Spring 2009

the Flagler Review

Table of Contents:

FictionReal Distance by Richard Nuzback Alone at Night by Matthew DeAngelisDust Returning to Dust by Thomas KerperDaddy Don’t by Leila KandetChisuji by Sharron Reyes

Non-FictionBackward, In High Heels by Sarah Wallace

PoetryAfter the Rattler’s Visit by Rick CampbellEscapism by David PaxtonView from the Window by Rick Campbell

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Cover Artwork by Sarah Deagle

FictionReal Distance

by Richard Nuzback

She’s talking against the wind as I let my sunglasses hide the fact that I’m not looking forward. I’m glanc-ing down to my right at the chains that line the sidewalk between posts of coquina, gently tapping them as we walk, studying their movements.

What power we are capable of in theory; in the barren vacuum of space, these gentle taps last forever. On Earth, the rules are different. Down here, we have friction. The energy I disperse into the chain travels in waves from one end and back between the two posts. You can see it, it’s like electricity. Link by link by link, friction robs the chain of my energy so they can heat up a fraction of a degree. Each successful rotation of back and forth sends impact running through the posts—-through coquina, a stone soft enough to absorb the impact of cannon-balls. A few metal loops raise an immeasurably small amount in temperature and scraps of shell and coral quiver as my energy finally dies.

Sofie summed up my problem quite nicely the day before we left on vacation for Saint Augustine; I’m losing touch with what’s right in front of me. I look at everything in its smallest parts, and the smaller things get, the more the bigger picture becomes clear. Somewhere along the line, I lost that middle ground. Ever since Tad Javert. Ever since—-

“—-the experiment. Paul, are you even listening?”

“Wha--? Oh, sorry, I—-”

I look up at her and even through her sunglasses I feel those stern blue eyes piercing me coldly. Just as well, my sentence had no ending anyway. She looks forward and we walk on in silence, her face effete, stoic as a stone post.

# We’re back in our hotel room overlooking the Matanzas River. I sit on the bed, gazing at the inlet through the window as she paces in front of me, her tirade obstructing my view and my bid for serenity. The kind I found in her. Sofie Barrett, a 5’2” firestorm. Her normally soft voice blares with assertion and her short red hair flares in stride with her step in contrast to—-or compensation for—-her petite frame, bare to me as she changes for our dinner reservation. She seems to go down our entire history in one great breath, ever-agitated by my silence.

She says she was the one who helped me get off the bottle and start a real career, which is true. No more hiding pain with a handle. Three sheets to the wind, all of them imitating ghosts. Two voices left to whimpers by alcoholic fathers, hers was the assertion I needed. Concentrate. Concentrate on school. That same sultry voice I met at our Spring Colloquium fourteen years before hair dye hid the grays in those radiant red strands. Her grace was an anesthetic, an anti-drug, an academic steroid.

She says that I wanted this vacation, which is false. I didn’t care where we were. What’s one more beach in Florida? I just wanted time to think, to figure out why my sources of contentment keep drifting off somewhere I can’t touch.

1

She says she tried her hardest, well so did I.

She says that ever since the experiment, I’ve become distant. She knows nothing of distance.# The experiment went beautifully. It was like music. It even had that sing-song quality. It went like this: follow the bouncing ball.

Matter travels in waves; the double-slit experiment proved this decades ago. Project light onto a surface, block it with a barrier containing a single slit, and you have a steady sliver of light with a steady diffraction pattern fading into the fringes around it. Try the same thing with two slits and the pattern widens, the fringes become vivid. This is because the particles of light are now doing more than just diffracting. They are interfer-ing with each other. Waves of light like hurricane waters. Crashing, countering, canceling each other out until they produce that pattern on the surface. Eight fringes on each side of a gleaming center, bright bands and dark bands uniform next to it as if lines of radiant toy soldiers—-a portable sunrise.

Department chair Tad Javert—-my mentor and the only true mad scientist I’ve ever known—-rushes into my office reeking of the burnt copper stench of the R&D lab. He beams with the stern ecstasy of a conductor, his hair frizzled, grayed with age or knowledge or some perverse combination of the two. He booms that our apparatus is complete; we have successfully honed a cathode capable of firing single electrons at a constant rate, one at a time. It is the late afternoon, and he has a class. Arden, he says, I need you to test it.

The R&D lab is petrified by awe at this machine. Eager grad students peer through the shoulders of col-leagues at the glistening contraption, itself like a large vacuum tube. It shimmers under the sterile fluorescent lights while I install the specialized acetate film stock which will show where the electrons hit. Before I hit the switch, I outfit the ion cylinder with a makeshift double-slit adapter. I don’t know why I choose the double-slit experiment as the basis for a test; mere scientific exhibition, perhaps. The machine fired up with a low hum as the cathode swelled into a dull gleam under the glass and steel. After a few awestruck minutes the crowd dis-perses, and I’m left alone with the apparatus.

Electron particles firing off one at a time should result in random placement, double-slit or no. With no other wave patterns to interact with, there’s no diffraction, no interference pattern. I look at the film stock under the microscope attached to the apparatus and try to remind myself of this, all the while wondering how what I’m seeing can be true.

Javert returns to the lab after class and when he sees what I see, we don’t leave all night. Hours drag on as electrons fire off on at a time—-click, tick, click, tock—-every hour confirming more and more our suspicion. By the time the electron count reaches 140,000 somewhere around sunrise, the interference pattern is unmistak-able.

Particles that never interact with each other in the double-slit act as though they have; the same fringes, bright bands and dark bands, clear as day on the film stock. We spent most of the night arguing about what this proves, what this means, how it is even possible, what Heisenberg would think. We must have looked pretty silly, bickering with uncertainty about the Uncertainty Principle. Daybreak is just the final realization of all the suspicions we labored to determine.

2

The only way an interference pattern could have developed is that each electron interfered with itself; every particle its own self-sustaining wave. In the context of the double-slit, this meant every electron had to be going through both slits. At the same time. Our sub-atomic matter, the tiniest fractions of what we perceive as our “whole,” has just defied every law of reality. They are constantly elsewhere and still here, in a co-existing realty.

We cannot function under the pretense of an exclusive “whole,” some sense of self, not when every minute speck of the self is constantly in the opposite place. What of that reality in which my physical self is transposed into a place where my parents weren’t my parents? My mother is not “my” mother--my Dad not “my” Dad? I wondered about that narrow reality in which my life was my life but without “my” Dad. Or the even narrower reality of life with “my” Dad without “his” problem. Or, even narrower still, what of that reality where Javert and I never concocted this self-realizing, self-defeating edifice?

Somewhere between the reality where Sofie and I never met and the one where everything worked out like we planned, I realize “A is B” and “A is not B” are no longer mutually exclusive terms.

Exhausted and disheveled, we take our leave with the night. I pack my suitcase as Javert shuffles meek-ly towards the door. He’s about to leave when I call to him.

“Tad.” He pauses in the doorway. “Is A still A?” He walks out the door without looking back.

I’m awakened from an uneasy sleep by a phone call later that evening to be informed that Tad Javert drove his car off of a bridge into the East Bay River on his way home to Navarre. I spend a moment wondering if it made any difference.

I spend a week at the university, shifting listlessly through the hallways of the Particle Science & Technology Center while every person in the department recreates the experiment again and again and again. They try to find some fault somewhere, some place where the logic we’ve relied on all our lives will make sense of this thing we have made. The faculty buzz and Javert’s death eventually reaches Sofie in Holland Hall. She calls and suggests I take a break. Suddenly realizing I had not seen her, talked to her, called her, or even thought of her since reimagining our reality, I agree.

It’s getting too hot in Gainesville anyway, she says. Why not a change of scenery? Some water? A nice breeze?

# “Some water, sir? A nice brie?”

A waiter enthusiastically offers me from a silver pitcher and a cheese plate. I wave him off as politely as I can feign.

“Very well, your appetizer should be arriving shortly.” As he walks away I look up at Sofie, a concerned look on her face at my nodding off. She claims I’ve been doing it a lot lately. I haven’t noticed. She asks if I’m sick. I don’t want to answer. I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to answer. Clearly a “yes” or a “no,” but what difference would that make? It isn’t even that the answer is inconsequential, it’s just simply both yes and no, coexisting binaries. Either one would require further inquiry to confirm, so what answer do I really have? Automated. Antagonizing. Positive. Negative. Zero. One. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to think at all. I’m too tired to think about—-

3

“Anything else?” The waiter grins at me as he lowers a plate of fried eggplant onto the table. For the first time in a week, I sense an automatic response.

“Yeah. Cutty Sark on the rocks.”

He nods politely, leaves us our silverware, and walks off to the bar. Sofie merely stares at me, mouth slightly agape, perhaps waiting for her ears to register what she just heard. I simply stare back, watching those stern blues of hers fade to vapid. The waiter puts a crystal tumbler of icy scotch down next to my hand and, perhaps sensing the tension, walks away without a word.

Still staring I put the glass to my lips and sip slowly, savoring an old friend. It’s cool on my tongue as I let it sit in my mouth for a moment, letting the barely linger. The sweat of the glass refreshes my hand, so I don’t bother putting the glass down.

“Paul,” her voice finally creaks, “why?”

“Why not?” It occurs to me that this is a perfectly reasonable answer. I tip the crystal glass in her direction. “Here’s to us, lovely, and the life we have.” I nod at her and finish off the crisp amber fluid, motion-ing at the waiter for another. “After all,” I say with a sigh, “we truly have everything to be thankful for. Look around—-swank dining, beach vacation, not bad for a couple of fossils.” The waiter brings me another round, taking the old tumbler off. I think he tries to make eye contact, but I’m focused entirely on Sofie and her on me. Strong girl; I always admired how when she gets angry she doesn’t blink, and her voice takes that low tone, subdued.

“What are you getting at with all this, Paul?”

“Nothing, dear. Just grateful is all. Fancy university jobs, the life of the mind, separate little homes to go to at the end of the day. Twenty-two years together, still unmarried. Not bad. It’s liberating, really.” I’m the one to finally break gaze and stare down at the tumbler, rolling the ice cubes with one hand, taking a sip. “Yeah, I guess I’d have made a shitty father anyway.”

I don’t see the look on her face, I only hear her pause her breath, and I know there’s no going back.

“Yeah, picture me, some little Paul running around the office. Messing up Daddy’s papers, drawing pic-tures on Daddy’s research. Daddy’s busy Paul, can’t play catch right now. Daddy’s busy Paul, watch cartoons with Mommy.”

I look up and she is stone, the expression of statues looking on from time immemorable. My voice is a docile hush; consoling and one decibel away from making a scene. Staring at the glass, twirling the base along the table, halfway hoping that dull bowling alley hum drowns my words into a whisper.

“Yeah, but Mommy would have been working all the time too, wouldn’t she? Maybe not, though. Maybe if Mommy weren’t barren, she would have made all the time in the world for Paul Jr. Then Daddy comes home to dinner and finds out what you learned in school. Then he stubs his toe on the toys he told you to put away. Then he finds the window in his office broke by a baseball. Then he pulls a bottle out of his desk and sits alone in frustration. This is why Daddy drinks, Paul. This is why Daddy drinks.”

Strong girl; her lip quivers a little, but she won’t give me the satisfaction. She stands up, poised, and walks out of the restaurant.

4

I imagine the rental car will be gone when I walk back to the hotel, replaced by a long note I won’t read. No matter, just matter. She’s no farther away from me in Gainesville than she was when she walked out the door, when she was sitting directly across from me, when we were lying in bed together. Seventy-two miles is just as well as thirty-six miles. Thirty feet is just as well as fifteen feet. Twenty-four inches is just as well as twelve inches. A millimeter is just as well as a half-millimeter. We’re always distant. There are always an infinite number of half-distances we have to travel that never really equal zero. All those close dances, all those held hands, all those nights in each other’s arms, all those phone calls from the road pining for one another, all those times we tried to spite infertility with passion; one inch became a half-inch became a quarter-inch became an eighth-inch became on and on and on, never really touching. Just co-existing. Different realities.

I motion to the waiter for another round, rousing from the table myself with a timid stretch. Fresh scotch in hand I make my way towards a flight of stairs indicating a lounge area on the top floor. I find a smoky attic filled with kids around my students’ age murmuring among beer mugs and backgammon. Leaning against the back wall, between young couples curled together in leather chairs, I spot a trio of young men in blazers point-ing at the war footage on the small television above their booth. The one seated alone shakes his head and says it’s the end of times.

I never will understand the fetish young people seem to have with the complete destruction of the world, as if they’re the first ones. Not for lack of trying, but we didn’t sin enough to end the world a century ago, a generation ago, or even a week ago. What harm will one more night do?

I look down at my glass and wonder what harm one more night will do.

5

Alone at Nightby Matthew DeAngelis

She feels a cold hand rest on her leg, worming its way along at a ravenous pace. The little girl softens and turns over to face the hand in question. It belongs to her father. His clean shaven appearance hides a frac-tured existence, held in check by the girl sleeping in front of him. His hand is firm in its touch, the thumb mas-saging back and forth. She knows better than to move. She has been here before. The little girl simply begins a conversation by saying clearly, “Morning, Daddy.” It’s 9 o’clock at night. He has been watching her nap for some time.

The man’s hair is cut short, finishing its descent just above the ears. Its black shine reflects the moonlight beaming through her window. His features are gaunt. Each expression that he makes tells a different story. Each expression that he makes tells a different lie. Glancing upwards, his eyes meet his daughter’s. They are beady; brown from outset, but all she can see is the black. He says, “Morning, Sugar.” There is a glimmer in his face that makes the little girl wonder if she is still dreaming. She finds herself wiggling her toes around her sheets to try and pinch some kind of reality out the situation. His hand eases slowly from her leg and back onto her mat-tress. She can see the struggle present in this motion. His chin drops back down. He says, “I got you something yesterday, but you were asleep when I got home. I been up here for a few hours now. You look so cute when you’re sleeping, like a little angel.”

The little girl perks up immediately with her back against the headboard behind her. Squealing, she asks, “What is it!?” She has a kind of excitement in her voice that one can only hear from children, innocence partial-ly spoiled. The grin on her father’s face is broad, showing two rows of perfectly aligned, white teeth. One would think he was the face of an advertising campaign at first glance.

“Just a friend to keep you company.”

“Another!” She screams in response, half with joy and half with reluctance. She knows better than to show disappointment in his gifts.

As she says this, her eyes scan the wall adjacent to her father. A large shelf holds over a dozen stuffed animals; they are a dozen rejects, a dozen bad friends. There are twenty-four eyes with no life behind them, and they all stare at her. “Daddy! What is it?”

She has an excitement seen only when her daddy gives her something. He turns to her and removes a stuffed bat from behind his back. Her expression is puzzled. She didn’t have any bats up there on the shelf. Maybe that’s why this one struck her as a little out of place at first. A thin strand of hair rests over her left eye. The father’s hand gently brushes it away before he says, “It’s a bat. Tag says its name is Ghost, but you can name it whatever you want.” “I know it’s a bat, daddy. You have one on your tummy.”

The father rubs his stomach, caressing the abdomen as if summoning forth an entity from its slumber. He pulls his daughter’s hand to his tattoo and rubs it gently up and down. He drags his stained wifebeater up above his bellybutton to reveal a dark bat. “Just like it, actually.” He licks his lips and continues. “So I can be here at night kind of, when you’re all alone, a part of me and all. I hate the thought of you being alone here by yourself with no one to protect you.”

She thinks for a moment before realizing what he is implying. She screams “No! You can’t go to work tonight! That man’s still on the loose. What if…” There is a tear rolling down her cheek. She has quickly lost control.

6

“What dear? I can’t stop going to work just because of some guy. Would you rather we didn’t have a house?” As he says this he brushes the drop off of her cheek.

“Well, no. But, daddy…”

“Baby, I won’t hear it. We’ve been over this already and the answer is still the same. Stop filling your head with this stuff about killers. The bat can take your mind off it, put you to sleep and keep watch since it’s awake at night.”

It takes a moment for the little girl to truly register the connection. She barely hears his attempt at sym-bolism, as she sits fixated on the large black ears and beady eyes of the creature sitting before her. Her collection of previously given animals glares back at her as if to say, “What about me?” This one is different for her, but she can’t place the reason. She thinks Is it that I don’t have one of you? Maybe it’s the eyes. It’s an itch crawling across her neck that she can’t scratch. She turns her head sharply, breaking her gaze with the animal. It bothers her. Its fur is the shade of light grey.

The father says, “I have to go to work, so you two will have some time to get acquainted. I just wanted to say goodnight. When I get home I might come in. Is that alright?”

She responds like she always does. “Of course.” He smiles like a man with nothing to hide. “If you get scared, well now you have the bat. Just remember I don’t want you watching the news. I know that man scares you and I know that’s all they have been talking about. Nothing bad is going to get to you while I’m not here. If something scares you, I want you to take the bat and come up here; lock the door if you have to. I’m the only one with the key, remember?”

She shakes her head and stands out of her bed to follow her daddy downstairs. He is talking about the murderer on the loose in their county. He had been on the loose for some time now and somehow had avoided leaving any evidence. If there was one thing that truly scared her, it was a real life killer. She wasn’t much for the imaginary boogeyman. She knew better than to be scared of what she couldn’t see. Alone at night, she couldn’t count on her stuffed animals for protection.

Pausing, she peers into the mirror at her barren, bruised arms. She quickly pulls a long sleeved shirt on and puts the black and blue mass out of her head. She likens one of her fading bruises to the color of the new stuffed animal. She shuffles behind her daddy, careful not to get too close. She wheels around to see her bed-room door wide open. The unrest causes her to backtrack and close the door. He slings on a black hoodie over his narrow, drooping shoulders. His security uniform is tucked under his arm. The little girl sets her new friend in a chair placed squarely against a wall on the right. He takes a few steps back towards his daughter and holds her in his arms.

He says, “I’ll be back before you know it. Remember I want you to be asleep when I get back. It’s for your own good.” His hand is moving along the small of her back. It travels further south, encompassing the hem of her right buttocks. She can’t move.

She says, “I know.”

The man turns his back on her, sliding his arm along her back before walking towards the front door, set-ting the alarm as he exits. He looks at her one last time before turning to go.

“Daddy!” she hollers after him just as he reaches the door, “you forgot your badge.”

7

The shining star reads Westport Mall Security. It shines against the fluorescent bulb above, appearing almost bronze to the untrained eye of the little girl. To her, it just looks murky yellow.

“Thank you, honey, you saved me.”

She replies, “Always do.”

The emptiness in the house creeps in around her. Shadows feel longer as they stretch out toward her. She turns to her new friend and says, “Daddy works a lot at night, so most of the time I have to stay home by myself. He is a security guard down at the mall. It used to be that he would be home during the day and Mom-my would be home during the night. About two years ago, Mommy left and I ain’t seen her. There was a fight, something about another girl. Mommy was crying and then she was gone. Daddy came in my room early in the morning and said Momma left, said he cut her pretty deep and I wouldn’t be seein her no more. I miss my mommy now, especially when I’m here by myself. She used to read me stories, used to teach me a lot about dif-ferent sounding words and how they went together. You see, Momma was an English teacher. Sure she’s doin it somewhere better now. I was six then, and we lived in Middleton, just south of Rockport. This town is Cyrus-ville and we been here about two years.”

Curiously, the girl examines the animal as it lounges in the chair. The large tag on the animal reads “Ghost.” She says, “Well, I’m gonna keep your name Ghost on account of you bein at home in the dark, like a ghost I spose.”

Since she was a little girl, her daddy always told her how the bat had come to symbolize so much for him within his own life. He always tells her about how watchful he is, and that he could hear that alarm from anywhere. She believed it too up until about a year ago when the security company had to come turn it off be-cause he didn’t know how to. He tells her that no matter what she is safe. However, her Daddy said he himself was a creature of the night. Perhaps it was in that idea that he knew what it meant to be vulnerable or hunted. She never really understood why. She just simply chuckled, nodded her head, and referred to him as batman whenever he revealed his tattoo to someone new. She sees qualities within Ghost’s eyes that are similar to her daddy’s, in the pupils.

“See, it’s just me and you tonight, Ghost. I spose it’s better than bein by myself. Daddy says he’s so proud of me though. Says he was left by himself when he was ten, so I survive the same. He says I’m more ma-ture than most girls he knows my age. He says the reason I struggle to make friends at school is cuz I’m more grown up than the other girls. That’s no matter though right now, Ghost, cuz I got you. Right?”

The bat says nothing back. The girl just smiles to herself and holds the animal close to her chest. She walks across the orange carpet towards the black couch. Sitting on the cushion, she nearly sinks all the way to the ground. Her bottom scrapes across the coarse floor beneath her, and she remembers the night it happened. The little girl feels guilty, like telling the story will sway her new friend’s opinion of her. She feels the imagi-nary hand of nervousness creep across her shoulders, tingling down her back. There is an air of awkwardness emanating from her demeanor. Jumping up, she breaks the silence and says to the nocturnal creature beside her, “How dare you call me fat!” She still feels reluctant. She says aloud, “He wouldn’t want you talking to me like that ya know? He doesn’t like anyone talking me down like that.”

There is a hush about the room for a moment, and she can hear the ticking of the clock in the next room. Reluctantly, she caves and explains the couch’s condition to the guest before her. “Oh that,” she says, nodding towards the cushion and shifting her weight around in a circle. She resettles her weight on her left cheek and continues. “Well, there’s a story behind the sag in this couch you know? I mean it’s my fault kind of. One night after Daddy left for work, I snuck in his room because I saw that his closet was open.

8

I’ve always been wondrin’ what he keeps in there. Door’s never open and all. I mean, he locks the door all the time. It was a little over a year ago, so I was smaller, didn’t know any better. So just as I get inside, he flies in the door. There was a look in his eye, one that I never seen. They just weren’t normal. For a moment, I for-got about his brown eyes, and I just sat there waitin for his next move. Next thing I remember, he’s chasin me around, and he reaches for me over the couch. He ends up fallin’ into it, and the springs just went. Meanwhile, I’m in the next room hidin under the table. When I heard his laughter comin’ from the next room, I tell you it was the best sound I’ve ever heard. Before that, I couldn’t tell if he was jokin or not. It’s tough to tell some-times. He just laughed and laughed at what he did. You’ll love that about him. He can get real angry, and then all of a sudden, he can just calm down and play with me. He’s so fun. Sometimes it’s like playin’ with another kid. You see, I shouldn’t have been in there in the first place, and I understand that lookin back. He’s real fair ya know. I thought for sure I was gonna get the belt, but this here couch was the difference I guess.”

She moves the bat’s mouth and says, “The belt?”

The little girl then makes the stuffed animal look confused by cocking its head to the side. She says, “Yah. Sometimes when I do something real bad, he takes a belt and lays it hard against my bottom. He says kids need to be punished. That’s how they learn. I guess it makes sense.”

She nods the animal’s head up and down in agreement. She says, “You don’t think less of me do you?” The bat’s head is moved from side to side. Relieved, she shouts, “Ghost, me and you are going to be fast friends.”

She feels a connection with this particular pet that she hasn’t felt with the others. For the first time, she feels that there may be a chance for a new beginning. For the first time, she wants to savor something given to her by her father, rather than forget it. She sees in this toy the same unclear gaze present in her father’s eyes. She feels safe with it. She thinks to herself, It’s in the eyes, those focused pits in the center. She recalls the same emptiness in the middle of Ghost’s eyes that she saw when her father looked inside his open closet, prior to bearing down upon her, slouching on the ground. She remembers not waiting for words to flow from his mouth. She could see in his face what his next move was, and she reacted. She has no regrets and no thoughts as to what may have happened had she stood still.

“You see, Ghost, I wasn’t afraid of him. He’s so gentle. He’s never hit me with his hands. His hands have always been so kind to me.” Her voice drifts off as she says the last part.

Ghost says, “Well then, what would he have done if you didn’t move?” “How’d you know I was thinkin’ that?” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “I don’t know. Nothing. He wouldn’t have done anything.”

Her friend says nothing. It just sits there, gravity slouching it down toward the right as she speaks. “It’s just that sometimes there’s this side to him that I don’t like. He don’t like it neither, tells me he just loses control sometimes. I don’t know what would have happened. I doubt he would hurt me. He probably wouldn’t have.” Flustered and red in the face, she utters, “Change of subject?”

Reaching forward, she motions the beast’s head up and down.

After embracing the beast once more, she exclaims, “Let’s watch some television.” She reaches forward for the remote control. The remote is cold at first, causing her to withdraw. Upon further contact, she wraps her hand around the long, body before turning on the box in front of her. It bursts on with the familiar buzzing sound that sends the little girl into a relaxed state.

9

“So what do you feel like watching?”

A seemingly appropriate amount of wait time passes by with no answer. She wants an answer, needs one. Cautiously, the little girl scans the room around her. She sees no one, hears no one. She is alone in this il-luminated home, away from the darkness outside. The little girl is worrying once more about the appearance of her house. She thinks, All the friends I ever done brought over always notice that darn couch.

There is a flicker behind her from the chandelier in the dining room. She bites her upper lip, trying to ignore the electrical malady. It flickers again, this time more pronounced. She picks up her friend and glides across the living room towards the annoyance. She points up at the light fixture declaring, “See?”

Ghost is silent. The little girl says, “Okay. The sixth light in the sequence is broken. See? One night the bulb, she just popped. Now the light flickers. There are six lights in a row and the last one is broken.”

She notes the animal’s paw pushing down to the ground. There are ruby red spots, barely visible along the orange carpet. They mix so closely that the little girl is shocked her friend could notice. She asks, “How did you see that?”

She forces her friend to answer, “Dear, blind as a bat is only an expression.”

Getting down on her knees, she examines the rug. She counts six specks running along the shag carpet, towards the table. She had almost forgotten where it came from. She sits down on the rug and rolls backwards. Lying on her back, she eyes the chandelier and the bulb in question, stating, “Maybe it didn’t pop. It just needed changing and he made a mistake. I’m sorry I lied. I honestly thought it popped when I told you that. I’m no liar.”

“Could have fooled me,” says the new friend, still standing upright.

Getting up on her right elbow, the girl snaps, “You don’t even know me! Maybe I don’t like you as much as I thought.” A moment passes in which both parties remain silent. The little girl says in a hushed voice, “He cut himself you know. That’s where these came from.” She points to the spots along the carpet. “I was just watching the television when I heard laughing, and I saw him drop down from the table. He didn’t fall, just jumped right down like nothing was wrong. I figured the bulb was fixed. Next thing I know, those red droplets were falling down to the carpet. He didn’t even look down. He didn’t even make a move. Course I yelled and ran over there. By the time I got there, he already had the tablecloth wrapped round his palm. I had to wrestle him to go to the doctor. He said he didn’t have no insurance, but I made him go. The whole time he just laughed about it. That night, he just put me to bed and went to the hospital. Never did fix the light. He’s just so tough. I woulda been crying, he just took it.” Looking up, she sees the cracked bulb, switching her memory back to the present.

She doesn’t know what to say, but feels she must change the topic in order to keep her guest entertained. A creeping feeling of loathing slides its wretched hand along her insides. A look of disgust dances across her face, paired with a blank stare. The two emotions turn each other over in a whirlwind of thoughts. She bites her lower lip and pinches her shoulders closer together, wondering what her father is doing right now. Maybe he is out catching bad guys and making them pay for their crimes. Each creak or groan in the house is met with a cold shiver. The little girl shuffles from side to side in her seat before leaning forward and resting her thumb under-neath the bat’s mouth. In a low, gargling voice she says, “I have been out of the news recently, being cooped up in that toy store. Can we watch some news?” She is surprised at the chilling voice she has produced from her friend’s mouth. She modifies it to a high pitched murmur and repeats, “Can we watch some news?”

10

The little girl thinks, That’s better. She says, “Sure we can.” Immediately she remembers what her daddy said about the news. She feels a rush coming around her as her heartbeat increases. All she can think about is that man on the loose. She knows it’s going to be on the news if she puts it on. She knows that the rest of her night she won’t be able to stop thinking about it. She can’t stop herself from knowing. Above all else, she must appease her only friend.

Flipping through the channels, she passes sports, comedy, and sitcoms before finally landing on the Channel 4 News. The clock strikes eleven, and the little girl smiles because she is just in time for the start of it. She thinks silently, Ghost will be pleased. There is quiet in the room. She can almost hear the lavender of her shirt against the haunting moans of the home around her. The aging Victorian house had stood for years, bought cheaply due to the bad neighborhood. Every house in the area looked like it was about to fall down.

The shadows emanating from the dining room chandelier dance against the wall behind the television. The once constant shadow is now marred by the one missing bulb. Though these new shadows are familiar, they should never have been altered in the first place. When the chandelier was brand new the shadows were pleas-ant. As a younger child, she would see the chandelier’s stretching shadows as crystals and peaks against the white walls of the living room.

Sometimes, she thinks she is the only one who notices the bulb since her daddy never talks about it. As it hangs there, its diminished output is only visible at night, when the light of five is distinguishably less than that of six. The chandelier manages to keep on working. It just features a glaring flaw that is hidden from the world outside the house. The dining room exists now too dim for her daddy to eat in; to live in. Nonetheless, she is still holding her new friend tightly, flush against her side, awaiting the end of the opening theme song and the rush of human voices. The longest thirty seconds of her night come to pass, and Suzanne Norwich, the local newscaster, appears over the screen.

Her eyes are fixed on the screen. The little girl says aloud, “Daddy says it’s real important to watch the news. Funny that you wanted to watch it cuz I was gonna put it on anyways. I’m glad we have the same inter-ests.” She gives a nervous glance toward the chandelier again, remembering with a sigh how the sixth light was broken. She sees that the breaking of the sixth bulb ruined the light fixture. It ruined the house and her daddy just moved on. She looks towards Ghost and feels she has no need to explain.

The little girl stutters, “He says it’s important for a person to know what’s going on in the world around them. Says if you mean something to the community then you’ll find yourself on the news someday. Says it’s how you know how you’re doin, if you’re justified. Says he’d be real proud if I were on the news someday.” The little girl stares right into Norwich’s bold, brown eyes. There is some story on the screen with a sign stating week twelve. The little girl already knows what it is and turns it up to hear the update.

The newswoman is saying, “For weeks now, the culprit has been free and running amok throughout our community. After nearly being caught in week three, the person responsible for these horrific crimes has been almost invisible.” The girl watches the TV intently as the newscaster continues. “Police have offered nothing on new leads, only the same warnings they offered in week five: 1. Parents with daughters in the age range of eight and thirteen be advised, 2. Children are not to be left alone at night from the hours of nine to one, 3. Keep as many lights on as possible and please arm home alarm systems, 4. Parents with children attending latchkey or after school programs be advised, 5. Children are not to engage in outdoor activity after dusk.”

The little girl just shakes her head. In front of her, the woman continues, “This menace has been active in our county for three months now. There is still no admitted connection to the crimes in Rockport. By adher-ing to the aforementioned warnings, we can help the police with their investigation and help ourselves by not offering any new victims.” While saying this, a picture of the apparent last victim is displayed on the screen.

11

The woman summarizes with, “Alexis Duchamp, twelve years old, found just two days ago in the swamp be-hind Henry Farm. She was abducted from her home on March twenty-third. Police say she was bound, raped, and murdered. Whoever is responsible for these heinous crimes must be stopped. Don’t let your child become another victim. If you have any information, please call 1-888-543-8765.”

The news goes on another commercial break. The little girl looks to her stuffed animal. She hears it say, “Jeez, I leave the mainstream for a couple of weeks, and I miss a story like this.” The girl is thinking about what she just heard. She is thinking about her present situation of being alone in this house with nothing but shadows. She sees them dancing and envies their togetherness, their mutual dependence on the lights. She feels akin to them in her seeming non-existence without the lights around her. Her head is fidgeting from side to side. She is caught in thought. She has heard this news segment before or something similar. She turns to her friend, surprised, stating, “I’m fine you know. You have nothing to worry about, Ghost. Daddy says that he had some friends from work come down and put up a security system that will keep anyone out; he’s the only one who has the code. He says I have nothing to worry about at night, that he would never let anything happen to me. Says he knows this house is safe. That man has killed five little girls in this county. He says the sixth is gonna be soon. Still I feel safe here, with you.”

She moves the lips to say, “I feel better already.”

The little girl says, “As well you should. Daddy has been working security for a long time. I know noth-ing’s gonna happen because he said so.”

The bat says, “What about that girl? Isn’t that awful?”

“No, Ghost. Daddy says those girls had it coming. Says it’s the parent’s fault for not watchin after their daughters. He says a person can’t feel sorry when the blame falls so heavily and justly on a responsible party. Its okay to feel hate for the parents, but don’t feel sorry.”

“Your daddy sounds like a good man; I sure do wish I’d got more time to talk to him.”

“But you live here now, Ghost. Of course you’ll get the chance to talk with him. He’s a very good man!”

“I certainly hope so because there are some things I’d like to say to him.”

The little girl cocks her head to the side in nervousness, unsure. She responds, “Like what?”

“I’d like to tell him what a great daughter he has.”

The little girl blushes. She giggles to herself, pleased with her friend’s answer. She returns, “I’ll be sure that you get a chance to tell him tomorrow. He usually gets in after I go to sleep. What do you say to turning in a little early? I’m pretty tired.”

She nods the bat’s head up and down in agreement. The little girl stands and picks up the stuffed animal. While walking into the kitchen, she accidentally knocks over a stack of papers on the table. Scattering across the floor, they spread out to create a colorful display, delighting the little girl. For a moment, she almost leaves them, but thinking of her daddy’s long night at work, she thinks better of it. Leaning over to pick them up, she counts a bundle of ten papers: three white, three green, three yellow and one pink. Placing them back on the tabletop, she leaves the pink piece on top, feeling for its lack of representation.

12

Walking up the stairs, she trips over a zipped up duffle bag that her father has left outside his door. Peek-ing inside the room, she views a sheet less bed and a closed closet. Her father’s room is a stark contrast to her animated bedroom next door. The white walls of the little girl’s bedroom act to illuminate even when all light is gone. However, despite the shining moon glaring through her curtains, a nightlight still spreads its shimmer across the room. The little girl gently places the stuffed animal on the edge of her bed, facing the wall across from her bed, now featuring a closed door to the hallway. The shelves filled with stuffed animals is to her right, growing more menacing in the moonlight. As she changes, she knows there are no real eyes on her, and she feels safe. She exchanges lavender for lavender as she puts on her pajamas and discards her previously worn garments. She turns her friend around and says, “That’s better right?” She exhales loudly as she looks around the ground floor one last time before she goes to sleep. All appears to be in order when she turns the light switch off. The darkness rampages through the room, encompassing all objects she held in her vision. Turning with a quick step, the little girl runs up the stairs, down the hallway, and makes a sharp left into her room. The door shuts behind her, standing as a firm barrier between her and the empty house.

Moving her thumb along the bat’s mouth, she says, “Well, I can’t tell the difference.”

She confidently replies, “The difference is in the comfort.”

The bat is silent as she crawls into the bed alongside it and pulls the covers up around her shoulders. Her breathing is steady as the sheets move up and down—inhale, exhale. The stuffed animal lies motionless to her left, nestled closely underneath her arm. She says aloud, “Ghost, I’m really glad to have you with me.”

The bat says nothing back, and the silence is felt. She remembers a time when the dark in her room both-ered her so much. Her daddy used to just climb into bed almost every night because she couldn’t sleep. The rain beats down outside, creating a drip from the gutter outside her window. There is a scratching on her bedroom window from the tree just outside. She envisions the branches beating the window pane, trying to get in. This vision ends with her imagining her daddy outside chopping the tree down. He was her hero. She did whatever he told her to. She thinks to herself, Where are you, Daddy? She has no answer for herself. Lying in thought, she perceives for a moment that she hates the work he does. She feels malcontent for her being left at home all the time. Each night this thought opposes against her minted image of her daddy that she holds to be real, and each night she shoos it away as quickly as it comes. She doesn’t really want him to come home. But tonight is dif-ferent for some reason. She thinks to herself, It must be because we stayed up so late. Thinking better of it, she pushes away the thought, believing this would only make her more tired. It takes her a moment to realize what is different about tonight, to recognize that Ghost’s beady, unbelieving eyes are making her uncomfortable. She thinks, He is just another animal. Trees outside of her bedroom window are slapping their branches against the glass again. Shadows creep along the little girl’s dresser. Before long, her covers are pulled up above her head. She can see the murderer’s face in her head and for some reason it is oddly friendly looking to her. She curls up under her sheets and rips the image away from her mind.

“I suppose I’ll just let you sleep, sorry.” She fancies the bat as not being able to understand her muffled voice. She turns her back to the bedroom door and throws her right arm over the animal next to her, pulling it underneath the sheets with her. Every noise in the house is magnified by her solitaire. The water drip from the kitchen sink can be heard all the way upstairs, but it’s familiar. The groan from the water heater in the garage is voiced every twenty minutes or so, but it’s familiar. It is the noises that she cannot explain that keep her awake. Opening her eyes, she scans the room from left to right. She thinks to herself, Closet door, chair, overalls, bas-ketball, belt, bedroom door. Nothing to be worried about. She leans over from her bed and searches beneath the bed, the last checkpoint in her pre-sleep ritual. Nothing there either, she thinks to herself. There never is. She ponders why she even looks if there’s never anything there. She looks around the room once more and finds her mind drifting to the news report she witnessed before. She says to her friend, “Isn’t it amazing what some people can be driven to do?”

13

There is no answer again as Ghost is unresponsive. She says, “I guess some people are just made that way. No sense. No boundary. Daddy says sometimes that it’s good to give into your emotions cause they make you who you are, but you can’t lose control. What do you think of that?” There is no response.

She continues, “I think it depends on the person. I can’t see myself chasin someone around the house over a closet door. Then again, I suppose it relates to the contents, just like Daddy says, contents make you who you are. You can be whoever you wanna be on the outside but you can’t ever get away from who you really are. So in a way we’re all closets?” The last part of the statement causes the little girl to laugh a high shriek of glee at her conclusion.

There is a rustling of leaves outside the bedroom window, and the little girl can hear her neighbor’s wind chimes blowing back and forth. They stop abruptly and she cannot understand why. The melody of clanking metallic tubes was soothing to her racing mind and now gone, she misses it. For a moment she forgets the news, she forgets the night, she even forgets about her new friend. She just feels her eyelids grow heavy. There’s a noise downstairs which causes her to stir. Her eyes open, fixing themselves on the bedroom door expectantly. She whispers to her friend. She can hear footsteps, and judging by the time on her clock, she still feels safe. She whispers to her friend, “Daddy’s home.” The door behind her creaks open. She has forgotten to lock it. Her heart begins to race with the anticipation of what she will find when she turns over. She lies still, clutching her friend to her chest. She decides that it is better to pretend to be asleep like he wanted her to be. She feels so safe. She inhales sharply, feeling a cold, wet hand run along the inside of her leg.

14

15Dust Returning to Dust

by Thomas Kerper

Stuck up in a tree with my left arm pinned awkwardly behind my head, I couldn’t move at all. Before I could figure out what to do, my precarious balance on the huge oak’s limb slipped. I swear I hit every branch on the way down. At least I didn’t land straddling a limb, THAT would have hurt.

The first landing didn’t hurt as much as I expected. Straight into a bush. But the large green shrub, which had the sharpest damn little leaves, bounced me like a ball right into what felt like a strip of asphalt. I lay still for a few minutes to make sure that nothing was broken. Not that I would be able to tell until I moved, but lying there for a moment seemed like a good idea. The dark night pushed in on me from all sides. As I stood up, a strange sensation of foreboding started around my shoulder blades and met somewhere under my neck before traveling to the back of my head.

I looked up, brushing the dirt of my faded, cut-up-on-purpose jeans. My black t-shirt was covered in those annoying little sand-spur thingies. My hands scrapped them off my chest of their own accord while I tried to get my bearings. At least I had the stars. Staring at the bright points, I picked out a few of my favorite con-stellations, Orion, Perseus, Scorpio, before finding the two I was unconsciously looking for: Phoenix and An-dromeda. Just like that, I felt more calm, almost serene. Here was something familiar, known.

Because, casting my gaze around, nothing else was familiar. The tree that I had fallen out of stood alone, the only one in sight. Rolling plains soared out in every direction.

Before I could take that thought further, I heard the roar of an engine traveling fast…and coming toward me. Two things became clear immediately. One: I was on a road. Two: I needed to get off it. Now.

I scrambled back in the direction of my tree. The two pinpricks of light illuminated the road that, before now, I had not been able to see. Pushing through the brush, I felt my jeans tear. ‘Crap, now I’ll have to—’ the thought stopped faster than I did. I realized I didn’t know if I had another pair of pants because I didn’t even know where I was. I realized I didn’t know who ‘I’ was.

“Damn.”

I turned back to the road, knowing I needed help. I stretched both arms out and crisscrossed them in the air, waving them back and forth.

“Hey.”

As the car came closer I began to think of what I was doing here in the first place. I could remember all the little nuances of life, like the names of constellations and the fact that landing straddle-back on a tree limb would probably hurt me, a male, like hell. But I couldn’t remember the bigger things, like my name, who I was, how I had gotten here, or anything about my life before now.

Looking back, I should have seen it coming. Guy who just fell out of a tree, can’t remember his own name, stumbling around in a country road in the middle of the night.

I can see the car’s headlights rounding the last corner. It was comical, the way their faces looked. I caught only a glimpse of the woman driving, a slight smile playing out on her lips as she looked at the man sitting next to her. His face I’ll always remember. Dressed in a high-end designer suit, he had a surprised look etched across his face. Homely with a nose that had been broken in at least two places, his eyes are what struck

16

me. Slightly grey bordering on silver; they had the tint of finely polished steel. Even as the car plowed into me at sixty miles per hour, our gaze never broke. The emotion I saw in his face scared me more than the knowledge that a two-thousand pound vehicle was about to hit me. He looked excited, leaning forward slightly and happy with a smile splitting his face in two.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I came to the first time, the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen stood talking to a doctor in the doorway. I lay in a hospital bed with wires and tubes everywhere. My leg, strapped up in a sling, began to itch. I reached for it, before realizing that my arms didn’t feel right. I looked again at the two, standing under the sin-gle fluorescent light from the hallway outside the room that trickled through their silhouettes. Pretty Lady, who I recognized as the driver of the car that had hit me, handed the doctor an envelope. Her eyes seemed to lock upon the doctor’s. Then with a sharp snap of her head, which sent her beautiful blonde hair rippling through the air to sparkle under the light from the hall, her eyes were glaring at me. At once, the harsh glower relaxed into a pleasant smile and I felt peace…I felt tired…I felt…darkness…

The Pretty Lady sitting alone in the room. She sang a lullaby about…something…Needles and nurses…heaven and hell…My body ached in places that I never felt before. I wanted to fly higher with Icarus, but went underground with Orpheus. It was even darker there. I sat straight up at one point, taking in a deep breath. ‘Oh air, how sweet the taste’ I turned to the seat next to me. Empty. But I remembered her. Re-membered her all too well. Where was she… I had to… Something caught my attention on the floor. No flowers on the counters to distract me. The floor...

“Juliet?”

The pain at seeing her dead body was too much. Not again. This time I embraced the darkness…

Memories floated around my brain for what seemed like eternity, but had only to be hours. Flying and sailing, swordfights and battles, prisons and castles, I had been in all and in none. I was everything and nothing. My name was….something…I still couldn’t grasp that.

When I came to for the second time, a nurse stood over me with a chart in her hands. She didn’t look anything like the doctor from my first dream so I couldn’t tell if I still dreamed the dreams of the delirious or if I was truly awake this time. My first attempt at speech probably sounded horrible to the nurse, because she immediately placed her hand on my shoulder and told me to lie still. She hurried off through the doorway from my first dream—my room was lit up now—and returned soon enough with a glass of water. It surprised me a bit that my arms were fine. I vividly remembered not being able to move them. But that was a dream. I must be all right. Then I saw my leg. It had been lowered out of the sling, but now was covered in plaster. I groaned. So it had been broken.

A doctor walked into the room. She had long black hair tied back up in a bun and that no-nonsense look about her. She did, however, glance down at me with concern, looking at me through her black rimmed glasses, “You were just hit by a car and all that’s wrong with you is a broken leg. You should be completely healed in a few months.”

“You mean to tell me that only my leg is broken?” I couldn’t believe that. The pain had been every-where.

“Yes. Which is actually quite a surprise. Do you remember anything about the accident? Your chart says that you were admitted at 2:31a.m., but the E.R. doctor didn’t see you until after 4. I was wondering—”

17 “That will be all, Doctor,” a rough voice seeped through the room. “Thank you.” The man in the passen-ger seat stood in the doorway. He wore a pair of jeans and a Polo shirt, but looked unnatural in them. His sandy hair fell into his eyes, making his hands constantly move to his face to brush it back.

“And you are?” the doctor looked slightly peeved at being interrupted.

“Let’s go out here and talk,” he said, gesturing to the hallway.

Doc with glasses stalked off after Passenger seat as he walked out of the door, throwing a last question-ing glance back at me.

As soon as they were out of sight, my mind reeled. Where was I? What was going on? Who was I? I looked at the floor next to me fearfully expecting something, but, other than the floors on the counter, it was just a hospital room. Now I was starting to get scared. Who were all these people who kept drifting in and out of my life?

After about five minutes, I decided to figure out what was going on for myself. Something told me this idea might not be the most intelligent thing to do, but my curiosity got the better of me. Slowly twisting my body off the bed, I only fell once, twisting my body in the sheets and losing my balance. The pain in my right leg, the broken one, was minimal. They must have drugged me up while I slept. I used the table and counters to help pull myself to the door. As I neared it, though, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the coun-tersink.

My first thought was terror. I had never seen this person before. But after I realized it was me, and not someone else, I began to look closer at my own face.I had bright green eyes, a green that dominated the rest of my face. No matter what else I looked at, my eyes were drawn back to themselves. My hair was short and a light brown hanging just above my eyebrows, which looked like two tiny feathers drifting in opposite directions. My nose was of a normal size, maybe a little on the small side, but perfectly proportioned to the rest of my face. In fact, stepping back, I realized my whole body was just that. Perfect.

Shaking my head to clear it, I decided to deal with this at a later time. I was near enough now to the door to open it just a crack. That ever-present fluorescent light lit up the hallway everywhere except at the corner at the end. Of course that’s where Mr. Broken Nose and Dr. Questions were. I could just barely make out their words.

“—him alone. He’ss already been through enough.”

“I just want to know how he survived that accident. It’s a miracle—”

“Yess, it iss. And trusst me, my department and I are looking into it.” “But—”

From just the few lines, I had heard enough. When he had said “my department,” it had sounded like a government innuendo.

Now, I may have had no idea who I was or where I was, but like anybody else on the planet, at least anyone with some sense, when the government comes a knocking, get the hell out.

18 Lucky for me, my room was on the first floor. The window was locked but easily opened. It didn’t even make a sound as I lifted it open. It was just getting dark outside, maybe six or seven at night. Great time for escaping.

I ran toward the other end of the parking lot—actually, it was more like hobbling—with some vague idea of getting a car and driving far away. I had barely taken ten steps when a bright red Porsche pulled up in front of me and the side door opened.

“Get in.”

This seemed way too coincidental to me. Why I jumped in, I’ll never know. Maybe I recognized the voice. More than likely, I was still a little high from whatever pain killers I was on. But it didn’t surprise me in the least to see the Pretty Lady behind the wheel. She had on one of those sleek, form-fitting dresses that only people on T.V. wear. Brilliant blood red to match the car.

She took off without looking back, but when I did she asked me, “Anyone following us?”

“No.”

“Good.”

We didn’t talk again until two songs had passed on the radio. I broke the silence first.

“Um… Not that I’m not thankful for the ride, but…who are you?”

She laughed and looked at me long enough to make me freak out about her driving abilities. The car never swerved from the course set by the little white lines and the desert plain to my right.

“The question you should be asking is, ‘Who am I?’” she looked back at the road. Less than a minute later she turned into a little run-down restaurant called “The Garden.” I swear she laughed a little when she saw the sign.

“What are we doing here?”

“Getting some food.” She scrutinized me as if looking to see if I had hit my head. “You’re probably re-ally hungry by now. My treat. Let’s go.”

The second she said it, my stomach gave a loud rumble. She laughed as she opened her door. I was hun-gry and broke. I didn’t really think she meant me any harm, I mean she had helped me escape from the hospital and gotten me away from Mr. Broken Nose. Thinking about him made me think about getting hit by the car. Getting hit by the car made me think of the driver. Who was standing right next to me. She had been driving the car that had hit me. Why didn’t I remember that before?

I sat so still as these thoughts collided around in my head that she turned back around from walking to the restaurant and looked at me with a frown. Walking back to my side, she opened the door. “Is everything okay?”

Rapidly, I tried to pull my errant thoughts together into some cohesion. “Um…You hit me with your car.” It sounded more like a question than an accusation.

19 To my surprise, she laughed again. Then, reaching across me, she unlocked my seatbelt and took my hand. Not really having a choice now, she helped me into the little eatery.

We got a table in the back. The little place had been set up in an old Greek style, with white pillars and fake green ivy everywhere. She ordered poached apples with caramel sauce. Dessert before the meal? I was impressed. She ordered for me a steak, baked potato and root beer. We ate in silence. When I finished, my mind and body felt more whole, more complete. Our eyes connected and I asked again, “Who are you?”

She sighed and put down her fork, which had the last apple slice on it. “How much do you remember?”

The question took me by surprise, but I tried to appear calm. “What do you mean? I remember falling out of a tree in the middle of nowhere. I remember stumbling around in the dark. I remember you hitting me with your car with Mr. Broken Nose—” (she stifled a laugh at my invented name) “—and I want to know what the hell is going on?”

“All right, I’ll tell you what I can. But remember, you asked me, if anybody ever brings it up. My name is Lily. Mr. Broken Nose,” she smiled again, “goes by a lot of names, though Mike is as good as any. We…work together sometimes.”“You work with him? So what department do you work for? FBI? CIA? What did I do that has you guys look-ing for me?”

She laughed yet again. Her laughter sounded delightful, like chimes or bells, quiet yet powerful in its melodic beauty. “Is that the story he was giving? Well, at least he’s being smart about it.”

I sat there in silence waiting for my answer.

“Oh, but no. We don’t work for any government. Unless you count…well that’s neither here nor there. And as for what you did. You didn’t do anything…yet. We just happened to find you. Which is strange, but who questions fate? Now we just want to help you.”

“You’re talking in riddles.” I glared at her. “WHO AM I?”

I shouted that last bit, and everyone in the restaurant turned to look at me. I realized I had stood up. My leg was throbbing in pain. Ashamed, I bent awkwardly to pick up my chair from the floor and sat back down.

“Well, if you are quite done…” though her tone suggested impatience, her face glowed with happiness. “Your tale begins a long time ago. The best place to start would be the G—”

She paused suddenly then swore under her breath vehemently. Reaching over the table, she grabbed my arm and literally yanked me through the door, leaving the check on the table unpaid. We almost made it to the car when another car cut in between us and Lily’s Porsche. Who was driving the car? None other than Lily’s friend Mike.

“Lil, why’d you run away? Why’d you take the boy? I thought we were partnerss?” His voice was just as I remembered it from the hospital. Low, harsh, and with a lisp on his s’s.

“Hey Mike, um…just taking our friend out for a little dinner…you know, seeing the sights, grabbing a bite to eat,” Lily stuttered. She sounded scared, really scared.

20“Well, let’ss go see some sightss then.” He leaned over and opened the door.Lily gave me a pained look and then opened the back door for me. We were barely in before Mike took off, careening around corners and barely missing parked cars.

“So, Young One, what did our friend here tell you?”

Maybe it wasn’t a smart idea, but I still wanted to know who I was, so I lied. “Everything. I know all your secrets, Michael. All I can’t figure out is why you’re working together.”

I had used his proper name on a whim, but the face that he gave Lily scared me. I saw flashes of an eter-nity of torture, never-ending pain, and last, a void so pure that blood ran cold. I don’t know how he managed to express that with one look but Lily turned white and began to breathe much faster as if there wasn’t enough air in the car. Her mouth opened and closed, probably to try to disprove what I had just said, but nothing came out.

Mike turned backward in his seat to look at me. His driving skills must have matched Lily’s, because the car kept driving straight.

“It iss merely a matter of convenience that the two of uss work together. We were not looking for you, as that is strictly prohibited, but now that we have found you, each one of uss will want to…usse you for different purposess.”

This confused the hell out of me, but I was getting information, so I kept up the charade, nodding like I understood.

“Well then, what shall we call you thiss time?”

The question took me by surprise. This time? Though I couldn’t remember my own name, I was sure that I had not met these two before their car hit me. I would have remembered such creeps. I decided to answer his questions as cryptically as possible. Maybe I’d get more answers.

“Whatever you think appropriate.”

Doubt flashed across Mike’s face, to be suddenly replaced by fear. “How about Nathaniel, Adam seemss so worn.”

So Adam had been my name before, but he wanted to call me Nathan?

“Why?”

“Well, Nathaniel meanss ‘gift of God’ and you are certainly that. Pluss the name Adam never worked out for you so well.” He chuckled darkly.

Lily made a choking sound. Mike glanced at her then sighed heavily. “Ok, Lily, you can talk now.”

“I never told him who he was.” The words rushed out of her mouth.Mike blushed deeply, his ears turning so dark they were almost black, then he paled rapidly, becoming even whiter than Lily.

21 “B-but then how…why…Damn.”

For the second time that night, the car I was in pulled over to a random restaurant. Mike turned around in his seat and glared at me. Then, turning to Lily, he started talking in a different language.

After a few seconds, I realized I understood what they were saying.

“Puteuss noss ess screwed usquam , viress pariter dico him quisnam sit but if we tell him who he iss, then He will get mad.”

“We’ve already decided to help him this time, no matter what. He’s just getting colder and more distant by the century. Adam must find Eve. If not, the whole Garden will collapse.”

“I know, I know, thiss iss just not the way I wanted thiss to happen.”Lily’s tone softened. “How would you have wanted this to happen? Besides, he has the right to know.”

They paused, staring into each other’s eyes. I got a little impatient and asked, “What do I have the right to know?”

They both jumped, realizing that I could understand them.

“How did you learn Latin?” Lily asked.

“That was Latin?”

They both shook their heads at the same time. In other circumstances, it would have been funny. I scratched at edges of the plaster of cast as they seemed to decide to tell me something.

“All right,” Lily began. “We are going to tell you who you are, but you must promise not to tell a soul, or anything else, who told you.” I quickly promised. “Well, do you know the story of Adam and Eve?”

I looked at them stupidly. If this was more code or riddles that they were going to use I was so out of there. “Yeah, my memory of history isn’t gone, only the knowledge of my life.”

Mike chuckled. “Well, everybody knows the basics of the Garden, but the part they don’t know is the second part of God’s curse. You see, after God cursed Adam into leaving the Garden of Eden, He also laid a curse on him to always be reborn when he dies, to live a life of sorrow and misery until he finds his true love, eve, again. She got the better part of the deal. though She iS reborn, She never has any feelings of depres-sion or an apathy toward the rest of the world that Adam would have. She gets to live a normal life. You, on the other hand, won’t be happy until you find her.”

It took a few seconds for his words to sink in. One thing became clear to be very quickly. “Umm…so which looney bin did you two escape from? Do you think I’m stupid?”

Lily and Mike looked at each other, then stepped out of the car. The parking lot was deserted. I hadn’t realized the restaurant we had stopped at was shut down. I got out behind them.

“Here’s your proof.” Lily said, and stepped backward into the darkness of the unlit part of the lot, while Mike stepped directly underneath the light.

22 I seriously almost blacked out; Lily’s image shifted and grew more beautiful by the second. Behind her arms, two large dark masses appeared. I couldn’t see what they were in the darkness. Then, stunned, I realized I was watching her grow wings in the dark of night.

Mike’s face, on the other hand, grew into a scowl. Two little indents raised in his hair, until I realized I was looking at horns. He had wings as well, but of a dark velvety black color than reminded me of dried blood.

“Now do you believe uss?” he hissed, his tongue slipping out from between his teeth like a snake.

“Yep.” I breathed quietly, then everything swirled and my head hit the pavement. It took a few hours for me to come to, but when I did, and saw Mike and Lily looking down at me, I tried to scramble away. Only my broken leg prevented me from getting very far. About twenty feet away from them, I collapsed in pain. Those pain-killers had worn off.

“Do you want some help with your leg?” Lily asked quietly. I hadn’t even seen her walk up.

I grunted at her. She must have taken this as acceptance though, because she laid her hands on my leg. I tried to pull away but the cast fell away in dust and her hands traveled the inch down toward my leg.

Now I really freaked. She had just turned my cast into dirt with her hands. Now they were touching my leg. I kicked out with my bad leg and connected right in her neck.

I got up and ran about four steps before I realized it. My leg was perfectly fine now.

I turned back to look at Lily, being helped up by Mike.

“What the hell did you just do to me?” I yelled, advancing on the two like I had a chance in a fight.

Mike held up his hands, “Relax, Nate. Lily hass the healing touch.”

I sat down where I was. Hard. My mind was reeling. I couldn’t sort through this craziness. Supposedly, two angels, one of light, one of darkness, had stumbled upon me, the archetype of man, and now they wanted to help me, maybe, find the love of my life. My Eve.

“Why should I believe a word you two say?” I was just trying to stall for time now. Who knew what they had in store for me. Lily came to sit next to me and put an arm around my shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but, if you let me, I think I can unlock your memories.”

That was unexpected. “Why?”

“Why would I help you? Or why do I think I can help you?” Lily smiled at me and I felt myself warm-ing to her regardless of what she was.

23 “Both,” I said, after a minute of thought.

“Well I think I can help you because no one, not even God, can destroy memory, so it must be there somewhere. And for why…”she trailed off looking up at Mike.

“I guesss we should tell him,” Mike said with a warm smile on his face. “Nate, God iss becoming more and more paranoid. Every century, he thinkss man is going to not need him anymore for some different reasson. So every century, he helpss them create something that hass the capability to destroy them. Firsst it was gunss, then bombss, then the Atomic bomb. Now he’ss becoming paranoid again and we can’t take it anymore.”

Lily stood up, putting her arm around him, “Mike and I are actually great friends, but after the fall, you know, Satan’s fall, Mike was sent down for not helping either side. God is going to try to eradicate all humans and demons,” she grimaced at this word, “in an attempt to bring goodness back into the world.” I didn’t fully believe them yet. But something was nagging at the back of my mind. “But why do you need my help?”

“Actually, we didn’t even think of you,” Mike said. “But chance workss in funny little wayss like that. You are one of perhapss three or four different strategiess that we could employ to take God out, but also the hardesst to find. The probability of uss finding you wass asstronomical.”

“But now you want me to do what?”

Lily put her hands on my head, “Remember who you are.”

It felt like a bolt of lightning hit me, a bulldozer ran me over, and a thousand other unpleasant and po-tentially fatal deaths happened to me at once. My lives flashed before my eyes. I was Romeo looking down at Juliet’s corpse, in actuality Eve. I was Hercules standing over the corpses of my children and Megara. I was Per-seus, Theseus, Tristan. I was Hamlet, Mark Anthony, Lancelot and Arthur. I was Paris, Orpheus, Mr. Darcy and John Smith. Every time I found my love, God had halted our happiness, for if we died a natural death, happy with each other, our souls would travel to heaven, freeing mankind from our damning sin.

I was Adam. Now I was Nathaniel. But no gift of God, I was the destruction of his ways. I knew what I had to do. I had to find my Eve.

“Thank you.” That was all I said before I turned away from the empty parking lot and starting walking down the road. My love would guide me to her. Of that I was sure.

“What, you think We aren’t going to help you?” lily Said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toWard the car. “you humanS…all alike.”

i got into the back and We Started driving. i had no clue hoW long it Would take to find my love, but i WaS happy noW. i kneW Who i WaS. Something Still bothered me, though.

“lily, Why Were you So Scared to See mike outSide that reStaurant?”

lily laughed a little guiltily, Shooting furtive glanceS at mike. “i didn’t knoW WhoSe Side he WaS on then.”

“Side?”

24 “Well, Nate, most of the angels and demons are going to try to kill you.” I sat in silence for a minute, absorbing them.

“Well, you two are here to help me right?”

“Of course,” the both piped in unison, then laughed.

“Well then, step on it. We’ve got a world to save.”

Mike punched the gas, making the tires spin out for a second. A huge dust cloud rose behind us and we shot off into the night.

Daddy, Don’tby Leila Kandret

I don’t want to go inside. I know that once I go inside, five minutes late, he’ll come at me. He’s probably had a half bottle of Jose Cuervo by now, droplets clinging to his brown, unshaven face. I know that scent. Hot, heavy, alcohol and sweat. The bile bubbles in my throat.

Time keeps ticking, and it will only get worse the longer I stand outside this double-wide. My home. There’s not even a proper step up to the front door. It’s a pile of cinder blocks. Dirt grinds between the cement cinder blocks and my pink sandals.

“Daddy, there’s a spider in my room,” I hear my seven year-old sister Jamie say to my dad, who’s prob-ably slumped on the green and brown sofa, half of the upholstery worn away.

“Is that my problem?” my dad retorts. I hear him slam a bottle down onto the floor.

I finally open the front door, knowing he’d start going after Jamie if I didn’t cut in. I have to protect her like Mom used to, before she passed. I can hear my heart thundering underneath my white tee-shirt.

“Where the hell have you been, Haley?” he asks, fists clenching, mouth smirking. He’s been waiting for me.

It’s not even worth it to get defensive anymore. I set the clear plastic bag, heavy with a gallon jug of milk and box of Wheaties, onto the wobbly linoleum kitchen counter.

“I was at work, Dad. We got out late and I stopped at Wal-Mart before coming home so that Jamie can have something for breakfast tomorrow.”

Jamie inches next to me, clutching her one-eyed brown teddy bear close to her chest, and rests her head on my left hip. She strokes my hair, the same amber curls as her own.

As I set the milk on a shelf of the refrigerator and the box of cereal onto the counter, I hear him get up off the couch. He huffs and groans, his years of alcohol consumption weighing him down in his gut. When he bumps the table with his hip, a plastic cup of pens and markers crashes to the floor. A pair of long, slender, red handled scissors glides across the linoleum. I turn away from him and towards my bedroom, ushering Jamie in front of me. My heart still thuds in my chest. I’m sure my cheeks are flushed from anger and restraint.

“The hell you think you’re going?” He clamps my elbow. The calluses on his palm grind at my skin. My feet stop moving. Jamie skitters into the bedroom, her Mickey Mouse nightgown swishing at her ankles.

“I’m going to put Jamie to bed and then I’m going to bed, too. Tomorrow is Monday. Senior year starts tomorrow.” I don’t turn around. His face is much too close. I can feel, smell his breath. His other hand clutches my waist.

“Gonna get all smart, are ya? Become a fancy businesswoman. Isn’t that right, Honey?” He inches closer. My muscles tighten.

“I’m going to bed.”

25

“Haley, are you comin’?” Jamie calls to me from the bedroom.

He lets go of me and walks back to the couch, knowing he can’t get away with it when Jamie is awake. He slumps down with the bottle again. “Goodnight, Sweetie,” he calls to my back.

I release my muscles, stomp into the bedroom and shut the door. Jamie waits for me under the pale blue comforter of our full-sized bed. Her eyes are wide, her hands still clutch her teddy bear.

“Did Daddy get mad at you?” she asks as I walk to our dresser.

“No. Everything is fine,” I lie, pulling an oversized purple sweatshirt from the second drawer. I turn to face the wall opposite the bed, strip off my tattered jeans and tee-shirt, and yank the sweatshirt over my head. It falls right above my knees.“Did you say there was a spider in here, Jamie?”

“Yeah, behind the closet door. It’s scary. Will you get it?” she whispers, pointing and shutting her eyes tight.

Spiders used to scare me, as much as they do Jamie, but they seem as harmless as daisies these days. It’s so small, I almost feel bad about killing it, but I engulf it in a Kleenex and throw it into a wire waste basket next to the dresser.“There. All gone,” I say.

As I step over to the bed, I take a wad of bills from the pocket of the jeans I wore to work and place them into an old Quaker oatmeal container under the bed. For the past year, I’ve saved almost every paycheck and all of my tip money. After graduation, I’m taking Jamie away from this place.

“Are you all ready for first grade tomorrow?” I ask, as I slip into the cool covers of the bed.

Jamie slinks under the comforter, until only her nose and eyes are visible.

“Yep.”

“Good. Get some sleep, you want to be all rested so you can play with your friends.” I close my eyes, exhaustion spreading over me, coaxing me into a welcome sleep. My mind immediately escapes to a time four years ago, before Mom’s car accident on her way to pick up Jamie from ballet class. Before Dad started turning to alcohol to cope with her death.

“Okay,” she says, closing her eyes. “Haley?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really think Mommy is in heaven? Like an angel?”

My eyes open suddenly. “Of course.”

“Is she keeping us safe?”

“I know she’s watching over us. She left me in charge of keeping you safe.”

26

*** It felt like I was only asleep for ten minutes when the bedroom door opens.Not now. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.

This was how it had started. Come into my room. Tuck me in goodnight. Hold me close for much too long. Caress my newly budded breasts. Slide his hand in between my legs. He would tell me he was just check-ing to see I was wearing my panties. Good girls wear panties. I knew there was something wrong with what he did, but it was the only love I ever knew from him, but I was crushed, cold, weak every time he did it.

There’s no point in risking Jamie waking up, so I slide out from under the covers and face the doorway.

“Haley, honey, help your Daddy to bed.” He creeps into the room, but I push on his chest with all my en-ergy to get him out of Jamie’s vicinity. Once we’re out of my bedroom, he throws his hairy, sweaty arm around my shoulder.

“Dad, you need to go to sleep.”

“I just need some help, okay?”

I pull him to his bedroom, probably more forcefully than necessary, because he starts to get angry.

“What the hell’s the hurry? Can’t move that fast.”

“I’m tired, Dad. I was sleeping. You woke me up.” I yank his elbow forward. He grabs a handful of my hair and my head snaps backwards. He forces me to look at him.

“Y’ungrateful little piece of crap. I put a roof ova ya head and ya can’t be nice to me?”

My eyes shut tight. I can’t stand to look at his reddened cheeks, forehead and his grip on my neck makes my eyes water.

“Dad, stop. Let go of me!” I grab his sweaty fingers and pry them off my neck. He wobbles in his drunken stupor. He regains his balance and takes two booming steps towards me. I back into the wall. His hand grips the side of my ribcage, thumb caressing the side of my breast.

“Don’t git fresh with me, honey,” he breathes.

My hands creep up my chest and force him away with a shove. He trips on the edge of his bed and falls into it, smacking the back of his head on the white plastic nightstand. He’s out cold.

I dart out of the room, close the door, and slide back into my own bed. Sleep doesn’t come as easily as before.*** “Here, let me help you, Jamie,” I say, abandoning my bowl of cold cereal when I see her putting on her blue polka dotted shirt on backwards. I step over to her, standing in the doorway with her shirt askew around her neck. I adjust the folds of cotton and tug the shirt over her head.

“Ouch!”

27

“What is it?” I ask.

“My necklace is caught.”

Mom’s delicate silver heart necklace hung on her neck with a tiny piece of blue thread entwined in the chain. I grab the pair of red-handled scissors from the floor and cut the thread away. The heart dangles free.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome. Ready to go?” I hear Dad grunt behind the closed bedroom door. “Okay.”

I grab her hand and head out the door as soon as another one opens.*** Jamie entwines her fingers in mine as we walk up to the front door. Dried, brown oak leaves crunch under our shoes. The blinds on the window of the door are askew.

“Jamie, Jamie! Come and see! I found a bird’s egg!” Jamie’s friend, Tara, yells, waving one arm wildly, her other hand cradling the delicate white egg as she runs. She stops in front of us with a jolt. Leaves scatter. Her short brown hair flies around her freckled face.

“Wow!” Jamie looks down into Tara’s hand.

“Wanna come help me make a nest for it? Mamma gave me a bunch of old washcloths and a Tupperware container.”

Jamie looks up at me, wide-eye pleading.

“Sure, have fun.” She loosens her hand from mine and departs.

As they run away into the maze of trailers, I meander up to the front door. A heavy, sickly sense of fore-boding comes over me as I turn the door knob and step inside. Alone with him.

Predictable. Asleep on the couch, cradling an empty brown beer bottle. It’s not even 5 o’clock, Dad. I close the door as quietly as possible, turning the knob to retract the bolt so it doesn’t click as it springs into the bolt hole.

As I walk into my bedroom my foot finds the neck of a Budweiser bottle on the floor, barely visible from the dining room table. It slides across the floor. Collides with the metal leg of a chair. The cringing impact radi-ates through the trailer.

Adrenaline involuntarily shoots through my veins. My hands shake. Please, don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. My dad grunts and turns over, still clutching the beer bottle. I walk into my bedroom and slowly shut the door.*** A few hours later, I stand over the two-burner stove. Water boils in a steel pot and elbow macaroni dances in circles. Jamie sits on a copy of Webster’s Dictionary at the kitchen table in order to reach the blue sheet of addition math problems. My dad still sits slumped over on the couch, watching a sitcom on television. He grunts with the canned applause and sloshes some beer around the bottle neck and down into his mouth.

28

“Haley, I need some paper,” Jamie says, swinging her legs underneath the table.

“I think there’s a pack under those magazines,” I say. I point to a small fold-up table next to the televi-sion stacked high with a year’s worth of Sear’s catalogues and free magazines from the library.

Jamie hops down from the chair. Her purple skirt sways and she hustles to the fold-up table. She tugs at the package of lined notebook paper pinned under the magazines, and as she yanks the pack free, the magazines tumble to the floor. Jamie looks up at me, her eyes apologetic. She bites her lip.

“Uh oh,” she says.

“Great. Frickin’ great,” my dad says, slamming his bottle down on the floor. “Can’t you do anythang without makin’ a mess?” He heaves himself from the couch and stomps over to where Jamie stands.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I can clean it up.”

As Jamie squats to her hands and knees to collect the fallen magazines, he pulls her up by her elbow.

“Wha’ did I tell ya about makin’ a mess, huh?”

“Let go of her! It’s not a big deal. It’s not like she broke anything,” I say, turning the burner off.

“Don’t start with me,” he says, pointing a gnarled finger. Jamie’s lower lip trembles.

“Daddy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can put them back, okay?” Jamie reaches up and pats his arm. He slaps her hard across her face. She lets go and falls to the floor on top of the magazines. She whimpers. Her right cheek burns red.

My dad looks up at me, raises his eyebrows as if daring me to fight back. I rush over to Jamie and cradle her small, round face.

“Honey, please go over to Tara’s house, okay?” I say.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere!” my dad says, starting towards us.

I stand up, barricading Jamie from his threats. I look behind me. “Jamie, please go.”

She slips out the door before my dad can stop her.

I look up at his face, moist and blushed from alcohol. “How dare you. How dare you do that to her! She’s only seven years old! It was an accident!” I try to keep my face as stern as possible. Teeth clenched and brow furrowed.

“Wha’ gives you the right to tell me wha’ I can do?”

“She’s my sister! I love her! Mom loved her!” His palm collides with my temple. I stagger sideways and clutch the edge of the kitchen table for balance. I blink away the dark spots dancing in front of my eyes.

The pair of red-handled scissors lies on the table. My fingers wrap around the handle. I turn, both shak-ing hands clutching the scissors in front of me. Sweat builds in my palms. I grip tighter. Don’t let go. .

29

They don’t stop him. He doesn’t see them, guarding me. His stomach finds the sharp point of the scis-sors. They puncture. Hot, crimson blood flows over my hands, still gripping the red handles.

His eyes fix on mine. They say nothing.

The scissors slip through my hands as his weight pulls them to the floor. A thud and then silence. It’s hard to breathe. Hyperventilating. I can’t move. A warm, red river flows between my toes and around my feet.

Seconds, minutes, hours pass. Maybe. I’m not quite sure. I unglue my feet from the sticky floor and walk towards the front door. I step over him. I open the door, step outside. It smells like rain. Clean and moist.

30

Chisujiby Sharron Reyes

Your father is gone. And now you are my Atlas—my world revolves in your tiny hands. Your father’s country forced him to hold something much more wearisome than my world. They sent him to fight with it in my homeland. A draft, they say. It may be a heavy weight for you later, and for that I’m sorry, my son. But for now, you’re too young to care—the pink ribbon of your mouth can’t even twist into a smiling bow yet.

This America is unfamiliar and frustrating to navigate. There are a lot of words here my mouth can’t pronounce, like emotions, colors and the name of the state we live in. My Japanese tongue makes it especially difficult. The people have rigid backs and are stiff to help when I ask—no one will teach me, not like your fa-ther did.

I want you to know how he died when you ask. But when his commanding officer delivered a flag to my door, he told me no one knew what happened, other than my Otto was shot. So, I will tell you a story befitting the man he was. His heart in my story is the same as his heart in reality. I know it well, so you will hear the truth regardless of what happened. He will grow in your heart, shape you and his lineage won’t be broken.

Otto landed close to Shuri castle, where the Americans took a Japanese underground HQ. Humidity flourished over him like a hibiscus blooming all at once when he got off of the plane, but he was excited to see the castle. He had seen pictures from old history books I brought with me when we were married and he always wanted to see it.

He was assigned to keep guard at night around the castle. The US army infiltrated the headquarters during Operation Iceberg and allocated troops to keep guard while others searched for hidden tunnels, reports, anything that could stop a potential surprise attack. As he rode to his first shift his face was calm, but his mouth perked with content. He didn’t have to think about killing anymore. The area was secure and he was going home in a month.

He could spend his nights among high red columns, gold and green dragons slithering across roofs, maws lined with ivory fangs to scare away typhoons. Though the smoke hadn’t yet settled, he imagined the pal-ace suffused with starlight, so mystical with beauty that the pair of Shisa guarding the gates would move while he wasn’t looking. He had always wanted to stand between the Shisa, the male on his left, mouth closed to keep in good luck, and his beloved mate with her mouth wide open to catch it.

But as the Jeep reached the hilltop, blinding construction lights cut through smoke and dust flurries. There was no castle, but machines gnawed through smoldering piles of stone, emphatic in victory. Splintered trunks of columns lay like beached red whales, massive and doomed to suffocate from their own fallen great-ness. Soldiers and officers trotted through rubble, overlooking toothless, decapitated dragons, and Shisa thrown from their partners.

Otto’s comrades unloaded from the Jeep and followed the lieutenant who drove them. But Otto sat and stared. The symbol of his wife’s island, the Shisa, the Castle, the Beauty, lay shattered before him. He could do nothing. The lieutenant shouted for him, but he didn’t move.

The man yanked Otto from the Jeep by the arm. Otto followed silently as the lieutenant stationed him with another private at the back of the perimeter among shredded trees and bullet-gravel. Half of the palace’s main hall spilled over in tatters on most of his post. While the other private lit up a cigarette once the lieutenant left, Otto stared off, lost.

31

“Hey, Otto,” the private said. His cigarette pulsed in time with his speech. “You’re weirdin’ me out standin’ all eerie-like. Could you sit down or somethin’?” Otto obeyed and came to the pillar his comrade sat on. Just before he sat down himself, he stopped short. His eyes searched the air for what his ears caught. “What? What is it?” the private asked.

“Someone crying,” Otto said. The sound was muffled, but diffused through the air like fog. Soft, pathetic and hopeless, “A girl.” Otto followed the sound, slowly making his way through the rubble. He pushed through a fallen palm tree and found a tunnel hidden behind a stone door. “C’mon,” he said, and the private scampered in behind him.

“Oh, God, it reeks of death,” the private placed handkerchief on his face. Otto took out his flashlight. As the light rushed before them, the small crying turned into a shriek. They turned a corner and the private ran, “I’m getting the lieutenant,” he said, rushing.

On the ground, next to shuttering candles, sat a 15 year-old girl, a mess of soot and sobs. One of the last Star-Lily corps nurses, taken from her family to mend mangled Japanese soldiers. Those she healed abandoned her in that secret bunker, with the hopelessly wounded. Their deaths perfumed the air. She stared at Otto as his light roved over the six bunks. Each held empty husks of flesh and army fatigues.

“Daijyoubu des,” he said quietly, “It’s okay.” She twitched and whimpered.

“No, no. Go away,” she said. She scuffled back to a table of two-bit medical supplies, half-used antisep-tics. Her hands scuttled about the table, searching in the dark. “They told me what you would do. They left it here for me so I wouldn’t suffer. I won’t let you touch me. I won’t.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Otto said, stepping closer, “Let me help you. We can find your family.” But her hands still beetled over the table and she cut her fingers on scalpels. Then she stopped. Quiet.

Otto moved his flashlight over the table. He could see her scarred hand resting on a drawer knob. She pulled the drawer back, placed her hand inside and pulled out a small pistol. Otto heard footsteps from the en-trance.

“Listen to me, please. They lied. We want to help you. Don’t hurt yourself.” But the girl pulled back the hammer, awkwardly. Her little hands nearly dropped the machine.

“Otto!” The private and the lieutenant rushed in. Otto looked back. The girl began to raise her gun, but the lieutenant ripped his gun from its holster quicker. But Otto was fastest.

He shouldered the girl out of the way. The lieutenant shot my Otto. She crumpled on the floor and cried again. The lieutenant stopped, his gun still extended, watching my husband drowning in the air like a fish.

My son, this is the man your father was. This story places his hands on your heart, and frames it to grow in the same shape his did, so that his lineage will never break. And that I will never lose him again.

32

Non-FictionBackward, In High Heels

by Sarah Wallace

Fred Astaire gave Ginger Rogers class, but she gave him sex. At least, thus goes the saying. Both exceptional dancers, they could make the hardest step or routine look easy. Dancing “Waltz in Swing-Time” proved difficult because the six-eight time, a tricky tempo to dance to, replaced the usual three-quarter time. Often described as Fred and Ginger’s best dance number ever performed because of its complexity and unpredictability, “Waltz in Swing-Time” combined the formal, contained style of Waltz with the fast-paced, hip tempo of Swing.

The Waltz defeats me. The Waltz requires a gracefulness that I simply do not possess. It requires stepping wide and I, who have short legs, cannot step so far – at least, I make that excuse. When I step backward, I push with the thigh of my opposite leg to compensate for my short stride, resulting in a sort of step-clunk, step-clunk that does not feel graceful at all. I have heard that one should imagine a big, beautiful bouquet of roses when doing the under-arm turn, the arm brushing over the blooms when swooping around them. A lovely image, but I get distracted wondering why a bouquet of roses would intrude in the middle of a dance floor.

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced on screen for the first time with “The Carioca” in Flying Down to Rio. Fourth and fifth billed in the cast, they did not seem likely to steal the spotlight, especially with Ginger Rogers cast only as a second choice when the first choice eloped. RKO made the movie in an attempt to wrench itself out of bankruptcy in the midst of the Great Depression. They cast Dolores del Rio as the Latin Bombshell, hop-ing she would pull the crowds in. She pulled the crowds in, all right, but once the movie started, no one really cared about the love triangle between Dolores del Rio, Gene Raymond and Raul Roulien; everyone fell in love with the quirky side characters. When those two danced, the audience gave a standing ovation – unprecedented in movie history. People flocked to dance studios, begging to learn “The Carioca.”

I play “The Carioca” for my ballroom dance teacher, asking her what dance it would classify as. I want to dance it, moving one step closer to Fred and Ginger. The song begins. The trumpet slides up the register to pop out the high note. After the maracas tap out the tempo, the clarinet echoes the trumpet’s slide with an easy cool-ness, followed briefly by the flute and then the whole orchestra slowly swings in to skip down the scale. Bongo drums bring back the tempo until the trumpet takes back the spotlight, crooning the melody above the other instruments. The flutes and violins float behind the trumpet, adding harmony and depth, while the piano trickles merrily underneath. The percussion moves the orchestra forward and I sway in rhythm, watching my teacher, wondering what she will say. She listens; her hand tucked under her chin, her eyebrows furrowed, and finally describes “The Carioca” as nothing, a song impossible to dance to.

Ginger Rogers always wore beautiful gowns for dancing, one of which she actually designed, with the help of her mother, and wore in “Cheek to Cheek.” Long and elegant, the gown flowed with ostrich feathers covering it. Fred Astaire did not approve. He picked at the feathers all over his suit, all over the floor, and in the air, claim-ing they would ruin the take. But she insisted, promising that the dress would look just fine on screen. He grudg-ingly acquiesced and she won, luckily. The dress enhanced the romantic effect. The feathers accentuated her every move, swaying when she swayed; weightless, they made her look as if she floated on air. After he saw the result, Fred Astaire gave Ginger Rogers a feather pendant engraved with the words, “You were right.”

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I never know what to wear to ballroom dances. I sometimes wear a peasant skirt because it billows, long and full. When I do the Cha-Cha, it swishes under me like a fabric hoola-hoop. Cha-cha-cha, swish-swish-swish - terribly fun, but not terribly fancy. I have a dress I used to love to wear that made me feel a little fancier, yet still had the same full skirt. Once, I wore the dress when swing dancing; my partner tried to pick me up but his hand slipped and he dropped me. He claimed the dress made him slip. I argued that his laziness and his grip caused the fall. Although the empire cut on the dress did leave my waist bare, making his a plausible excuse, I didn’t really believe him. But I never danced in that dress again.

Fred and Ginger did not kiss in their movies, not until Carefree, their eighth movie together. Fred Astaire’s wife forbade it. Most people think that Fred and Ginger either loved each other or hated each other, but neither as-sumption holds truth; they enjoyed a close friendship. They went on a date once, before they starred together in The Gay Divorcee, before Fred married, and shared a kiss that Ginger Rogers claimed would not have passed the censors. But on screen, they never kissed. They never really needed to. Their dancing showed their charac-ters’ relationships far better than any kiss. When they danced, they showed flirtation, romance, sex.

My chest briefly brushes against his and I lean back. I have difficulty feeling passionate for someone I hardly know. People regard ballroom dancing as stuffy, but they don’t realize the intimacy it requires. My partner steps forward between my legs as I step back, our thighs touching. We stand in the correct position for the Tango: our thighs touching, our hands touching, our chests touching, our faces nearly touching. The Tango thrives on pas-sion and intimate contact. I lean farther back anyway.

Film historians love to wax eloquent on Fred Astaire, the perfectionist. True, he practiced routines over and over and over again, but Ginger Rogers did nothing less. When filming “Never Gonna Dance,” it took forty-seven takes on the final sequence to satisfy them both. In the sequence, she twirls and twirls and twirls, he catches her, spins her, and she twirls and twirls and twirls again. They kept repeating the take until somebody pointed out Ginger’s feet, bleeding through her shoes. It seemed like an appropriate moment to stop. But she refused to stop. So they pasted band-aids on her feet, then she got back on her feet and continued the take. Talk about perfectionist.

My feet hurt. I do not hesitate to complain of this every few steps. But dancing for two hours straight, especially with the Samba thrown into the mix, murders my feet. Now, I can barely walk. However, my pain gives evi-dence to the fun the Samba offers. The hop-step-step, hop-step-step energizes me – and exhausts me. Pretend to jump over a candle, but the bounce should not leave the legs; the upper body must not jolt up and down, but stay still enough to balance a book on the head, without allowing it to topple off. But I haven’t learned all of these particulars quite yet. If I did, it probably wouldn’t matter anyway. I dance the Samba like I dance all ballroom dances: for fun, with abandon, not with precision; a probable reason for the pain in my feet. Oh, well. What does it matter? I’m no Ginger Rogers. I can’t convince myself to dance so well my feet bleed out of my shoes. Besides, I don’t need to.

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PoetryAfter the Rattler’s Visit

by Rick Campbell

This dry morningthe ground is sinister.I wait for its rattle,

for the monkey grassto part like a redfishstalks pilchards in the flat.

Canebreak, wedgehead yellow,big as a serving spoon,diamonds brown as earth.

I cannot think of love today.Five dogs walk the rattler’s pathand my world beset with danger.

It’s rash to walk the trail,to rasp and rattle to the creek.I want it dead.

I see it moving, sometimesstretched straight, then serpentine.It coils, about to strike.

Under the back porch, itrises toward the deckwhere we are supposed to be safe.

When it comes again, whispering,I will not understand its tongue.

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Escapismby David Paxton

Hands muddied, we rooted through the forest muck And shrubs pulling blackberries, raspberries, pricking Our thumbs and forefingers on strawberry thorns, Tiny berries ripe, easy to pluck Because of their infantile weakness, and picking The fruit, how we broke out of stacking stones.

Our hands bloodied from bracing those boulders, And we, sick of it, our knuckles gnashed red, Thick soiled goo clumping against our forearm hair, Unpaid and little tended. Shrugging shoulders, We bolted through the brush breaking twigs, our scarred Hands healing, the forest fog veiling our stare.

We realized all too well that when we returnedThere’d be less food and more rock, but we ran justThe same, opting to reside the next shunned nights In the green, the rain and the stink. My flesh burned With humidity and sweat; and when your chest Developed, we escaped often to forests.

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View From The Window by Rick Campbell

for Liz in Laramie

I stand on a darkened butte,watch you walk through incongruouspools of winter light.

You’re leaving slowly,wrapped in a long woolen coatand your hair curls out

beneath your scarf. I imaginea peasant woman, Ukraine, Blackand gray trees ring your path,

The safety lamps light your waybut I know you are lost.

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