Coraddi [Fall 2008]

              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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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“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.
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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
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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
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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,
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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.