried about the money. I spentsome cash on a Little Lotto ticket, and collect-ed $4,235.26 the ollowing day. It wasnt much,but as he leaned over my head, pushing my hairout o the way, in the same way that I used totuck him in, he told me that I didnt want anyattention. Small steps, he whispered, pressinghis damp lips onto my orehead, and I ell asleep

shaking and cold.***

Te rst thing we did was cut all o theseatbelts out o my new car. It pained me todo this to a brand new Mustang, but it madesenseno chickens in this ride. I was trying toget out, and they were trying to get in. Id lookin the rearview mirror at Amy and Robb, giddyas two kids heading o or ice cream, and shake

my head.My brother, Amy said, one night on the

couch, one o many lost nights that we spenttalking about this new endeavor. He died inhigh school. Ironically, in a car accident, drunkas a skunk, she said. I want to see him again.

My rst wie killed hersel, Robb said,swallowing another beer, head bowed. I needto talk to her, I have questions. I need to say Im


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sorry, he mumbled.I understood. It wasnt the moneyI

shared the numbers that my ickering son whis-pered in my ear, we cashed in our tickets or acouple grand here or there, every once in awhilea bigger score, ten grand or more. We couldntkeep winning, he told me that, we had to driveto Indiana, or up to Wisconsin, spread it around,and take turns buying the tickets. It wasnt aboutthe money. We had nobody to share our spoilswith anyway. We were three loners connectedby the thrill o doing something that nobodyelse could do.

I looked into the back seat as I acceleratedup the entrance ramp onto the highway.

Youre just going to end up dead, I

yelled.Tey held hands and smiled. On the seat

next to me my wie sat in shadow her ace awayrom me, staring out the window into the night.Silver tears ran dirty paths down her cheeks, aweary smile crooked across her ace. She didntwant me to join them on the other side. And yet,she did. Te rules. Who knew what they were?I only knew that the pale imitation o lie that

I held onto with my weak gripit didnt meananything to me anymore. On either side o Amy

and Robb, the twins sat somber, rightened byit all, eyes on me, and yet, unable to really lookat me, wanting me to hold them again, to eelmy warmth, but araid to ask me to do this, the

violence a terriying unknown.We were sober, tonight, acing this obsta-

cle head on. I punched the gas on the new Mus-tang, the pang in my stomach the only bit o liele in me. I wanted her to say no, my wie, butshe didnt say anything. I wanted the kids to saywell wait or youwell be here whenever youget here, twenty years down the road. But theydidnt say those words.

I pushed us out into the night, mywies cold hand resting on my thigh, and Ipulled the steering wheel to the le, looking

up into the rearview mirror, Robbs mouthopen, as i poised to say something, his eye-brows arched mid-question. Amys eyes wereglassy and distant, ar away, knowing that oneway or another shed see her brother soon. Andmy daughter, her head down, unable to ace memy son with his hands in his lap, they looked upin unison, a slow grin spreading across their dis-torted eatures, a secret held in their mouths

and the car ipped us over and into the greatbeyond.

Richard Tomas is the author o three booksransubstantiate, Herniated Roots andStaring Into the Abyss. His over75 publications include Cemetery Dance, PANK, GargoyleWeird Fiction Review, Midwestern Gothic, Arcadia, PearNoir, andShivers VI. Visit www.whatdoesnotkillme.com or

more inormation.


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non ction


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M I S S I N GBachigualato, Mxico July 29th 2004:

stepped o the plane and something in meshiedimperceptible, diverging continentalplates.

Dierent airHeavyWet

Weighed everything down. Even thesmells weighed more. Expecting etid garageand human waste to inect my nostrils, mynose met nothing but dense dampness like

a soggy sponge. I knew no one save the veAmericans who came with me, but they werenot staying in Bachigualato. We ew downtogether to be divided up, each given a com-panion who had been in the eld or a year orso. Elder Romo, a native Mexican o MxicoCity, and my new companion. He spoke nearthree words o English (i that) and I spoke abroken Spanish that I didnt even understand.

In the whole mission there were maybe eightout o the orty missionaries who spoke En-glish as their rst language, who were whitesrom the U.S. And they worked in the state oSinaloa and Southern Baja Caliornia, an areacovering over y thousand square miles.

I was alone.wo years supposed to spend in Mx-

ico; I lasted ve weeks. Walking ten miles a

day, knocking on thousands o doors, Buenosdas, me llamo Elder Alston, soy un mission-ario de La Iglesia de Jesu Cristo de los Santosde los ltimos Das. Over and over again,each time accented with English vowels. Wehad a message about the restored gospel, sixlessons to teach, then baptize. Never got pastthe rst lesson with anyone. At least not that I

understood.I dont know what happened, but I

needed to get out o that country. And I did. Icame home to my amily, they were all I had.Te band I le behind broke apart, I couldntgo back to school mid semester, most o myriends were in other states hal done withtheir own schooling, I had no job. But no mat-ter, I was home.

I had to go to counseling. Tats how Igot home, I later ound out the Saturday night

I came home on September 4th:You know why, right? my mother

said.No. Tey didnt tell me anything.Youre severely depressed.Oh.You have to meet with a counselor on

uesday.What? Why?

Te mission ofce didnt say, its justhow they do things. o help you adjust may-be.

I didnt want to go. O course I hadproblems in Mxico, thats why I came home.But counseling? I hated talking to people, es-pecially people I didnt know. Tat was part othe issue in Mxico. All that knocking. Nowthey expected me to coness my soul to some

strange person who would be analyzing justhow crazy I became; checking every nuance tond where my brain ractured, what personal-ity traits were awed, how I was imperect;

A ailure;Incomplete.No more than a conused teenager who

needed an adult to tell him what to do. Bull-


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shit. Tat wasnt what I wanted, it wasnt what Ineeded. But no one asked.

I tried killing mysel while in Mxico. Ourhousea yellow our hundred square-oot cin-der block boxhad two mirrors: one over ourbathroom sink, the other hung on the door toour study. Week two, in the middle o the night,the door mirror ell. Te broken result: ten large

pieces and thousands o splinters. For reasonsillusive to me, Romo wanted to keep the larg-er chunks. For weeks they haunted the kitchentable, reecting bare ceiling above. Every day I

looked at those shards hoping to nd solace, inothing to nd my own ace. I saw nothing.

One week beore I went home. Never toldanyone what I attempted. Not my companion.Not the mission president. Not my parents. Noteven the assigned counselor. Tey didnt need toknow.

Morning: I stand in ront o the kitchentable, entranced by the mirrors shining silver

surace. Elder Romo is on the phone babblingon in the language I still cant comprehend. Fora month Ive listened to that voice, the disturb-ing vibrations o his Mexican vocal chords shak-ing in that imperceptible idiom that became araucous disturbance or my health. Every pageo my mission journal has the words suicide,death, hell, or I need a way out. And thena way presents itsel to me on the table. So easy.

So simple. Why hadnt I seen it? While he ram-bles on, I pick up a mirror shard, weigh it in myright hand. Almost indiscernible in my palmedges draw to razors. It hovers over my wrist,teasing exposed esh. ool in hand, all in posi-tion; it wont kill you, not cutting across like youplan to do. But I want it to. Stories o suicidell my thoughts, it wont work this way, it neverhas, why do it at all? Youve got to go with the

veins, not against them. Te room lls with mywrist, my steady hand gripping the blade careunot to cut my hand in the process; the door, thetable, the kitchen, Elder Romos voice; all disap

pears. I see blue veins pushing and pulling bloodthrough my arm, tendons taut with the st myle hand makes, hairs encroaching upon the sounderside o my orearm, and the bright glassglare in my hand. Just do it already, youve comethis ar. I dont know. It will make a mess. Tatwhat youre worried about? No. It will hurt. Iwont work. What will Romo say? What will thPresident say? What will my parents say? But you

dont want to stay here and there is no other wayI know. Its true. I cant stay here any longer. Bustill, what will they all think? What does it matter? I dont know I guess. I have to leave.Force the melted sand to do the work. One quickstroke, like strumming a guitar. Youve done thathousands o times. ime no longer an issue. stand or hours, or months, or years, and twominutes havent gone by. ime itsel only move

While he rambles on, I pick up a mirror shard, weigh it in my righthand. Almost indiscernible in my palm, edges draw to razors.


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i the mirror moves, i my arm bleeds, i I dowhat I set out to do. Te phone clicks, I dropthe mirror back onto the table. He doesnt know,my reexes too quick. He doesnt ask what I hadbeen doing, me standing next to the bathroomsink when he steps out o the study. He wouldnever know, nor would anyone else. Except mysister. An e-mail sent to her a ew days later men-tioned what I thought (not what happened), be-cause she was my condante and I needed to tellsomeone.

I didnt want to disappoint my parents.Not suicide, but not being able to nish my mis-sion. My oldest brother out o our boys was theonly one to complete a mission: two years spent

in Lithuania in the late nineties, being constant-ly mistaken or KGB ofcials. Te next oldestbrother le the church in its entirety when Iwas twelve, and he never looked back. Ten mybrother Mike who Im closest to in age. He wenton a mission, sort o: called to Nicaragua. womonths in the MC learning Spanish, and thenout to the country like me. About a month andhal in, he stepped wrong o a high curbwith

all the rain, curbs are unnaturally highandtore something in his knee. Doctors down thereare less than qualied, so he was own home orsurgery. He never went back. Not to his mission.Not to church. welve years ago now. I becamemy parents last hope, and they unconsciouslyallowed me to eel that way. I I at least went onmy mission that would make everything alrightor them. Tey arent extreme religionists orc-

ing aith in their childrens heads, preaching helland damnation or the sinner and unrepentant.Tey do not know Ive elt this way. Still do. Ex-pectation is something I created watching howmy brothers disappointed them. I I served amission, I gured their ailures would vanishunder the glow o my success. So I le, wantingto be or my parents what they wanted me to beor themselves. But, in the end I ailed them too,

like my brothers beore me.My whole identity is based on what my

parents wanted: expecting me to do well inschool, so I ogged mysel mentally to do so;to be the model son, to ollow in my eldestbrothers ootsteps, so I applied to BYU un-der Chemical Engineering and got in; to be agood Mormon boy, so I was. And that was howI grew up knowing mysel. A collection o ul-lled expectations that le me prone to ailureI didnt know it at the time. I was content to beguided by my parents hopes. Felt ullledHad grown enough and I didnt want to growanymore. Tings didnt need changing. I want-ed everything to stay the same. Comortableand happy. Good. When things changed I had

to change too, and I didnt want to. But Mxi-co created change. Mxico was change. I dontknow why. It was just, dierent. Never speak-ing English, being in complete isolation aroundthousands with whom I couldnt communicateAnd nothing has stopped changing since. I cantnd who I am anymore. Nothing stays the samenothing is stationary, or concrete. ime is a ballrolling down a mountain. At rst it rolls slow

surroundings appear unchanged. But ime rollson, it accelerates. Scenes start to blur, dieringrom the journeys beginning. Hal way downime moves so ast that nothing stays the samelong enough or anything to become amiliar, tobecome comparable to other experiences alongthe way. It cannot be stopped; aster and asterinto more unamiliar territory, making it im-possible even or a moment to know when or

who we are.I thought that moment would change me

orever; i I just ollowed through, cut my armcommitted suicide, things would be dierentBetter. Even i I didnt die, at least I attempted itBut I ailed at ailing. Live or die, things wouldhave been dierent. Im certain more coun-seling, and watched over more, worried overthought unable to unction on my own. It still


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changed everything, just not how I expected. Iwanted to go home, and I suppose in a way itsent me, even i no one knew.

It takes strength to kill yoursel. And sel-ishness. But strength to ollow through. Peo-ple want you to think it weak to end your ownlie, a mortal aw in your personality. But thatsnot true. I was weak; I didnt have the strengthto nish what I started. Selsh enough, but Inot strong enough. Considering mysel in thathouse, holding the mirror, I dont think it wasabout killing mysel in the end. I Id wanted todie, I could easily have stepped in ront o one othe many maniac bus drivers in Mxicotheydrove them like sports cars. I came close to beinghit several times, wanted to be hit. I Id wanted

to die I would have done it. But thats not what itwas, it wasnt about death. Its never about death.Its about escape, trying to nd a way to alter sit-uations away rom the unamiliar. Away romchange. Its hard to have a stable sense o sel in aworld in constant ux and transormation. Howcan we nd and create identities when societygives us nothing to measure against? Identity isbuilt on binaries. We cannot know who we are

without knowing who we are not. In Mxico, Ihad nothing by which to gauge mysel. I was notMexican, and I could not speak Spanish. Tatwas all I knew. But lie changed so oen andwithout notice that keeping track o the personI was and was not became impossible. Each daybrought new aces, a sick stomach that neversettled, illegible street signs maintaining no spe-cic bearings, and the brass lled air o maria-

chi music. So I became nothing; undened andconused while world change accelerated. Tatput the glass to my wrist. Put the worm o deathin my mind.

***I couldnt explain it, what I elt then.

Something new I had not experienced. Sen-sations came on all o a sudden the rst weekthere. Elder Romo and I taught a lesson to a

amily: mom, dad, little girl, and a baby. Im nosure what is going on or being taught, they speakso ast in Mxico. Even i I knew every word inthe Spanish language, understood its grammawith exactness, I still couldnt keep up with theiramblings. Aernoon, hot and humid, nothinunordinary. Te mother, with no discretionopens her blouse, takes out her breast, and begins eeding her baby. No blanket, no covering

just her light brown esh and the hungry childexposed. I examine some childrens ash cardle on the oor: borracho, with a passed oucartoon man against a wall wearing a big cowboy hat. Why would they put a drunk on a childrens ash card? What are they teaching theskids? A sudden urge to leave. Now. Get up and

leave. Nothing wrong that I seeaside romthe hal-naked womanbut inside me touches something horrible; nauseous grows and myheart beats hard, striking against my chest, myspine, small tremors ripple under my skin. Everew seconds I check to the door on my le, thenthe oor, my hands, those hollow aces speakinunamiliar words, the door. I cant control mhands; I rub them together to keep others rom

noticing. My palms sweaty, ace hot, eet itchingBut I go nowhere, sit on their couch, listening toRomo chatter in rapid Spanish while I wait, dying. Tats what I thought, Im dying. Over andover, Im, dying, Im dying. I we dont get ousoon, I will die. Hyperventilate or somethingSpontaneously combust, perhaps. All soundades rom the room, pulsing hot Mexican aiclinging to exposed esh, a contamination,

disease; no escape, even i I get out o the housethe air is the same, the dank eel, the essence oMxico. Falling into darkness, Romo asks mto pray. At last, were leaving. I hate speakinSpanish, I loathed the sound, but were leavingIn broken Spanish I rush a prayer and we leaveTe pressures subside and I am ree, i only or moment. Still in Mxico, but at least out o thahouse.


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Te rst o many episodes that led to at-tempted suicide. Sporadic at rst, at unexpect-ed times: while having lunch at a membershome, riding the bus into Culiacn or grocer-ies, tramping through an open eld to get acrosstown, or just lying in bed at night hoping to wakeup in a dierent one. Over the weeks my attacksgrew more requent, more potent. Without ail,aer the third week, every door we knocked onsent me into an internal renzy; no day with-out at least one episode. Elder Romo I kept un-aware, hiding discomorts best I could. He mayhave asked. And i he had, I wouldnt give hima word. He couldnt understand. No one couldunderstand. Te problem was me, nothing else.My only relie rom nervousness was the weath-

er. Like clockwork, every third night while El-der Romo slept, I watched red and blue andorange lighting streaks illuminate the night,echoing thunder cracks through the pouringrain. A comort to me, something I knew andcherished; Mxico, even i it wasnt home, atleast existed on the same planet. Natures poet-ry in the sky, spoken in a language o securityI understood, knew well rom years o camp-

ing. Rain drowned images o mangy copulatingstray dogs, tiny cinder block neighborhoods (nowood anywhere) painted in orescent yellowsand blues and pinks, oods containing bacteriamy stomach ailed to adjust to, water that pouredout brown rom the aucet and was undrinkableeven when clear, the act that my eet were neverallowed to touch the ground inside our house orout or ear o ring worms and other insidious

bacteria, pot holes as large as VW Bugs, distrustor the people, or the land itsel. God, i only orthose brie moments, cleansed my ears. But ev-ery morning the rainwater evaporated, leavingthe residue o my memories.

I dont think youre depressed, thecounselor told me during our rst session. Notwhat I expected. You have an intense case o

social anxiety. Probably had it your whole liebut didnt know because it was manageable.Nothing ever got out o your control. But Mex-ico triggered it. Something completely strangeand unamiliar to you, something uncontrol-lable. Tat, coupled with the pressures o yourmission, probably caused you to have all thosepanic attacks. Memories started to change.And still are.

Counseling lasted a month. He saw megetting better: I enrolled at Sierra College, ob-tained a part-time job, tried dating; live movedalong. None o it elt right, just motions to occu-

Natures poetry in the sky, spoken ina language o security I understood,

knew well rom years o camping.py time to distract my mind rom stressul situ-ations and panic attacks. Hed advised me to getinto a routine as a means o control. Tats whatI did. But I was tired o him, o our sessions; Iwas grateul when it ended. I thought they weresupposed to make me better. We talked abouthow to deal with situations and what to avoid,but never how to get rid o my anxiety. One suc


28/34

cess: he gave me a lens to analyze mysel. I hadanxiety; knowing that, I could predict my reac-tion to any given situation. Its still a struggle:panic attacks, the terror. But I know what will setme o, what will trigger an attack. I I knew thatduring my mission, I might have stayed. I theyknew that in the mission ofce, they might havebeen able to help.

Change haunts me. Dierence extractsanxiety. When reality remains constant, I am con-stant, my identity is constant, and I am calm. Butwhen the undeviating course alters, I destabilize

and weaken. People, places, the tangibility youare comortable with: that makes who you areYou cant be a collection o things you dont knowexist. Its like writing: you dont know what youare writing about until its written. Te unknownis not who you are. I had nothing amiliar whilein Mxico; in a oreign country, with oreign peo-ple, speaking a oreign language. I lost myselAnd in the past nine years, I havent ound myselagain, however hard I search. Somewhere, whoI was, who I remember being, is still wanderingthe unamiliar streets o Bachigualato.

Change haunts me.

Jon Alston is a husband, ather, writer, photographer, and art-ist. With a Masters in Creative Writing, he teaches English atIAD in Sacramento, is the Assistant Editor or Copilot Press,and ocuses all his ree energy on his own handmade books.


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poetry


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Listen is a make-believe word,a translation cut up by the heaveo talk. You said it, and I watchedthe robin pued up in his nest.You said, but I poured milk

in snow.

Te garbage truck man interpretedmy scream with a wave, screecho wet brakes. You said, not inront o the neighbors, but wasntit too late?

I not you, the snowman, then, orcing

the carrot into his ace. Saying is all-knowing in disguise. Tere is alwaysanother word.

I I were a bird,would I y?

SnowmanTis is the way the treeslook at winter dusk: darkcapillaries poking the sky, meresilhouette, the violet texture

o bark dissolved to blackskeletons o ash, ready to collapsewith the slightest breath.Tis is when limbs suspend, hold

still in a moment o weakness.Who doesnt wish or suchobscurity, the pink horizon bearingthe ragile body?

Evening Body

Karissa Knox Sorrell is a writer and educator rom Nashville, ennessee. Her poetryand non-ction have previously been published or are orthcoming in Circa LiteraryReview, Flycatcher, Cactus Heart, San Pedro River Review, Etchings, Relie, and St.Katherine Review. She blogs about writing, education, amily lie, and spirituality at

http://karissaknoxsorrell.com.


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stafCourtney Duf Head Editor, Design Editor

Jessica Meddows Head Editor, Fiction EditorLisa Luton Non-fction EditorHeather Foster Poetry Editor

Meredith Alder Assistant Fiction Editor

Gretchen Oberle Assistant Poetry Editor

Becy Coates Fiction Slush Reader

Jon Riley Fiction Slush Reader

Dino Parenti Fiction Slush Reader


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PARABLE PRESS

SEPTEMBER 13

parablepressmag.com

Documents

Quarterly One: Fall '13