One of Wyeth’s Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Seven

Three Cheers and a Tiger ~ Gold
Jay Bechtol

Photo credit: Heather Phillips/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

Their indifference thickens. A kid in the back row shouts an insult. Nothing too clever, something about a rabbit. Or maybe how the rabbit escaped. Doesn’t matter. The party magician is paying more attention to the minute hand on the big grandfather clock in the corner. It crawls toward the six. Three minutes to go.

He pulls the two ropes between his thumb and forefinger, ensuring they show equal length, and snips one in half.

“Can’t wait to see him put it back together,” comes from the back row, the sarcasm as obvious as the trick he is performing.

The scissors, six inches of curved stainless steel reflect the purpling sky coming in through the open French doors. All of the adults outside in the garden drinking, getting a break from the kids. He snicks the blades apart and looks across the pond of young faces. Folding chairs holding the young birthday party attendees hostage. Most sit hoping the juggler is better, a few watch with interest. A line of tweens in the back push smirks onto their faces. He scans the back row trying to figure out which of the young punks is the heckler, chooses the girl in the middle, the one with dark braids draping down either side of her head onto the shoulders of her grey turtleneck. Her smirk seems a little more… practiced.

A grin of his own appears and he locks eyes with her. Without checking his ropes, he snaps the scissors closed. Swiftly and cleanly. Slicing through the first knuckle of his pinky finger and spraying the seven-year-olds in the front row with blood.

He is happy to see the smirk on the girl’s face vanish.


My head is starting to hurt. The way it does when things aren’t in order. “Where’s the finger?”

A young officer not much older than some of the kids from the birthday party leans forward.

“Right here, Sir… um, I mean Ma’am… uh, Detective.” He holds up a ziplocked baggie. He may be trying to hide behind it. The red rising in his face almost matches the pink fluid sloshing in the bag of ice.  He adds, “I poured in some milk.” From around the edge of the baggie he smiles at me hopefully as if that will make up for his inexperience.

It doesn’t. “Milk?”

“They told us at the academy that if you put the… the parts… in milk it makes it easier to attach later.”

“You think we’ll be reattaching this soon?” I was young once, but Jesus, some of these kids coming out are dim.

I turn away, leaving the kid stammering, without having the heart to tell him what he can’t figure out for himself. The finger is fake, just part of the magic trick the guy created to make the heist that much easier. The blood, the screaming children, the fireworks, the whole thing. A huge performance piece. Pretty clever, really.

I hate it when I’m impressed with the bad guys.


He waits for the kids to start running, which they do almost immediately. Knocking each other over to get out of the living room. Or parlor. Or however these self-obsessed idiots were describing rooms these days. One of the blood-covered seven-year-olds trips on a folding chair, knocking it sideways, and sprawls to the overly polished wooden floor. The child screams. In terror or pain, he isn’t sure. Besides, the more screaming, the more chaos.

Most head for the open doors that lead into the grand backyard garden. Where all of the parents are gathered. Some run in circles.

He steps over the sprawled child and navigates the other hurdles. Red still drips from his right hand. He reaches the staircase with the mahogany bannister, its wood matching the floor in the room below. He’s up the stairs, two at a time.

At the top of the stairs a corridor leads past a sentinel of closed doors. He ignores all of them, speeding toward the door at the end of the hallway. The door into the Treasure Room, as described by the magazine article.  He doesn’t hesitate and brings his foot up, his full weight behind it, perfectly placed just to the right of the doorknob. The jamb gives way with a loud crack and splinters fly into the room at the end of the hall. The door slams open.


I pull out my badge. Again. It’s bad enough when men want verification that I’m the detective in charge. It’s embarrassing when women do it.

“Gretchen Skyler?” the woman reads skeptically. Her eyes move back and forth between me and her husband. He is staring at me more intently than necessary.

“Yes, Mrs. Devonshire, I’m Detective Skyler. I’m glad you and your husband and children are okay.”

“And I assume you know my husband?” Her words escape through a smile is as thin as her waist. It’s hard to determine if there is anything else behind the question.

“Yes,” I nod. “I know the councilman. Our paths have crossed from time to time.” I give him my professional smile. He’s still staring at me a little too intently. I extend my hand, “Good to see you again Councilman Devonshire.”

He takes my hand and shakes awkwardly. His hands are smooth.

The throbbing in my head increases. As soon as I get upstairs, get some alone time with the crime scene, some order will restore. The psychologist at the precinct thinks I carry too many secrets. What the fuck does he know?

I push forward, “Neither of you saw the guy? The one you hired?”

The councilman has the wherewithal to act a little sheepish, his wife not so much. “The party planner we hired took care of all of those things,” she speaks coolly, like she’s accustomed to explaining things to the help. “Came highly recommended. So, no,” she puts her hand inside the councilman’s arm and pulls him closer, almost defiant, “no, we did not know The Charming Chaz, or Clarence the Juggling Clown, or any of the servers, or…” she trails off and raises a condescending eyebrow.

I nod and uncharacteristically my own judgement leaks. “Maybe rethinking that decision to have your home highlighted in Home & Garden a few weeks back? Your gardens and statues and treasures upstairs?”

Her thin lips somehow compress even tighter.

I glance at the councilman; he appears to be studying something on the carpet. “Okay,” I say, trying to get back on track by summoning my inner compassionate detective, “can you run through the whole thing again for me?”


In the room at the end of the hall there’s a large clock on the wall made from the steering wheel of a sailboat. The minute hand touches the six. The clock looks to be the cheapest thing by far. He is only interested in the paintings that fill the wall with signatures like O’Keefe, Wyeth, and Winslow. He knows the value, each painting potentially worth hundreds of thousands.

Somewhere behind him explosions begin. Whistles and howls of colorfully wrapped chemicals, spewing sparks and fire. He clinches his right hand and smiles. The party planner had been right, the fireworks start right on time.

He pulls the steering wheel from the wall and begins smashing it against the only window in the room. Double-paned sheets with no latches or sashes. On the eighth strike, one of the pane cracks. In two more blows the steering wheel bursts through. His arms ache, even after such a short workout. Red liquid splashes against the wall.

The alarm is going off, barely audible behind the curtain of sound produced by the fireworks echoing in the backyard.

He clears the last of the glass and peers through the window. Dusk is giving way to night and his eyes follow the roof’s slope, down to within about eight feet of the statue garden on the side of the house. Fifty yards past that are trees and he can just make out a hint of red that is a parked car on the street running between some of these mansions in the hills looking over the city.

The fireworks continue. Fireworks. For a seven-year-old’s birthday.

He turns back to the wall of paintings.


I have my peculiarities.

I usually take a half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes at the crime scene. All to myself putting the pieces in place. Until my head starts to feel better. I’m pretty sure there is something I’m missing on this one, it’s too simple for my head to be hurting like it does.

The story has come together. This guy reads the Home & Garden article, does a couple of searches online and gets hired as a last-minute replacement magician. He bores the kids for a while, sprays some fake blood everywhere, grabs a painting while the preset fireworks are going off. In the pandemonium, he’s out the window and gone. No one even heard the alarm going off.

I turn slowly in the room at the end of the hall. An antique gun rack, a closet door, a vintage writing desk, several sculptures, a broken window, twelve paintings… eleven, and one space where a painting used to be.

Mrs. Devonshire told me it was the Wyeth that was taken. Probably the least valuable painting in the room. Her expression made me think she was glad it was gone.

Two things are still fueling my headache. Of all the pieces to grab in this room, why that particular painting? There are certainly more valuable things, worth so much more on the black market. I wander to the window. The steering wheel clock sits on the roof tiles with crystals of broken glass. The finger is the other thing. Not the trick specifically, figure anyone can buy a kit these days, but something about the finger still pokes my brain.

It’s strange standing in this room, in this house, a year removed. It only happened twice but those smooth hands, I can still feel them on my neck. On my hips. We had been on a city commission together for a couple of months. I made the first move, the councilman made a clever comment, and I put my hand on his knee. I regret it now, but it happened.

I wonder if his wife knows.

I try to refocus. I look at the guns. Examine the desk, probably a Chippendale. I slide the drawers out. Empty. Just a trophy.

Why the one painting?

I stare at the spot on the wall where the painting hung. There are some drips of red goo on the floor, Jesus, how much fake blood did the guy make? Really wanted to sell the trick I guess.

Why this painting? It had been featured in the Home & Garden article, but so had most everything else. He would know the value of it…

I turn and look at the closet door. Likely as empty as the desk.

I pull the door open and in an instant my headache vanishes.

The closet is almost entirely empty, as I expected. It’s not very big. Against the back wall is the missing painting. Leaning there. The woman’s face turned away and her nude image sitting on a stool. I don’t remember much about Andrew Wyeth, but I’m fairly certain the woman in the picture is named Helga. Charles, my husband, would know. He loves art.

How had no one opened this door to check? I suppose the Devonshires would not have bothered, imagining it to be empty. But why hadn’t one of the uniforms popped it open? Would probably have cleared things up right away. I will need to have a little talk with the boys later. Explain to them the finer points of police work.

It hadn’t been a burglary after all. Something else entirely. And I have drastically underestimated the fill-in magician’s sleight of hand. How clever he really is. I realize why the pinky finger is tickling my brain.

Another burglary solved by detective extraordinaire Gretchen Skyler.

All of this goes through my brain in a flash. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m not sure any words come out.


He crouches in the closet waiting. Knowing that when the door opens it will be over. He hopes he has anticipated correctly.

He has.

The door opens and he lunges upward, driving the shears into her midsection under her ribcage. Into her beating heart. His arm goes around her back and he pulls her close, pressing their bodies together. He sees her eyes. There is almost no surprise in them. Just understanding. He hears her breathe out. A labored gurgle as blood fills her lungs.

“Hello, Gretchen,” he whispers into her ear and lowers her body to the ground.

He sees her jaw moving, maybe trying to speak, maybe trying to scream. Her eyes are still alive, watching him. He sees the sorrow there. Meaningless now. He slides the scissors out of her body. The blood from his own severed finger mixing with hers. He holds his hand so she can see it and fully understand what’s about to happen in her last moments.

Her left hand has gone limp. He cuts through her left pinky with the shears, severing it where he had severed his own.

He drops the scissors and stands above her. Her jaw still flexes and he can see her eyes searching for his.

Detective Skyler likes her time alone at the crime scene he knows. There is plenty of time to get out the window, through the trees and to the car waiting for him. The other cops will be out front or waiting patiently downstairs. No one would dare disturb her. He’ll have an hour head start. At least. But even then, he might not make it far enough away.

He climbs through the window, his shoes crunch in the broken glass. He is surprised to feel tears.


I stare into the face of the man who has burst from the closet and stabbed me. Helga’s face in the painting behind him turned away to avoid seeing. His magic trick far more spectacular than I originally imagined.

“Charles…” I say, but again, no words come out. I can’t imagine how he found out.

I met him in college, we would walk on the beach and talk of the future. We were young. When he asked me to marry him, he didn’t give me a ring. He was a starving artist and couldn’t afford rent, much less a meaningless piece of metal.

From the floor I can see his hand now. His pinky finger is missing and I realize my mistake. He slices my finger off. I don’t feel it. I can’t feel anything.

I try and call to him, tell him I’m sorry, but he is out the window.

My world is going dark. But before it disappears completely, I see us on the beach. The sun is setting. “I want to marry you,” he says. “I want to love you for the rest of my life.” I see me, sitting cross-legged next to him. “I want the same thing,” I say. “Forever and ever.”

He intertwines my little finger with his own.

“Pinky swear?” he asks.

“Pinky swear.”


For the last thirty years Jay Bechtol has been a social worker helping children, adults and families navigate the world of mental illness, substance misuse and trauma. Jay has learned that everyone has a story, and more often than not, several stories. That experience has influenced many of the things he writes. Some more than others. Jay can be found online at and @BechtolJay, and in person in Homer, Alaska. Email: bechtoljay[at]

complexity on my way home

Baker’s Pick
Johann van der Walt

Photo credit: Chris (a.k.a. MoiVous)/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

wait a minute
if you speak only to hear your own voice
you waste time
you told me this back when we shared fluids
you said that we are endless seconds that end up ticking in space
a finger pointed down to our separate shadows
showing our depart seeped out onto concrete
ushering our ultimate defeat
I was all the mistakes that left your mouths unmade
and after you I’d only continue to breathe
half of me reading the signs from back to front
I wonder if we have been fooled?
is this it? lovers until thunder? strangers exchanging fallen glances?
obviously my spine bends backwards
as I collect memories to piece myself back together
how did you move forward while my thoughts drown
cast in a stranger’s image?
we are disconnected but I can’t seem to feel it
lights blur on the way home like broken shackles
always light everywhere to elucidate heavy breathing
behind the steering wheel of every moving particle
I repeat like a familiar song
a worn out duplicated complexity
unwillingly yielded to multiple worlds
but after every journey how many of us really have any heart left to spare?
how many experiences can be purchased and built upon?
every day I convict myself
I ask nobody how small we all have become


Johann van der Walt has published his debut poetry collection in Afrikaans in South Africa (his country of birth) titled Parlement van uile (translated: parliament of owls) and also his first chapbook in the States—This Road Doesn’t Lead Home—over at Red Mare Press. Email: jlw.vanderwalt[at]

Personal Effects

Creative nonfiction
Kay Marie Porterfield

Photo credit: Tara Calihman/Flickr (CC-by-nc)

That morning when I stood at your apartment door, sweat dripped into my eyes, and I wondered why it burned when tears don’t sting at all. They’re both salty. You would have known the answer without having to Google it. You always were the smart one, Brother. And then you were gone.

Leaving was nothing new. You often moved cross country without warning. I wouldn’t have your address or phone number for months, sometimes even years. Then out of the blue, just when I’d given up on you, you’d call to recommend a life-changing Thai restaurant, and we’d talk for hours. You’d magically show up to give me philosophy books you knew I’d never read. You’d play your mandolin for me.

On that hot day in Austin, I almost convinced myself you’d fling open your front door to offer me a piece of your homemade blueberry cornbread. You’d take the boxes of heavy duty lawn and leaf bags from my arms and tell me this was a big joke. Then we’d both laugh our asses off. But I knew better.

Exhausted from the two-day drive and a summer cold, I willed the maintenance man to hurry with the key so I could get through the cleanup. Then, seconds later, I willed him to forget our meeting. The answers to questions I’d never dared ask when you were alive lurked behind that door. They scared me more than the mess I suspected you’d left me. If he didn’t show, I could wait in the car for a decent interval before heading home, telling myself I’d tried. Hadn’t I?

At least I wouldn’t be mopping up blood and brain tissue. Quick and clean were the words the lead detective on your case used when he’d called to tell me my worst fears were true. He said it was death by helium, and honest to God, I pictured you bashing yourself in the head with a party balloon tank. I felt like a snitch when I told him it was your second attempt in a year and, except for your first suicide note, you hadn’t spoken to me in two.

He said I’d need to collect your belongings and tell the morgue what I wanted done with your remains. The autopsy was finished, so if I didn’t claim you soon, the county would bury you in an indigent plot

You’d made it sound so easy for me to pick up the pieces in your email. “If all goes as planned, I will have been dead about 24 hours by time you receive this,” you announced. “All I ask is that you contact my landlord so they can arrange for the authorities to retrieve the body. Since I’m a veteran, the V.A. should take care of the rest.”

News flash: the V.A. does not pick up and deliver. And neither do they take care of the rest, Mr. Smarty Pants. I was still filling out their forms and looking for a place to store you until I could find money to ship you to Denver, so you’d be close to me. Right then, I should have been shopping for a funeral home to embalm you instead of sweltering outside your locked door.

Twice you stole my name. Did you know that? After you were born, I became Sis. Our parents never called me by my given name again. I’d hated it. Now you’ve turned me into next-of-kin. I hate that even more.

I remembered you in first grade, sick on the school bus every morning, how small and distraught you were. How I resented sitting beside you waiting for you to throw up that day’s Hostess pie. (Why, in heaven’s name did cherry have to be your favorite?)  But I was your big sister, and I daubed the vomit from your plaid shirt and wiped it from the cracked seat. I held your hand and told you to throw up quietly into your little brown cap so the kids who bullied both of us would maybe stop calling you Puke Face.

I did it because I loved you, damn it. And when the maintenance guy arrived to let me into your apartment, I want you to know I crossed the threshold without hesitating, to be swallowed up by the smell of old cigarette butts and your dirty laundry.


Kay Marie Porterfield’s essays have appeared in The Sun, Hippocampus, and The MacGuffin. Others are forthcoming in Two Hawks Quarterly and Eastern Iowa Review. She grew up on a mid-Michigan farm and now lives in Colorado where she teaches and writes. Email: kmporterfield[at]

Burn Your Life Down

Kevin P. Keating

Photo credit: Viewminder/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)


Professor Maura Deepmere, standing alone under the great sandstone arch at the entrance to the riverfront memorial park, reaches for the forbidden pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her pilled wool overcoat, a lingering habit from her “experimental phase” with Juliana. Deepmere is convinced the nicotine helps her to relax, but when she goes to strike the match, she is surprised to find that her hands are trembling. After taking those first few guilty puffs, she leans against the arch and listens for the gentle trill of a screech owl. Though she isn’t superstitious, she imagines she hears above the swiftly flowing current the low moans of the restless spirits rumored to haunt the river’s muddy embankments. Five years ago, a riverboat casino christened the Miss Bordereau sank near the oxbow bend after colliding with a barge that carried in its massive hold twelve tons of iron ore. Some of the bodies were never recovered, and on nights like this, when the smoky October air stirs the leaves, Deepmere thinks she can hear the dead as they place their final bets and lay their losing hands on the card tables.

From the corner of her eye she senses movement. Across the street a well-fed possum clambers from a sewer and plunges head-first into an overturned trash can. Deepmere shudders. Suddenly the cigarette tastes quite foul to her and she flicks it to the ground. After crushing the butt under the wide heel of one black boot, she begins walking back to her office on campus. Whenever she has trouble working, she takes long contemplative strolls through the empty streets of Sloperville, Ohio, a small college town in the Appalachian foothills. At this time of night, the greasy spoons and dive bars along Prest Street have all gone dark, and even the rowdiest of undergraduates has returned with vampiric gloom to the dorms to await the dreaded sunrise.

An hour ago, while sipping her customary cup of herbal tea, Deepmere put the finishing touches on “International Episodes: The Real and Surreal in the ‘High’ Middle Period,” an exhaustively researched essay in which she argues that an uninspired Henry James, under his older brother’s medical supervision, had regularly used nitrous oxide. One of these “treatments” resulted in The Aspern Papers, James’s indisputable masterpiece. Penned between uncontrollable fits of laughter and tears, the tale concerns the misadventures of a “publishing scoundrel” who sets off on a doomed quest to Venice to unearth the private letters of a lecherous dead poet. In his underhanded attempts to obtain the letters, the protagonist deliberately misleads a virtuous young woman. But the young woman, with dubious designs of her own, may not be as innocent as she seems.

This essay, like many others Deepmere has published, is sure to generate controversy when it appears in the next issue of Conclusions & Completeness, the leading journal of Gilded Age Studies. This time, however, Deepmere anticipates not only sharp criticism but open ridicule and vehement demands that she retract her paper. Last spring, at a prestigious academic conference, an especially hostile critic, motivated more by professional jealousy than ideological zeal, took to the podium to publicly denounce her work. “I think we can all agree, can’t we, that the professor’s highly speculative claims and maddening baroque style border on self-parody, hallmarks of a decadent, self-indulgent culture that once pervaded our liberal arts departments and damaged so many students.”

Although it’s something to which she would never admit, Deepmere rather enjoys the notoriety that comes from being such a polarizing figure. Thanks to her prolific output and regular appearances on public radio, there is a small but dedicated coterie of Deepmere enthusiasts who continue to cite her work in their own seldom read scholarly papers and who treat the appearance of a new Deepmere essay as a kind of literary event, no small feat in an age when serious scholarship is on the wane. “The important thing,” Juliana used to remind her, “is not to allow success to go to that great big head of yours.”

Even now, five years after Juliana gathered up her secret stash of blue chips and stormed a final time from their house, Deepmere continues to resent her for her constant hectoring, lack of encouragement, and sheer ingratitude. Hard experience has taught her that the best cure for an inflated ego is to spend more time staring at the empty pages of a notebook or the blinking cursor on a blank computer screen. Writing is one of the few activities that fills her with a sense of existential dread, and on lonely nights like this, when the campus is completely deserted, she is convinced she will never again have anything original and interesting to say. The startling thunderclap of inspiration can no longer be heard above the deafening screams of self-doubt, but because she has nowhere else to go, she chooses to listen to the screams and climbs the steps in Clairmont Hall.

She returns to her third-floor office and begins brainstorming ideas for a new project. At her desk she listens to the rhythmic clatter of branches against the windowpane and contemplates the crescent moon shining through the trees. Grateful she has a view of the dark hills and not the river with its somber arch and the campus quad with its imposing wrought iron gates, she leans back in her chair and wonders if Henry James did his best work after midnight. It would certainly seem so, judging from the malevolent specters that disturb his characters. With mildly chewed pencil in hand, she rests her heavy eyes and, within a few minutes, falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.


At two in the morning, according to the wildly inaccurate mantel clock on her shelf, Deepmere comes awake with a start. From behind her closed door, she hears the jovial murmur of male voices and catches the unmistakable scent of marijuana. Her left foot has gone totally numb, and when she tries to stand her knees crack sharply in the empty office. Like some medieval dungeon keeper, she drags her leg across the room and cracks open the door. A feeble light is burning in an office at the opposite end of the corridor. Over the summer the office served as a kind of storage room and temporary shelter for adjunct faculty, but this semester it belongs to the new writer-in-residence, a man Deepmere has met only once at a painfully polite faculty party. She makes it a point never to mingle with the creative writing staff. Their prose is appalling and their insights into human nature embarrassingly trivial. But then few writers possess the style and subtlety of a master like Henry James.

She cocks her head and listens.

“No, really, you should write a book about my life. Okay, so I’ve never been hunted down by a redneck cartel, but I have been chased by a bunch of wasted frat boys. Believe me, you don’t want to piss off a two-hundred-pound meathead with whiskey on his breath and a baseball bat in his hand.”

“Kid, in your line of work you must encounter all kinds of interesting characters.”

“My line of work? Oh, well, hey, this isn’t exactly a full-time job, you know. I prefer to think of it as a side hustle.”

“But you do provide a service.”

“Well, sure. I mean, I sell to family, friends, acquaintances. Some students, too. But only the ones I can trust to be cool about it. I never sell to faculty members. So far you’re the only exception. But, come on, how many badass authors will I get to meet in my lifetime?”

“Don’t confuse the persona with the real man. By the way, kid, this is some terrific shit.”

“Third generation sinsemilla. I call it Mellow Fruitfulness. In honor of the season.”

“The season?”

“John Keats. You read poetry, right?”

“Sure, kid. Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Lou Reed.”

“I’d like to pick your brain one day, but I have to take off. Believe it or not, I’m the only medicine man in town who makes house calls this late at night. And business always picks up after the bars close.”

“Makes sense.”

“Hey, enjoy the rest of your night. And like I said, my weed is pretty mellow but I’d advise you not to drink any of that tea tonight. I know you’re no amateur or anything, but with this stuff you need to start off slow. Take a few modest sips until the desired effect is achieved. Took me a whole year to get the nutrients in the soil just right.”

“Potent, huh?”

“One of my buddies, a theoretical physics major, totally lost his shit after drinking a cup. He sat in the corner of my apartment and sucked his thumb for almost an hour. Then he convinced himself that the world was nothing more than a hypnotic lightshow, that all of existence was like a film flickering through a movie projector. Good a guess as any, I suppose. To tell you the truth, I’ve always considered shrooms a sentient life form.”

“Well, in that case, I better keep this fancy tin right here in my desk drawer. If I bring it home with me, I might be tempted to sample some before I hit the hay.”

“Guaranteed to provide loads of inspiration. A beautiful example of how art and science can come together in meaningful dialogue.”

“I suppose that makes you my collaborator, doesn’t it? Tell you what, kid. If this stuff is as good as you say it is, I’ll be sure to acknowledge you in my next novel.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly serious.”

“No fucking way! Oh, shit, thanks, Mr. Ryker.”

“Malachi. And thank you for coming to my office at such a late hour.”

“No worries, Malachi.”

“Drive carefully.”

Deepmere slides behind her door and spies a young man slouching down the hallway. His blonde beard grows in patches around his cheeks and neck and his jeans hang loosely around his hips. Deepmere knows the type only too well, a pale and underfed commuter kid who survives on a steady diet of Ramen noodles, bong hits, and big bottles of soda and spends endless hours playing violent video games in his trailer. Juliana introduced her to the manners and customs of the people who live in these misty hollers and hills. A sharp-tongued townie with a taste for bourbon lemonade, late night poker tournaments and middle-aged women, Juliana enrolled in Deepmere’s seminar on heteronormativity in nineteenth-century American literature. Though crude in class with her off-the-cuff pronouncements, she showed remarkable promise as an undergraduate. She just needed some guidance, that’s all, a little refinement, and before the semester had ended, they’d begun to see each other socially.

Now, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his acne-speckled nose, the boy approaches the stairs and suddenly stops. “Almost forgot!” He reaches into his duffel bag and hurries back to the corner office. “Would you mind signing a book for me?”

“My pleasure, kid. What’s the last name again?”

“Archer. Iggie Archer. Guess you need to know that if you’re going to put my name in the acknowledgements page of your next novel.”

“To my favorite botany major…”

“Wow, I can’t believe this. Mad Malachi Ryker. In the flesh. Smoking my weed and signing my favorite book. Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading your stories, Mr. Ryker, it’s never to underestimate the power of meaningful coincidences.”

“A keen observation, kid. Yes, a keen observation.”


Thirty minutes later, after retrieving the master key from the department secretary’s office, Deepmere creeps along the corridor. Taped to Malachi Ryker’s door is a life-sized poster of an unshaven middle-aged man wearing a pork pie hat and mirrored sunglasses. He looks, at least in her estimation, like a deranged Buster Keaton. In his arms he cradles a .50 caliber double-barrel shotgun, and with a smug smile he leans against a white 1957 Plymouth Fury, a bloated beached whale of an automobile. Above his head a bold-faced caption reads: “Burglars, please carry ID so I can notify next of kin.”

A number of campus activists, outraged by the poster, have demanded the dean amend the university’s code of conduct to include language that expressly forbids faculty members from “promoting any message that valorizes firearms.” The dean, an obsequious little fellow with a nervous twitch in his left eye, has agreed to these changes but says the new rules cannot go into effect until next year. Deepmere shakes her head. In her day someone would have ripped the damned thing down and burned it in effigy.

Worried she might find Ryker slumped over his desk, she presses her ear to the door and gently knocks. When no one answers, she slides the master key into the lock and cautiously opens the door. His office smells like a smoke-filled pool hall. Mounted to the wall above his desk is an elk skull with a lethal pair of antlers. Aside from a dirty ashtray and a manual typewriter, the office is empty. There is no comfy ottoman draped with a crocheted blanket, as Deepmere has in her own office. No teapot or individually wrapped mints in a glass bowl at the corner of the desk. No framed lithographs by John Singer Sargent or custom shelves lined with treasured first editions arranged alphabetically by author’s last name. No degrees or awards or commendations of any kind.

Deepmere flicks on the light and, taking care not to disturb anything, steps inside. She goes to his desk and opens the drawers one at a time. Ryker seems like the kind of man who, just for fun, might place a mousetrap at the bottom of a drawer, and she delicately lifts his notebooks and three-ring binders. In the lower left-hand drawer she finds a small silver tea tin. She lifts the tin, pops the lid, and takes an experimental sniff. It smells damp and earthy, like the forest floor after a steady rain. She waves it under her nose and turns her head to let out an explosive sneeze.

She places the tin on the desktop and searches for a tissue. In another drawer, she finds a tidy stack of paperbacks. Burn Your Life Down: A Novel. The front cover depicts a ferocious one-armed woman with a wild mop of red hair and a bloody meat cleaver in her hand. After wiping her nose with her sleeve, Deepmere reads the description on the back cover and wonders how anything so vulgar, so contrived could garner universal acclaim from reviewers. By some strange chance, the plot concerns a young woman named Juliana, its one redeeming quality, and Deepmere finds herself turning the pages almost against her will.

This is the story, at least in part, of how my older sister Juliana lost her right arm during third shift at Lambert & Sons Rendering Plant. She was just twenty years old when the high-speed belt of a transit bin ripped the arm clean from its socket and whisked it away, along with a pile of animal entrails, to a steaming kettle at the end of the line. My sister, evidently in shock, simply stood there and watched her own hand wave goodbye as it sank slowly into the percolating sludge.

Linus Lambert, the owner’s son and heir apparent, blamed her for the mishap. “Gross negligence,” he called it. He docked her wages for the day and managed to cheat her out of a substantial financial settlement. She’d been drinking on the job and had fallen asleep at her station. This was an incontestable fact. Blood tests revealed alcohol in her system, and a co-worker confessed to sharing a flask with her. But what human being could stay sober working in an environment like that? So, one hot summer night, with my older brothers as accomplices, she decided to make the Lambert family pay dearly for its grievous sins.

As the youngest of four siblings, I’ve had to piece together her story from a variety of sources, including police reports, court records, newspaper clippings, and late-night conversations with cousins and neighbors. Some people were reluctant to talk about the past. They may never admit to it, but they still fear my sister’s wrath even though she’s been dead and buried now these twenty-five years.

Some of the details are pure speculation on my part, but mainly I tried to stick to the facts, tried to tell the truth of how Juliana Jefferies, the Terror of Touchett, Ohio, and the woman who raised me, operated a brutally efficient criminal syndicate out of our clapboard house on Stackpole Lane and how, for a few years, she became the most feared citizen of our forsaken county.

Deepmere finds herself chuckling at the sporadic decapitations and spectacular shootouts. Pure trash, but she is so captivated by the narrative that she doesn’t immediately notice the sound of creaking floorboards outside Ryker’s office. She freezes. For an instant she thinks she hears a muffled cough and the heavy breathing of someone who has just climbed three flights of stairs. In a panic she bolts across the room and switches off the light. With her back pressed against the door, she listens for footsteps.

Except for the steady hiss and occasional clank of the old radiator, all is quiet.

Silently berating herself for her recklessness, she shoves Ryker’s novel in her pocket and grabs the tin from the desk. She looks around the room to make sure everything is in its proper place and, her heart racing, hurries to the secretary’s office to return the key.


Early the next morning an idea for a sensational new essay strikes Professor Deepmere with almost physical force, and she spends a very productive day at her desk. She intends to show how on a rainy Parisian afternoon in 1875, at a fashionable cafe on the Rue de Bretagne, a young Henry James, then drafting his debut novel Roderick Hudson, met and became fast friends with internationally acclaimed fantasy writer Jules Verne. Over the next few years, Verne would exert a profound influence on James’s creative output, particularly his “romances” and ghost stories. The evidence for this theory is flimsy, but Deepmere is so convinced of its essential truth that she furiously scribbles down her thoughts until her aching hand is stained with blue ink.

When she finally decides to take a break, she looks up from her desk and is startled to find that night has fallen. She has been in her office now for close to twenty-four hours and has neglected to cancel her classes for the day. She vaguely recalls hearing a knock at the door and the phone ringing on the corner of her desk.

“Never have I… Never have I…”

She swivels in her chair and catches her distorted reflection in the dark window. She needs to go home, take a scalding shower, write an apologetic email to her students for her unexpected absence. She pushes aside a pile of papers, but before leaving her office she swallows down the cold and bitter dregs from the bottom of her teapot.

A few minutes later she finds herself walking through the bustling town. She is sensitive to noise, to crowds, to loud music, but tonight she actually enjoys the tumult all around her. It’s an unusually warm Friday night in late October, and the streets are teaming with students gathering outside the bars and pizza parlors. It all feels strangely tutorial, the bright neon signs in the windows and the live music pouring from the open doors, as if each kaleidoscopic display of color and virtuosic guitar riff has something unique and meaningful to teach her. At an intersection she stops beside a lamppost to light a cigarette, and for just a second, she feels a little envious of those sweetly intoxicated sorority sisters walking hand in hand and calling to the cute boys standing on the opposite corner. Juliana used to bully her into going out for a drink, a smoke. “Loosen up, relax, stop being so self-conscious.” These were her sacred commandments, and up until their final night together Deepmere always obeyed.

For old time’s sake she considers going into their favorite bar and ordering a bourbon lemonade. But then she sees the giant Plymouth Fury floating toward her like an alien spacecraft, its professionally polished bone-white finish reflecting and magnifying the lights on the strip. In an asphyxiating cloud of blue exhaust, the Fury pulls to the curb. A middle-aged man wearing a pork pie hat leans across the front seat and lowers the passenger side window. He smiles at her, and the green dashboard lights make him look less like Buster Keaton and more like Boris Karloff.

“Hello there, Doc. Need a lift?”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Ryker, but I believe I’ll walk.”

“I’ve been looking for you. Where’ve you been?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Maybe you should hop in. You don’t look well, if you’ll forgive my saying so. ”

“I feel perfectly fine, Mr. Ryker. I haven’t walked this strip on a Friday night in years. I find it… enlightening.”

He stares hard into her eyes and frowns. “Jesus, Doc, how much of that tea did you drink?”

“Is that an accusation, Mr. Ryker?”

“Would you like me to call someone? A friend? Your spouse?”

She lets her cigarette fall from her fingertips and approaches the car. “Oh, now I think I understand. You’re looking for new material, aren’t you? A funny story for your fanboys? The unfailingly sedate professor having a bad trip? I read your latest novel, Mr. Ryker, and I must say, you certainly are an imaginative storyteller. Albeit one with a rather twisted sense of humor. Some might even argue a decidedly sick sense of humor.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Your novel is deeply offensive. You turned the people of these mountains into an appalling mass of faceless stereotypes. At times it felt as though you were taking the reader on a guided tour of some demented roadside attraction, a freak show crawling with babbling lunatics and serial killers”

As she continues speaking, she is forced to raise her voice. It’s karaoke night, and inside the bar someone growls an obscene version of an old-fashioned love song. Behind her a small group of students stops to listen. Not sure if they’re listening to her or to that awful singer, Deepmere spins on her heels and glares. In the Fury’s red taillights their glowing faces look like brightly painted masks with large empty eyes and wide mocking grins. They’re impostors, not students, she’s sure of it. Spies sent from the dean’s office to observe her behavior and write a detailed report. She’s been reprimanded already for her inappropriate relationships with students.

Deepmere, sensing trouble, backs slowly toward the car. She opens the passenger door and climbs inside.

Ryker says nothing.

In silence they drive along Prest Street, braking occasionally for the masked figures shambling from the smoke shops and seedy taverns. Deepmere stares in fascination and tries to make sense of what she is seeing. She is so entranced by the sights and sounds that she doesn’t immediately notice Iggie Archer staring at her from the Fury’s enormous backseat. He blinks bug-like from behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

“What is the meaning of this?” she says.

Ryker shakes his head. “I think you know.”

“No, actually, I don’t. Perhaps you’d care to explain.”

“Something went missing from my office last night.”

In her sternest professorial voice she says, “We are not having this conversation, Mr. Ryker. Not in this vehicle. And most certainly not with a student present.”

“He’s as much a part of this as I am.”

“Yes,” says Deepmere, “and he’s going to pay a price for it.”

Iggie smirks. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“What I mean, Mr. Archer, is that according to the Ohio criminal code, the penalty for growing and selling hallucinogenic mushrooms carries a minimum of one year in state prison. And I’m quite certain that a college tribunal, once it finishes a thorough investigation into this matter, will recommend immediate expulsion. You can, of course, avoid all of this trouble if you simply drop out now. Hmm, yes, I believe I should give you that option.”

Ryker sighs and says, “No one is going anywhere, Doc.”

He spins the wheel hard to the left, and they turn down an alley where the loose bricks clatter like bones beneath the tires.

“You are in no position, Mr. Ryker, to dictate the terms of an agreement. I told you that I didn’t want to have this conversation. But since you’ve insisted on taking things this far, you should hear the rest of my demands. You need to make a public confession. Tonight I’d like you to go home and write a letter to the editor of the college newspaper, explaining how you purchased illegal drugs from a student. And just for good measure, I’d like you to send copies to your editor and literary agent.”

Iggie thrusts his head forward. “You hypocrite, who the hell are you to speak this way?”

“Cool it, kid, let me handle this.” Ryker turns the wheel again and mutters, “This place is a maze.”

Spittle flies from Iggie’s lips. “Do you know how much college costs these days?”

Deepmere shrugs. “Not my concern, Mr. Archer.”

“I have loans.”

“Then I suggest you scrub dishes or wait tables. Or are those jobs too menial for you?”

“Growing shrooms and weed is hard work. There’s a lot of chemistry involved. There’s commerce, too. Books to keep. At least I’m making practical use of the bullshit courses I take at this second-rate college.”

“What did you just say?” With shocking agility, Deepmere turns and grabs Iggie by the ear. “What did you say about this institution?”

She twists his ear and squeezes until the boy’s face turns red and then a rather lovely shade of purple. Wine, maybe. A rich, satiny Pinot Noir. At first he smiles defiantly and then he tries in desperation to yank his head away.

“You’re not hearing me. I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to save you from years of trouble. You silly fool, look what you’re doing right now. Peddling dope and driving around town with a part-time instructor. I don’t think you realize the serious danger you’re in. Students develop complicated feelings for their mentors, and the relationship can spiral quickly out of control. Yes, you might learn some new and wonderful things, but like everything else in this world, the relationship will evolve, sometimes in ways you cannot possibly anticipate. One day you may find that your mentor, just to keep the doomed relationship going, has become your enabler.”

By the time the car comes to a screeching stop, Deepmere has grabbed a handful of hair and is shouting, “Isn’t that right, Juliana? Isn’t that right? Answer me!”

The passenger door flies open, and before she can raise an objection, she feels a pair of powerful hands pulling her from the vehicle.

“Crazy bitch,” Ryker snarls.

She is being assaulted, profaned, but no one hears her screams. She slaps and scratches and kicks her assailant, and when she finally frees herself from his grip, she runs over to the great sandstone arch. She pulls the collar of her wool coat tight around her throat and looks back to see if she is being pursued. A lovely white mist rises all around her, and she notices how everything seems eerily still.

“Wait a minute,” she whispers. “What are we doing here? Are you giving a reading, Mr. Ryker? Is this some kind of avant-garde literary event?”

In a kind of trance, she touches the arch and with one unvarnished finger traces the familiar names engraved there for all time.

“I need to work, to write. You must take me back to my office.”

But she has already forgotten the brilliant idea that, only a short time ago, had taken complete possession of her. She crosses the memorial park, and at the river’s edge she searches her coat pockets for her cigarettes. Once again, her hands are trembling, but this time she fumbles the matchbook and drops it to the ground. “So clumsy of me. So stupid. You’ll wait for me, won’t you, Juliana? Please don’t go gambling tonight.”

She kneels in the wet grass and whimpers, but the giant white Fury has already rumbled away into the misty night.


My first novel, The Natural Order of Things (Vintage 2013), was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prizes/First Fiction award and received starred review from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. My second novel, The Captive Condition (Pantheon 2015), was launched at the San Diego Comic Con International and received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Library Journal. Email: kevinpkeating[at]

An Aroma of Plums

Travis Inglis

Photo credit: jay-chilli/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

She, Rose, she thinks about it. It’s funny how life changes. You grow and get older, and those days of youthhood, terrifying and ballistic no longer exist. What was carefreeness, is now unfreeness. Unfreeness. She likes this thought. She likes words that aren’t words. When had she signed up to this life? She cannot remember.

Looking around Anna’s home, she sees furniture new and shiny, she sees clean surfaces and good salaries. She sees old friends, all hidden and dressed to impress, the way women do. Dressed as metaphors of their happy shiny lives. Dressed to impress each other, impress and shame. She wonders whether there is a breath of honesty anywhere.

The wine is good, it is red. She is an adult; therefore, it is important that she knows the difference between good wine and bad wine. She had learnt the difference between red wine and white wine when she was thirteen. She also at thirteen learnt that they both do the same job, more or less. Happiness, bliss, openness, chaos, hangover, vomit, dread, repeat. And then when she was in her awkward growth between childhood and adulthood, she learnt its other trick, the one involving lack of inhibition and sex. It was a good red, fruity note, an aroma of plums.

What had happened to these other women, her old friends? They acted man-made, their appearance and how they moved, were full of straight lines, full of function. They were shaped and fitted by trends and expectations. They are cookie-cutter versions of each other. Fashions usurping truth. Artificial. Maybe, she thinks, maybe she was too. This realisation had been haunting her. She had always thought she was on the outside looking in. That she occupied the high ground so often claimed by devout-individualists. Devout-individualists. She smiles, smirks at her new phrase.

This was another trick of wine. The self-doubt about one’s worth, about one’s uniqueness.

There apparently is a lot to talk about. At first it appears that the conversation must be around spouses and kids, and childcares and homeownership. This bores her, it more than bores her it sucks the will from her. She replaces her will with wine, which she sucks from the glass. She tries to outwardly look interested. Tries to mask the straight lines she can feel in her face. She wonders whether everyone else is pretending to look interested too, whether they are burning on the inside. A room of masks?

She is a risk taker, always has been. There is foreplay in the pursuit of annihilation, a fulfilment in the chaos that she can cause. It is addictive, like the taste of blood, and dangerous, like choking in sex.

Her friends all have children; she is the only one who sees the sense in being childless. And of the four, she again is the only one not to have married. She had been with the same man for ten years, but couldn’t reconcile why you would marry, convenience maybe? They had never talked about marriage. What would it change?

Maybe it was time to grow up. Maybe it’s just the way of things. Nature or social conditioning. That self-doubt. Maybe she should pity herself.

The room talks weddings. Her friends are in competition, each trying to extend the importance and pomp of their big days. Openly take pride in the obscene amount of money spent, and waste created. As the politely veiled insults battle, she opens a second bottle of wine and observes. She laughs internally at the idiocy, and the ridiculousness of it all. These women are clichés.

She escapes into memory, into fantasy. Drifts away from that room, that space, those old friends and their words. Memories are like lucid dreams. She controls and shapes histories. Connects dots and creates new pasts, discards unneeded truths.

She remembers the wedding, Tom’s wedding, Anna’s wedding. Like a story told for generations, it changes from truth to myth. She replays the chaos, the risk, the sounds. The pictures are dull. What are dreams and what are memories, what’s the difference?

It is unhealthy, but she remembers the rush of destroying something beautiful. When was the last time she had been destructive? She misses that high.

Lucid dreaming mixes with reality.

The battle has simmered down, as it does between old friends. Memories and laughs are being shared. They talk now about Anna’s wedding. She had been beautiful. It was a beautiful wedding.

Her own private peace.

A memory from her hidden and dangerous past; sin flashes in her mind. Heavies her breath. She had enjoyed Anna’s wedding, enjoyed it well, the risk of being caught.

A lot of money had been spent on that wedding. And looking around the pristine house it seems important to Anna to display wealth. Everything shines with expense. The house is imposing, and the little corner of it where wine is being taken, is not little at all. Thirty square metres dedicated to the sole function of lounging formally. High ceilings and chandeliers. Decor and furnishings are a blinding array of whites.

She has an urge. An internal fantasy. A secret joke. Foreplay. An urge to spill wine on the obscene whiteness. Destroy something beautiful. She thinks about fighting this urge. The chaos is too tempting. She reaches for her glass, clasps her fingers around the stem and drinks. She hesitates, but only briefly, returns the glass to the table. Her hand spasms. There is a magnificent spill, and a bloody stain across the blinding white rug.

There is a rush by her friends, and an attempt to reverse time, reverse the bloody stain. A brief chaos brings her a brief satisfaction. A low-current of joy. It does not last.

The moment passes and the afternoon moves on. That’s how it is, events evaporate into nothing.

Wine has eroded inhibitions. They are back onto the topic of weddings. Weddings and who had fucked who in past lives, in the hedonism of the wedding reception.

She looks at her friend Sarah, she remembers her how she used to be. Reckless and beautiful. Sarah would leave carnage not chaos. Looking now at her friend, she remembers how much she was in love with her, that lifetime ago. A catastrophic beauty. She smiles at her thoughts; she smiles at Sarah. Sarah winks back, and in that briefest of moments they have removed their masks. They are twenty-one again. This is dangerous. This is honest.

She is terrified by the way Sarah is looking at her. There is experience of memory; that look will lead to devastation. She is alive with electric current caused by the foreplay.

“I know what you did.” Sarah announces to the room, face hidden behind false expression. Was she play-acting?

“What…? What did I do?” She, Rose, she speaks, conceals her real fear, the fear of the unknown, not the fear of admission.

“I can’t say.”

She could leave it there. The moment would move on. But she wants that rush and completeness of chaos.

“Why can’t you say?” She dares her friend.

“You know why… you… you hooked up with Tom.” It was a masterpiece. “Tell her!”

“What! You’ve got it wrong.” She was in between excitement and fear, she didn’t know whether to confess.

“Tell her! At their wedding!”

“You’ve only got half the story.” This was not a game anymore, this was real, this was people’s lives. People’s expensive, shiny lives. But she cannot stop herself. Vile admission spills forth. “I fucked him, well… he fucked me! He bent me over and he came inside me.” She is shocked by her own words. Shocked by the crudeness.

Chaos and carnage.

“Get out!” A voice pierces the room. She assumes it is Anna’s, she is electric and blind.

She stands and walks. But high with the moment and drunk enough not to give a shit, she cannot help herself, adds. “And you know what, I didn’t enjoy it!”

There is fury and violence and punches, kicks and hair is loosened. Skin is collected by fingernails. She does not fight back; she just laughs and spits and smiles and bleeds. Oh the fucking rush.

She is the centre of the world.

The moment passes, like all moments.

Bliss of chaos, she feels alive with self-harm. Her face is swollen from the attack, she loves the pain. She is aglow with self-satisfaction.

As she drives, erratic and reckless and drunk and dangerous. She is living.

It is glorious, her triumph of annihilation. She is wet thinking about the ramifications, Tom and Anna and their happiness distressed. The destroying of friendships, a cathartic culling of useless people from her life.

And from the safety of home, and in her garage, and still in her car, secure and blissful, she is static with orgasm. And as she climaxes, she admires her perfect lie. Laughs to herself, satisfied and electric, Imagine, she thinks, if only it had been true.


Travis Inglis has been living abroad on and off for the past ten years collecting stories, he guesses. His work is influenced a lot by the idea of home and identity and finding out how to fit in in this world. Email: travisinglis[at]

Solution B

Zixu Fan

Photo credit: Chris Spiegl/Flickr (CC-by-nc)

“Damn it! God damn it!” he shouts out as he scratches his pen hard on his paper. The hour hand has already turned to twelve but the last geometry problem on his exercise book remains unsolved.

“Stop doing your math, Ian,” his mother says and barges into his room. “You’ve spent two hours on this question. Have a rest now. Don’t run into a dead end every time.”

“Get out of my room! I’ll solve it out in five minutes,” he yells at her, like a mad lion.

She frowns, but still follows his words, and says, “Only five more minutes” before she steps out of his room.

He looks at the clock, which shows 12:10 a.m. He still hasn’t started his Chinese and English homework, as he always does his math exercise first after coming back home. Finishing math gives him a sense of security, so he will study other subjects more calmly and efficiently. But it seems that something has gone wrong with his exercise today: he fails to prove one side length of the triangle in the last question is 5 cm, though he is quite sure it should be 5.

As Mr. King has collected all the key pages from them, there is no way to consult the answer and get any new ideas. He cannot imagine what will happen if he doesn’t work out the last question this evening. Will Mr. King force him to stand outside the classroom again, which he did when Ian just entered the school two years ago, because he was only one minute late for class? Will Mr. King rip his exercise book into pieces, like he did to Laura’s notebook, since she fell asleep in his class? Will he throw out one question after another to him in class every day and ask him to copy the questions and answers one hundred times if he can’t answer them, the way he did to Bryant, the student who doesn’t like to study?

He thought Mr. King looked like a frail scholar the first time he met him, as he had a short and thin figure and wore a pair of black-framed glasses. He doesn’t remember exactly when he became a tyrant to them. As both the class and math teacher, he always said they should study harder, as they are one of the elite experimental math classes. Always delayed his class, sometimes not finishing until the next Chinese class or English class begins. Often liked to add a math class when school finished early in the afternoon. Each time before their monthly test, mid-term or final, he would grit his teeth and point at them with a strained face. “Write your paper carefully. We must achieve the highest score among the whole grade. The highest.”

Fortunately, the class lived up to their teacher’s expectation every month, not as a result of hundreds of classes he taught and lots of homework he gave, but of the high pressure and the fear, the fear that he may treat them like Bryant if they drag down the class average. As the lowest student, Bryant always sat in the corner, as Mr. King arranged their seats according to their ranks. “Top students sit in the front, while low-level students sit in the back. The lowest is also in charge of throwing out the garbage every day.” So he named Bryant “The Garbage King,” to warn everybody if you fall behind, you cannot escape the same punishment.

But even though they were the top class, Mr. King was still not satisfied with it. “Don’t feel too proud. Don’t think you become a somebody simply because you get a high score. You should keep working hard and try to compete with other excellent middle schools in Beijing one day. Never get slack. Arrogance may destroy you.”

Ian knows Mr. King really hates conceited people. When Lemon, the math genius, questioned one of his statements in class, he asked him to sit down, boiling with anger. “You know all of them, so you think you’re number one? That you’re qualified to challenge me? Let me give you a university-level axiom. Prove it, and hand it to me after class.”

Five minutes have passed, and Ian is still struggling with the question. As a middle-level student, he dares not make a mistake when doing homework, having classes, or taking exams, though he doesn’t like math. Mr. King is content with what he does most of the time. But what’s wrong with today’s homework? It is not the Olympic math Mr. King gives them on Friday, which is often unsolvable; it is only the exercise book they do every day. It should be easy enough. It should be.

He tries to organize his thoughts again as he begins to sweat. Maybe I have made a mistake when proving it. Maybe I lost a condition when writing the deduction. Maybe. I’ll try it one more time.

“Fuck,” he says several minutes later, tossing the book on the floor.

“You’ve promised me five minutes, and now it’s over. Come out and have some fruit,” his mother says with a more serious tone this time.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t think you’re allowed to speak like this only because it’s your math assignment. Your father and I are doing our best to assist you. We are not your servants, and you’re not Mr. King. If you don’t come out for rest now, I will not help you with anything from now on,” his mother says and places the fruit plate on the table before she leaves.

Being silent for a while, Ian throws his pen to the corner of his desk, rushes into the living room, grabs all the grapes on the table and stuffs them into his mouth. As he is munching hard, he hears his father’s hoarse voice from his study.

“Don’t hurry me. I’m trying to solve the assignment with all my strength. I’m almost sixty and must work all day for the family. I know what time it is. Don’t blame me. Isn’t it you who chose this school for him? Other middle schools in Beijing may also have lots of homework and exams, but they don’t have such an insane teacher. Now I must pick up middle school geometry and work out the problem, just so the teacher doesn’t punish him. It’s all your fault so don’t blame me.”

Ian pricks up his ears but can only hear his mother’s mumble. When he finishes the fruit a few seconds later, his mother returns, “Your father will solve it out for you. Now go to bed. It’s already 12:30.”

“Impossible. I haven’t done the Chinese and English homework yet,” he says as he walks into his room again.

“What can I say? Why don’t you do the easy work first? You’re almost fourteen and still act like a little boy? Finish them immediately.” She slaps the table, wipes it, and takes the empty plate to the kitchen.

His Chinese and English assignments are quite simple today: to copy the new characters and new words and make some sentences. He sits down and takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. He writes down the Chinese characters and the English words fast, but still tries to keep them legible. Their Chinese and English teachers are also easily angered if they do not do their work well. Miss Jiang, their Chinese teacher, is probably undergoing her menopause these days because she always bawls them out like a shrew when they don’t finish her homework or get a bad grade in exams. “You all love to do your Mr. King’s math, and never learn my lesson?” is what she often groans. Their English teacher is an eccentric old lady, who never shows her temper in front of the class, and would go to tell their misbehavior to Mr. King instead, which is the most frightening, as Mr. King would never spare them and give them detention and lots of homework on that day.

Because of the punishing homework, Ian has stayed up late many times, and learned to yawn with his lips closed during class, in case that Mr. King may find it out. Like last Friday afternoon when they were having an extra class, he got extremely sleepy but still hid his yawns, and tried to straighten his back on the seat. The temperature in the room kept rising as the door and windows were all closed. He could feel his face glowing, as hot as a fever. Staring at the blackboard, he didn’t know what Mr. King was teaching and writing but kept nodding to him. When his eyelids were about to meet each other, Mr. King suddenly threw his chalk towards someone in the back, and before everybody realized what was happening, he threw his textbook hard in the same direction, with wide and burning eyes.

“Ouch!” One girl sitting in the back put her hand over her mouth when everybody turned around. It seemed like the book had hit her teeth.

But this was not enough for Mr. King. He dashed toward the back of the classroom and roared, “What the hell are you doing?”

Ian dared not look back. He only heard Mr. King overthrow a desk, and then saw Luke, the boy who often dozes off in class, flee out of the front door in panic. Mr. King also ran to the front, trying to catch him.

“Do… do… do not… do not come… to my… class tomorrow!” he shouted at Luke again before he shut him out.

That was the first time when Mr. King, such a quick-witted man, stuttered. His aim was so bad that he hit the girl by mistake. It was amusing but everybody was too frightened to laugh. His temper seems so unpredictable that their hearts raced every time he exploded. He had no bias. Anyone can be his target. Anyone who does not study well, anyone who feels too proud, or anyone who is disobedient. Ian was lucky that he wasn’t one of the victims, but he should still be careful, careful enough. At the beginning of the semester he forgot to write down the counting process in his algebra assignment, and Mr. King caught him. He asked him to copy the whole paper ten times, a way to teach him to write all the details when doing homework.

After finishing other assignments on that day, Ian became crazy because he could not find his math paper anywhere. Maybe I have left it in the classroom? But it is locked now… No. It can’t be. It can’t be. He threw everything out of his schoolbag and freaked out since there was still no paper.

“Don’t run into dead ends. That cannot solve any problems.” His mom came to him and said, “You must have left it in school. Call Elizabeth and go to her home to pick her paper up.”

He lives in the suburb and only their class leader, Elizabeth, lives nearby. The class leader was supposed to be voted by the students, but Mr. King chose Elizabeth himself because her father is a famous math teacher. Nobody in the class liked her as she looked down upon everyone. Ian didn’t want to call her but had no other options. She answered the phone and agreed to lend her paper to him, reluctantly. He doesn’t know how he completed the two-mile run within fifteen minutes, as he was not all that athletic. He only remembered he was out of breath but hardly stopped to have a rest after coming back home. He copied everything from the paper nervously and carefully, and hardly knew what time it was when going to bed.

Time passes quickly, and the math exercise book still lies on the floor. Looking at it again, Ian stops copying English words. He goes to pick the book up, checks if it is damaged, and cleans it with tissues several times. I’ll try to solve it out again. He flips the pages gently, and copies the question word by word. He is not in a rush. He does not get crazy. This is the most careful and peaceful time he’s ever had.


“What have I told you? What have I told you? Why are you struggling with that question again?” His mother rushes into the room.

“Get away,” he says in a strong and low voice.

“How can I get away? The whole family is staying up late with you, don’t you know?” She sighs and is about to leave the room, “I really have to talk to your Mr. King one day. Why does he always give you such difficult assignments?”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare talk to him.”

She stares at him, with shocked eyes. Without saying a word, she storms out.

He’ll never let his mother go to school and complain about Mr. King. Never. He cannot forget that afternoon before they finished school, when Mr. King went into the classroom to give them assignments as usual. Nobody noticed the changed expression on his face.

“Well, from tomorrow every row of desks will move one unit to the right. The rightmost row, you move to the left side,” said Mr. King after pointing out some problems in yesterday’s homework.

“To be honest, I don’t think changing your seats is a good idea. But one of your parents suggested it to me on the phone today.”

That would be my mom, thought Ian. His mom often worried he might develop exotropia because he always sat on the leftmost side of the class.

“This parent also complained I gave too much homework to you. You think it’s too much? Hmm?” Mr. King started to glance around them, trying to discover the culprit.

That also sounds like what my mom would say. Ian started to quiver.

“The assignment is far from enough. Do you know what time other school’s students go to bed? 12 a.m. or 1 a.m. is not uncommon for them. Since we are the elite experimental math class, it’s reasonable to give you a little more to do every day. So why don’t you study hard and get a good grade, instead of complaining about our homework?”

Glaring at them a few seconds, he suddenly banged on the lectern and broke out, “Fuck off if you can’t be the top student! You only know to tell your parents. What else can you do? You think you are God, so everybody should listen to you and have less homework? A coward! Why didn’t you get a high mark during the mid-term? Why didn’t you enter the top ten? Why didn’t you achieve a prize in the Olympic math? Shut the fuck up if you can’t do any of this! The whole class is working hard for the final, and they face all the difficulties, like you. They never cry out; they never say the homework is too much. Only you can’t stand it. You think you are the most pitiful one? Let me tell you everybody is much more hardworking than you. You are nobody compared to them.”

With a deathly pale face, Ian stared at the floor. He dared not look up again.

“And the parent is also ridiculous. Why don’t you tell your child to study hard? You only know to complain about me. Then you go. Go to the headmaster to complain. You think I’m afraid of you? Let me tell you, I don’t like fucking teaching anymore. Especially teaching your lazy child.”

When all the children’s nerves stretched to the breaking point, Mr. King paused, and sneered at them. “Well, you think we got too much homework. Then I’ll show you what is too much today. Juliet. Come and hand out the papers to them. Remember three double-sided papers for each person. This is the Olympic math. Don’t hurry. It’s extremely difficult.” He left and slammed the door behind him.

“Who did this? Who the fuck did this?” As soon as Mr. King went away, almost everyone in the room exploded.

“A stupid jerk. Fuck you. Fuck your mom and dad,” the boy sitting behind Ian blurted out.

But Ian said nothing. He pretended to be calm and tried to pack up his schoolbag as quickly as possible. I’ll go home right now. I’ll blame my mother. She has ruined my entire future.

He can’t tell how many times he was about to fall on his way home, because he never stopped shivering. Maybe it’s not my mother. Then I won’t become the whole class’s enemy. I’ll make sure right now. I’ll make sure.

The one-hour bus ride should have been the longest time in his life, and he doesn’t remember how he summoned up the courage to ask his mother and hear the truth.

“Why are you so frightened? I never called your teacher. But what the parent said is right. You should change your seats regularly. And the homework is too much.”

He felt a great sense of relief. He thought his life came back to normal again. He was still that hardworking and obedient boy. Nothing changed. It felt so great, so great that he was about to laugh out loud. It didn’t matter that he was going to spend the whole night with those Olympic papers. It really didn’t matter.

As his mother leaves, he tries to cool down and do the proving again. “Holy shit.”

“Do not curse, Ian. I’ve worked it out! Worked it out!” With sleepy eyes, his father comes to his room, “I’ll tell you my solution. It’s a little long. Listen.”


After finishing all the assignments, Ian has a sound sleep late at night, so sound that he almost forgets everything the next day he gets up. He grabs the glass on the table, swigs down the milk in a few seconds and carries his schoolbag. His mother is saying something about eating his bread as he walks out of the house and closes the door behind him.

When he arrives at school, many of his classmates are discussing yesterday’s homework. The boy sitting behind him, who usually likes to copy others’ work, asks almost everybody coming into the classroom, “Have you solved out the last geometry question?”

Lots of them reply no. And what a pity he just misses Ian. Then he turns back to discuss it with Elizabeth and Elizabeth turns back to discuss it with the math genius, Lemon. While the whole class seems to be discussing the problem, Ian just sits silently on his seat, and starts to review his textbook, one chapter after another. He imagines one of his classmates comes to him and finds out he has solved the problem out, and how surprised they may be. But it cannot be possible. Nobody thinks he can solve the problem. Only the TA, Juliet comes to his seat to collect his assignment, so he hands it to her grudgingly, feeling a little desperate.

The first two classes slip by, and Ian quickly forgets about the assignment. During the break before the third math class, some of his classmates become a little fearful, as they say they haven’t worked out the last problem, so they worry that Mr. King might torture them in class. But at least it will not be me, thinks Ian, so he takes out the textbook and notebook calmly, ready for the new class.

Mr. King is late for class. Five minutes after the bell rings, he walks fast into the room with an exercise book under his arm. Ian thinks he may teach a new chapter, but he just opens the exercise book, and begins to talk about yesterday’s assignment.

“I apologize, that I didn’t realize yesterday’s last geometry problem is a very difficult one.” Looking at them, he pushes up his glasses with his index finger. “I shouldn’t have let you do it if I had known it. But still, it’s an interesting question, and I’d like to discuss two solutions in class.”

Mr. King starts to write his Solution A on the blackboard and the class is busy copying it in their notebook. “This is my solution, which uses trigonometry,” he says and explains each step slowly and clearly. The whole class jots it down and listens to him simultaneously, trying to keep up with his thoughts.

After Mr. King finishes teaching the first solution, he turns back from the blackboard and says, “Now I’m going to show you the second solution. This is a very smart way because it doesn’t use trigonometry.”

As Mr. King is writing down Solution B, Ian notices that it’s the same answer his dad taught him. He never knew it was a smart way. He just keeps copying all the lines from the blackboard.

As soon as Mr. King finishes the blackboard, he turns around, places his book on the rostrum and asks, “Ian, did you figure out this solution yourself?”

Ian is speechless. He didn’t know Mr. King was teaching his answer, his answer, as the standard answer. While his teacher is staring at him, Ian’s heart begins to thump. His teacher’s eyes seem to be so sharp and keen, that they are going to debunk something, something hiding deep inside Ian’s heart. But he still tries hard to conceal it, and nods at Mr. King, repeatedly, with his innocent and blank eyes.

“This Solution B is not mine. It’s worked out by Ian Cheng. Let me show you how clever it is.”

Staring at the blackboard, Ian gradually loses his concentration. He doesn’t have to listen to Mr. King since he already knew the proving steps. He feels attracted to something else, something very light, very slow, and very cozy. It’s like someone is massaging him, that every inch of his skin feels so cool, so sensitive and so relaxed. He imagines a lover is kissing his body, his forehead and lips, that he cannot move even a millimeter. Time is frozen, the whole classroom is frozen, and only he is enjoying this silent and static world.

“Before the class ends, I want to say Ian has done a great job this time. I’ve learned a lot from his solution. I strongly encourage everybody to share your thought or solution, if it is new or different from ours.”

Ian peers at Mr. King, who still looks quite serious, that he cannot tell if his teacher is genuinely happy this time. Then he casts a glance at his classmates sitting around him, who turn out to be preoccupied with class, never giving him a look of praise. But he can imagine what they think of him, and how envious they are of his success. He is lost in his own world again, where he grows out a pair of wings, flies up to the sky, and lies on the cloud, which feels as soft as a marshmallow. He is having fun with the birds, the winds, and the sunshine. So much pleasure that he wishes he would never come back to real life again.

He realizes the class is over as the bell rings. Mr. King leaves the class on time, but nobody moves out from their seats in the first minute. Ian doesn’t look around, but he knows they will scatter and chat as usual, they will take out snacks to eat as usual, and they will talk about him. Which is unusual.

Several students leave their seats and start talking. The classroom becomes louder and louder. As nobody comes to interrupt him, Ian continues to linger on the soft cloud, float on the sunny sky and flirt with the warm breeze, until Elizabeth calls him.

“Mr. King wants to see you, outside the door,” she says without any expression.

His heart beats a little faster, not knowing what else Mr. King will say to him since he has already praised him in class. So he stands up, adjusts his uniform, and goes to the corridor, where Mr. King is standing, arms crossed.

Turning to Ian, Mr. King narrows his eyes and says, “Don’t be arrogant. I praised you only because this solution is great and special. I know you didn’t work it out yourself. I did not expose you in front of everybody because I like this solution very much. But remember don’t play with me.” He points at Ian, frowning, “No matter where you copied it from, don’t play with me again. I won’t be as patient as today.” He points at him one more time and then disappears down the hall.

Returning to the classroom step-by-step, Ian falls into a trance. He feels so dizzy that he puts his hand on the wall to seek support as he enters, while other boys and girls are gossiping and chasing each other like any other day.


Since she was a little girl, Zixu always wished to be a writer. She wrote her first Chinese novel, The Falling Flowers at the age of 14 and chose to study Chinese Literature in college. However, none of the professors there taught literary writing, so she came to join the MFA program in the U.S. in 2016 and started to write in English. Email: zf4059gs[at]

I Can’t Tell Him

Vidiya Dawah

Photo Credit: Franco Lautieri/Flickr (CC-by)


My scalp pricks with pain as I try to pull my hairbrush out of my hair. I set the brush down with the strands of hair I had to rip out on my dresser. The mirror looms over me, the only way to avoid its gaze is to look down, but like a magnet my eyes are drawn straight to the center. Eyes red at edges and trembling, I try to take a breath.

“Nothing happened. I’m ok. Ok I’m ok.”

My heart pounds as I try to rid my mind of all thoughts that swirl and swim through my head like rainwater. I close my eyes and tilt my head upwards, straightening my posture and shutting down my mind. My entire world is oppressed under a frigid grey fog, there’s no source of light, but no source of shadows either.


I jolt from my stupor and grip the edge of my dresser, I can’t see him in the mirror, but my eyes are still stuck in my reflection. I can tell what he looks like though, his hair is a curly mess of dark ink and he’s wearing his usual sweats. The only thing keeping him from becoming a shadow is his translucent pale skin and blue veins that pop against the black.

“What happened this morning?”

My mind dredges up all the memories I’ve spent the past six hours trying to silence. They come in slow waves as I relive the nausea and discomfort from before. I’m going to touch you. Everyone is going to touch you. The world is out to get you. Once you turn 18 I’m gone. You’re running away from your problems. You’re not like other children. You’ll be all alone. You’re hurting me. You’re unreasonable. You’re pathetic. You’re a freak.

“Nothin’ happened. M’fine. Totally fine.”

I look up at him over his shoulder and give him a small smile. He leans against the desk and looks at me out of the corner of his eyes, arms folded and sweatshirt bunched up.

“You were screaming when he was in your room. He didn’t mean any harm.”

I swallow back my vomit of words, all my excuses burn the back of my throat like acid. What do I say? He’s creepy, he’s scary, he’s weird, he’s gross, he scares me. It’s not like you’ll believe me, so what do I say? The truth tries to claw out from my body, starting as a numbing feeling in my toes, then making its way up to my torso where it settles. It claws at my stomach until it reaches my heart. It pounds and pounds until my vision fades away and all I can see is my ripped up heart, covered in punctures.

“He wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

He says it with such a softness and sadness in his eyes that I have to hold back my laughter. Everyone loves him, he’s such a good guy, he’s been through a lot so we have to forgive him, he’s trying his best, he loves you, he’s not in his right mind, he’s sick, he’s ill, he’s our Dad.

I want to laugh. I can’t tell him.


Email: vdawah7663[at]


James Butt

Photo credit: naathas/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

Angie was on the sofa in the living room, on her side with her back to the TV. One of those reality wedding shows was on, the ones where the drama appeared natural enough. I put my work bag on the kitchen table and poured a glass of water.

“Any dinner?”

She didn’t respond. I didn’t expect her to. She rolled toward the TV, resting her right arm across the top of her waist as she reached for the remote. She probably thought these little gestures of hers prevented me from noticing her growing bump.

I rummaged in the pantry for a loaf of bread and filled a sauce pan half-ways with water before putting it on the stove. “I’m boiling some weenies. You want any?”

She shook her head no, and I went to the fridge. There was a casserole dish with sour cream and salsa dip on the middle shelf, covered with cellophane.

“We having nachos?”

“No,” she said. “That’s for Eileen and me. She’s coming over later and we’re doing some planning for the baby. You’re going over there to play poker with Ray tonight, remember?”

Eileen was a few months pregnant. She and Angie got together regularly now to discuss her baby. I’m not sure what things they discussed, in terms of Eileen’s baby plans. But it seemed to help Angie some. She’d been happier the last month or so. It meant I had to spend more time with Ray, because that’s who we hung out with now, Ray and Eileen. Tonight was poker, and he’d have his construction pals over to fill out the table.

I closed the fridge and put the pot of water in the sink. I threw the bread in the trash. “I got fired today.”

She glanced over briefly and I couldn’t read her face. I said nothing else and turned for the bathroom to get ready for poker night.


Ray and Eileen lived next door to me and Angie. We shared a fence in the back, and the path between us was beat down to a thin dirt trail. Ray had a new poker table set up in his garage. We usually played at the kitchen table, but now, with Eileen pregnant, she didn’t want smoke in the house.

Ray was a big guy. He looked exactly how a construction worker ought to, with a large shaved head and barrel chest. His construction pals looked the same as him, each had arms thicker than my legs.

They were already at the table. Ches and Paul, and a new guy I hadn’t seen before. He was younger than the rest, with a cap pulled tight over his head, and a thick, wiry beard hung down below his chin. All four of them were smoking cigarettes, something I rarely seen outside of poker night.

The garage door was open, and their beers dripped with condensation from the humid night. A few moths pecked at the light attached to the door opener above the table.

“Hey, Chuck,” Ray said.

My name isn’t Chuck. But I’d gotten sick the first time playing poker with Ray and his pals. They all called me Chuck now.

“This here’s Aiden. Hired him for that hotel contract we got a few months back,” Ray said.

I nodded and reached my hand across the table. Aiden passed me a beer from the fridge behind him. Ray started to deal. I looked at my cards. None of them made any sense so I folded. The hand played on without me, and I gazed around Ray’s garage. It was neat and organized, obsessively so, with a workbench along the far wall. There were painted outlines for all his tools on the pegboard above the workbench.

“I knew Angela back in high school,” Aiden said, “before she went away to college.”

“That so?”

“Small world, sometimes, seeing people like that from the past again.” He grinned and flashed teeth white as bone, bright against his dark beard.

“Yeah,” I said. My attention drifted to the middle of the pegboard to where a large machete hung vertically. The blade was close to two feet long, coated in black enamel that’d been chipped away in some spots.

“She was popular back then, being so pretty. Smart, too.”

“She still is,” I said, getting up from the table. I moved over to the pegboard. They continued to play the next hand.

“A lot of us fools went for her back in school. Asking her out or trying to get her to come out to a party. She wouldn’t have any of it, though.”

“Never seen this before, Ray. It’s a big blade,” I said.

Ray turned from the game to eye what I was on about. “Yeah, needed that for hunting last fall. Glad to have it, too. Saved my skin.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. I went deep in the Highlands after the first snow. Tracked a buck for miles. He led me deeper than I’d been before. Big buck, a full seven pointer. Maybe close to 600 pounds. It took awhile, but he fell. Good thing he was close to the road.”

I glanced back to him. “Thought you said you were deep in the Highlands? No road out there deeper than one or two miles.”

“Well, I had to cut the road first,” he said and nodded toward the blade.

Ches and Paul and Aiden laughed behind me, but I didn’t get it. I leaned in close to the pegboard and could see old blood and fur caked to the edge of the blade. “What’d you use it on? That doesn’t look like deer hair.”

“Coyote,” Ray said. “They came at me while I was hauling my buck down to camp. Must’ve smelled blood where I quartered him and tied him to the sled. I heard their cries, but the sound bounced around the hills up there. I couldn’t get a good read on where they were.”

“That’s something else, Ray,” Ches said.

“Thing is with coyotes is they’re smart. They got intelligence enough to know when to be tricky. They used that so I couldn’t get a sense for them. I don’t usually see them in packs, but with the snow and my buck, I’d a hunch they’d be round in a pack. They answered howls back and forth, louder and closer for about an hour. But they used those hills. Smart, see.”

I had a recollection of this story from some time before.

“They have weakness, too, just like all animals,” Ray said. “They come at you from the front, for the throat. You get a chance to see them before they strike. And soon enough they showed themselves right in front of me.”

“Christ,” Paul said.

“No matter. They showed themselves, and I cut each one down in turn. I brought those hides home, too. A nice trophy to go with my seven points.”

I lingered at the blade a couple minutes more before taking my seat again. I stared over at Aiden, but he seemed less interested in me then. The next hand was dealt and I finished my beer. My cards made no sense so I folded, and the hand played without me.


I was home later than I’d liked. Eileen had left a couple hours before, and Angie had gone to bed. The TV was on in the bedroom, the blue glow visible between the floor and bottom of the door. When I entered she was on her side, facing the wall away from me. All the blankets had been stripped off the bed, and she lay there in an old tank top and a pair of my boxers. She wasn’t asleep. People asleep have a softness to them, like all the weight been squeezed out of them. Her body was too rigid for sleep.

I flicked off the TV and opened the window a bit wider. A night breeze came in, and a ceiling fan spun above our bed. I lay next to Angie. It took less than six years for me and Angie to fall out of love. I tried to think of what that meant, but my attention strayed to the twirling blades above.

If I stared at one blade at a time I could follow each unique rotation around the room. I watched them spin and tried to listen for the call of coyotes in the distance. I watched them and wondered who the father was. I watched them and wondered if it mattered.


James Butt lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia. A graduate of Dalhousie University, his time is split between the excitement and spontaneous nature that is family life, and the crafting of short fiction based upon those experiences. Email: james.butt[at]

Three poems

Tiffany Washington

Photo credit: Sheila Sund/Flickr (CC-by)


Last Easter,
wedged between my brother (alcoholic)
and my mother-in-law (tyrant)
my grandmother decided to tell us a story—
to seek redemption in the retelling

Denouncing her past claims
that ink runs through our veins
(writing’s in the blood)
she admits Biology, not English
was her best subject

until the day
the young farm-girl version of my grandmother
maternally carried to school, a frog (extra credit)
“I didn’t know, I didn’t know,” she repeated

finally, my grandfather finished her words
concluding this story
between courses of the holiday meal

60 years later, her mind cemented
on that moment
(the scalpel and the still-beating heart)


Upon Remembering a College Trip to Ukraine

Babushka—hand over your face
do you worry about me now?
All American
All grown-up.
I do not make borscht like you

taught me—Saturday afternoons
for Sunday dinner.
Hot tea does not sit in a front
window-cooling as we pray.
My alphabet of tripled TTTs
and harsh straight lines lay
folded between subway
schedules and sheet music.
I remember Katia
playing her accordion
while Ana banged the drum
and “little professor” practiced
English with us after every

Babushka—do you still ride
in the side-car of the motorcycle
down dirt roads outside the city?
How many groceries can
you fit besides you on your travels?
That summer when Sara got sick,
we did not know she would leave
her husband after only 10 years.
American aspirin and antibiotics
saved our lives—years of immunities
stored to prevent
death that too quickly came
—brought in our suitcases and on our clothes
from an airport halfway around the world

Babushka—do they still Baptize
people in the brown river,
downstream from Chernobyl?
You would not let us swim there
on hot days, fearful cancer
would seep into our skin—
But Baptisms were protected
“By God,” you told us.
Safe in the salvation
of full immersion, not that Holy
water sprinkle in an air conditioned church.

Babushka—do you stand taller
now after Dr. David straightened
spines all afternoon, while I checked
charts with names and ages?
Are your arms strong enough
to hug me like the prodigal
daughter when I return to the
country of my almost home?

Babushka—hand over your face
I do not worry for you
All Ukrainian.
Always grown-up.


On an Aging Mother-in-Law

Before dinner you told us
about the internship so close to death—
a summer between wills and beneficiaries,
of the “no presents” rule to protect neglectful children.

And I thought of your mother,
in the front seat,
who already declined the invite
to share our home (just in case),
disapproval trumping loneliness.

But when she made that comment,
the one removing me from all familial obligation,
I stopped feeling sorry.
And I started to understand:
her one son’s yearly Mother’s Day amnesia,
and the other’s long distance job, never a moment to call.

What I do not understand:
your eagerness to love her
and my savage desire for her approval.


Tiffany Washington is an 8th grade English teacher, mother of four, and sometimes poet. Her works have appeared in a number of print and on-line publications including Caduceus, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Artis Magazine and Long River Run. Email: tmwashington[at]

Vagina Bowl Making Workshop

Salvatore Marici

Photo credit: bluebus/Flickr (CC-by-nc)

Vagina Bowl Making Workshop

Photos of Tigerlily’s vagina guide
women’s fingers press,
curve beige clay,
cast intentions to the earth
cuddle in their hands.
Bear babies if they want.
Lubricate after menopause.

Like priests with chalices
I raise arms
hold vessels of life.
Hail to vaginas’ miracles,
women’s marvels.
Tilt, drink.


Salvatore Marici’s poetry has appeared or forthcoming in Toasted Cheese, Spillway, Prairie Gold: An Anthology of the American Heartland, Of Burgers & Barrooms a Main Street Rag anthology and more. In 2010, Marici was the Midwest Writing Center Collins Poet-in-Residence. He has three books: Mortals, Nature and their Spirits (chapbook), Swish Swirl & Sniff, and Fermentations (all Ice Cube Press). Marici served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Guatemala and he is a civil servant retiree as an agronomist. He is learning to maneuver a 17-foot ten-inch kayak in mangroves and the Gulf. Email: redwineandgarlic[at]