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coraddi fall 2008 The Coraddi, published in various forms since 1897, is the student-run Art & Literature magazine for the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. We currently publish one issue each semester. For questions or information about submitting work, please contact us: the.coraddi@gmail.com The Coraddi Box D2 EUC UNCG Campus Greensboro, NC 27413 poetry 8. untitled Tom Gagne 9. Sparks in Wheat Jennifer Blankenship 10. M4 11. Ginger Boy Shannon Thomas 12. Gay Dorm Love Seth Austin 16. Heartglow Shelley D’Almada 17. Ode to Walt Sarah Griffiths 18. Strawberries Karen Rooker 20. Effluent. 22. Orange 23. Highway Fixtures RJ Hooker 24. Carrying a Poet Jessica Fritz 26. Tufted Titmouse 27. This One’s About Superheroes. Steph Rahl 28. If I Had the Language of Kings 30. Concerning Imagination Helen-Marie Pohlig 31. untitled BK Carver 32. The Sight of Drowning Haley F. Brown 34. untitled 35. For Progress Paul Vincent 36. 1985 Charles Wood 37. Purple in a Glass Kate Weigand 38. Left Unsaid Ashley Wahl 40. In the Eye of the Beholder Jeremiah Neal staff Taylor Scisco Executive Editor Taryn Cowart Production Manager Catherine Conley Literature Editor Zack Franceschi Art Editor Seamus Lupton Promotions Director Lit Staff Seth Austin Andrew Bauer Scott Daubenspeck Ashley Fare Katie Fennell Kendra Hammond Stephen Kagarise Luke LeGrand Seamus Lupton Alex McCourt Amber Midgett Jesse Morales Khaki Stelten Lauren Thomas Lucynda Thomas Lauren Wilder Art Staff Devon Curry Korey Deese Josh Petty Lauren Roche Jason Rouse Beth Steelman winners Each semester, selected members of the UNCG faculty choose their favorite works, and contributors win a cash prize. This year, Barbara Campbell Thomas (Art) and Maria Sanchez (Lit) judged the works. poetry prose art 1. M4 1. Concrete Routines 1. Jared, 43 Shannon Thomas James Mabe Philip Lawrence 2. This One’s About 2. Africa 2. Drips Superheroes. Helen-Marie Pohlig Annaleigha Wilke Steph Rahl 3. Effluent. 3. A God of My Own 3. Not RJ Hooker Understanding Elizabeth Burkey Adam Thorn prose 90. untitled Meen Cho 94. Worms Levon Valle 102. Africa Helen-Marie Pohlig 104. Concrete Routines James Mabe 118. A God of My Own Understanding- A Day in the Life of Joel Welsh, New Member of Alcoholics Anonymous 126. Contributor’s Notes * art title page by Tristin Miller art 44. Party’s Over Misty Knowles 45. For Memere Natalie Sloane 46. Wroclaw, Poland Lauren Roche 48. love in the salon?!? - w4m - 24 50. Jared, 43 Philip Lawrence 53. Her Courtyard Jeffrey Pubantz 54. Accusations Scott Mayo 56. untitled 57. untitled Andrew Marino 58. Not 59. Nennifer Elizabeth Burkey 60. Tube Worship Poster When Tubes and Flowers Meet Aaron Sizemore 61. untitled Alicia Cipicchio 62. You Are Your Possessions Philip Lawrence 63. Church Audrey Schuyler 64. Yarn Form II 65. Yarn Form I 66. Interior Karen Lepage 68. We Move Mountains Like Paper Triangles Matthew Brinkley 70. Drips 71. Essence Annaleigha Wilke 73. Josh Petty 75. There is Something in Your Throat Matthew Brinkley 76. untitled 77. untitled Tristin Miller 78. Vista Ocultada Brenda Vienrich 80. Gigi 81. Gregory vs. the Whale Lauren Roche 82. untitled 84. Knee Highs 86. Kurdt Devon Curry In your heart lie waking, lambent reflections Of a moon half clothed refusing the chain Who speaks through dreams with strange inflections; Her name so easily taken in vain. Veiled eyes are hidden between shades of blue, No secrets or shame, nothing left to fight. Under blankets of night, marked only to you, The object of mind in crystal clear sight. What words to describe this rarest of vision; A celestial rain that melts cities of brass? There are none but these: the arrow’s precision That grows only sharper as the years pass. From the earliest dawn then comes a man Who asks for one kiss… before his lips can… I know the reason why you cut off all of your hair. It wasn’t, As you said, because of the stifling heat that overwhelms us At siesta time, the heat that forces us to lie down in separate Hammocks, struggling to toss into dreams, to escape the pressure Of the Sun. You could have put your hair over the side, letting It swing back and forth as you slept, to relieve your sweaty brow, Or pulled it up into a tight jet black bun, as you did before, when You would sweep the red dirt that blew in with the wind. I saw the fire Reflecting in your wide rabbit eyes and your ears were pounding, Betraying your mind, bringing the screams of the field rats burning Alive in the wheat that grows behind our white-wash house, the smell That lingered for days after. I saw how you would wail in your sleep When the Sun’s rays would sear into your skin as dreams rose And brought you back to that day. When the fire inspectors Arrived to determine a cause, you nodded starkly, went into the Bathroom and cursing the magnificent Sun, chopped off every Long silky-black fiber until your scalp was exposed, cooling your head. untitled Tom Gagne Sparks in Wheat Jennifer Blankenship 8 9 sent away to sand palaces saved only by semi- automatic stand-in lovers staying by them shadowed by night soldiers’ shebas slowly pull their slippery triggers sounds that remove silence by fear step away, back somewhere spirits separate by shame and hate solving nothing Hey Buddy, I bet that hat doubles as formal wear to cover up the dirt and dreaded nature hair you used to have when you were you, but who are you? Hey Handsome, I wish I was your cigarette to touch that smile and be your addictive little pet short lived and great enough for now all you’re allowed. Hey Ginger Boy, I see you like your coffee black to counter act the sweetness of your silly laugh and show the man you think you are, I think you are, I’d like to think you are. Ginger Boy Shannon Thomas M4 Shannon Thomas 10 11 A circle of three Strangers, provoking one another To remember the voices of those Long gone and exhausted in the pages Of a university’s bible. One spoke loudly, with plenty Of tales coming from herself So quick to forget The ears of those nearby Or remembering, but in need of attention. Another, a boy dressed awkwardly oversized Bore ever-changing eyes Into mine (a most intruding gesture), Was mannered with a masculine front And, annoyed at her , spoke in a suggestive whisper. I, the third, unsure of myself Rehearsed the body electric, Endowed with a keen insecurity That those whose glance should be fixed on me Are questioning my sincerity. She incessantly spoke of useless bullets While he, stealing glances, brushed against my feet. The glib one was imposing on something. So you can imagine my delight, When she started having breathing problems and departed. When three was two, It was he and I, and he Making sure of two things: I was well drank, and what Whitman wrote Was seducing me prevalently. The situation, I was stuck to ponder, Gay Dorm Love Seth Austin 12 13 As he moved closer to me, Sharing his touch with my shoulder. I thought of the professor we shared together And her evaluation of our scenario: “High marks for experimentation But you need to work on communication. Your vocabulary here is somewhat vague; Can you clarify your relationship with this boy, And where is this line going?” “Do you recall Melville?” he asked. (Our knees were lightly touching) “and Ishmael spending an intimate night With that tattooed cannibal At the inn before he set sail?” Homoeroticism notwithstanding I could hardly fathom in a flirtatious game, Playing such a hand, And I had much desire for my flesh intact, So I quickly reinvented the topic. “How’d you get that scar?” I asked, Fingers to his neck. He leaned in close, and whispered, “Thyroid cancer,” and kissed me, As awkward as that seems. There was a mere nickel between our lips, I could feel his breath with mine. With blushed nervousness I glanced around hastily So it was that my eye caught the sign “McCain/Palin 08” Also known as my erection’s demise. 14 15 Underdressed again. Foolishly launched into this grey, drizzly chill without armament. (What would Grandma say?) For so long, days like this were bitchy but welcome friends: at least in their sharp winds, goose bumps and frigid fingers were something to feel. I don’t need them now, except to remind me, while missing my absent jacket, that you would wrap me up in yours (probably purchased in 1979) Or in your arms, and that would be enough. And kiss my cold fingers one at a time and smile, and rekindle this flame you started in my heart. Humility is left standing at the gate, watching as Hubris rounds the next bend in the road where memories go to die; in the yet unexplored void he finds the ability to release from the clutching hands of silent death his own reminiscences. Unknowingly courting immortality, whose rosy lips will form the words ad infinitum… ad infinitum… The story of an ordinary man, holding in his arms the bastard child of Chaucer and Lady Liberty… Even Virgil is lost here. Heartglow Shelley D’Almada Ode to Walt Sarah Griffiths 16 17 Who knew that it could be like this? Separate lives to live such bliss. I’ll play you a song only for your eyes On wooden keys My fingers ease, While the splinters follow deep, A melody runs like water. Discovering, That your writing is all the same, I despise the fact, That you’re a mirror, I see myself in you. I am not attempting to be deep, Or perfectly profound, I’m simply excavating these words From the caverns in my body Connected to my soul Binging and purging of words Anywhere I can get my hands On something to write with. //Ring, ring? Hello. I just wanted to tell you, That you excite me In the regions near my arteries, But I’d still like to punch you In the face, only sometimes.// But the right words still don’t come out. //Hello?// Taking risks. Falling apart, Picking up again, Cyclical parties, Brief glances, Are not enough to make up for the fact, I caught you eye fucking her all night. I know, Because I wiped the drool off your lap. This could be a lament, But I’m too cynical at the present moment, Mr. Bukowski, let’s get together, We’ll write until our fingers burst blood, All over the piano while we’re drunk. It’ll be a good night for all. Eating a whole bowl of sliced strawberries, I have deducted, Is a very reflective fruit. Strawberries Karen Rooker 18 19 When summer scorches the creek bed, It looks like a wound inflicted in the belly of the playground. Long since scabbed over, the mud hardened into tessellations. Underneath, the soft flesh of clay lay dormant, protected by a mosaic of terra cotta scales. The vestiges of life-flecks of dried minnows, gems, bearing themselves for release. Every step closer, the stink of crawdads. Duck eggs that lie in broken nests along side hatched beer cans. Seesaws and chain link swings, looking into the gash, hoping for a turn. Effluent. RJ Hooker -They’re all left like abandoned songs. I kneel and trace the sunken walls-the creek gives like an old womb. I imagine the Leviathan was forged here, and the red mud of after birth must still cling to its immense underbelly. My faith’s parched, and I shudder at what I’m fool to believe. 20 21 Dimpled and fat and obscenely painted, This orange Is a globed purse of sherbet leather, Heavy with its slimy intestines. I never peel. I split its bulge and watch, as sticky stomach acid ropes on the blade before dripping into puddles on the napkin. Always in hopes of defeat, But satisfaction never climbs out from the slick guts. You boisterous whore, You lazy indifferent love-fruit, You do nothing but tease. You sting paper-cuts. You make the strongest of men wince Should you find an opening. And you always do. But you carry no real fulfillment. Your fickle juice pockets explode effortlessly. There is no flesh ripping, No insatiable, crisp bite, Just a pulpy explosion of wet orange sex slop. You’re the leftover condom Of divine recreation. Orange RJ Hooker At the top of the hill there lay a cat, parched and leathered and pressed into the road. The broken belly is a dry flutter of ribbons in the indifferent wind. On the side, peeking their heads through the guard rails, the dandelions bob incessantly, ruffling their manes against each other. Highway Fixtures RJ Hooker 22 23 These six men were hesitant- They know he is old, they think he is weak- But who paints the tree? Who gives the limbs? Their limbs were weak. Theses six men lifted him from a chair, Struggled, and staggered- Fools in a house of poetry, men of poetry. And how have they lived? Weeping and writing, and No verse can produce strength. Their mouths of sour breath Exhaling and heaving, and faces so strained. I watched them from a window and I believed they might burst- Temples turned to red, and they were not well, Because they were unsure. And no verse can create clarity, Sieve confidence from sweat. These six men were high-tide at five, Reaching for the heat of the solid Earth, And I watched from afar. These six men were a structure, A plan. He is a cosmos, working across the ceiling. But no verse can assemble armies, bear lightening, or Afford truth. He fell to the ground, the men collapsed. Fools in a house of poetry, house of languish. Contempt to the men of poetry, our country of composition. Carrying a Poet Jessica Fritz 24 25 In the birch tree, she said, sinking back into the Volkswagen. I imagined him: slightly smaller than an ordinary mouse with a little purple Mohawk, maybe tiny tinny headphones tuned to Megadeth. I nearly said so. I am glad, now, I kept my mouth shut. Superman hates elevators, shuffles uncomfortable feet from eighth to ground floor. When the door unfolds again, his top two buttons have undone. His girlfriend and their friends think it’s so damn cute, the way he flips the ground beef patties with his adamantium claws, but Wolverine stands fifteen minutes at the sink until the metal is no longer slick with grease, until his burger’s cold. Spiderman’s socks fall down inside his sneakers and it is fucking annoying. And I—despite the parades, and the accolades, and the overlarge key to the city—I cannot still myself to respond to your offered hand. I am terrified. Tufted Titmouse Steph Rahl This One’s About Superheroes. Steph Rahl 26 27 If I had the language of kings, I would dump my vats of blue From where the horizon touches the sky Out into the open land, And wait for the trees to grow. I would be satisfied and roll up my Gold and tomato rug And walk the sands until I Began to climb; And in the hills I would feel my Pockets for what I needed next, And once I had reached the apex Of the mountain with the longest legs of all, I would pause to catch my breath in the Splash of heavy cold, And slowly release my buckets of shine. I would sparkle the stone of the wide, wide earth, And shower it there at my feet. And once I had clapped my hands And dusted my fingers, I would be satisfied and roll up my Gold and tomato rug and Shimmy down the face of the giant; Then I would walk the stones until I began to wade; And at the heart of the swamp, I would string up the leaves and Illuminate the marécage with hanging lamps That swung softly in the falling light. And I would sigh with the zephyrs and be Satisfied to retrieve my gold and tomato rug From the trunk of the Indian tree. I would ford through the streams until I began to feel the suck of the tide; And at the lip of the land, I would have nothing left but a little voice With which to whisper my life far out, Hovering there above the great wine-dark sea; And when I had finished, just like You, I would be satisfied to unravel my Gold and threadbare rug, And sit and watch my language speak. If I had the Language of Kings Helen-Marie Pohlig 28 29 No matter how many bottles of ocean water romance Are stored in the cellar of my heart, I can’t help feeling that we are Only people, Bones and shoulders, Our faces pressed against the warm glass Of the old tan Volvo, Driving down the long road To nowhere in general, Blinded by the smile of A leaking grapefruit Reaching up from the approaching August horizon. the dialogues we have are seldom as beautiful as the soliloquies i have where the words are eloquent and beautifully chosen, perfectly punctuated Concerning Imagination Helen-Marie Pohlig untitled BK Carver 30 31 I came up for a breath again To sit on the floor and play with dancing light Like two magnets One edges that negligible distance Suddenly projected into a hidden force And is drawn close I came up for a breath again While two people call to each other From their perch on separate pillars So high up, so far from the other But they call and call If only to be drawn close I came up for a breath again To sit on the rock And eat my fill I was quiet and dazed And the water gushed out And surrounded me I came up for a breath again To shout at the fools who sit so high But sick and dizzy I was frightened to feel My feet planted on my own lonely pillar Shaking, shivering, I thought awhile I came up for a breath again Reflected light shatters like glass A mirror smashed against a wall Little silver shards, strewn Glimmering, but not illuminating dark corners A potential for blood I came up for a breath again I took my wounds up to the rock To lay down and die with my old companions Worry, Confusion, Death The blood gushed out and surrounded me Where the light shines from its source To draw me close I came up for a breath again The Sight of Drowning Haley F. Brown 32 33 Crystal plated pistols Risk everything or So I’ve heard. So pristine, so crisp Are their triggers, I Miss that snipping Sound. With a flick of the Wrist they whisk Lonesome souls Off to their vistas. The shallow summer has Come and gone. All the little girls standing At the edge of home, Within a mile of their Mothers’ hearts and captivated By telegraph wires, turn back Reluctantly as the dirt road they Once haunted is paved in a Fine tar spread. untitled Paul Vincent For Progress Paul Vincent 34 35 The rain caused tiny rivers to form along the sidewalk with cigarette butts and leaves floating in them like tiny, discarded bodies. I remember how I felt, like that debris as I flowed into you, and the look on your face as you picked me out from the crowd and took me home as nonchalantly as if I were a box of cereal. Down in the pines where the wood smoke rise my Pandora’s box will breathe fireflies where galaxies turn with an inch of a sound while I pray your spine runs into the ground tossing over everything I done’ did cocaine tea levitates my id deep rose this psychedelic compass look up the skies’ bleeding blue above us Secrete all comfort through a five-inch syringe just like a madman gliding on a sitar binge I magnify cyanide spirals in the sky with a feather in my hat and a needle in my eye With your feet to the clouds and head to the ground the air is glowing, no jelly men found one man stands with a snake and a cane asking me “boy, when’d you go insane?” I told him I caught the color purple in a glass while the moonlight played strange shadows on the grass the black breeze blew on the sound of machines he took my hand then started bleedin’ real mean. Secrete all comfort through a five-inch syringe just like a madman gliding on a sitar binge I magnify cyanide spirals in the sky with a feather in my hat and a needle in my eye 1985 Charles Wood Purple in a Glass Kate Weigand 36 37 I wanted to tell you On that Saturday morning When I was lying on your floor, Curled up and miserable From being sick the night before; I’d hardly slept at all. I wondered if the chicken breasts that You and Hayden grilled yesterday evening Were under cooked. Or maybe it was the raw fish I shared with my brother for lunch. The chicken did seem a bit pinkish But I assured you the sushi was the culprit. I thought it sweet of you To run to the convenient mart Across the street to buy a Gatorade to replenish the electrolytes I’d sweated out and hurled away. Fierce Grape. It was the dawn of the day before you left For Mexico, your senior trip. You were perched on the edge of your Unmade bed that I wished I could have Slept in, between your deep, blue sheets. Contact. Synchronization. Secrets. Our eyes—fierce, hazel—interlocked, Your face, your room, my world illuminated As you softly sang my name. I thought perhaps you felt it, too. I wanted to tell you for the first time That I love you. Left Unsaid Ashley Wahl 38 39 Dirt flings about your body, forming a curtain of blindness while covering your movements. You can hear the relentless breath following behind. The muscles of your legs constrict and in the instant your body turns, thoughts float away – back to playing Cowboys and Indians: You were always the Indian. The body rips apart and as you watch the muscle pull away from bone, exposing part of the ribcage – and as you watch the gaze of the opponent as the torso separates from the legs – your thoughts are not violent: You notice bullet holes littering the ground behind the victim – the shadow your body casts before the shot – the detail and surprise in the face – even the color of the sky – and you are appreciative. In the Eye of the Beholder Jeremiah Neal 40 41 For Memere Photograph Natalie Sloane Party’s Over Polaroid Photograph Misty Knowles Next Page: Wroclaw, Poland Photograph Lauren Roche 44 45 46 47 You...tall, with hair that resembles a yorkie ( I mean that in a good way), working your hair magic at Chakras Wed afternoon. Sexy as hell, twirling your scissors, working it out. Maybe hairdresser by day, rockstar by night... hmmmmm? Me...curvy and luscious, getting a perm (you know I love the body :)!!) We caught eyes across the room and I my root chakra tingle if you know what I mean. Was it innocent or was it the moment in time that I thought it Cause I can read people pretty well and you’re like a damn Danielle Steele novel me! If I’m right , lets get up. Maybe share the Jack Daniels trio at Fridays (I work there) or maybe Chilie’s for presiden-te margaritas and fajitas? Gentelmans choice. Hit me up, I cant wait...I know you felt it too!! love in the lsoavleo nin? !th?e - s wal4onm? !-? 2- 4w4m - 24 You...tall, with hair that resembles a yorkie ( I mean that in a good way), working your hair magic at Chakras spa on Wed afternoon. Sexy as hell, twirling your scissors, working it out. Maybe hairdresser by dar, rockstar by night...hmmmmm? Me...curvy and luscious, getting a perm (you know I love the body :)!!) We caught eyes across the room and I felt my root chakra tingle if you know what I mean. Was it innocent or was it the moment in time that I thought it was? Cause I can read people pretty well and you’re like a damn Danielle Steele novel me! If I’m right , lets get up. Maybe share the Jack Daniels trio at Fridays (I work there) or maybe Chilie’s for presidente margaritas and fajitas? Gentelmans choice. Hit me up, I cant wait...I know you felt it too!! Previous Page: love in the salon?!? - w4m - 24 Photograph and Text from book Philip Lawrence Jared, 43 Photograph Philip Lawrence 50 51 Her Courtyard Digital Photograph Jeffrey Pubantz 52 Accusations c-print Scott Mayo 55 Both untitled 35 mm Photographs Andrew Marino 56 57 Not and Nennifer Bronze Castings Elizabeth Burkey 58 59 untitled Mixed Media Alicia Cipicchio Tube Worship Mixed Media on Canvas Aaron Sizemore Church Oil on Board Audrey Schuyler You Are Your Possessions Multimedia Philip Lawrence 63 Previous Pages: Yarn Form II and Yarn Form I Oil on Canvas Karen Lepage Interior Oil on Canvas Karen Lepage 67 We Move Mountains Like Paper Triangles Etching Matthew Brinkley 68 69 Drips and Essence Etchings Annaleigha Wilke 70 71 72 73 Recycle Pen and Ink Josh Petty 75 There is Something in Your Throat Etching Matthew Brinkley 74 Both untitled Etchings Tristin Miller Vista Ocultada Digital Photograph Brenda Vienrich 79 Gigi and Gregory vs. the Whale Photographs Lauren Roche Next Spread: untitled Scanned Film Devon Curry 81 Previous Page: Knee Highs Scanned Film Devon Curry Kurdt Scanned Film Devon Curry 87 1. Did you know that smoking a cigarette takes the same amount of time as letting it burn itself out? If you don’t believe me you should try it. It’s a waste of a cigarette but I figure smokers should know bullshit trivia like that. I heard it from a guy I once knew. He knew a lot of things about lots of things and I didn’t know too much, so I always listened to him tell me these things about cigarettes and time. Turns out it all makes life seem a lot more real and well, I have trouble believing in life sometimes so it helped. I would always ask him to tell me things. He always wanted to tell me things. Sometimes I would ask because I wanted to know, but most times I just liked to listen to his voice and watch his eyes when he explained with a zeal I could not find in others. He gobbled up information and stored it in his expansive brain. He ate a lot too. I always used to think his brain fit his stomach, or maybe it was the other way around. Thinking makes a person hungry, ya know. And he thought more than enough for the both of us so I fed him and he kept on thinking. Thinking back I don’t know why I never thought about the things he did, my mind was always on the ground and his was in the sky. He was a bird and I was a fish. Birds and fish don’t go together too well. 2. Soul mates are a funny thing. You never know when you’re going to meet yours. It’s insane to think that there’s only one person out there for you but I believe it so it must be true for me. There’s nothing wrong if you don’t believe in it, that’s your choice, it’s just easier to believe there’s one person out there to fill in your gaps because if there isn’t then how are you supposed to know when is when? It’s like not knowing how much milk you want in your cup; are you going to want an extra gulp after you’re done or did you pour too much? When you believe in having that one soul mate then you know exactly how much milk you want. 3. Once he asked me what I thought happened to people after they died. It was when we were new untitled Meen Cho 90 and fresh, like tulips in April. I told him that I tried not to think about it too much, can’t spend time thinking about dying when you’re living. What’s the point? Well, he badgered me and it seemed important to him so I thought about it and told him the next day. I told him that: - I believed people died and their souls or spirits or whatever you choose would float away to some mountain in the sky, to some beach in the stars, to some plain old cottage on the moon and sometimes if you looked closely you could see them on earth, wandering about to see what’s going on with the living. I believed it was just like when they were living, in these after-life paradises, except not. You knew you were dead, you knew there was no going back, but it was okay because you were a soul, a feather floating around aimlessly. You didn’t need food or water or anything but it was there because old habits die hard. Of course you could talk with all the other souls but usually you found your loved ones, old friends, people you wanted to talk to before the end and spend time with them. I told him: - it was really easy to find all these people from your life because if you truly loved them then you knew where they were. And when you thought hard about it you could be with them instantly. No one knew pain or discomfort and there was no god or higher being where you went. It wasn’t a big party either. It was just nice. So after I told him all of that he scratched his head and said okay. And I asked him what he thought happened after people died. - Nothing. - Nothing? - Nothing. When people die, they just die and that’s the end. 91 And when he said that it made me really sad and he said sorry so I said it was okay even though I was still upset by it. 4. We stayed up late together a lot and sometimes didn’t go to sleep until after the sun came up. Sometimes we went on walks late at night to listen to the houses full of dreaming people, which was nice. On the nights we didn’t sleep, I asked him to tell me everything he knew. - That’s impossible babe. - I know, but try. - It’ll take forever. - Then you should start now. So he told me about science, philosophy, astrology, math, politics, history, theories, speculations, words, words, words. He was always full of them. - Why do you know all of this? - I don’t know. I just pick it up here and there. - No, but why? - So I can tell you. And when I would wrinkle my nose at his answer he always kissed it. After these nights he would 92 always hold my hand until I fell asleep too. I always tried to stay awake longer than him but he always won. Always. 5. I never did remember the things he told me. I guess that’s why I always wanted to know more or didn’t mind hearing about other things because everything he had told me before would always linger and leave, like a scent. Looking back, I should have written these things down because it’s all I have left now. I should have done a better job remembering. I should have carried around a notebook. I should have tied a tape recorder around his neck. I should have, I would have, I could have, but I didn’t. Looking back, I really wish I had remembered everything he told me because then maybe it would feel like he was still here. 93 untitled Meen Cho The bronze face of Earth sighs while the Golden nymph Sun anoints her forehead. “Wake, wake,” Sun says, and rouses the creatures of Earth. The shadows quiver as Earth’s skin blossoms amidst the horizon. Earth’s azure eyes sparkle as her dreams flourish, forming shapes in the skies. “Hello and thank you,” Earth waves her vine-like hands. “You’re welcome,” Sun says, pleased with her work. Yet, Sun spies many children in Earth’s bosom. They are buried deep together, their bodies supine, yet shrouded from Sun’s compassion. No child should be in the dark, Sun thinks, and grasps the children with her hands. Yet none recognize Sun’s fingers, and she turns to Earth, perplexed. “None will awaken from the dark,” Earth says. “Monsters have attacked again.” Sun weeps, but Earth comforts her, “One can still be awakened from the darkness, for the monsters did not reach him.” “Then wake he will.” Sun searches his mind, for in her sight all secret things become known, and glares upon him, whispering his name: “Wake, Isaac, wake.” Sun kisses Isaac on the forehead, yet Isaac does not stir. “Wake, Isaac, wake.” Sun breathes life into his lungs now. Yet Isaac remains asleep, though he stirs a little. “Wake you must, Isaac,” Sun pleads, and she spreads her glowing palms across his face. Isaac’s eyes glitter like pyrite, and from the darkness he rises. Sun beams with pride, and resumes her duty. “Care for him Earth, care for him tenderly, and others will come. Peace always follows Peace.” Earth obeys Sun and offers Isaac gifts of Nature. Warmth drenches Isaac’s face as Earth provides him her comfort. Perfume massages his nose, and happiness fills his nostrils. Syrup teases his amber lips, and Earth fills his stomach. The wind tickles his green skin, not green in pallor, but green with entropy. “Search, search,” Earth tells him, “and you will find a new home. Your siblings have found theirs. Search, search in my bosom, Isaac. Not with your feet, but your heart.” So Isaac searches for a new home, and his fingers prod the ground in the great field like worms, curious and absentminded but never abrasive. He imagines his hands are worms that journey through the earth and bury themselves in the mysteries of nature. The incessant warbles of birds infatuate his ears. “Tweet tweet,” some say, prancing through the air all dainty-like. “Hee-hoo, hee-hoo,” others gloat, whistling. Isaac never can whistle, and he Worms Levon Valle 94 likes ‘em for it. “Bwallawk, bwallawk,” others croon and Isaac imagines a person speaking, coughing, and clearing their throat at the same time. “Chirrup, chirrup,” another says, but it rolls the “r” and splatters the air like a machine gun. But enough about the birds for now. Isaac really likes ‘em, but thinks they’re a little prissy. Isaac hates machine guns too. His hands are lost now in the dirt. Isaac wonders if his pretend-worms will find the road real worms travel by. His hands stumble upon ropes tangled in the dirt, just beneath the soiled grass. Thin, icky and rough, it must be tough being a worm. He feels like he’s playing in a bowl of semi-moist oatmeal, all thick and clumpy. He knows his hands will be dirty as the soil recedes underneath his nails, but it’s like the clothes real worms would wear, and he wants to be a real worm so his fingers wear it too. Pollen glides through his nose and stings it. A sharp cough and little channels of crimson sprout within his nose. “Pock, pock,” goes the fluid as it smacks the ground. Tears knot within his eyes, and he wipes them aside. He rubs his nose, and the bleeding eventually ceases. He despises pollen. But Isaac doesn’t care; he’s a worm and he’s gotta be tough. Sniffing briefly, he notices that his little imaginary worms scrape against rocks and find an alien surface. Smooth, rubbery, yet thin as cat whiskers. He imagines they’re millipedes and says hi, just like a real worm would. True to form, he feels thousands – well not thousands he knows, but close-enough right? – of silky hands brush his fingers like a comb of slippery twigs. They tickle him, and he laughs, twitching his worm-fingers. Do worms laugh, he wonders? If not, he’ll be the first worm to ever laugh. They’ll write about him in history books and encyclopedias… Isaac, the first laughing worm! So he twitches his worm-fingers a little bit, waves them slowly, and then says hi in worm talk. You see, Isaac watches worms all the time. He can even TALK to worms. When they nudge their banded heads around, they’re really greeting you, searching you out just like a dog that sniffs you when it sees you, like animal sign language. His fingers are practically mummified in soil, and he imagines he must be wearing very expensive worm clothing; a worm suit maybe. The millipede squirms too, saying hi Mr. Worm, you sure do have a nice suit. It asks Isaac how his worm-fingers are doing. Isaac’s worm-fingers carefully nudge it back in a friendly gesture, saying we’re doing fine, thank you for the compliment. Isaac knows that manners are not only important for humans, but worms too. We’re just trying to find any other real worms like us too, his worm-fingers continue. Have you seen any worms like us around? No, the millipede responds as it inches its body away. You just missed the Worm Road. The millipede then points Isaac’s worm-fingers in the right direction. See? The millipede points with its antennae – of course Isaac can’t see but his worm-fingers can – toward a channel soaked by darkness and precarious life-forms. You see, the Worm Road is down there. Just continue and you’ll reach a junction 95 where all the worms travel. It even gives Isaac’s worm-fingers some dire advice: be careful though when you reach the junction, and follow your worm instincts. Nobody else knows the paths that worms travel. I wish I could, but I am not a worm. Nice meeting you; maybe we will see each other again in the bug city sometime, the millipede suggests. There’s a city around here? Isaac’s worm-fingers undulate with excitement. Yes, the millipede replies, departing. Only true bugs can find it, but I know we’ll meet again. Maybe I will take you there. Waving its antennae, the shelled and leathery body of the millipede scurries away from Isaac’s worm-fingers. Wait! The millipede stops. What do you need? Isaac’s worm-fingers fumble around clumsily. Um, we don’t know your name, sir. Can you tell us ‘cause we like you being nice to us real worms n’ all. Sure, my name is Millie Pede. What are your names? Isaac’s fingers crinkle in shame; I forgot to give my worms real names to go by! Real worms must have names too. So Isaac answers like a real worm: our names are Indy, Middler, Ringo, Pinkle, and Thumberd. We’re quintuplets, his worm-fingers add. Then his other worm-fingers say, we’re Indy the second, Middler the second, Ringo the second, Pinkle the second, and Thumberd the second. We’re quintuplets too. Wow, I haven’t ever seen worms like you. But bye-bye now, Millie Pede says. I gotta go and get to work now. You guys look like you must work hard, because I can’t find outfits that expensive. Then Millie Pede really leaves this time, and Isaac’s worm-fingers are left alone to ponder what they must do. Well, says Indy, let us follow his advice. No, says Middler, I want to see the bug city. Wait, says Ringo, we have to find the Worm Road first or we can’t be real worms. That’s right, Pinkle adds. Who will lead us then, asks Thumberd? They look at each other for a looooooooonnnnnng time. Then Indy the second speaks. I think Indy should lead. Indy was firstborn. No. Middler should lead us. Middler is brave, but Indy is not. Wait, says Ringo the second. Pinkle should lead us. He can reach many places we cannot. 96 That’s right, admits Pinkle the second. But, Thumberd is the wisest. They all agree to Pinkle the second’s advice. Excellent. Where shall we go then, Thumberd the second asks. Thumberd thinks, scratching his head against the dirt. I trust Millie Pede, so we should head where he showed us. Thus Isaac’s worms travel deep into the earth to find the worm road. The golden nymph Sun departs as the pale nymph Moon slowly approaches, and Sun’s beauty is gradually masked by Moon’s curtain of enigmas. “Sleep, sleep,” she tells the creatures of Earth, and tucks them beneath twilight. “Sleep, Sleep,” she tells the creatures of Earth, and gives ‘em dreams as their pillows. “Beware, beware,” Moon says, and places fear in the darkness to stave mischievous hands. “Awake, awake,” Moon bids the insects, and noise fills the air as they commemorate her beauty. “Eeep, eeep,” the crickets respond, plopping from the cool air to begin their evening tasks. “Bzzz-Bzzz,” flies and other insects rasp, moseying for treasure amongst the squandered trash. “Sip-sip,” goes the long mouth of the mosquito as it dines on unwitting prey. “Burp-burp”, some amphibians mutter, lazily gulping their evening meals. Sounds invade the night as slithery things slither, like snakes against grain; hoppity things hop, like the kerplunk of bullfrogs; crawly things crawl, like the scamper of meerkats; scary things scare, like crocodiles with their ominous lisps… But enough about these things, for all things of nature pleases the ears of Moon, except one. Amidst a field Moon spies a boy, awake and ever-energetic. No child should be in the dark, Moon thinks, and casts her luminous eye upon him. She examines his mind, for no boy can hide his thoughts, and finds his name. “Isaac is your name, huh? Sleep you must,” she whispers in his ears, “for all play and no sleep makes Isaac a dull boy.” She blows Isaac a kiss, and smites his limbs with exhaustion and weight. No, I will not sleep. I have not finished my journey… Isaac shakes his head defiantly. Moon laughs softly. “Yes, Isaac, yes, you shall sleep. None can resist my charm. Sleep you must, for all play and no sleep makes Isaac a dull boy.” Moon blows another kiss to Isaac, and presses her gentle hands over his eyes, closing them. Isaac’s mind becomes limp, and his thoughts stutter and move hectically like bats in the open air. No! I cannot sleep. I must find the worm road. Isaac clogs his mind with erratic thoughts and his eyes with curiosity, in hopes that he will never fall asleep again. However, Moon chortles and winks her eyes. “Yes Isaac, yes, you must sleep. None can escape my voice. Sleep you will, for all play and no sleep makes Isaac a dull boy.” Moon blows one final kiss to Isaac, and his eyes are glued shut by slumber. Moon sings in his ears and entrances him, and his skull nods to the rhythm. Isaac fights the 97 Worms Levon Valle prison of his mind, but the music becomes too beautiful to resist. Forgive me! The song of Moon stifles his senses, and Isaac soon forgets about new homes and real worms and highways and millipedes and his worm-fingers, as he then travels into the shadows that obscure times past. “Where are your dreams, Isaac?” Moon inquires, as she sees Isaac’s mind. “Boys should yearn for adventure and excitement.” Yet Isaac does not dream. “Look-look,” she says, staring into his thought-projector. A boy stands before another boy, cries before another boy, dies before another boy. In a dungeon realm, a hellish dungeon realm, a perilous dungeon realm. It is his home, Moon sees in astonishment. Yet before this place she sees a village where gourds are shared, trust is promised, discipline is given. Laughter frequents this place, and many children. Yet, Moon sees the Monsters approach, and Isaac’s home is undone. Like spasms of light, Moon sees tatters of Isaac’s memories, for his thoughts are broken. In one flicker, Moon sees his mother’s life depart from his eyes. In another, Monsters attack him, unnatural beasts. In a final flicker, the elders fade with the sanguine horizon. “They are no children of mine,” Moon cries. Still, the beasts devour Isaac’s mother alive. But she is not the last, nor the first victim Isaac sees. These monsters disguise themselves in human skin, greedy ears, and tongues that bear poisonous daggers. In packs they come, never unarmed when alone. They even look like Isaac, but Moon recognizes the ire that broods inside their eyes. Isaac’s mind skips and Moon sees children flee while other children sleep. Please, Earth, please, hide me, Isaac whimpers, and dives into her arms. His brothers no longer hold their arms open in welcome, but in emptiness, their eyes dispossessed and their mouths voiceless. His sisters have no proverbs to offer him. The only words Isaac hears are the spitfires from hollow, steeled faces. His brothers whimper as erratic lisps puncture their skin. Help me, Earth, PLEASE help me, Isaac screams, and dives toward her bosom. Fire pierces his side, as though a hornet has ignited its stinger and stabbed him with it. The darkness envelops Isaac, and his nose bleeds again. But it isn’t because of pollen this time. Then Isaac dreams for the last time, and he forgets about gourds and trust and discipline and fiery hornet stings. He dives into Earth’s bosom, where his sisters and brothers and elders and mother sleep. As he pierces the soil, his limbs conjoin. His skin sheds away and reveals his true flesh and he journeys like his fingers do, where every touch will mean hi and I love instead of I hate. Isaac journeys to that place inside of Earth each night, but never reaches home. Then Isaac’s thought-projector rewinds and replays the nightmare in his torpid mind. “Certainly you are more than human, if they are human too. Boys that never dream are boys 98 that never live in peace,” Moon realizes. “Boys that cannot live in peace are boys without dreams. “My shadows do not protect you from evil, for fear is worn on the faces of the evil ones,” Moon admits. “My curtains cannot offer rest from the shadows you see in daylight. My pillow alone gives you nothing to aspire toward. No wonder you seek the shelter of Earth.” “Awaken in your dreams,” Moon decides, “and you will live forever as the worm you wish to be. A boy should not live in a world with monsters. A boy should live in a world with his dreams. “Now dream, dream,” Moon sings, and her auric eyes twinkle. “Dream and remember,” she coos, tickling his mind. “Dream Isaac, and become a real worm among your worm friends forever.” … Are you okay? I think so, says Indy, and scratches his head against the earth. Are you guys okay, Centy Pede asks. We are, reply Indy’s brothers. Centy Pede shakes his hundred hands – well not hundreds we know, but almost, right? – and rapidly chatters as he informs them of what happened. Gee, we were just talking and you guys had just told me your names and I told you I like your suits and you asked me if you were close to the Worm junction and then, then, then…. Mr. Centy Pede stammers. Then what, Thumberd asks. Then you just, uh, fell. Fell, Isaac’s Slinky Banditos – blame ol’ mischievous Ringo for this nickname – inquire. Yes, fell, Centy Pede affirms, wiggling his arms. That took a lot to say, but you are okay so why don’t we finish? Okay, Thumberd replies. We wanted to find the Worm junction. Hrm… Centy Pede scratches his gooey antennae. Oh, just continue a little further. You will find it in time, Centy Pede assures them. Thank you, Isaac’s Slinky Banditos respond, and prepare to continue their journey. Yet, a great tremor fills their surroundings and engulfs them in crescendos of terror. Soon, it stops, and they each sigh in relief. I am calm, says Indy. I am okay, says Indy the second. Middler trembles the worst, yet he yells I am not afraid! Middler the second looks scared too. Middler is just fine, see! That was cool, Ringo says. 99 Worms Levon Valle That gave me the jitters! What do you think Pinkle? Ringo the second asks. We should be okay. Yeah; trust what Thumberd says, Pinkle the second advises. They all gaze toward Thumberd, who looks uncertain. I am worried, but we will be safe. Do you know what that was, Centy Pede? Thumberd the second asks. I do. That was the great horn mouth. It eats all kinds of insects, but it ‘specially likes Wooooorrrmmmms, he cautions. Wow, the Slinky Banditos respond. That’s dangerous! Don’t worry, Centy Pede tells ‘em. The horn mouth cannot reach this deep, but we can feel its presence when it looks for fellow bugs to eat. It is the way of life. I think I better go, before I get in trouble. Before you get in trouble. Then Centy Pede zips away, and the Slinky Banditos cannot say goodbye. Then let us go, Thumberd says, and they soon reach the Worm junction. However, the tunnels run deep, and all are alarmed. No worms are here, Middler complains. Middler the second joins Middler in his rant, saying Millie Pede lied to us! The soil does not welcome their presence. Rocks and other vague debris surround them. Clay walls seem to blockade their hope as well as their future. But Pinkle gives them hope. Trust Thumberd. Indy also agrees. Never doubt our power as friends! Yeah… Do we have a choice, Middler? Ringo asks. Middler shrugs his shoulders. OH okay… Middler the second finally agrees. What will we do then? Dig, we must dig, Pinkle says. Then dig we will, Thumberd tells the Slinky Banditos. Dig and we will find our home. So they dig, pressing their eager heads through the rough clay. They weave their way through the obscurity as their bodies slip between nooks and crannies and soft spots. Dig, dig, the Slinky Banditos sing, until they sneak through the Worm junction and embrace the feeling of smooth, silky fingers. Soft, banded, icky, and dirty, just like real worms too? They wrestle it seems, but they soon greet each other unabashedly. Hello, the strangers whisper, and nudge the Slinky Banditos. Hello, the Slinky Banditos answer back. Welcome, welcome, welcome, many worms say as they caress the Slinky Banditos. Woooooooooooowwwwww… The Slinky Banditos marvel at the Worm Road, for thousands of worms – he tells the truth now! – Now amble through the fertile land. Some dangle from worm- 100 101 houses and worm-scrapers, waving with their regal faces. Nice suits! The Slinky Banditos see their brothers and sisters and elders too, and they greet each other. How we missed you, the Slinky Banditos say, and reminisce with them about ol’ times past. We missed you too, their brothers and sisters and elders say, and their worm-fingers nestle beside each other. Their love becomes singular, and the Slinky Banditos soon see quintuplets just like ‘em too! The Slinky Banditos forget about Millie Pede and Centy Pede and horn mouths and Worm junctions and slink toward their pink friends. Hello, they say in unison. Welcome home. Curtains of light baptize their eyes together and the Worm Road shrinks in the eyes of the Slinky Banditos. Earth is rent asunder, and releases them from her shelter. Two strangers now lock their hands together in friendship. “Hello,” the little girl says to a groggy Isaac. “Hi,” he responds, giggling. Worms Levon Valle i’d be happy with a little colour, she thought to herself, looking through the dirty water-streaked pane. i’d be happy with a little colour to taste, mangos on a mango tree, fallen ripe to leaves beneath, where little feet patter and open palms grasp for precious fruit, precious prize, just another part of life, another part of the day. their dirty little faces, dusted with the earth and darkened by centuries of sun, brilliant gems set in stone, resplendent eyes bright and feverish with youth. we saw a jackal today, we chased and howled until it sauntered off, and my, we are proud, we are bigger now, able to fend for ourselves. you are children. we are adults. you are children. we are big kids. you are children, don’t you change. you are sweet and papery life. we ran for hours, shaking our fists and brandishing our sticks in the afternoon light, and look, my feet are dyed with red dirt, but not as red as the scrape on my knee where i tripped and had to catch up with the others. it was a race, and it had nothing to do with the wild dog after a while, we just wanted to run and run and run, because that’s what it’s all about, being exhausted at the end of the day because of all the life we spent from morning to dark. and look at me now. here i am. i’d be happy with a little colour, she thought to herself, looking through the window of the make-shift house into the torrential rains; but here i am, and i am here, and the world outside my door is bright and open to experience and delicious life, for as long as the golden Son will continue to burn holes in my tin roof, and i laugh because i’m already starting to hear the drip, drip, behind me now, soon to be all around. Africa Helen-Marie Pohlig 102 103 There was a storm the night that the Alkan-Moore building changed. Rain hammered windows and drains spilled over into empty streets. In the early morning hours, when my thoughts drifted from warmth and comfort into languid sleep, something happened. And yet the day began the same way as so many others, an echo of rat races passed. The television babbled softly from the living room as I made a fresh pot of coffee, oblivious at the time to anything that didn’t concern caffeine or bagels. I shuffled about the kitchen in an early morning haze, scratching and yawning until I heard the creak of our bedroom door. Marla had just gotten out of the shower. I stumbled towards the sound and heard her gasp just as I came into the room. She stood in front of the television; nude save the towel bunched on her head, and rested her left hand just below her collar bone. The other towel lay at her feet in a deep blue ring. Uncomprehending, I smiled at the small, lithe body of my lovely wife. “I’m not sure if we have time for this, babe.” I mumbled. “Unless you want to hop back into the shower with me.” She glanced at me and then back at the screen. “Alan…?” She trailed off. I came closer, fully intending to take her into my arms in soft, sleepy embrace, when I happened to look at the TV. I paused in mid step. In one brief, somehow terrible instant, I lost all interest in my wife. “Holy shit.” I muttered, the words sounding empty even as I formed them. There was no explanation for what I was seeing. It defied all reason, and yet there it was in full, rich color and high definition picture. Jutting from the otherwise mundane downtown skyline was an arm. Rising at least fifty stories, the limb was outstretched, fingers extended as though to Concrete Routines James Mabe 104 brush their tips against the clouds. It was formed from twisted steel and busted concrete, from shattered glass and thick black cable, but was somehow seamless. Raindrops shined like sweat upon the strangely elegant monolith. From the aerial view of a Channel 14 news helicopter I could just see the streets below. Police cars and fire trucks were lined up in waves, their lights blinking madly, while tiny figures gazed toward the sky in apparent awe. Chunks of concrete piled upon one another as though they had been chiseled away. Broken glass sparkled, reflecting pinpoints of red and blue. “What is it?” Marla whispered. I stared ahead, blinking dumbly, and for several heartbeats said nothing. “Uhm. I think it’s an…” “I know it’s an arm, honey.” She interrupted, still whispering. “I mean, what is it?” “I don’t know.” I admitted, feeling oddly exposed. “I don’t know.” Neither of us moved for some time. We didn’t bother to relocate to the couch, nor did Marla bother to clothe herself. We simply stood there, our eyes wide and faces drained, enthralled and insignificant. Through visible confusion the newscasters observed the obvious. The authorities were at a loss, though there was talk of terrorism, structural flaws, unexplained natural phenomenon, and a litany of progressively more outlandish explanations. Eventually, passing reference was made to three custodial workers and a security guard that were currently missing. Coverage continued uninterrupted throughout the rest of the morning, and only the ticker at the bottom of the screen gave any indication that another part of the world even existed. At some point, perhaps a half hour into the broadcast, I forced myself to turn away and retrieved Marla’s robe. She accepted it absently and placed herself upon the couch. I went back into the kitchen, a place then dreamlike in its normalcy, and poured two cups of coffee. Marla mumbled gratitude as I sat next to her. We sat closely for a long time, taking comfort in one another’s presence without consciously acknowledging the need for it. We learned nothing new, but were treated to shots of the spectacle 105 from various angles. From the ground up it appeared massive, otherworldly, a subdued grey and black spire from some forgotten realm. The word from the man on the street was perplexed, horrified, reverent. Some thought it a message from God, others from extra terrestrials. Some, much like myself, were simply at a loss for words. Hours passed and I might have sat there all day were it not for the electric chirp of my cell phone. The noise was foreign at first and I turned towards the bedroom wondering what on earth that terrible racket might be. Recognition dawned after a moment and I raced to find a call from the office. “Hello?” “Al?” “Oh. Hey Don. You watching this?” “The Alkan-Moore building?” “Huh? No the big fuckin’ arm downtown.” “That used to be the Alkan-Moore building, Al. And yeah, I saw it. I could see it from the train on the way in, actually.” “Oh yeah, I think the reporter mentioned that. Crazy.” “Yeah… Yeah you could say that.” He paused. “So, ah, you coming in today? We’re a little short staffed. As you might expect.” I sighed internally. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, sorry about that. Gimme about an hour.” “You’re a life saver, Al.” Don said, relieved. “I’ll see you then.” I hung up and made my way back into the living room. 106 “Hey babe, I gotta grab a quick shower. Don called, evidently they’re short today.” She looked up briefly and nodded. “Are you…” I began. “Nah. No appointments today, the gallery will be fine.” She replied, sipping at a fresh cup of coffee. “Okie dokie, then.” I said, turning back. Don had been right, I could see it from the train. A mammoth hand towered above the rooftops of nearby buildings, reaching for something beyond the confines of the city. Every passenger had their eyes trained on it. They murmured to one another in hushed breaths and intoned near silent prayers. Even at the station, I could hear nothing but talk about the new addition to the skyline. Later, after the two block walk to work, Don was effusive. The rest of the office was skeletal, all closed doors and preoccupied interns. I did the work of at least three men and yet the day passed swiftly, as though part of me was never even there. I found myself taking quick glimpses out of the window, searching for any change in the brownstone across the street. I’m sure others were doing the same. I wondered, more seriously than I would have cared to admit, if it might happen again. Perhaps even here. Would I have time to get out? Marla called once to check on me. I told her I loved her and that I was fine. She asked me if I had seen it. I said I had. She told me to be careful and that there would be Chinese waiting when I got home. I left the office sometime after five and the sky was already beginning to darken. On impulse, I decided to take a walk. I wanted to see it in person, up close. I passed by eight blocks of Trade St. and then took a left on 4th. The Alkan-Moore building was just ahead. The scene was one of subdued chaos. 107 Concrete Routines James Mabe Police cars still lined the street, creating a barrier between the alien structure and the mob of gawkers that had amassed over the course of the day. There were hundreds of them. Flashes popped and children pointed. People sat in circles with downcast eyes as candles burned away the edges of night. Men of every faith were on display, chanting, swaying softly in some personal affirmation of their beliefs. I barely noticed any of them. To be so close, barely a hundred feet away from the rubble, it was overpowering. The statue, if it could even be called that, was as smooth as polished ceramic. Concrete overlapped traces of girder and power cables ran like veins. It was a thing unto itself, not an accident of nature or design, but a creation. I had been prepared for most of what lay before me, after all I had been seeing images of the arm for much of the day, but I could have never expected the lights. It was unfathomable that the building, or what was left of it, still had power. Yet it did. The florescent tubes had somehow remained intact and the wires unbroken. From every crack in the arm’s surface light spilled forth. Spidery lines of brilliance appeared here and there, some areas lasting only inches while other sections stretched on for yards. It was as though the behemoth was but a shell, a thin veneer that housed something divine. Near the hand itself the cracks grew more prevalent, spreading like a web of white fire until finally culminating in a pillar of light that rose as a beacon from the palm. I gazed upward with the wide open eyes of a child, feeling much like one. I chewed at the corner of my lip and fought to make sense of what I was seeing. I don’t know how long I stood there, shivering, but my feet were numb when Marla called. She was concerned, but I wouldn’t say worried. She had already guessed where I might be. I told her that I would be home soon and that I loved her dearly. The next night I took her to see it. I would have guessed that nothing would ever be the same, but I would have been wrong. Slowly, as the first few months passed, things began to return to a semblance of normalcy. Television coverage gradually shifted from our local anomaly back to the ever changing world beyond. Climate 108 change, anti lobbying messages from a would-be senator, and the opening of a new Honda plant would greet me in the morning. Commercials, outrage from Keith Olberman, and Law and Order would tuck me in at night. This isn’t to say that all discussion of the surreal landmark had ended but, even in our own community, it would seem that the surreal could become commonplace. Heads were turned less and less on the train, and the outstretched fingers became just another familiar addition to the concrete slabs beyond. Life went on. There were investigations, of course. Physicists and structural engineers, experts in architecture and men of the cloth, each offered opinion but nothing of note was discovered. The arm remained as much of a mystery as it had been on the first day. Each night the hand shined brightly, an electric pyre that defied explanation. There was talk of cutting the power. Marla and I went through our same old routines, work and dinner and lovemaking and popcorn at the cinema, and eventually forgot how much the world had really changed. She would regale me in the evenings about that day’s particular batch of paintings, most at least partially inspired by Alkan-Moore’s arm, and how tiresome it was becoming to continually turn them down. The gallery needed variety, she explained. After all, they were a business not a shrine. I smiled and called her a capitalist pig. I suppose that it might have gone on like that indefinitely. Day after day of pleasant banality with only the passing of holidays to mark the time, a life that would make a man fat, happy, and prone to high cholesterol. There are certainly worse fates. Pretty regularly, I wonder which one of them I’ve suffered. On a cold January morning I awoke to find the national media in a frenzy. It shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise, really, that it had happened again. Still, there was the same sense of shock, the same disbelief that I had witnessed only months prior. Another hand had appeared, seven blocks west of the first. Rather than reaching for the heavens, however, this new limb seemed to be wrenching itself free from the grave. It sat in the now ruined lot of a Quik Stop gas station. A forearm had erupted from the pavement, tilted so that the tips of its fingers pressed upon the ground, perpetually straining. Red paint flaked from sheet metal and liquid dripped from tiny fissures in the concrete. The gas station 109 Concrete Routines James Mabe had been crushed, twisted, sculpted in exacting detail from trash and debris. Exploded bags of potato chips and shattered beer bottles lay around the perimeter in careless disarray. I remember seeing the eyewitness footage, toothbrush still in hand and the taste of mint burning my tongue, and the only thing I could think about was how cold the apartment felt. Gone was the sense of transcendent longing. This hand held only the promise of something more to come, something that could just as easily be terrible as benign. Perhaps it was the undercurrent of violence, or perhaps simply the amalgamation of refuse and filth, but it was horrid. It was a perversion of something that might have been beautiful. I yelled for Marla to come and see. “Oh my God…” She said moments later. She turned to me. “Last night?” I shrugged. “Guess so.” We stood there much as we had before, only now there was precedent. My mind raced with what might come next, and what might happen when it was finished. Whatever it was, what would it do if it was freed? Marla walked away from the screen, biting at her thumb nail. “Alan I… I don’t know what’s going on, but… I’d feel better if you didn’t go in today.” I tried to smile, but it felt wrong, tight. “Sure babe. Lemme call Don, okay?” A minute later and I had left a message. I didn’t expect a call back, he owed me. I sat down and made myself as comfortable as my skin would allow. Marla was curled up with a cup of coffee, lost in the folds of a large brown sweater. The talking heads babbled on, ecstatic that the void of the twenty four hour news cycle had once again been filled. There were more aerial shots, more clueless bystanders, and far more voices of panic than before. A chubby policeman spoke hurriedly into a microphone, his face ruddy from the cold. There was more than one instance, we were told. Part of the sewer system had collapsed a few blocks away, and a section of Porter Blvd. had acquired a mysterious new hill that stretched nearly to the second floor of the adjacent apartment building. We saw only fleeting images of these other developments, 110 however, as most of the footage focused upon the hand. “It’s a woman.” Marla said after a while. I didn’t respond at first. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what the hell she was talking about. “You think?” “Yeah.” Coffee slurped. “It’s slender. I mean, relative to what it could be. So is the other one.” “Maybe it’s just effeminate.” “Huh.” She said, humorless. “Maybe.” The day wore on and we ordered pizza sometime after noon. I don’t remember eating any. My appetite was somewhere amid the memories of the previous day. That night we saw live coverage of the lights. Patches of neon seeped through the cracks like open sores. There was worried discussion in the media for a few days. People debated precautionary evacuations, quarantines, theology, and a host of other mostly pointless topics. Pat Robertson called it a sign of the coming Armageddon. Some televangelist in Oklahoma claimed that leviathan had risen and the great beast was on its way. They both asked for money, evidently that would put off the end times for just a bit longer. I stopped watching after a while. At work I tried to keep my mind on other things, ones that I could understand. Numbers, flat and black, sales figures and whether or not I wanted to upgrade my health insurance to the premium plan. I looked for solace in facts. I felt like I needed to be grounded, sheltered from anymore talk of the supernormal. I suppose that I had been left fatigued by too many exercises in fantasy. In reality though, my thoughts were plagued by worry that I might be spending my time at the office within the anatomy of a God. 111 Concrete Routines James Mabe I never worked late anymore. Not many people did. For months after the second appearance, the city’s night life was a shadow. Only tourists walked the streets, and even they did so with some trepidation. More and more downtown apartments were up for rent. Some days, when meeting Marla for lunch or running one errand or another, I would catch glimpses of the hands. I would shake my head as I passed by, watching as hundreds of people still held vigil, praying, waiting for some further sign. I thought of swarming ants. As the months dragged on I think Marla started to go a bit stir crazy. Our weekends used to be spent at the bars downtown, drinking too much and trading condescension with the townies. Those reckless evenings were replaced with the soft glow of on-demand drama and appetizers at Chili’s; I knew it was a poor substitute. I would spend my Saturdays watching her pace around the apartment, paintbrush in one hand and a glass of merlot in the other. She had started perhaps a dozen paintings in as many weeks. She finished two. Eventually, her restlessness got the better of us both. I met her at home on April 6th and she greeted me with a smile. It’s been almost a year since that day but the memory remains clear. It’s etched in my skull like the birthday of a child. She informed me that a friend of hers from State had called and that we would be going out later. At the time I smiled back and told her that that sounded great. I’m certain that I would respond differently now. A few hours and a shower later we sat at Benny P’s. Marla and Sarah Folder each sipped at rum and cokes, and I had just finished my first car bomb of the evening. A pint of Guinness rested on the table, awaiting my attention. Glasses clinked and voices were lost in low, rumbling chatter. Smoke wafted, backlit by blue neon, and billiards collided from somewhere in the back of the room. I was surprised by how many people were out. All of the booths had been taken and we were forced to find an open table. It seemed that the cabin fever afflicting Marla was becoming a pandemic. Marla and Sarah reminisced for much of the evening, sharing drinks and stories of ill-remembered parties. The discussion gradually turned to work and the day to day struggle. I spent as much time as I could bear with them, nodding and smiling when appropriate, but eventually my attention waned. It was a girl’s night out, I was merely there for show. Not that I minded, but the 112 intricacies of the art world could thrill me for only so long. Martians Attack! pinball provided me with an excuse and, once my quarters were spent, I was off to mingle. I recognized a few faces in the crowd and zeroed in on their table. “Well, if it isn’t mister Patrick Bateman.” A grinning man in a black t-shirt yelled at me. “Fuck you John.” I replied while pulling up a chair. I sat there, surrounded by unkempt beards and half empty PBR’s, and began to feel a little better. With every glass of beer the concerns of the past few months became less and less important, lost in the fuzz of heady warmth and impassioned conversation. I checked in with the ladies from time to time but spent most of the night at the other table, debating politics, pop, and other downward spirals. The evening drew to a pleasant enough close as the bartender shouted last call, sparking the usual mass pilgrimage of thirsty drunks. I thought about calling a cab as I waited for my last refill, but held off in hopes that Marla would want to grab a bite to eat. I suppose that I should find it funny that my last calm thought as the man I used to be was about a cheeseburger. I don’t though. I’m not sure what I think about it, but I don’t find it funny. At roughly ten minutes to two, when I was walking back to my table with a fresh Guinness, the world became a much different place. Some strange, powerful secret was revealed, and only vagrants and drunks were around to hear it. That, I do find funny. We all noticed the vibrations before we actually heard anything. The building hummed and beer spilled over rims and I remember thinking “It’s happening again! My God it’s happening here!”. It wasn’t though, not there. Those were merely ripples in a pond. People started to panic, running for the door, shoving and cursing. I ran to Marla. She was near the back of the crowd, waiting with Sarah for any opening and beckoning me to hurry. I had just made it to her side when the voice came. I call it a voice but, in reality, no one really knows what it was. What else could it have been, though? What other sound could hold such power, such sublime fury? No, it was a voice, a waking groan from something beyond comprehension. 113 Concrete Routines James Mabe It started softly but soon became an inescapable roar. It was as though some great, industrial machine had come to life, a massive rotovator that tilled down to the earth’s very core. There was an electric buzzing that I could feel in my fillings, pulsing like the mad wings of hornets. It grew louder and louder, painfully rising until I thought the volume itself might tear me apart. Everyone had fallen, some to their knees, others curled into themselves, writhing. I could see Marla screaming, eyes clenched and hands over her ears, but I couldn’t hear a sound she made. I thought for sure that we were done for. And then, just as I feared my heart might stop or my mind explode, the pain was gone. I cannot explain what replaced it. There are words that might give a sense of it, but words can only do so much. I could no more do it justice than I might describe ‘red’ to a blind man. I was a newborn given a hallucinogen. Images, things I understood and took for granted were deconstructed, reshaped. I saw fractals of glass become eukaryotes. I felt the loss of existence. It lasted for about three minutes. An alien purgatory and then nothing. We were released into darkness, cast out from the garden and crushed by earthly delights. The lights were off and, at first, I wasn’t sure that my eyes were even open. Car alarms wailed like songbirds and I could hear people nearby coughing, retching onto the floor, crying. My mouth tasted sour with bile and my shirt felt wet, greasy. An arm reached out, brushing against me and I couldn’t help myself. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I shrieked at a nameless face, pushing myself away. It was revolting. All of it. Every foul stench, stammering word, and cold hard sensation was an accost. I wanted to get up and run. I wanted to tear every stitch of clothing from my body and bathe in Clorox. I couldn’t though. The only thing that I could do way lay there, shivering, blubbering in my own vomit and piss like an infant. I may as well have been in a maternity ward. The room was filled with sobs and curses, pleas for help and for death. It would go on that way for some time. Nearly an hour passed before any of us moved, and just over two had gone by before I managed to pull Marla to her feet. She only resisted for a few seconds. Neither of us had the energy for a fight. The city outside was black save the rhythmic blink of the occasional car alarm. No one waited at the scene. People stumbled away in a daze, a slow parade of car crash victims that 114 just wanted to go home. They disappeared into a valley of cold geometry. During the train ride home I felt like I was in the belly of an earthworm. February is about to end. I haven’t seen Marla in days. I don’t really expect to any time soon. We come and we go. I’ve been thinking about moving, actually, maybe going somewhere north. Maybe she would want to come with me. Who knows, though? I don’t even know. The months have passed, like they do, and I’ve been around for it, like so many times before. Sometimes I go for walks. Sometimes I walk around at night and count the cracks in the pavement. I step over condom wrappers and play kick the bottle until it explodes against a lamp post or rusting heap of precision engineering. Sometimes I just ride the train. Train runs all night. Maybe someday I just won’t get off. I don’t go to work anymore. Been burning through our savings. Don called me sometime on the 9th, asked me if I was coming in. I told him no. I quit. He told me we could work something out, we could negotiate. I told him that I hoped he got cancer and his children shit blood. He didn’t call back. Sometimes I just go stare at the Alkan-Moore building. I watch it crumble. It started falling apart on April 7th, a few pieces here and there, and it hasn’t stopped since. It’s like a skeleton dipped in clay, now. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but every now and then I want to clap. They’ll be tearing it down soon. Public safety hazard. Whoever owns the property will just build something else, something that will probably include a small monument and an information table. Maybe a little statue. I say they should leave it as it is. Who cares if a chunk of concrete death smashes someone’s head, turns it into a used paintball? It would be worth it. It’s a rare thing when modern art and performance art can become one. I think Marla would appreciate that. The last time I talked to her she said she was going to burn down the gallery. She said it was full of pretenders’ daydreams. Maybe she did. I haven’t bothered to ask, and I don’t really keep up with the news anymore. If so, I applaud the effort. 115 Concrete Routines James Mabe I’m still not entirely sure what happened last April. The official explanation was that a gas main exploded, took out some underground cables, and left half the city without power for about a week. Anything beyond that? Mass hysteria. No one is in the position, or has the disposition, to argue. There are rumors though. The Comet ran a story a few months ago, wedged between political mud slings and pictures of the newest of the Pitt brood, about a guy that had worked for Jefferson-Gallows. He was a custodian at the main bank downtown, and had been working the night of the 6th. The guy, I forget his name, said that he’d heard some strange noises coming from the basement, like something cracking. He went to investigate but, like the rest of us in the area, found himself trying not to choke on his own tongue for the next hour. When he did make it to his feet, though, he kept looking. What he said he found, or what he could make out with a flashlight, was an enormous face. He explained that it was as if the concrete had melted and had reformed into a pristine statue. From the jaw line to the tip of its nose it was just over ten feet high. Thick black cables ran from its forehead like flowing locks and its mouth was slightly open, as though it had been interrupted in mid-sentence. Madre de Dios, he had called it. Mother of God. The only proof that might have supported his story was that Jefferson-Gallows started doing some remodeling that same week. They assured the media that it was a wholly unrelated matter and that the work had been scheduled months in advance. Still, it was an interesting tale. I would say that I’m inclined to believe it but, really, I don’t think I can make that claim anymore. I’m not inclined to believe much of anything. So it goes. At night I spend a long time staring into the mirror. I wonder sometimes, if I watch very closely, can I see the lines in my face getting deeper? Will I notice when my hair starts to turn grey, or will I just wake up one day as someone else? A stranger wearing my skin? Or myself in a stranger’s? I don’t know, but I hope I notice it. I want to see it happening, and I want to appreciate every little moment. I want to be around to watch things fall apart. 116 117 Concrete Routines James Mabe Inside the dresser drawer Joel’s cell phone vibrated like a hungry animal caught beneath layers of folded shirts. The sun wasn’t even up yet. Joel had thrown away the Alcoholics Anonymous bible after skimming it a couple times but hadn’t got rid of his sponsor yet. He wasn’t sure if Sean’s compulsive calling violated the parameters of the sponsor relationship but it definitely violated a fundamental code of human decency. How could a person do something like this so shamelessly? Maybe every day since he tried to off himself Sean got up promptly at four a.m. to contemplate all the possible opportunities for spiritual growth that lay ahead in the daylight. His morning began with a brisk walk up and down Summit Avenue, after which he returned to his studio apartment where he fed himself a constant stream of self improvement literature. He recited breathy passages out of the big book, conjured Bill sweating it out in run down telephone booths and churches in lonely farm towns somewhere in the nineteen-thirties. Joel turned it over in his mind, it must go something like this or else Sean was just plain crazy like the rest of them. He bit his lip, the cell phone vibrated inside the dresser drawer again on the other side of the room. Drifting off to sleep he cursed aloud for not having gone with the man unanimously known as “Shorty” who always requested a blanket during meetings because of his low blood sugar level. It was that December night again when Julie Adgins had been baby sitting him. He must have been ten in ninja turtle pajamas which he had recently acquired a new terror for after getting his penis stuck in the zipper. Julie long black hair fell over the back of the wooden chair in clusters she was sitting in. She smoked a cigarette and scribbled on a piece of loose leaf. He could feel her watching him trying to spread the margarine over his slice of bread. “Joel you have to rub it harder, with like more force you know? Push down on the knife. Good god who taught you how to spread margarine boy?” A God of My Own Understanding— a day in the life of Joel Welsh, new member of Alcoholics Anonymous Adam Thorn 118 “Nobody. Say, why are you always writing letters when you’re here?” “Because I’m in love with this boy from school. He’s all I think about.” “How do you know he loves you back?” “Well, he’s gotta funny way of showing it. The way his voice softens when he talks to me when we’re alone. He takes me out all the time. I feel ten times more alive when we’re together.” Snow began falling from the low ceiling. Julie crumbled as the flakes touched her skin. She was made of Christmas postcards. He’d know it the whole time. When Joel woke up later he had to take a shit. On the toilet he thought about Lily and if this next job was going to pull enough for this month’s child support. He thought he should check his messages to see if Ron called with the address for the job tonight. This meant shifting through a plethora of Sean’s laments; each voice mail would be coated as always in the confessional tone exclusive to those who don’t have enough closet space for the skeletons clattering around in the basement. God knew how many messages there were now. Did the man sleep? This was a Tuesday morning but it was so like the one before it there was no reason keeping a calendar or looking at one besides for to pay a bill. Waffles clicked over the tiles in the kitchen, the floor fan oscillated. The girl upstairs was listening to the Stone Temple Pilots again and Jasper across the hall was trying so hard to close the door to his apartment quietly but it creaked like always because no one knew how to make it stop and poor Jasper was standing there having two panic attacks at once nearly pissing himself because he knew everyone knew it was him doing it. Joel never made fun of Jasper. There are some lines once a person crosses they can never come back from. The dog was staring up at him from the kitchen floor. He hoped to god it wouldn’t happen again. He tried not to look. “Where are my Kibbles, where is Lily? Where are Lily and Kibbles Joel?” Waffles’ eyes said. “No more Kibbles ‘N Bits.” he grumbled with his hands groping through the dark of the cabinet space. “Oh Joel, you are pathetic. I bet you’re gonna get drunk today, in fact I know you are.” The dog blinked incredulous. Joel rationed out a bowl’s worth of Special K for the dog using water instead of skim milk 119 Library. He took a picture of Waffles with the cellular phone as the dog managed a few flakes and dried strawberries. “That really makes me think.” he said wondering if Sean had any true comprehension of fundamental human decency. “No, I said you think you can make the seven-thirty Agape’ meeting. What are you laughing about?” “My dog is out of control.” “Oh. Well, works if you work it bro. Take him for a walk.” An hour later Ron called with the address and told him to be there at eight. “The last pair was very pleased with your work Mister Welsh.” Ron threw this into the cold routine of exchanging the information. Joel felt better all day, at least he did something right. It was going to be a fifth of vodka or something had to be done about that dog. He coasted the old pickup to 714 Bridge Street around 7:55. He was tanked, they wouldn’t know. A lamp glowed in the second story window where the couple lay in bed reading or watching Sopranos reruns or were worrying very quietly about their daughter’s transition into dorm life. Joel listened to the BBC in the car for a bit and sipped on a decaf latte. He banged his fists against the dash a few times to psych himself up. He got in the back window after spilling coffee on his jeans while jiggling the handle on the back door. All the chairs in the kitchen were metropolitan looking and too high up for normal sized people. He made sure all the blinds were closed. “I’ll go see just what’s going on.” a man said from the top of the stairs, a little too loud, a little too assertive. The man appeared in a satin bath robe. “Who are you and what in god’s name are you doing in my house? That’s what I would like to know since I’ve already called the police.” Joel picked up one of the black chairs in the kitchen and smashed it against the man’s leg. 121 then started on his own. The sky was gray over the rows and rows of city blocks out the window. There was so much gray it would never stop, Tuesday was going to last forever or until everyone started jumping out their windows and messing the sidewalk. The people had black umbrellas for heads in the street below. Joel liked living on the fourteenth floor because no one bothered him much. He looked often at the rain smacking against the taught fabric of the umbrellas. Maybe it was worse on the fifteenth floor. The Chihuahua plowed at the red ceramic bowl. He started working the hind legs over the tile but couldn’t get any leverage, click click click. Waffles buried two front legs then half of him was gone. Intermittently he arose like a phoenix from the ashes only to repeat the process to no avail. Joel crunched on the stale cereal and remembered throwing the television out the window last night. The vacant television stand was lonely but the television had become a vent that pushed more gray into the room. Plots pimped out like Asian whores the actors play out, watch the singing tricks and flashy faggots dancing on a stage in front of David Hasselhoff, then 400 more are dead in plain crash, in suicide bicycle accident, in the place they least expected...take a whiff boys, get it deep down in the lungs. Wheeze yourself to sleep, huh? Waffles slid up to the refrigerator then back to where Joel stood. The phone vibrated in the drawer. “Wooooo. Woooo.” Waffles pontificated all over the linoleum. “Hey Sean. What’s up?” “I thought you would never answer. Do you keep your pay phone a mile away or a mile away? Joel, it’s honesty time. I wanted to check in. I know that you’re getting pretty close to the thirty day mark and I just wanted to say that I’ll be there Wednesday when you get your blue chip.” “I think I might be working tonight man.” “Well, that’s fine but today is Tuesday, it’s Tuesday brother. I’d like to read you a passage, is that okay?” “Yeah, that’s fine” Joel said looking out the window at the gray. He put the phone down on the coffee table in the living room beside his gun. He picked up the gun and held it against his temple. Waffles slid the bowl into the living room, click click click. The density of toenails clicking changed. Joel put down the gun because he couldn’t stop laughing. He smoked a cigarette and read a couple pages of a mystery novel he’d checked out from the Public 120 A God of My Own Understanding Adam Thorn “What the hell, you sit back down.” he said handing her a bottle of Aloe lotion. He threw the camera at the man after pressing the save power button. “What are you going to make me do?” He pulled his jeans and boxers down still standing. “Rub it all over your chest.” She squirted some in her hand and started rubbing slowly with force. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” Miles quivered on the floor. “Miles you are a goddamn sissy, stop crying.” He walked with jeans at his ankles over to where Miles was rocking back and forth. He started pulling at his dick right above the man’s head keeping the gun aimed at his wife the whole time. The breasts were drooping. She tried to hold them up and sort of push them together, for this he was grateful but he felt he’d let them down somehow, he’d crossed over. “I have a god of my own understanding; I’m going to come on your face Miles.” He could see that the man was pleasuring himself even though he was spitting blood. It also looked like he had herpes. Joel shuddered at the thought of infection as the milky white substance dripped onto the man’s forehead. It was really just a cream packet he had taken from Starbucks. He couldn’t hold his erection. “It’s getting in my eyes.” Miles yelled in ecstasy. “You’ll shut your mouth.” “Honey, we better do what he says.” the woman said with her legs spread apart in the metal chair as if her daughter was coming home for fall break ready to crawl back inside. Fifteen minutes went by and it was over with. Eight hundred, not so bad for twenty-five minutes he thought driving home. When he got back to his apartment on the fourteenth floor he threw Waffles out the window. It was a weird dog. 123 “Your god is not my god. I have a god of my own understanding. If you say another word I will not hesitate to break both your legs. You got that?” “What are you doing here? What do you want?” the man moaned in his bath robe holding the bum leg. “Miles,” a woman of about forty said; standing at the foot of the stair. “It’s okay. They’re going to get this perp in the cooler honey.” Joel put the chair down and gave the man a good kick in the face knocking back a couple of his front teeth. “You shut your goddamn mouth Miles while I have your wife jack me off.” “Don’t you touch her you monster, you fucking perpetrator.” He grabbed the woman and sat her down at the table. “You bastard, you bastard get out of our house.” “Take your night shirt off.” She looked at her husband reacting to the carnage on the floor then back at Joel. “Whaa? What are you going to make me do?” “Where do you keep the lotion?” “What?” she said, whimpering. He hit her once across the face with the butt of the pistol. Blood appeared under her nose. “I want straight answers. You are powerless now, the both of you.” “In the bathroom, first door on the left.” She said. He walked to the bathroom and cursed himself for spilling the coffee on his jeans, did they notice? He thought he heard the man whisper something about a stain, the word Alcoholic. When he walked back in the living room she had all her clothes off and was taking a picture of her husband on the floor with a digital. 122 A God of My Own Understanding Adam Thorn 124 125 The girl up stairs was listening to the Stone Temple Pilots, the floor fan oscillated. Jasper was keying the lock on his door probably worn down to loose screws from another day at the Delicatessen. The door started creaking. “I hear you in there Jasper” Joel screamed through the wall, “I hear you in there making all that god awful racket.” There was no turning back now. A God of My Own Understanding Adam Thorn 126 127 Karen Lepage is a painter, and will be studying at the Estonian Academy of Art in the spring. James Mabe is a native of North Carolina, lives in Pleasant Garden, and is currently a philosophy major at UNCG. In his spare time he enjoys horror films, genre fiction, painting, politics, and cartoons. Andrew Marino takes business classes at UNCG, and in his free time he photographs and writes electronic music. His work focuses on using traditional film, 35mm cameras, and no post-editing. In the future he hopes to use his photography as visuals to complement his musical work. Scott Mayo is a student in the MFA program, focusing on the mediated image through photography and printmaking. In the future, he hopes to be in charge of things. Big things. Tristin Miller wants to be in Japan. Right now. Once she gets there, she’ll let you know what she is doing. Helen-Marie Pohlig is a missionary kid who spent her first six years in Cameroon, West Africa. She has a lot of passion for Jesus Christ and believes that life continues to shock us every day, forcing our hearts to pound, stirring the magic in our blood. Jeffrey Pubantz is a student in the photography program. His work explores personal space and behavior within that space. He hopes to continue to graduate school next fall. Steph Rahl loves her multivitamin. Lauren Roche is a senior at UNCG. She was born on a bridge in Cohoes, New York and is the daughter of two high school sweet hearts. She enjoys knitting pot holders, cats, eating her Babcie’s pierogies and being a red head. Karen Rooker is a freshman pursuing degrees in theatre and marketing. She has participated in numerous writing competitions and was recently published in the 2008 Poetry Anthology of Young Americans. She hopes to continue writing until the day she dies. Audrey Schuyler is an Art History major at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Her main interests in this field are Classical Greek and Roman pieces and Baroque architecture. She hopes to one day have a PhD in Art History and teach at the University level, and she also plans to keep painting throughout her life. Aaron Sizemore is a student in the design program. His work looks at nature and modernity and Contributors: Matthew Brinkley is a student in the design program. His work focuses on themes of change, fragility, nature, and text. Haley Brown is a senior at UNCG majoring in psychology. She has a passion for her work as a massage therapist and uses poetry to balance her experiences in both work and school. She hopes that her writing will be relatable to her peers as well as a reflection of her desire to become more and more in love with life and loving in general. Elizabeth Burkey is a senior in the Art Department. Her work focuses on the perception of movement and the division of space. She hopes to start her MFA in sculpture next year. Meen Cho is one of many students at UNCG. She follows a rigorous schedule of eating, sleeping and just living in general. Her main goal in life is laughter and maybe a little bit of success if there’s time. Devon Curry is a photographer in the Design department. He works in portraiture with medium format film primarily. In the future he aims to remain creatively impoverished and to fight the imminent death of film. Shelley D’Almada is a single mother who has returned to college this semester after a 20-some-year absence to finish her degree in English. Before coming to UNCG, she worked as a reporter/staff writer for The Alamance News and The Creekside Chronicle and is now employed in the Office for Adult Students. Tom Gagne is a freshman at UNCG. He is currently studying French and Political Theory. He also enjoys reading cyberpunk novels, listening to Egyptian pop and watching B movies. RJ Hooker is a junior-senior at UNCG and is looking to attend graduate school for an MFA in Creative Writing Misty Knowles is a studio art major. Her work focuses on anything that catches her eye. In the future she hopes to travel the world. Philip Lawrence is a senior in the Art department with a concentration in Design. His work focuses on community-based projects. how they relate to each other. Natalie Sloane is a student in the Social Work department. She enjoys writing, dancing, and photography. In the future she hopes to continue social work, publish novels and short stories, and dance for a non-profit dance company. Shannon Thomas is an English major in her junior year at UNCG. She is from the mountains of North Carolina and plans to eventually teach English in Secondary Education. This is her first time being published for poetry. Adam Thomas Thorn was raised by a pack of werewolves on the edge of a lonely farm town in Kentucky. He was found in 1991 by a mister Charles Wellington who now provides room and board for him in Greensboro. Adam is a high roller and a bone chiller. Levon Valle is 22 year-old student pursuing an English degree. He has written five short-stories, one novel, and a novella and will also be publishing a book of poetry entitled “The 216 Deliberations of Rekkampum Sawokki.” Brenda Vienrich is an art student in the design program at UNCG. A mixed media artist, she works with mostly digital photography, sculpture, street art, and textile creations. The subject of most of her art puts a large focus on cultural and social identity, and the display of human emotions that are stirred up in response to the world’s cultural and social differences. In the future she hopes to continue to develop art relating to social improvement and hopefully attend graduate school in New York. Paul Vincent is a recent graduate of UNCG and is currently waiting in line to see the world. Kate Weigand is a sophomore at UNCG planning to major in social work and minor in ceramics. She also plays in a local folk/blues/experimental band named Lunglayzr. Annaleigha Wilke is an art education student wanting to teach at the elementary level. Her work focuses on aspects of nature and imagination, and portraying it abstractly. In the future, she hopes to create unique art pieces and art projects to work on as she begins teaching. Charles Wood is 25 and currently a 2nd year senior at UNCG studying English. He finds himself mostly writing about beer, cigarettes, women, emotional apathy, and drugs though not necessarily in that order. 1985 is the year he was adopted and that’s what his poem is about.
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Title | Coraddi [Fall 2008] |
Date | 2008 |
Editor/creator | Scisco, Taylor |
Subject headings |
Arts--North Carolina--Greensboro--Periodicals Creative writing (Higher education)--North Carolina--Greensboro--Periodicals College student newspapers and periodicals--North Carolina--Greensboro Student publications--North Carolina--Greensboro Student activities--North Carolina--History University of North Carolina at Greensboro--Periodicals College students' writings, American--North Carolina--Greensboro |
Place | Greensboro (N.C.) |
Description | Starting in 1897, State Normal Magazine contained news about the State Normal and Industrial College (now The University of North Carolina at Greensboro). Renamed Coraddi in 1919, the magazine became primarily a literary and fine arts publication and remains so to the present day. |
Type | Text |
Original format | Periodicals |
Original publisher | Greensboro, N.C. : The University of North Carolina at Greensboro |
Language | eng |
Contributing institution | Martha Blakeney Hodges Special Collections and University Archives, UNCG University Libraries |
Publication | State Normal Magazine / Coraddi |
Rights statement | http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/NoC-US/1.0/ |
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Object ID | Coraddi2008Fall |
Date digitized | 2015 |
Digital master format | Application/pdf |
Digital publisher | The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, University Libraries, PO Box 26170, Greensboro NC 27402-6170, 336.334.5304 |
Digitized by | UNCG DP |
Full text | coraddi fall 2008 The Coraddi, published in various forms since 1897, is the student-run Art & Literature magazine for the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. We currently publish one issue each semester. For questions or information about submitting work, please contact us: the.coraddi@gmail.com The Coraddi Box D2 EUC UNCG Campus Greensboro, NC 27413 poetry 8. untitled Tom Gagne 9. Sparks in Wheat Jennifer Blankenship 10. M4 11. Ginger Boy Shannon Thomas 12. Gay Dorm Love Seth Austin 16. Heartglow Shelley D’Almada 17. Ode to Walt Sarah Griffiths 18. Strawberries Karen Rooker 20. Effluent. 22. Orange 23. Highway Fixtures RJ Hooker 24. Carrying a Poet Jessica Fritz 26. Tufted Titmouse 27. This One’s About Superheroes. Steph Rahl 28. If I Had the Language of Kings 30. Concerning Imagination Helen-Marie Pohlig 31. untitled BK Carver 32. The Sight of Drowning Haley F. Brown 34. untitled 35. For Progress Paul Vincent 36. 1985 Charles Wood 37. Purple in a Glass Kate Weigand 38. Left Unsaid Ashley Wahl 40. In the Eye of the Beholder Jeremiah Neal staff Taylor Scisco Executive Editor Taryn Cowart Production Manager Catherine Conley Literature Editor Zack Franceschi Art Editor Seamus Lupton Promotions Director Lit Staff Seth Austin Andrew Bauer Scott Daubenspeck Ashley Fare Katie Fennell Kendra Hammond Stephen Kagarise Luke LeGrand Seamus Lupton Alex McCourt Amber Midgett Jesse Morales Khaki Stelten Lauren Thomas Lucynda Thomas Lauren Wilder Art Staff Devon Curry Korey Deese Josh Petty Lauren Roche Jason Rouse Beth Steelman winners Each semester, selected members of the UNCG faculty choose their favorite works, and contributors win a cash prize. This year, Barbara Campbell Thomas (Art) and Maria Sanchez (Lit) judged the works. poetry prose art 1. M4 1. Concrete Routines 1. Jared, 43 Shannon Thomas James Mabe Philip Lawrence 2. This One’s About 2. Africa 2. Drips Superheroes. Helen-Marie Pohlig Annaleigha Wilke Steph Rahl 3. Effluent. 3. A God of My Own 3. Not RJ Hooker Understanding Elizabeth Burkey Adam Thorn prose 90. untitled Meen Cho 94. Worms Levon Valle 102. Africa Helen-Marie Pohlig 104. Concrete Routines James Mabe 118. A God of My Own Understanding- A Day in the Life of Joel Welsh, New Member of Alcoholics Anonymous 126. Contributor’s Notes * art title page by Tristin Miller art 44. Party’s Over Misty Knowles 45. For Memere Natalie Sloane 46. Wroclaw, Poland Lauren Roche 48. love in the salon?!? - w4m - 24 50. Jared, 43 Philip Lawrence 53. Her Courtyard Jeffrey Pubantz 54. Accusations Scott Mayo 56. untitled 57. untitled Andrew Marino 58. Not 59. Nennifer Elizabeth Burkey 60. Tube Worship Poster When Tubes and Flowers Meet Aaron Sizemore 61. untitled Alicia Cipicchio 62. You Are Your Possessions Philip Lawrence 63. Church Audrey Schuyler 64. Yarn Form II 65. Yarn Form I 66. Interior Karen Lepage 68. We Move Mountains Like Paper Triangles Matthew Brinkley 70. Drips 71. Essence Annaleigha Wilke 73. Josh Petty 75. There is Something in Your Throat Matthew Brinkley 76. untitled 77. untitled Tristin Miller 78. Vista Ocultada Brenda Vienrich 80. Gigi 81. Gregory vs. the Whale Lauren Roche 82. untitled 84. Knee Highs 86. Kurdt Devon Curry In your heart lie waking, lambent reflections Of a moon half clothed refusing the chain Who speaks through dreams with strange inflections; Her name so easily taken in vain. Veiled eyes are hidden between shades of blue, No secrets or shame, nothing left to fight. Under blankets of night, marked only to you, The object of mind in crystal clear sight. What words to describe this rarest of vision; A celestial rain that melts cities of brass? There are none but these: the arrow’s precision That grows only sharper as the years pass. From the earliest dawn then comes a man Who asks for one kiss… before his lips can… I know the reason why you cut off all of your hair. It wasn’t, As you said, because of the stifling heat that overwhelms us At siesta time, the heat that forces us to lie down in separate Hammocks, struggling to toss into dreams, to escape the pressure Of the Sun. You could have put your hair over the side, letting It swing back and forth as you slept, to relieve your sweaty brow, Or pulled it up into a tight jet black bun, as you did before, when You would sweep the red dirt that blew in with the wind. I saw the fire Reflecting in your wide rabbit eyes and your ears were pounding, Betraying your mind, bringing the screams of the field rats burning Alive in the wheat that grows behind our white-wash house, the smell That lingered for days after. I saw how you would wail in your sleep When the Sun’s rays would sear into your skin as dreams rose And brought you back to that day. When the fire inspectors Arrived to determine a cause, you nodded starkly, went into the Bathroom and cursing the magnificent Sun, chopped off every Long silky-black fiber until your scalp was exposed, cooling your head. untitled Tom Gagne Sparks in Wheat Jennifer Blankenship 8 9 sent away to sand palaces saved only by semi- automatic stand-in lovers staying by them shadowed by night soldiers’ shebas slowly pull their slippery triggers sounds that remove silence by fear step away, back somewhere spirits separate by shame and hate solving nothing Hey Buddy, I bet that hat doubles as formal wear to cover up the dirt and dreaded nature hair you used to have when you were you, but who are you? Hey Handsome, I wish I was your cigarette to touch that smile and be your addictive little pet short lived and great enough for now all you’re allowed. Hey Ginger Boy, I see you like your coffee black to counter act the sweetness of your silly laugh and show the man you think you are, I think you are, I’d like to think you are. Ginger Boy Shannon Thomas M4 Shannon Thomas 10 11 A circle of three Strangers, provoking one another To remember the voices of those Long gone and exhausted in the pages Of a university’s bible. One spoke loudly, with plenty Of tales coming from herself So quick to forget The ears of those nearby Or remembering, but in need of attention. Another, a boy dressed awkwardly oversized Bore ever-changing eyes Into mine (a most intruding gesture), Was mannered with a masculine front And, annoyed at her , spoke in a suggestive whisper. I, the third, unsure of myself Rehearsed the body electric, Endowed with a keen insecurity That those whose glance should be fixed on me Are questioning my sincerity. She incessantly spoke of useless bullets While he, stealing glances, brushed against my feet. The glib one was imposing on something. So you can imagine my delight, When she started having breathing problems and departed. When three was two, It was he and I, and he Making sure of two things: I was well drank, and what Whitman wrote Was seducing me prevalently. The situation, I was stuck to ponder, Gay Dorm Love Seth Austin 12 13 As he moved closer to me, Sharing his touch with my shoulder. I thought of the professor we shared together And her evaluation of our scenario: “High marks for experimentation But you need to work on communication. Your vocabulary here is somewhat vague; Can you clarify your relationship with this boy, And where is this line going?” “Do you recall Melville?” he asked. (Our knees were lightly touching) “and Ishmael spending an intimate night With that tattooed cannibal At the inn before he set sail?” Homoeroticism notwithstanding I could hardly fathom in a flirtatious game, Playing such a hand, And I had much desire for my flesh intact, So I quickly reinvented the topic. “How’d you get that scar?” I asked, Fingers to his neck. He leaned in close, and whispered, “Thyroid cancer,” and kissed me, As awkward as that seems. There was a mere nickel between our lips, I could feel his breath with mine. With blushed nervousness I glanced around hastily So it was that my eye caught the sign “McCain/Palin 08” Also known as my erection’s demise. 14 15 Underdressed again. Foolishly launched into this grey, drizzly chill without armament. (What would Grandma say?) For so long, days like this were bitchy but welcome friends: at least in their sharp winds, goose bumps and frigid fingers were something to feel. I don’t need them now, except to remind me, while missing my absent jacket, that you would wrap me up in yours (probably purchased in 1979) Or in your arms, and that would be enough. And kiss my cold fingers one at a time and smile, and rekindle this flame you started in my heart. Humility is left standing at the gate, watching as Hubris rounds the next bend in the road where memories go to die; in the yet unexplored void he finds the ability to release from the clutching hands of silent death his own reminiscences. Unknowingly courting immortality, whose rosy lips will form the words ad infinitum… ad infinitum… The story of an ordinary man, holding in his arms the bastard child of Chaucer and Lady Liberty… Even Virgil is lost here. Heartglow Shelley D’Almada Ode to Walt Sarah Griffiths 16 17 Who knew that it could be like this? Separate lives to live such bliss. I’ll play you a song only for your eyes On wooden keys My fingers ease, While the splinters follow deep, A melody runs like water. Discovering, That your writing is all the same, I despise the fact, That you’re a mirror, I see myself in you. I am not attempting to be deep, Or perfectly profound, I’m simply excavating these words From the caverns in my body Connected to my soul Binging and purging of words Anywhere I can get my hands On something to write with. //Ring, ring? Hello. I just wanted to tell you, That you excite me In the regions near my arteries, But I’d still like to punch you In the face, only sometimes.// But the right words still don’t come out. //Hello?// Taking risks. Falling apart, Picking up again, Cyclical parties, Brief glances, Are not enough to make up for the fact, I caught you eye fucking her all night. I know, Because I wiped the drool off your lap. This could be a lament, But I’m too cynical at the present moment, Mr. Bukowski, let’s get together, We’ll write until our fingers burst blood, All over the piano while we’re drunk. It’ll be a good night for all. Eating a whole bowl of sliced strawberries, I have deducted, Is a very reflective fruit. Strawberries Karen Rooker 18 19 When summer scorches the creek bed, It looks like a wound inflicted in the belly of the playground. Long since scabbed over, the mud hardened into tessellations. Underneath, the soft flesh of clay lay dormant, protected by a mosaic of terra cotta scales. The vestiges of life-flecks of dried minnows, gems, bearing themselves for release. Every step closer, the stink of crawdads. Duck eggs that lie in broken nests along side hatched beer cans. Seesaws and chain link swings, looking into the gash, hoping for a turn. Effluent. RJ Hooker -They’re all left like abandoned songs. I kneel and trace the sunken walls-the creek gives like an old womb. I imagine the Leviathan was forged here, and the red mud of after birth must still cling to its immense underbelly. My faith’s parched, and I shudder at what I’m fool to believe. 20 21 Dimpled and fat and obscenely painted, This orange Is a globed purse of sherbet leather, Heavy with its slimy intestines. I never peel. I split its bulge and watch, as sticky stomach acid ropes on the blade before dripping into puddles on the napkin. Always in hopes of defeat, But satisfaction never climbs out from the slick guts. You boisterous whore, You lazy indifferent love-fruit, You do nothing but tease. You sting paper-cuts. You make the strongest of men wince Should you find an opening. And you always do. But you carry no real fulfillment. Your fickle juice pockets explode effortlessly. There is no flesh ripping, No insatiable, crisp bite, Just a pulpy explosion of wet orange sex slop. You’re the leftover condom Of divine recreation. Orange RJ Hooker At the top of the hill there lay a cat, parched and leathered and pressed into the road. The broken belly is a dry flutter of ribbons in the indifferent wind. On the side, peeking their heads through the guard rails, the dandelions bob incessantly, ruffling their manes against each other. Highway Fixtures RJ Hooker 22 23 These six men were hesitant- They know he is old, they think he is weak- But who paints the tree? Who gives the limbs? Their limbs were weak. Theses six men lifted him from a chair, Struggled, and staggered- Fools in a house of poetry, men of poetry. And how have they lived? Weeping and writing, and No verse can produce strength. Their mouths of sour breath Exhaling and heaving, and faces so strained. I watched them from a window and I believed they might burst- Temples turned to red, and they were not well, Because they were unsure. And no verse can create clarity, Sieve confidence from sweat. These six men were high-tide at five, Reaching for the heat of the solid Earth, And I watched from afar. These six men were a structure, A plan. He is a cosmos, working across the ceiling. But no verse can assemble armies, bear lightening, or Afford truth. He fell to the ground, the men collapsed. Fools in a house of poetry, house of languish. Contempt to the men of poetry, our country of composition. Carrying a Poet Jessica Fritz 24 25 In the birch tree, she said, sinking back into the Volkswagen. I imagined him: slightly smaller than an ordinary mouse with a little purple Mohawk, maybe tiny tinny headphones tuned to Megadeth. I nearly said so. I am glad, now, I kept my mouth shut. Superman hates elevators, shuffles uncomfortable feet from eighth to ground floor. When the door unfolds again, his top two buttons have undone. His girlfriend and their friends think it’s so damn cute, the way he flips the ground beef patties with his adamantium claws, but Wolverine stands fifteen minutes at the sink until the metal is no longer slick with grease, until his burger’s cold. Spiderman’s socks fall down inside his sneakers and it is fucking annoying. And I—despite the parades, and the accolades, and the overlarge key to the city—I cannot still myself to respond to your offered hand. I am terrified. Tufted Titmouse Steph Rahl This One’s About Superheroes. Steph Rahl 26 27 If I had the language of kings, I would dump my vats of blue From where the horizon touches the sky Out into the open land, And wait for the trees to grow. I would be satisfied and roll up my Gold and tomato rug And walk the sands until I Began to climb; And in the hills I would feel my Pockets for what I needed next, And once I had reached the apex Of the mountain with the longest legs of all, I would pause to catch my breath in the Splash of heavy cold, And slowly release my buckets of shine. I would sparkle the stone of the wide, wide earth, And shower it there at my feet. And once I had clapped my hands And dusted my fingers, I would be satisfied and roll up my Gold and tomato rug and Shimmy down the face of the giant; Then I would walk the stones until I began to wade; And at the heart of the swamp, I would string up the leaves and Illuminate the marécage with hanging lamps That swung softly in the falling light. And I would sigh with the zephyrs and be Satisfied to retrieve my gold and tomato rug From the trunk of the Indian tree. I would ford through the streams until I began to feel the suck of the tide; And at the lip of the land, I would have nothing left but a little voice With which to whisper my life far out, Hovering there above the great wine-dark sea; And when I had finished, just like You, I would be satisfied to unravel my Gold and threadbare rug, And sit and watch my language speak. If I had the Language of Kings Helen-Marie Pohlig 28 29 No matter how many bottles of ocean water romance Are stored in the cellar of my heart, I can’t help feeling that we are Only people, Bones and shoulders, Our faces pressed against the warm glass Of the old tan Volvo, Driving down the long road To nowhere in general, Blinded by the smile of A leaking grapefruit Reaching up from the approaching August horizon. the dialogues we have are seldom as beautiful as the soliloquies i have where the words are eloquent and beautifully chosen, perfectly punctuated Concerning Imagination Helen-Marie Pohlig untitled BK Carver 30 31 I came up for a breath again To sit on the floor and play with dancing light Like two magnets One edges that negligible distance Suddenly projected into a hidden force And is drawn close I came up for a breath again While two people call to each other From their perch on separate pillars So high up, so far from the other But they call and call If only to be drawn close I came up for a breath again To sit on the rock And eat my fill I was quiet and dazed And the water gushed out And surrounded me I came up for a breath again To shout at the fools who sit so high But sick and dizzy I was frightened to feel My feet planted on my own lonely pillar Shaking, shivering, I thought awhile I came up for a breath again Reflected light shatters like glass A mirror smashed against a wall Little silver shards, strewn Glimmering, but not illuminating dark corners A potential for blood I came up for a breath again I took my wounds up to the rock To lay down and die with my old companions Worry, Confusion, Death The blood gushed out and surrounded me Where the light shines from its source To draw me close I came up for a breath again The Sight of Drowning Haley F. Brown 32 33 Crystal plated pistols Risk everything or So I’ve heard. So pristine, so crisp Are their triggers, I Miss that snipping Sound. With a flick of the Wrist they whisk Lonesome souls Off to their vistas. The shallow summer has Come and gone. All the little girls standing At the edge of home, Within a mile of their Mothers’ hearts and captivated By telegraph wires, turn back Reluctantly as the dirt road they Once haunted is paved in a Fine tar spread. untitled Paul Vincent For Progress Paul Vincent 34 35 The rain caused tiny rivers to form along the sidewalk with cigarette butts and leaves floating in them like tiny, discarded bodies. I remember how I felt, like that debris as I flowed into you, and the look on your face as you picked me out from the crowd and took me home as nonchalantly as if I were a box of cereal. Down in the pines where the wood smoke rise my Pandora’s box will breathe fireflies where galaxies turn with an inch of a sound while I pray your spine runs into the ground tossing over everything I done’ did cocaine tea levitates my id deep rose this psychedelic compass look up the skies’ bleeding blue above us Secrete all comfort through a five-inch syringe just like a madman gliding on a sitar binge I magnify cyanide spirals in the sky with a feather in my hat and a needle in my eye With your feet to the clouds and head to the ground the air is glowing, no jelly men found one man stands with a snake and a cane asking me “boy, when’d you go insane?” I told him I caught the color purple in a glass while the moonlight played strange shadows on the grass the black breeze blew on the sound of machines he took my hand then started bleedin’ real mean. Secrete all comfort through a five-inch syringe just like a madman gliding on a sitar binge I magnify cyanide spirals in the sky with a feather in my hat and a needle in my eye 1985 Charles Wood Purple in a Glass Kate Weigand 36 37 I wanted to tell you On that Saturday morning When I was lying on your floor, Curled up and miserable From being sick the night before; I’d hardly slept at all. I wondered if the chicken breasts that You and Hayden grilled yesterday evening Were under cooked. Or maybe it was the raw fish I shared with my brother for lunch. The chicken did seem a bit pinkish But I assured you the sushi was the culprit. I thought it sweet of you To run to the convenient mart Across the street to buy a Gatorade to replenish the electrolytes I’d sweated out and hurled away. Fierce Grape. It was the dawn of the day before you left For Mexico, your senior trip. You were perched on the edge of your Unmade bed that I wished I could have Slept in, between your deep, blue sheets. Contact. Synchronization. Secrets. Our eyes—fierce, hazel—interlocked, Your face, your room, my world illuminated As you softly sang my name. I thought perhaps you felt it, too. I wanted to tell you for the first time That I love you. Left Unsaid Ashley Wahl 38 39 Dirt flings about your body, forming a curtain of blindness while covering your movements. You can hear the relentless breath following behind. The muscles of your legs constrict and in the instant your body turns, thoughts float away – back to playing Cowboys and Indians: You were always the Indian. The body rips apart and as you watch the muscle pull away from bone, exposing part of the ribcage – and as you watch the gaze of the opponent as the torso separates from the legs – your thoughts are not violent: You notice bullet holes littering the ground behind the victim – the shadow your body casts before the shot – the detail and surprise in the face – even the color of the sky – and you are appreciative. In the Eye of the Beholder Jeremiah Neal 40 41 For Memere Photograph Natalie Sloane Party’s Over Polaroid Photograph Misty Knowles Next Page: Wroclaw, Poland Photograph Lauren Roche 44 45 46 47 You...tall, with hair that resembles a yorkie ( I mean that in a good way), working your hair magic at Chakras Wed afternoon. Sexy as hell, twirling your scissors, working it out. Maybe hairdresser by day, rockstar by night... hmmmmm? Me...curvy and luscious, getting a perm (you know I love the body :)!!) We caught eyes across the room and I my root chakra tingle if you know what I mean. Was it innocent or was it the moment in time that I thought it Cause I can read people pretty well and you’re like a damn Danielle Steele novel me! If I’m right , lets get up. Maybe share the Jack Daniels trio at Fridays (I work there) or maybe Chilie’s for presiden-te margaritas and fajitas? Gentelmans choice. Hit me up, I cant wait...I know you felt it too!! love in the lsoavleo nin? !th?e - s wal4onm? !-? 2- 4w4m - 24 You...tall, with hair that resembles a yorkie ( I mean that in a good way), working your hair magic at Chakras spa on Wed afternoon. Sexy as hell, twirling your scissors, working it out. Maybe hairdresser by dar, rockstar by night...hmmmmm? Me...curvy and luscious, getting a perm (you know I love the body :)!!) We caught eyes across the room and I felt my root chakra tingle if you know what I mean. Was it innocent or was it the moment in time that I thought it was? Cause I can read people pretty well and you’re like a damn Danielle Steele novel me! If I’m right , lets get up. Maybe share the Jack Daniels trio at Fridays (I work there) or maybe Chilie’s for presidente margaritas and fajitas? Gentelmans choice. Hit me up, I cant wait...I know you felt it too!! Previous Page: love in the salon?!? - w4m - 24 Photograph and Text from book Philip Lawrence Jared, 43 Photograph Philip Lawrence 50 51 Her Courtyard Digital Photograph Jeffrey Pubantz 52 Accusations c-print Scott Mayo 55 Both untitled 35 mm Photographs Andrew Marino 56 57 Not and Nennifer Bronze Castings Elizabeth Burkey 58 59 untitled Mixed Media Alicia Cipicchio Tube Worship Mixed Media on Canvas Aaron Sizemore Church Oil on Board Audrey Schuyler You Are Your Possessions Multimedia Philip Lawrence 63 Previous Pages: Yarn Form II and Yarn Form I Oil on Canvas Karen Lepage Interior Oil on Canvas Karen Lepage 67 We Move Mountains Like Paper Triangles Etching Matthew Brinkley 68 69 Drips and Essence Etchings Annaleigha Wilke 70 71 72 73 Recycle Pen and Ink Josh Petty 75 There is Something in Your Throat Etching Matthew Brinkley 74 Both untitled Etchings Tristin Miller Vista Ocultada Digital Photograph Brenda Vienrich 79 Gigi and Gregory vs. the Whale Photographs Lauren Roche Next Spread: untitled Scanned Film Devon Curry 81 Previous Page: Knee Highs Scanned Film Devon Curry Kurdt Scanned Film Devon Curry 87 1. Did you know that smoking a cigarette takes the same amount of time as letting it burn itself out? If you don’t believe me you should try it. It’s a waste of a cigarette but I figure smokers should know bullshit trivia like that. I heard it from a guy I once knew. He knew a lot of things about lots of things and I didn’t know too much, so I always listened to him tell me these things about cigarettes and time. Turns out it all makes life seem a lot more real and well, I have trouble believing in life sometimes so it helped. I would always ask him to tell me things. He always wanted to tell me things. Sometimes I would ask because I wanted to know, but most times I just liked to listen to his voice and watch his eyes when he explained with a zeal I could not find in others. He gobbled up information and stored it in his expansive brain. He ate a lot too. I always used to think his brain fit his stomach, or maybe it was the other way around. Thinking makes a person hungry, ya know. And he thought more than enough for the both of us so I fed him and he kept on thinking. Thinking back I don’t know why I never thought about the things he did, my mind was always on the ground and his was in the sky. He was a bird and I was a fish. Birds and fish don’t go together too well. 2. Soul mates are a funny thing. You never know when you’re going to meet yours. It’s insane to think that there’s only one person out there for you but I believe it so it must be true for me. There’s nothing wrong if you don’t believe in it, that’s your choice, it’s just easier to believe there’s one person out there to fill in your gaps because if there isn’t then how are you supposed to know when is when? It’s like not knowing how much milk you want in your cup; are you going to want an extra gulp after you’re done or did you pour too much? When you believe in having that one soul mate then you know exactly how much milk you want. 3. Once he asked me what I thought happened to people after they died. It was when we were new untitled Meen Cho 90 and fresh, like tulips in April. I told him that I tried not to think about it too much, can’t spend time thinking about dying when you’re living. What’s the point? Well, he badgered me and it seemed important to him so I thought about it and told him the next day. I told him that: - I believed people died and their souls or spirits or whatever you choose would float away to some mountain in the sky, to some beach in the stars, to some plain old cottage on the moon and sometimes if you looked closely you could see them on earth, wandering about to see what’s going on with the living. I believed it was just like when they were living, in these after-life paradises, except not. You knew you were dead, you knew there was no going back, but it was okay because you were a soul, a feather floating around aimlessly. You didn’t need food or water or anything but it was there because old habits die hard. Of course you could talk with all the other souls but usually you found your loved ones, old friends, people you wanted to talk to before the end and spend time with them. I told him: - it was really easy to find all these people from your life because if you truly loved them then you knew where they were. And when you thought hard about it you could be with them instantly. No one knew pain or discomfort and there was no god or higher being where you went. It wasn’t a big party either. It was just nice. So after I told him all of that he scratched his head and said okay. And I asked him what he thought happened after people died. - Nothing. - Nothing? - Nothing. When people die, they just die and that’s the end. 91 And when he said that it made me really sad and he said sorry so I said it was okay even though I was still upset by it. 4. We stayed up late together a lot and sometimes didn’t go to sleep until after the sun came up. Sometimes we went on walks late at night to listen to the houses full of dreaming people, which was nice. On the nights we didn’t sleep, I asked him to tell me everything he knew. - That’s impossible babe. - I know, but try. - It’ll take forever. - Then you should start now. So he told me about science, philosophy, astrology, math, politics, history, theories, speculations, words, words, words. He was always full of them. - Why do you know all of this? - I don’t know. I just pick it up here and there. - No, but why? - So I can tell you. And when I would wrinkle my nose at his answer he always kissed it. After these nights he would 92 always hold my hand until I fell asleep too. I always tried to stay awake longer than him but he always won. Always. 5. I never did remember the things he told me. I guess that’s why I always wanted to know more or didn’t mind hearing about other things because everything he had told me before would always linger and leave, like a scent. Looking back, I should have written these things down because it’s all I have left now. I should have done a better job remembering. I should have carried around a notebook. I should have tied a tape recorder around his neck. I should have, I would have, I could have, but I didn’t. Looking back, I really wish I had remembered everything he told me because then maybe it would feel like he was still here. 93 untitled Meen Cho The bronze face of Earth sighs while the Golden nymph Sun anoints her forehead. “Wake, wake,” Sun says, and rouses the creatures of Earth. The shadows quiver as Earth’s skin blossoms amidst the horizon. Earth’s azure eyes sparkle as her dreams flourish, forming shapes in the skies. “Hello and thank you,” Earth waves her vine-like hands. “You’re welcome,” Sun says, pleased with her work. Yet, Sun spies many children in Earth’s bosom. They are buried deep together, their bodies supine, yet shrouded from Sun’s compassion. No child should be in the dark, Sun thinks, and grasps the children with her hands. Yet none recognize Sun’s fingers, and she turns to Earth, perplexed. “None will awaken from the dark,” Earth says. “Monsters have attacked again.” Sun weeps, but Earth comforts her, “One can still be awakened from the darkness, for the monsters did not reach him.” “Then wake he will.” Sun searches his mind, for in her sight all secret things become known, and glares upon him, whispering his name: “Wake, Isaac, wake.” Sun kisses Isaac on the forehead, yet Isaac does not stir. “Wake, Isaac, wake.” Sun breathes life into his lungs now. Yet Isaac remains asleep, though he stirs a little. “Wake you must, Isaac,” Sun pleads, and she spreads her glowing palms across his face. Isaac’s eyes glitter like pyrite, and from the darkness he rises. Sun beams with pride, and resumes her duty. “Care for him Earth, care for him tenderly, and others will come. Peace always follows Peace.” Earth obeys Sun and offers Isaac gifts of Nature. Warmth drenches Isaac’s face as Earth provides him her comfort. Perfume massages his nose, and happiness fills his nostrils. Syrup teases his amber lips, and Earth fills his stomach. The wind tickles his green skin, not green in pallor, but green with entropy. “Search, search,” Earth tells him, “and you will find a new home. Your siblings have found theirs. Search, search in my bosom, Isaac. Not with your feet, but your heart.” So Isaac searches for a new home, and his fingers prod the ground in the great field like worms, curious and absentminded but never abrasive. He imagines his hands are worms that journey through the earth and bury themselves in the mysteries of nature. The incessant warbles of birds infatuate his ears. “Tweet tweet,” some say, prancing through the air all dainty-like. “Hee-hoo, hee-hoo,” others gloat, whistling. Isaac never can whistle, and he Worms Levon Valle 94 likes ‘em for it. “Bwallawk, bwallawk,” others croon and Isaac imagines a person speaking, coughing, and clearing their throat at the same time. “Chirrup, chirrup,” another says, but it rolls the “r” and splatters the air like a machine gun. But enough about the birds for now. Isaac really likes ‘em, but thinks they’re a little prissy. Isaac hates machine guns too. His hands are lost now in the dirt. Isaac wonders if his pretend-worms will find the road real worms travel by. His hands stumble upon ropes tangled in the dirt, just beneath the soiled grass. Thin, icky and rough, it must be tough being a worm. He feels like he’s playing in a bowl of semi-moist oatmeal, all thick and clumpy. He knows his hands will be dirty as the soil recedes underneath his nails, but it’s like the clothes real worms would wear, and he wants to be a real worm so his fingers wear it too. Pollen glides through his nose and stings it. A sharp cough and little channels of crimson sprout within his nose. “Pock, pock,” goes the fluid as it smacks the ground. Tears knot within his eyes, and he wipes them aside. He rubs his nose, and the bleeding eventually ceases. He despises pollen. But Isaac doesn’t care; he’s a worm and he’s gotta be tough. Sniffing briefly, he notices that his little imaginary worms scrape against rocks and find an alien surface. Smooth, rubbery, yet thin as cat whiskers. He imagines they’re millipedes and says hi, just like a real worm would. True to form, he feels thousands – well not thousands he knows, but close-enough right? – of silky hands brush his fingers like a comb of slippery twigs. They tickle him, and he laughs, twitching his worm-fingers. Do worms laugh, he wonders? If not, he’ll be the first worm to ever laugh. They’ll write about him in history books and encyclopedias… Isaac, the first laughing worm! So he twitches his worm-fingers a little bit, waves them slowly, and then says hi in worm talk. You see, Isaac watches worms all the time. He can even TALK to worms. When they nudge their banded heads around, they’re really greeting you, searching you out just like a dog that sniffs you when it sees you, like animal sign language. His fingers are practically mummified in soil, and he imagines he must be wearing very expensive worm clothing; a worm suit maybe. The millipede squirms too, saying hi Mr. Worm, you sure do have a nice suit. It asks Isaac how his worm-fingers are doing. Isaac’s worm-fingers carefully nudge it back in a friendly gesture, saying we’re doing fine, thank you for the compliment. Isaac knows that manners are not only important for humans, but worms too. We’re just trying to find any other real worms like us too, his worm-fingers continue. Have you seen any worms like us around? No, the millipede responds as it inches its body away. You just missed the Worm Road. The millipede then points Isaac’s worm-fingers in the right direction. See? The millipede points with its antennae – of course Isaac can’t see but his worm-fingers can – toward a channel soaked by darkness and precarious life-forms. You see, the Worm Road is down there. Just continue and you’ll reach a junction 95 where all the worms travel. It even gives Isaac’s worm-fingers some dire advice: be careful though when you reach the junction, and follow your worm instincts. Nobody else knows the paths that worms travel. I wish I could, but I am not a worm. Nice meeting you; maybe we will see each other again in the bug city sometime, the millipede suggests. There’s a city around here? Isaac’s worm-fingers undulate with excitement. Yes, the millipede replies, departing. Only true bugs can find it, but I know we’ll meet again. Maybe I will take you there. Waving its antennae, the shelled and leathery body of the millipede scurries away from Isaac’s worm-fingers. Wait! The millipede stops. What do you need? Isaac’s worm-fingers fumble around clumsily. Um, we don’t know your name, sir. Can you tell us ‘cause we like you being nice to us real worms n’ all. Sure, my name is Millie Pede. What are your names? Isaac’s fingers crinkle in shame; I forgot to give my worms real names to go by! Real worms must have names too. So Isaac answers like a real worm: our names are Indy, Middler, Ringo, Pinkle, and Thumberd. We’re quintuplets, his worm-fingers add. Then his other worm-fingers say, we’re Indy the second, Middler the second, Ringo the second, Pinkle the second, and Thumberd the second. We’re quintuplets too. Wow, I haven’t ever seen worms like you. But bye-bye now, Millie Pede says. I gotta go and get to work now. You guys look like you must work hard, because I can’t find outfits that expensive. Then Millie Pede really leaves this time, and Isaac’s worm-fingers are left alone to ponder what they must do. Well, says Indy, let us follow his advice. No, says Middler, I want to see the bug city. Wait, says Ringo, we have to find the Worm Road first or we can’t be real worms. That’s right, Pinkle adds. Who will lead us then, asks Thumberd? They look at each other for a looooooooonnnnnng time. Then Indy the second speaks. I think Indy should lead. Indy was firstborn. No. Middler should lead us. Middler is brave, but Indy is not. Wait, says Ringo the second. Pinkle should lead us. He can reach many places we cannot. 96 That’s right, admits Pinkle the second. But, Thumberd is the wisest. They all agree to Pinkle the second’s advice. Excellent. Where shall we go then, Thumberd the second asks. Thumberd thinks, scratching his head against the dirt. I trust Millie Pede, so we should head where he showed us. Thus Isaac’s worms travel deep into the earth to find the worm road. The golden nymph Sun departs as the pale nymph Moon slowly approaches, and Sun’s beauty is gradually masked by Moon’s curtain of enigmas. “Sleep, sleep,” she tells the creatures of Earth, and tucks them beneath twilight. “Sleep, Sleep,” she tells the creatures of Earth, and gives ‘em dreams as their pillows. “Beware, beware,” Moon says, and places fear in the darkness to stave mischievous hands. “Awake, awake,” Moon bids the insects, and noise fills the air as they commemorate her beauty. “Eeep, eeep,” the crickets respond, plopping from the cool air to begin their evening tasks. “Bzzz-Bzzz,” flies and other insects rasp, moseying for treasure amongst the squandered trash. “Sip-sip,” goes the long mouth of the mosquito as it dines on unwitting prey. “Burp-burp”, some amphibians mutter, lazily gulping their evening meals. Sounds invade the night as slithery things slither, like snakes against grain; hoppity things hop, like the kerplunk of bullfrogs; crawly things crawl, like the scamper of meerkats; scary things scare, like crocodiles with their ominous lisps… But enough about these things, for all things of nature pleases the ears of Moon, except one. Amidst a field Moon spies a boy, awake and ever-energetic. No child should be in the dark, Moon thinks, and casts her luminous eye upon him. She examines his mind, for no boy can hide his thoughts, and finds his name. “Isaac is your name, huh? Sleep you must,” she whispers in his ears, “for all play and no sleep makes Isaac a dull boy.” She blows Isaac a kiss, and smites his limbs with exhaustion and weight. No, I will not sleep. I have not finished my journey… Isaac shakes his head defiantly. Moon laughs softly. “Yes, Isaac, yes, you shall sleep. None can resist my charm. Sleep you must, for all play and no sleep makes Isaac a dull boy.” Moon blows another kiss to Isaac, and presses her gentle hands over his eyes, closing them. Isaac’s mind becomes limp, and his thoughts stutter and move hectically like bats in the open air. No! I cannot sleep. I must find the worm road. Isaac clogs his mind with erratic thoughts and his eyes with curiosity, in hopes that he will never fall asleep again. However, Moon chortles and winks her eyes. “Yes Isaac, yes, you must sleep. None can escape my voice. Sleep you will, for all play and no sleep makes Isaac a dull boy.” Moon blows one final kiss to Isaac, and his eyes are glued shut by slumber. Moon sings in his ears and entrances him, and his skull nods to the rhythm. Isaac fights the 97 Worms Levon Valle prison of his mind, but the music becomes too beautiful to resist. Forgive me! The song of Moon stifles his senses, and Isaac soon forgets about new homes and real worms and highways and millipedes and his worm-fingers, as he then travels into the shadows that obscure times past. “Where are your dreams, Isaac?” Moon inquires, as she sees Isaac’s mind. “Boys should yearn for adventure and excitement.” Yet Isaac does not dream. “Look-look,” she says, staring into his thought-projector. A boy stands before another boy, cries before another boy, dies before another boy. In a dungeon realm, a hellish dungeon realm, a perilous dungeon realm. It is his home, Moon sees in astonishment. Yet before this place she sees a village where gourds are shared, trust is promised, discipline is given. Laughter frequents this place, and many children. Yet, Moon sees the Monsters approach, and Isaac’s home is undone. Like spasms of light, Moon sees tatters of Isaac’s memories, for his thoughts are broken. In one flicker, Moon sees his mother’s life depart from his eyes. In another, Monsters attack him, unnatural beasts. In a final flicker, the elders fade with the sanguine horizon. “They are no children of mine,” Moon cries. Still, the beasts devour Isaac’s mother alive. But she is not the last, nor the first victim Isaac sees. These monsters disguise themselves in human skin, greedy ears, and tongues that bear poisonous daggers. In packs they come, never unarmed when alone. They even look like Isaac, but Moon recognizes the ire that broods inside their eyes. Isaac’s mind skips and Moon sees children flee while other children sleep. Please, Earth, please, hide me, Isaac whimpers, and dives into her arms. His brothers no longer hold their arms open in welcome, but in emptiness, their eyes dispossessed and their mouths voiceless. His sisters have no proverbs to offer him. The only words Isaac hears are the spitfires from hollow, steeled faces. His brothers whimper as erratic lisps puncture their skin. Help me, Earth, PLEASE help me, Isaac screams, and dives toward her bosom. Fire pierces his side, as though a hornet has ignited its stinger and stabbed him with it. The darkness envelops Isaac, and his nose bleeds again. But it isn’t because of pollen this time. Then Isaac dreams for the last time, and he forgets about gourds and trust and discipline and fiery hornet stings. He dives into Earth’s bosom, where his sisters and brothers and elders and mother sleep. As he pierces the soil, his limbs conjoin. His skin sheds away and reveals his true flesh and he journeys like his fingers do, where every touch will mean hi and I love instead of I hate. Isaac journeys to that place inside of Earth each night, but never reaches home. Then Isaac’s thought-projector rewinds and replays the nightmare in his torpid mind. “Certainly you are more than human, if they are human too. Boys that never dream are boys 98 that never live in peace,” Moon realizes. “Boys that cannot live in peace are boys without dreams. “My shadows do not protect you from evil, for fear is worn on the faces of the evil ones,” Moon admits. “My curtains cannot offer rest from the shadows you see in daylight. My pillow alone gives you nothing to aspire toward. No wonder you seek the shelter of Earth.” “Awaken in your dreams,” Moon decides, “and you will live forever as the worm you wish to be. A boy should not live in a world with monsters. A boy should live in a world with his dreams. “Now dream, dream,” Moon sings, and her auric eyes twinkle. “Dream and remember,” she coos, tickling his mind. “Dream Isaac, and become a real worm among your worm friends forever.” … Are you okay? I think so, says Indy, and scratches his head against the earth. Are you guys okay, Centy Pede asks. We are, reply Indy’s brothers. Centy Pede shakes his hundred hands – well not hundreds we know, but almost, right? – and rapidly chatters as he informs them of what happened. Gee, we were just talking and you guys had just told me your names and I told you I like your suits and you asked me if you were close to the Worm junction and then, then, then…. Mr. Centy Pede stammers. Then what, Thumberd asks. Then you just, uh, fell. Fell, Isaac’s Slinky Banditos – blame ol’ mischievous Ringo for this nickname – inquire. Yes, fell, Centy Pede affirms, wiggling his arms. That took a lot to say, but you are okay so why don’t we finish? Okay, Thumberd replies. We wanted to find the Worm junction. Hrm… Centy Pede scratches his gooey antennae. Oh, just continue a little further. You will find it in time, Centy Pede assures them. Thank you, Isaac’s Slinky Banditos respond, and prepare to continue their journey. Yet, a great tremor fills their surroundings and engulfs them in crescendos of terror. Soon, it stops, and they each sigh in relief. I am calm, says Indy. I am okay, says Indy the second. Middler trembles the worst, yet he yells I am not afraid! Middler the second looks scared too. Middler is just fine, see! That was cool, Ringo says. 99 Worms Levon Valle That gave me the jitters! What do you think Pinkle? Ringo the second asks. We should be okay. Yeah; trust what Thumberd says, Pinkle the second advises. They all gaze toward Thumberd, who looks uncertain. I am worried, but we will be safe. Do you know what that was, Centy Pede? Thumberd the second asks. I do. That was the great horn mouth. It eats all kinds of insects, but it ‘specially likes Wooooorrrmmmms, he cautions. Wow, the Slinky Banditos respond. That’s dangerous! Don’t worry, Centy Pede tells ‘em. The horn mouth cannot reach this deep, but we can feel its presence when it looks for fellow bugs to eat. It is the way of life. I think I better go, before I get in trouble. Before you get in trouble. Then Centy Pede zips away, and the Slinky Banditos cannot say goodbye. Then let us go, Thumberd says, and they soon reach the Worm junction. However, the tunnels run deep, and all are alarmed. No worms are here, Middler complains. Middler the second joins Middler in his rant, saying Millie Pede lied to us! The soil does not welcome their presence. Rocks and other vague debris surround them. Clay walls seem to blockade their hope as well as their future. But Pinkle gives them hope. Trust Thumberd. Indy also agrees. Never doubt our power as friends! Yeah… Do we have a choice, Middler? Ringo asks. Middler shrugs his shoulders. OH okay… Middler the second finally agrees. What will we do then? Dig, we must dig, Pinkle says. Then dig we will, Thumberd tells the Slinky Banditos. Dig and we will find our home. So they dig, pressing their eager heads through the rough clay. They weave their way through the obscurity as their bodies slip between nooks and crannies and soft spots. Dig, dig, the Slinky Banditos sing, until they sneak through the Worm junction and embrace the feeling of smooth, silky fingers. Soft, banded, icky, and dirty, just like real worms too? They wrestle it seems, but they soon greet each other unabashedly. Hello, the strangers whisper, and nudge the Slinky Banditos. Hello, the Slinky Banditos answer back. Welcome, welcome, welcome, many worms say as they caress the Slinky Banditos. Woooooooooooowwwwww… The Slinky Banditos marvel at the Worm Road, for thousands of worms – he tells the truth now! – Now amble through the fertile land. Some dangle from worm- 100 101 houses and worm-scrapers, waving with their regal faces. Nice suits! The Slinky Banditos see their brothers and sisters and elders too, and they greet each other. How we missed you, the Slinky Banditos say, and reminisce with them about ol’ times past. We missed you too, their brothers and sisters and elders say, and their worm-fingers nestle beside each other. Their love becomes singular, and the Slinky Banditos soon see quintuplets just like ‘em too! The Slinky Banditos forget about Millie Pede and Centy Pede and horn mouths and Worm junctions and slink toward their pink friends. Hello, they say in unison. Welcome home. Curtains of light baptize their eyes together and the Worm Road shrinks in the eyes of the Slinky Banditos. Earth is rent asunder, and releases them from her shelter. Two strangers now lock their hands together in friendship. “Hello,” the little girl says to a groggy Isaac. “Hi,” he responds, giggling. Worms Levon Valle i’d be happy with a little colour, she thought to herself, looking through the dirty water-streaked pane. i’d be happy with a little colour to taste, mangos on a mango tree, fallen ripe to leaves beneath, where little feet patter and open palms grasp for precious fruit, precious prize, just another part of life, another part of the day. their dirty little faces, dusted with the earth and darkened by centuries of sun, brilliant gems set in stone, resplendent eyes bright and feverish with youth. we saw a jackal today, we chased and howled until it sauntered off, and my, we are proud, we are bigger now, able to fend for ourselves. you are children. we are adults. you are children. we are big kids. you are children, don’t you change. you are sweet and papery life. we ran for hours, shaking our fists and brandishing our sticks in the afternoon light, and look, my feet are dyed with red dirt, but not as red as the scrape on my knee where i tripped and had to catch up with the others. it was a race, and it had nothing to do with the wild dog after a while, we just wanted to run and run and run, because that’s what it’s all about, being exhausted at the end of the day because of all the life we spent from morning to dark. and look at me now. here i am. i’d be happy with a little colour, she thought to herself, looking through the window of the make-shift house into the torrential rains; but here i am, and i am here, and the world outside my door is bright and open to experience and delicious life, for as long as the golden Son will continue to burn holes in my tin roof, and i laugh because i’m already starting to hear the drip, drip, behind me now, soon to be all around. Africa Helen-Marie Pohlig 102 103 There was a storm the night that the Alkan-Moore building changed. Rain hammered windows and drains spilled over into empty streets. In the early morning hours, when my thoughts drifted from warmth and comfort into languid sleep, something happened. And yet the day began the same way as so many others, an echo of rat races passed. The television babbled softly from the living room as I made a fresh pot of coffee, oblivious at the time to anything that didn’t concern caffeine or bagels. I shuffled about the kitchen in an early morning haze, scratching and yawning until I heard the creak of our bedroom door. Marla had just gotten out of the shower. I stumbled towards the sound and heard her gasp just as I came into the room. She stood in front of the television; nude save the towel bunched on her head, and rested her left hand just below her collar bone. The other towel lay at her feet in a deep blue ring. Uncomprehending, I smiled at the small, lithe body of my lovely wife. “I’m not sure if we have time for this, babe.” I mumbled. “Unless you want to hop back into the shower with me.” She glanced at me and then back at the screen. “Alan…?” She trailed off. I came closer, fully intending to take her into my arms in soft, sleepy embrace, when I happened to look at the TV. I paused in mid step. In one brief, somehow terrible instant, I lost all interest in my wife. “Holy shit.” I muttered, the words sounding empty even as I formed them. There was no explanation for what I was seeing. It defied all reason, and yet there it was in full, rich color and high definition picture. Jutting from the otherwise mundane downtown skyline was an arm. Rising at least fifty stories, the limb was outstretched, fingers extended as though to Concrete Routines James Mabe 104 brush their tips against the clouds. It was formed from twisted steel and busted concrete, from shattered glass and thick black cable, but was somehow seamless. Raindrops shined like sweat upon the strangely elegant monolith. From the aerial view of a Channel 14 news helicopter I could just see the streets below. Police cars and fire trucks were lined up in waves, their lights blinking madly, while tiny figures gazed toward the sky in apparent awe. Chunks of concrete piled upon one another as though they had been chiseled away. Broken glass sparkled, reflecting pinpoints of red and blue. “What is it?” Marla whispered. I stared ahead, blinking dumbly, and for several heartbeats said nothing. “Uhm. I think it’s an…” “I know it’s an arm, honey.” She interrupted, still whispering. “I mean, what is it?” “I don’t know.” I admitted, feeling oddly exposed. “I don’t know.” Neither of us moved for some time. We didn’t bother to relocate to the couch, nor did Marla bother to clothe herself. We simply stood there, our eyes wide and faces drained, enthralled and insignificant. Through visible confusion the newscasters observed the obvious. The authorities were at a loss, though there was talk of terrorism, structural flaws, unexplained natural phenomenon, and a litany of progressively more outlandish explanations. Eventually, passing reference was made to three custodial workers and a security guard that were currently missing. Coverage continued uninterrupted throughout the rest of the morning, and only the ticker at the bottom of the screen gave any indication that another part of the world even existed. At some point, perhaps a half hour into the broadcast, I forced myself to turn away and retrieved Marla’s robe. She accepted it absently and placed herself upon the couch. I went back into the kitchen, a place then dreamlike in its normalcy, and poured two cups of coffee. Marla mumbled gratitude as I sat next to her. We sat closely for a long time, taking comfort in one another’s presence without consciously acknowledging the need for it. We learned nothing new, but were treated to shots of the spectacle 105 from various angles. From the ground up it appeared massive, otherworldly, a subdued grey and black spire from some forgotten realm. The word from the man on the street was perplexed, horrified, reverent. Some thought it a message from God, others from extra terrestrials. Some, much like myself, were simply at a loss for words. Hours passed and I might have sat there all day were it not for the electric chirp of my cell phone. The noise was foreign at first and I turned towards the bedroom wondering what on earth that terrible racket might be. Recognition dawned after a moment and I raced to find a call from the office. “Hello?” “Al?” “Oh. Hey Don. You watching this?” “The Alkan-Moore building?” “Huh? No the big fuckin’ arm downtown.” “That used to be the Alkan-Moore building, Al. And yeah, I saw it. I could see it from the train on the way in, actually.” “Oh yeah, I think the reporter mentioned that. Crazy.” “Yeah… Yeah you could say that.” He paused. “So, ah, you coming in today? We’re a little short staffed. As you might expect.” I sighed internally. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, sorry about that. Gimme about an hour.” “You’re a life saver, Al.” Don said, relieved. “I’ll see you then.” I hung up and made my way back into the living room. 106 “Hey babe, I gotta grab a quick shower. Don called, evidently they’re short today.” She looked up briefly and nodded. “Are you…” I began. “Nah. No appointments today, the gallery will be fine.” She replied, sipping at a fresh cup of coffee. “Okie dokie, then.” I said, turning back. Don had been right, I could see it from the train. A mammoth hand towered above the rooftops of nearby buildings, reaching for something beyond the confines of the city. Every passenger had their eyes trained on it. They murmured to one another in hushed breaths and intoned near silent prayers. Even at the station, I could hear nothing but talk about the new addition to the skyline. Later, after the two block walk to work, Don was effusive. The rest of the office was skeletal, all closed doors and preoccupied interns. I did the work of at least three men and yet the day passed swiftly, as though part of me was never even there. I found myself taking quick glimpses out of the window, searching for any change in the brownstone across the street. I’m sure others were doing the same. I wondered, more seriously than I would have cared to admit, if it might happen again. Perhaps even here. Would I have time to get out? Marla called once to check on me. I told her I loved her and that I was fine. She asked me if I had seen it. I said I had. She told me to be careful and that there would be Chinese waiting when I got home. I left the office sometime after five and the sky was already beginning to darken. On impulse, I decided to take a walk. I wanted to see it in person, up close. I passed by eight blocks of Trade St. and then took a left on 4th. The Alkan-Moore building was just ahead. The scene was one of subdued chaos. 107 Concrete Routines James Mabe Police cars still lined the street, creating a barrier between the alien structure and the mob of gawkers that had amassed over the course of the day. There were hundreds of them. Flashes popped and children pointed. People sat in circles with downcast eyes as candles burned away the edges of night. Men of every faith were on display, chanting, swaying softly in some personal affirmation of their beliefs. I barely noticed any of them. To be so close, barely a hundred feet away from the rubble, it was overpowering. The statue, if it could even be called that, was as smooth as polished ceramic. Concrete overlapped traces of girder and power cables ran like veins. It was a thing unto itself, not an accident of nature or design, but a creation. I had been prepared for most of what lay before me, after all I had been seeing images of the arm for much of the day, but I could have never expected the lights. It was unfathomable that the building, or what was left of it, still had power. Yet it did. The florescent tubes had somehow remained intact and the wires unbroken. From every crack in the arm’s surface light spilled forth. Spidery lines of brilliance appeared here and there, some areas lasting only inches while other sections stretched on for yards. It was as though the behemoth was but a shell, a thin veneer that housed something divine. Near the hand itself the cracks grew more prevalent, spreading like a web of white fire until finally culminating in a pillar of light that rose as a beacon from the palm. I gazed upward with the wide open eyes of a child, feeling much like one. I chewed at the corner of my lip and fought to make sense of what I was seeing. I don’t know how long I stood there, shivering, but my feet were numb when Marla called. She was concerned, but I wouldn’t say worried. She had already guessed where I might be. I told her that I would be home soon and that I loved her dearly. The next night I took her to see it. I would have guessed that nothing would ever be the same, but I would have been wrong. Slowly, as the first few months passed, things began to return to a semblance of normalcy. Television coverage gradually shifted from our local anomaly back to the ever changing world beyond. Climate 108 change, anti lobbying messages from a would-be senator, and the opening of a new Honda plant would greet me in the morning. Commercials, outrage from Keith Olberman, and Law and Order would tuck me in at night. This isn’t to say that all discussion of the surreal landmark had ended but, even in our own community, it would seem that the surreal could become commonplace. Heads were turned less and less on the train, and the outstretched fingers became just another familiar addition to the concrete slabs beyond. Life went on. There were investigations, of course. Physicists and structural engineers, experts in architecture and men of the cloth, each offered opinion but nothing of note was discovered. The arm remained as much of a mystery as it had been on the first day. Each night the hand shined brightly, an electric pyre that defied explanation. There was talk of cutting the power. Marla and I went through our same old routines, work and dinner and lovemaking and popcorn at the cinema, and eventually forgot how much the world had really changed. She would regale me in the evenings about that day’s particular batch of paintings, most at least partially inspired by Alkan-Moore’s arm, and how tiresome it was becoming to continually turn them down. The gallery needed variety, she explained. After all, they were a business not a shrine. I smiled and called her a capitalist pig. I suppose that it might have gone on like that indefinitely. Day after day of pleasant banality with only the passing of holidays to mark the time, a life that would make a man fat, happy, and prone to high cholesterol. There are certainly worse fates. Pretty regularly, I wonder which one of them I’ve suffered. On a cold January morning I awoke to find the national media in a frenzy. It shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise, really, that it had happened again. Still, there was the same sense of shock, the same disbelief that I had witnessed only months prior. Another hand had appeared, seven blocks west of the first. Rather than reaching for the heavens, however, this new limb seemed to be wrenching itself free from the grave. It sat in the now ruined lot of a Quik Stop gas station. A forearm had erupted from the pavement, tilted so that the tips of its fingers pressed upon the ground, perpetually straining. Red paint flaked from sheet metal and liquid dripped from tiny fissures in the concrete. The gas station 109 Concrete Routines James Mabe had been crushed, twisted, sculpted in exacting detail from trash and debris. Exploded bags of potato chips and shattered beer bottles lay around the perimeter in careless disarray. I remember seeing the eyewitness footage, toothbrush still in hand and the taste of mint burning my tongue, and the only thing I could think about was how cold the apartment felt. Gone was the sense of transcendent longing. This hand held only the promise of something more to come, something that could just as easily be terrible as benign. Perhaps it was the undercurrent of violence, or perhaps simply the amalgamation of refuse and filth, but it was horrid. It was a perversion of something that might have been beautiful. I yelled for Marla to come and see. “Oh my God…” She said moments later. She turned to me. “Last night?” I shrugged. “Guess so.” We stood there much as we had before, only now there was precedent. My mind raced with what might come next, and what might happen when it was finished. Whatever it was, what would it do if it was freed? Marla walked away from the screen, biting at her thumb nail. “Alan I… I don’t know what’s going on, but… I’d feel better if you didn’t go in today.” I tried to smile, but it felt wrong, tight. “Sure babe. Lemme call Don, okay?” A minute later and I had left a message. I didn’t expect a call back, he owed me. I sat down and made myself as comfortable as my skin would allow. Marla was curled up with a cup of coffee, lost in the folds of a large brown sweater. The talking heads babbled on, ecstatic that the void of the twenty four hour news cycle had once again been filled. There were more aerial shots, more clueless bystanders, and far more voices of panic than before. A chubby policeman spoke hurriedly into a microphone, his face ruddy from the cold. There was more than one instance, we were told. Part of the sewer system had collapsed a few blocks away, and a section of Porter Blvd. had acquired a mysterious new hill that stretched nearly to the second floor of the adjacent apartment building. We saw only fleeting images of these other developments, 110 however, as most of the footage focused upon the hand. “It’s a woman.” Marla said after a while. I didn’t respond at first. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what the hell she was talking about. “You think?” “Yeah.” Coffee slurped. “It’s slender. I mean, relative to what it could be. So is the other one.” “Maybe it’s just effeminate.” “Huh.” She said, humorless. “Maybe.” The day wore on and we ordered pizza sometime after noon. I don’t remember eating any. My appetite was somewhere amid the memories of the previous day. That night we saw live coverage of the lights. Patches of neon seeped through the cracks like open sores. There was worried discussion in the media for a few days. People debated precautionary evacuations, quarantines, theology, and a host of other mostly pointless topics. Pat Robertson called it a sign of the coming Armageddon. Some televangelist in Oklahoma claimed that leviathan had risen and the great beast was on its way. They both asked for money, evidently that would put off the end times for just a bit longer. I stopped watching after a while. At work I tried to keep my mind on other things, ones that I could understand. Numbers, flat and black, sales figures and whether or not I wanted to upgrade my health insurance to the premium plan. I looked for solace in facts. I felt like I needed to be grounded, sheltered from anymore talk of the supernormal. I suppose that I had been left fatigued by too many exercises in fantasy. In reality though, my thoughts were plagued by worry that I might be spending my time at the office within the anatomy of a God. 111 Concrete Routines James Mabe I never worked late anymore. Not many people did. For months after the second appearance, the city’s night life was a shadow. Only tourists walked the streets, and even they did so with some trepidation. More and more downtown apartments were up for rent. Some days, when meeting Marla for lunch or running one errand or another, I would catch glimpses of the hands. I would shake my head as I passed by, watching as hundreds of people still held vigil, praying, waiting for some further sign. I thought of swarming ants. As the months dragged on I think Marla started to go a bit stir crazy. Our weekends used to be spent at the bars downtown, drinking too much and trading condescension with the townies. Those reckless evenings were replaced with the soft glow of on-demand drama and appetizers at Chili’s; I knew it was a poor substitute. I would spend my Saturdays watching her pace around the apartment, paintbrush in one hand and a glass of merlot in the other. She had started perhaps a dozen paintings in as many weeks. She finished two. Eventually, her restlessness got the better of us both. I met her at home on April 6th and she greeted me with a smile. It’s been almost a year since that day but the memory remains clear. It’s etched in my skull like the birthday of a child. She informed me that a friend of hers from State had called and that we would be going out later. At the time I smiled back and told her that that sounded great. I’m certain that I would respond differently now. A few hours and a shower later we sat at Benny P’s. Marla and Sarah Folder each sipped at rum and cokes, and I had just finished my first car bomb of the evening. A pint of Guinness rested on the table, awaiting my attention. Glasses clinked and voices were lost in low, rumbling chatter. Smoke wafted, backlit by blue neon, and billiards collided from somewhere in the back of the room. I was surprised by how many people were out. All of the booths had been taken and we were forced to find an open table. It seemed that the cabin fever afflicting Marla was becoming a pandemic. Marla and Sarah reminisced for much of the evening, sharing drinks and stories of ill-remembered parties. The discussion gradually turned to work and the day to day struggle. I spent as much time as I could bear with them, nodding and smiling when appropriate, but eventually my attention waned. It was a girl’s night out, I was merely there for show. Not that I minded, but the 112 intricacies of the art world could thrill me for only so long. Martians Attack! pinball provided me with an excuse and, once my quarters were spent, I was off to mingle. I recognized a few faces in the crowd and zeroed in on their table. “Well, if it isn’t mister Patrick Bateman.” A grinning man in a black t-shirt yelled at me. “Fuck you John.” I replied while pulling up a chair. I sat there, surrounded by unkempt beards and half empty PBR’s, and began to feel a little better. With every glass of beer the concerns of the past few months became less and less important, lost in the fuzz of heady warmth and impassioned conversation. I checked in with the ladies from time to time but spent most of the night at the other table, debating politics, pop, and other downward spirals. The evening drew to a pleasant enough close as the bartender shouted last call, sparking the usual mass pilgrimage of thirsty drunks. I thought about calling a cab as I waited for my last refill, but held off in hopes that Marla would want to grab a bite to eat. I suppose that I should find it funny that my last calm thought as the man I used to be was about a cheeseburger. I don’t though. I’m not sure what I think about it, but I don’t find it funny. At roughly ten minutes to two, when I was walking back to my table with a fresh Guinness, the world became a much different place. Some strange, powerful secret was revealed, and only vagrants and drunks were around to hear it. That, I do find funny. We all noticed the vibrations before we actually heard anything. The building hummed and beer spilled over rims and I remember thinking “It’s happening again! My God it’s happening here!”. It wasn’t though, not there. Those were merely ripples in a pond. People started to panic, running for the door, shoving and cursing. I ran to Marla. She was near the back of the crowd, waiting with Sarah for any opening and beckoning me to hurry. I had just made it to her side when the voice came. I call it a voice but, in reality, no one really knows what it was. What else could it have been, though? What other sound could hold such power, such sublime fury? No, it was a voice, a waking groan from something beyond comprehension. 113 Concrete Routines James Mabe It started softly but soon became an inescapable roar. It was as though some great, industrial machine had come to life, a massive rotovator that tilled down to the earth’s very core. There was an electric buzzing that I could feel in my fillings, pulsing like the mad wings of hornets. It grew louder and louder, painfully rising until I thought the volume itself might tear me apart. Everyone had fallen, some to their knees, others curled into themselves, writhing. I could see Marla screaming, eyes clenched and hands over her ears, but I couldn’t hear a sound she made. I thought for sure that we were done for. And then, just as I feared my heart might stop or my mind explode, the pain was gone. I cannot explain what replaced it. There are words that might give a sense of it, but words can only do so much. I could no more do it justice than I might describe ‘red’ to a blind man. I was a newborn given a hallucinogen. Images, things I understood and took for granted were deconstructed, reshaped. I saw fractals of glass become eukaryotes. I felt the loss of existence. It lasted for about three minutes. An alien purgatory and then nothing. We were released into darkness, cast out from the garden and crushed by earthly delights. The lights were off and, at first, I wasn’t sure that my eyes were even open. Car alarms wailed like songbirds and I could hear people nearby coughing, retching onto the floor, crying. My mouth tasted sour with bile and my shirt felt wet, greasy. An arm reached out, brushing against me and I couldn’t help myself. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I shrieked at a nameless face, pushing myself away. It was revolting. All of it. Every foul stench, stammering word, and cold hard sensation was an accost. I wanted to get up and run. I wanted to tear every stitch of clothing from my body and bathe in Clorox. I couldn’t though. The only thing that I could do way lay there, shivering, blubbering in my own vomit and piss like an infant. I may as well have been in a maternity ward. The room was filled with sobs and curses, pleas for help and for death. It would go on that way for some time. Nearly an hour passed before any of us moved, and just over two had gone by before I managed to pull Marla to her feet. She only resisted for a few seconds. Neither of us had the energy for a fight. The city outside was black save the rhythmic blink of the occasional car alarm. No one waited at the scene. People stumbled away in a daze, a slow parade of car crash victims that 114 just wanted to go home. They disappeared into a valley of cold geometry. During the train ride home I felt like I was in the belly of an earthworm. February is about to end. I haven’t seen Marla in days. I don’t really expect to any time soon. We come and we go. I’ve been thinking about moving, actually, maybe going somewhere north. Maybe she would want to come with me. Who knows, though? I don’t even know. The months have passed, like they do, and I’ve been around for it, like so many times before. Sometimes I go for walks. Sometimes I walk around at night and count the cracks in the pavement. I step over condom wrappers and play kick the bottle until it explodes against a lamp post or rusting heap of precision engineering. Sometimes I just ride the train. Train runs all night. Maybe someday I just won’t get off. I don’t go to work anymore. Been burning through our savings. Don called me sometime on the 9th, asked me if I was coming in. I told him no. I quit. He told me we could work something out, we could negotiate. I told him that I hoped he got cancer and his children shit blood. He didn’t call back. Sometimes I just go stare at the Alkan-Moore building. I watch it crumble. It started falling apart on April 7th, a few pieces here and there, and it hasn’t stopped since. It’s like a skeleton dipped in clay, now. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but every now and then I want to clap. They’ll be tearing it down soon. Public safety hazard. Whoever owns the property will just build something else, something that will probably include a small monument and an information table. Maybe a little statue. I say they should leave it as it is. Who cares if a chunk of concrete death smashes someone’s head, turns it into a used paintball? It would be worth it. It’s a rare thing when modern art and performance art can become one. I think Marla would appreciate that. The last time I talked to her she said she was going to burn down the gallery. She said it was full of pretenders’ daydreams. Maybe she did. I haven’t bothered to ask, and I don’t really keep up with the news anymore. If so, I applaud the effort. 115 Concrete Routines James Mabe I’m still not entirely sure what happened last April. The official explanation was that a gas main exploded, took out some underground cables, and left half the city without power for about a week. Anything beyond that? Mass hysteria. No one is in the position, or has the disposition, to argue. There are rumors though. The Comet ran a story a few months ago, wedged between political mud slings and pictures of the newest of the Pitt brood, about a guy that had worked for Jefferson-Gallows. He was a custodian at the main bank downtown, and had been working the night of the 6th. The guy, I forget his name, said that he’d heard some strange noises coming from the basement, like something cracking. He went to investigate but, like the rest of us in the area, found himself trying not to choke on his own tongue for the next hour. When he did make it to his feet, though, he kept looking. What he said he found, or what he could make out with a flashlight, was an enormous face. He explained that it was as if the concrete had melted and had reformed into a pristine statue. From the jaw line to the tip of its nose it was just over ten feet high. Thick black cables ran from its forehead like flowing locks and its mouth was slightly open, as though it had been interrupted in mid-sentence. Madre de Dios, he had called it. Mother of God. The only proof that might have supported his story was that Jefferson-Gallows started doing some remodeling that same week. They assured the media that it was a wholly unrelated matter and that the work had been scheduled months in advance. Still, it was an interesting tale. I would say that I’m inclined to believe it but, really, I don’t think I can make that claim anymore. I’m not inclined to believe much of anything. So it goes. At night I spend a long time staring into the mirror. I wonder sometimes, if I watch very closely, can I see the lines in my face getting deeper? Will I notice when my hair starts to turn grey, or will I just wake up one day as someone else? A stranger wearing my skin? Or myself in a stranger’s? I don’t know, but I hope I notice it. I want to see it happening, and I want to appreciate every little moment. I want to be around to watch things fall apart. 116 117 Concrete Routines James Mabe Inside the dresser drawer Joel’s cell phone vibrated like a hungry animal caught beneath layers of folded shirts. The sun wasn’t even up yet. Joel had thrown away the Alcoholics Anonymous bible after skimming it a couple times but hadn’t got rid of his sponsor yet. He wasn’t sure if Sean’s compulsive calling violated the parameters of the sponsor relationship but it definitely violated a fundamental code of human decency. How could a person do something like this so shamelessly? Maybe every day since he tried to off himself Sean got up promptly at four a.m. to contemplate all the possible opportunities for spiritual growth that lay ahead in the daylight. His morning began with a brisk walk up and down Summit Avenue, after which he returned to his studio apartment where he fed himself a constant stream of self improvement literature. He recited breathy passages out of the big book, conjured Bill sweating it out in run down telephone booths and churches in lonely farm towns somewhere in the nineteen-thirties. Joel turned it over in his mind, it must go something like this or else Sean was just plain crazy like the rest of them. He bit his lip, the cell phone vibrated inside the dresser drawer again on the other side of the room. Drifting off to sleep he cursed aloud for not having gone with the man unanimously known as “Shorty” who always requested a blanket during meetings because of his low blood sugar level. It was that December night again when Julie Adgins had been baby sitting him. He must have been ten in ninja turtle pajamas which he had recently acquired a new terror for after getting his penis stuck in the zipper. Julie long black hair fell over the back of the wooden chair in clusters she was sitting in. She smoked a cigarette and scribbled on a piece of loose leaf. He could feel her watching him trying to spread the margarine over his slice of bread. “Joel you have to rub it harder, with like more force you know? Push down on the knife. Good god who taught you how to spread margarine boy?” A God of My Own Understanding— a day in the life of Joel Welsh, new member of Alcoholics Anonymous Adam Thorn 118 “Nobody. Say, why are you always writing letters when you’re here?” “Because I’m in love with this boy from school. He’s all I think about.” “How do you know he loves you back?” “Well, he’s gotta funny way of showing it. The way his voice softens when he talks to me when we’re alone. He takes me out all the time. I feel ten times more alive when we’re together.” Snow began falling from the low ceiling. Julie crumbled as the flakes touched her skin. She was made of Christmas postcards. He’d know it the whole time. When Joel woke up later he had to take a shit. On the toilet he thought about Lily and if this next job was going to pull enough for this month’s child support. He thought he should check his messages to see if Ron called with the address for the job tonight. This meant shifting through a plethora of Sean’s laments; each voice mail would be coated as always in the confessional tone exclusive to those who don’t have enough closet space for the skeletons clattering around in the basement. God knew how many messages there were now. Did the man sleep? This was a Tuesday morning but it was so like the one before it there was no reason keeping a calendar or looking at one besides for to pay a bill. Waffles clicked over the tiles in the kitchen, the floor fan oscillated. The girl upstairs was listening to the Stone Temple Pilots again and Jasper across the hall was trying so hard to close the door to his apartment quietly but it creaked like always because no one knew how to make it stop and poor Jasper was standing there having two panic attacks at once nearly pissing himself because he knew everyone knew it was him doing it. Joel never made fun of Jasper. There are some lines once a person crosses they can never come back from. The dog was staring up at him from the kitchen floor. He hoped to god it wouldn’t happen again. He tried not to look. “Where are my Kibbles, where is Lily? Where are Lily and Kibbles Joel?” Waffles’ eyes said. “No more Kibbles ‘N Bits.” he grumbled with his hands groping through the dark of the cabinet space. “Oh Joel, you are pathetic. I bet you’re gonna get drunk today, in fact I know you are.” The dog blinked incredulous. Joel rationed out a bowl’s worth of Special K for the dog using water instead of skim milk 119 Library. He took a picture of Waffles with the cellular phone as the dog managed a few flakes and dried strawberries. “That really makes me think.” he said wondering if Sean had any true comprehension of fundamental human decency. “No, I said you think you can make the seven-thirty Agape’ meeting. What are you laughing about?” “My dog is out of control.” “Oh. Well, works if you work it bro. Take him for a walk.” An hour later Ron called with the address and told him to be there at eight. “The last pair was very pleased with your work Mister Welsh.” Ron threw this into the cold routine of exchanging the information. Joel felt better all day, at least he did something right. It was going to be a fifth of vodka or something had to be done about that dog. He coasted the old pickup to 714 Bridge Street around 7:55. He was tanked, they wouldn’t know. A lamp glowed in the second story window where the couple lay in bed reading or watching Sopranos reruns or were worrying very quietly about their daughter’s transition into dorm life. Joel listened to the BBC in the car for a bit and sipped on a decaf latte. He banged his fists against the dash a few times to psych himself up. He got in the back window after spilling coffee on his jeans while jiggling the handle on the back door. All the chairs in the kitchen were metropolitan looking and too high up for normal sized people. He made sure all the blinds were closed. “I’ll go see just what’s going on.” a man said from the top of the stairs, a little too loud, a little too assertive. The man appeared in a satin bath robe. “Who are you and what in god’s name are you doing in my house? That’s what I would like to know since I’ve already called the police.” Joel picked up one of the black chairs in the kitchen and smashed it against the man’s leg. 121 then started on his own. The sky was gray over the rows and rows of city blocks out the window. There was so much gray it would never stop, Tuesday was going to last forever or until everyone started jumping out their windows and messing the sidewalk. The people had black umbrellas for heads in the street below. Joel liked living on the fourteenth floor because no one bothered him much. He looked often at the rain smacking against the taught fabric of the umbrellas. Maybe it was worse on the fifteenth floor. The Chihuahua plowed at the red ceramic bowl. He started working the hind legs over the tile but couldn’t get any leverage, click click click. Waffles buried two front legs then half of him was gone. Intermittently he arose like a phoenix from the ashes only to repeat the process to no avail. Joel crunched on the stale cereal and remembered throwing the television out the window last night. The vacant television stand was lonely but the television had become a vent that pushed more gray into the room. Plots pimped out like Asian whores the actors play out, watch the singing tricks and flashy faggots dancing on a stage in front of David Hasselhoff, then 400 more are dead in plain crash, in suicide bicycle accident, in the place they least expected...take a whiff boys, get it deep down in the lungs. Wheeze yourself to sleep, huh? Waffles slid up to the refrigerator then back to where Joel stood. The phone vibrated in the drawer. “Wooooo. Woooo.” Waffles pontificated all over the linoleum. “Hey Sean. What’s up?” “I thought you would never answer. Do you keep your pay phone a mile away or a mile away? Joel, it’s honesty time. I wanted to check in. I know that you’re getting pretty close to the thirty day mark and I just wanted to say that I’ll be there Wednesday when you get your blue chip.” “I think I might be working tonight man.” “Well, that’s fine but today is Tuesday, it’s Tuesday brother. I’d like to read you a passage, is that okay?” “Yeah, that’s fine” Joel said looking out the window at the gray. He put the phone down on the coffee table in the living room beside his gun. He picked up the gun and held it against his temple. Waffles slid the bowl into the living room, click click click. The density of toenails clicking changed. Joel put down the gun because he couldn’t stop laughing. He smoked a cigarette and read a couple pages of a mystery novel he’d checked out from the Public 120 A God of My Own Understanding Adam Thorn “What the hell, you sit back down.” he said handing her a bottle of Aloe lotion. He threw the camera at the man after pressing the save power button. “What are you going to make me do?” He pulled his jeans and boxers down still standing. “Rub it all over your chest.” She squirted some in her hand and started rubbing slowly with force. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” Miles quivered on the floor. “Miles you are a goddamn sissy, stop crying.” He walked with jeans at his ankles over to where Miles was rocking back and forth. He started pulling at his dick right above the man’s head keeping the gun aimed at his wife the whole time. The breasts were drooping. She tried to hold them up and sort of push them together, for this he was grateful but he felt he’d let them down somehow, he’d crossed over. “I have a god of my own understanding; I’m going to come on your face Miles.” He could see that the man was pleasuring himself even though he was spitting blood. It also looked like he had herpes. Joel shuddered at the thought of infection as the milky white substance dripped onto the man’s forehead. It was really just a cream packet he had taken from Starbucks. He couldn’t hold his erection. “It’s getting in my eyes.” Miles yelled in ecstasy. “You’ll shut your mouth.” “Honey, we better do what he says.” the woman said with her legs spread apart in the metal chair as if her daughter was coming home for fall break ready to crawl back inside. Fifteen minutes went by and it was over with. Eight hundred, not so bad for twenty-five minutes he thought driving home. When he got back to his apartment on the fourteenth floor he threw Waffles out the window. It was a weird dog. 123 “Your god is not my god. I have a god of my own understanding. If you say another word I will not hesitate to break both your legs. You got that?” “What are you doing here? What do you want?” the man moaned in his bath robe holding the bum leg. “Miles,” a woman of about forty said; standing at the foot of the stair. “It’s okay. They’re going to get this perp in the cooler honey.” Joel put the chair down and gave the man a good kick in the face knocking back a couple of his front teeth. “You shut your goddamn mouth Miles while I have your wife jack me off.” “Don’t you touch her you monster, you fucking perpetrator.” He grabbed the woman and sat her down at the table. “You bastard, you bastard get out of our house.” “Take your night shirt off.” She looked at her husband reacting to the carnage on the floor then back at Joel. “Whaa? What are you going to make me do?” “Where do you keep the lotion?” “What?” she said, whimpering. He hit her once across the face with the butt of the pistol. Blood appeared under her nose. “I want straight answers. You are powerless now, the both of you.” “In the bathroom, first door on the left.” She said. He walked to the bathroom and cursed himself for spilling the coffee on his jeans, did they notice? He thought he heard the man whisper something about a stain, the word Alcoholic. When he walked back in the living room she had all her clothes off and was taking a picture of her husband on the floor with a digital. 122 A God of My Own Understanding Adam Thorn 124 125 The girl up stairs was listening to the Stone Temple Pilots, the floor fan oscillated. Jasper was keying the lock on his door probably worn down to loose screws from another day at the Delicatessen. The door started creaking. “I hear you in there Jasper” Joel screamed through the wall, “I hear you in there making all that god awful racket.” There was no turning back now. A God of My Own Understanding Adam Thorn 126 127 Karen Lepage is a painter, and will be studying at the Estonian Academy of Art in the spring. James Mabe is a native of North Carolina, lives in Pleasant Garden, and is currently a philosophy major at UNCG. In his spare time he enjoys horror films, genre fiction, painting, politics, and cartoons. Andrew Marino takes business classes at UNCG, and in his free time he photographs and writes electronic music. His work focuses on using traditional film, 35mm cameras, and no post-editing. In the future he hopes to use his photography as visuals to complement his musical work. Scott Mayo is a student in the MFA program, focusing on the mediated image through photography and printmaking. In the future, he hopes to be in charge of things. Big things. Tristin Miller wants to be in Japan. Right now. Once she gets there, she’ll let you know what she is doing. Helen-Marie Pohlig is a missionary kid who spent her first six years in Cameroon, West Africa. She has a lot of passion for Jesus Christ and believes that life continues to shock us every day, forcing our hearts to pound, stirring the magic in our blood. Jeffrey Pubantz is a student in the photography program. His work explores personal space and behavior within that space. He hopes to continue to graduate school next fall. Steph Rahl loves her multivitamin. Lauren Roche is a senior at UNCG. She was born on a bridge in Cohoes, New York and is the daughter of two high school sweet hearts. She enjoys knitting pot holders, cats, eating her Babcie’s pierogies and being a red head. Karen Rooker is a freshman pursuing degrees in theatre and marketing. She has participated in numerous writing competitions and was recently published in the 2008 Poetry Anthology of Young Americans. She hopes to continue writing until the day she dies. Audrey Schuyler is an Art History major at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Her main interests in this field are Classical Greek and Roman pieces and Baroque architecture. She hopes to one day have a PhD in Art History and teach at the University level, and she also plans to keep painting throughout her life. Aaron Sizemore is a student in the design program. His work looks at nature and modernity and Contributors: Matthew Brinkley is a student in the design program. His work focuses on themes of change, fragility, nature, and text. Haley Brown is a senior at UNCG majoring in psychology. She has a passion for her work as a massage therapist and uses poetry to balance her experiences in both work and school. She hopes that her writing will be relatable to her peers as well as a reflection of her desire to become more and more in love with life and loving in general. Elizabeth Burkey is a senior in the Art Department. Her work focuses on the perception of movement and the division of space. She hopes to start her MFA in sculpture next year. Meen Cho is one of many students at UNCG. She follows a rigorous schedule of eating, sleeping and just living in general. Her main goal in life is laughter and maybe a little bit of success if there’s time. Devon Curry is a photographer in the Design department. He works in portraiture with medium format film primarily. In the future he aims to remain creatively impoverished and to fight the imminent death of film. Shelley D’Almada is a single mother who has returned to college this semester after a 20-some-year absence to finish her degree in English. Before coming to UNCG, she worked as a reporter/staff writer for The Alamance News and The Creekside Chronicle and is now employed in the Office for Adult Students. Tom Gagne is a freshman at UNCG. He is currently studying French and Political Theory. He also enjoys reading cyberpunk novels, listening to Egyptian pop and watching B movies. RJ Hooker is a junior-senior at UNCG and is looking to attend graduate school for an MFA in Creative Writing Misty Knowles is a studio art major. Her work focuses on anything that catches her eye. In the future she hopes to travel the world. Philip Lawrence is a senior in the Art department with a concentration in Design. His work focuses on community-based projects. how they relate to each other. Natalie Sloane is a student in the Social Work department. She enjoys writing, dancing, and photography. In the future she hopes to continue social work, publish novels and short stories, and dance for a non-profit dance company. Shannon Thomas is an English major in her junior year at UNCG. She is from the mountains of North Carolina and plans to eventually teach English in Secondary Education. This is her first time being published for poetry. Adam Thomas Thorn was raised by a pack of werewolves on the edge of a lonely farm town in Kentucky. He was found in 1991 by a mister Charles Wellington who now provides room and board for him in Greensboro. Adam is a high roller and a bone chiller. Levon Valle is 22 year-old student pursuing an English degree. He has written five short-stories, one novel, and a novella and will also be publishing a book of poetry entitled “The 216 Deliberations of Rekkampum Sawokki.” Brenda Vienrich is an art student in the design program at UNCG. A mixed media artist, she works with mostly digital photography, sculpture, street art, and textile creations. The subject of most of her art puts a large focus on cultural and social identity, and the display of human emotions that are stirred up in response to the world’s cultural and social differences. In the future she hopes to continue to develop art relating to social improvement and hopefully attend graduate school in New York. Paul Vincent is a recent graduate of UNCG and is currently waiting in line to see the world. Kate Weigand is a sophomore at UNCG planning to major in social work and minor in ceramics. She also plays in a local folk/blues/experimental band named Lunglayzr. Annaleigha Wilke is an art education student wanting to teach at the elementary level. Her work focuses on aspects of nature and imagination, and portraying it abstractly. In the future, she hopes to create unique art pieces and art projects to work on as she begins teaching. Charles Wood is 25 and currently a 2nd year senior at UNCG studying English. He finds himself mostly writing about beer, cigarettes, women, emotional apathy, and drugs though not necessarily in that order. 1985 is the year he was adopted and that’s what his poem is about. |
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