‘The Day I Found My Name’ & ‘Mountaintop Optometrist’

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist.

The Day I Found My Name

I remember the day I found my name:
I had been nameless as a raindrop,
but one day I was walking along the winter street
scattered with dusty snow
that blew about in the razor breeze,
the concrete sidewalk was flanked by hard icy snow on either side
and the sky was crispy blue like spearmint
the sun was weakened but shining
my corduroy jacket and black winter hat were on
(among other clothes)
and my hands in pockets like two wood stoves
when my foot kicked something unexpected,
I curiously looked down and there was my name on the ground
I crouched down, reached one hand through the cold air to grab it and picked it up,
put it in my pocket and it was mine,
that’s the day I found my name.

Mountaintop Optometrist

An hour and a half from the trailhead
we four were sweaty and panting
among the calm and collected tourists
who had driven to the top
(cheaters, we wanted to scream, but didn’t),
she needed a quarter for the binoculars and I
(luckily)
had one that had been sitting in my bag
eager for this moment,
her hand brushed mine
(of course)
as she grabbed it from me,
the clouds were indiscernible
and she wanted to watch them
but we four could find nothing in them,
so she looked through the binoculars
and invited me to do the same,
we shared looking back and forth
at things amplified
from the mountaintop,
she looked through
while I adjusted the focus
(my arm close to her being)
and I quipped about the eye-doctors
(better one or two?)
and she laughed
which was my goal
and I felt glad,
then the time clicked and our eyes were blinded
and the clouds were still indiscernible
and she still didn’t love me.

Jacque Margaux is a sad Franco-American poet who writes to cheer himself up. His poem, girl writer en café, was published on Words Faire.

‘Melquíades’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Melquíades

In childhood, midsummer’s midnight heat always welcomed gypsy caravans traveling southward. When she was young, their arrival, not changing seasons, ushered new life, released old. Under Aurora Borealis, campfires sprang up nightly; dancers swayed by iridescent moonlight, casting shadows; jubilant voices rose skyward. One enchanted year, an ageless, wizened man adorned the girl’s shoulders with a cloak—dyed crimson, emerald, azure, gold—inviting her to join this stately dance and ritual revelry. Swirling together, vibrant silhouettes melded into myriad flames of color. His cape long held magic from those beautiful, mysterious visitors, long after they departed, its splendor lingering.

Brandon W. Hawk is a Professor of English at Rhode Island College who writes about the Middle Ages, biblical apocrypha, and intersections with pop culture. He has published the books Preaching Apocrypha in Anglo-Saxon England (2018), The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew and the Nativity of Mary (2019), and Apocrypha for Beginners: A Guide to Understanding and Exploring Scriptures Beyond the Bible (2021).

‘THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES’, ‘MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS’, ‘EMPTY YOUR MIND’, ‘FALLOUT’ & ‘DAZED’

Photographer - Beth Cole

THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES

The nurse asked:

“Are you crying from the pain?” in distress,

I blurted out:

“NO!”

Public Service Announcement:

I’d rather be “fucking and flying”

instead of in the Emergency Room

waiting for the

cure of dehydration; an IV. Listened

to an elderly pair play the Alphabet Game;

their chosen theme the weather while

Lil Nas X was playing for all ears to hear,

in the hospital’s speaker. (Maybe who decided

this music was either bored or horny.) Those

two with gray hair got to the letter “G” and gave up.

“I’m not an athlete, but a poet”, I proudly

declared as a nurse was putting in the IV

equipment in my arm (at least she was amused)

even though I was wearing my trusty

blue basketball shorts—that I also wore to bed;

maybe I seemed like a walking contradiction.

There was no clock on the wall, and

no one there, but only the intervals

on the bag to gauge the passing time

was that fluid going downwards.

MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS

Take 1

These fragmented thoughts are cracked dead sand dollars washed up past the shoreline littering here and there whereas this destructive force beckoned me as that aged lighthouse was falling into the sea

b

r

i

c

k

by

b

r

i

c

k

I wanted to cut my left-forearm shallowly to see red emerge. A minute crimson tide, a strawberry stained white pillow case, but I didn’t believe in ghosts or the Holy Ghost. A fancy quilted paper towel would be needed to press down on this cut leaving bead-lets (then scars) like a crushed strawberry’s guts or a strawberry melting under the too hot sun. (Son, he said. He didn’t say daughter.) I wanted my nightmares to vanish like footprints in the sand at high tide, and instead to find peace when the self—can I even claim is mine? was in pieces.)

Take 2

Spectacular. Suffering. Fireworks. Red. Like how I envisioned streaks across my skin from my fingernails scratching the surface. It was 3:36 am. I checked my Iphone, I was crying for at least 10 minutes straight. Someone might have heard me even though I tried to cry silently—thought I heard someone shut their window. This was just not working.

However, the slight cool breeze for a moment briefly brought me back to the then now tickled my feet broke this too high body heat. A way out of the downwards spiral for a moment realizing: my mini air purifier was still going, my AirPods in my ears were still playing, my portable bedside lamp was plugged in signaled charging by that red light. Coincidentally, I also listened to a song that shuffled titled: “3 am”.

I wondered if I was in the perfect position that many would want to trade places with me. Inside the future felt bleak so I turned the other cheek, and presented one way to the world even though life isn’t a one way street.

Final Cut

I wished this wretched urge was out of my head every night

as to not to keep me up.

“EMPTY YOUR MIND”

as the body cried out for warmth as

murky memories clouded thoughts like

fog rolling in precipitation of sweat and

predicting the nights short comings; falls.

The animalistic urge to just do it, to see red

or burst with spasms of euphoria instead or

to be stuck and terrifyingly hope to fall asleep

due to meds but peace does not come nor arrive.

As fatigue is a dweller whereas energy has been

allusive as if some had shot the energizer bunny.

The power shuts off now and then here and the reason

is not clear, clearly my mind is full and my subconscious.

Nightmare emerge fierce as cheetahs, though I’m

not a cheater or cheat the system yet still this

mind withstands the test of time.

FALLOUT

Stars falling out of my eyes

don’t ask me why falling

shooting flames disintegrating

into remnants—little pile of

ashes on the white carpet.

DAZED

Sheer mechanical red light unusually bright

against the soft blue sky; I had to look up.

At the corner of Sunset Way, waiting to cross,

I cannot tell you why I decided to basically

walk in a straight line on weary legs for two

miles one way, and back. For all I know, in that

time that red could have spun out, and birthed

psychedelic roses outside the metallic edges

confines of the bulb; spinning like when you

look at the sun for too long (told you so).

Sophia Falco is an award-winning poet, and the author of four poetry books all published by UnCollected Press titles: If My Hands Were Birds: A Poem, Chronicles of Cosmic Chaos: In The Fourth Dimension, Farewell Clay Dove, & The Immortal Sunflower. She graduated magna cum laude along with the highest honors in the Literature Department at The University of California, Santa Cruz with her BA in intensive literature with a creative writing concentration in poetry. https://www.sophiafalco.com/

‘Two Different Peas in a Pod’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Two Different Peas in a Pod

It took me a while to recognize him, but I still asked the inspector to bring his ID and run his background. I was betting against fate, but fate is impervious to emotions. I requested the sub-inspector to place him in a different cell, away from the general crowd. As he washed the blood from his face, marked with fatigue from eight days of protest, I sent him water, band-aids, and a change of clothes. All my subordinates watched my actions, trying to decipher a concurrent meaning in any of them, their curiosity piqued by my seemingly contradictory instructions.

More than 20 years have passed since our last encounter. In these two decades, his inscrutable eyes, capable of concealing pain, have been the only image that my mind could conjure when I thought of him. Sometimes, it was a mere memory, and at other times, it bore the weight of my past. The unchangeable nature of history is what makes it so haunting.

While most holding inmates were moving and shouting slogans, Kabir was unmoved by any commotion or chaos. He sat on the floor; age had left a mark on his appearance. His smooth skin was now hard and punctured with various marks. He sat patiently, staring at the brick wall in front of him, and prayed in the most imperceptible motion. Even without knowing his language, I knew exactly the words he was using because he did the exact same thing when we last met.

Our school was situated in one of India's most holy cities, Banaras, held a dressing-up competition each year. Banaras had missed the boat on modernization. While the nearby cities were galloping towards development, Banaras remained orthodox in every possible way. The town was based on rituals that quietly permeated all the houses in different ways, each echoing its own history and belief. My house was no different, and just like Kabir’s, it was known for early morning loud prayers that now worked as an alarm clock for our neighbours.

My father never wanted me to miss this morning ceremony of prayers at our house; he ensured my presence by removing my name from the school bus and dropping me on his scooter every day. I would sandwich between my parents for 15 minutes, which I could survive most days, but today was a dressing competition, and I worked months saving all the money to get the required dress and makeup. I wanted to look my best, but it was impossible. At the gate, my mother kissed my head and adjusted my dress, but as soon as I saw some of my makeup printed on my father’s shirt, I knew I had lost the competition even before entering the school.

After the attendance, we were made to stand in line according to our roll numbers, and as fate would have it, Kabir was always in front of me. His surname and my first name coincided. This used to happen in India but doesn’t anymore. These little coincidences started our friendship, but the dread and pain of the early morning prayers that we both had to attend in our respective houses strengthened our bond.

We were all dressed as different gods. Most students were dressed as Krishna, while others were dressed as Shiva, Ram, Hanuman, Imam, Jesus, Buddha, or even a Maulvi. While most of us looked like caricatures of different gods, Kabir was a sight to behold. His portrayal was not just a skit but a transformation into a deity. No matter how much we focused on practicing our two-minute skit, at some point, everyone’s eyes would inspect Kabir. Some students even tried to destroy his makeup, but teachers kept showing up to take photos with him. His father was a painter, and he made sure he would look the part.

Without saving any money or working for it, Kabir won the first prize. While he smiled on the stage, some frowned at him, and with time, their frown turned into rage. I could see it; I was one of them, but my emotions were invisible. As soon as we approached recess, those other students asked me to bring Kabir to the back of the school. They said, We just want to play with him.” I knew that was a lie, but I wanted to see if his new fame would make him the favorite of our seniors. Most of them in that group were from the Ninth grade, just two grades above us, and were known for their mischief.

During recess, I told Kabir that his fame had brought us to the attention of our seniors, and they wanted us to join them for a game. He was hesitant, and with those imperceptible eyes, he asked, “Do you really want to play with them?”

I told him it was a privilege that one only got if one had a brother in that group. Playing with them and being seen with them would change our status quo amongst our classmates.

He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but he held my hand and followed my lead. At that age and time, friendships were transient, and even though Kabir and I were not best friends, we were like two different peas in a similar pod. Like most kids, we were looking for attention, or at least I was.

My heart raced as soon as we stepped out of the school gate. I could see the seniors looking at us with a sinister smile. I could have stopped; I should have stopped. I could feel an increase in the weight of the hand I was dragging, but I kept walking. There was malice in my heart. I was hoping for something that would hurt his ego, but nothing could prepare me for what was to come next.

First, they made him enact the entire play he had acted on the stage. Then, they cheered, helping him ease his nerves, and soon, he started to enjoy his performance. And before he could end, I saw a leather ball racing towards him from the periphery of my eyes. It hit him in his stomach. The impact was so hard his entire body fell on the ground. While he coughed hard, gasping for breath, they all laughed at him; the group leader wrapped his hands around my neck and pulled me towards him. For a second, I feared for my life, but he made me sit next to him and said, “Enjoy the show.”

Two boys brought Kabir to his knees while one wrapped a cloth around his eyes. It was not the punching, but when they started abusing him, I learned that it was not his winning that caused them the pain; it was his being from another religion and playing their god that hurt their sentiment. But they did not look like someone who could be sentimental about anything; I think people use violence as a means to cover their inabilities.

Kabir’s family always attended my house for the festivals we celebrated, just as my family did for his. We never found any difference between us, but they did, and they kept punching and spitting at him until their leader shouted. Then he removed his hands from my shoulder and walked towards this frail and beaten body that was now spitting blood. He took a pencil from his box and laced it between Kabir’s fingers. While the others held his hand on the ground, the leader removed the blinds from his eyes. He wanted Kabir to experience pain even before he could inflict it. But those imperceptible eyes were capable of concealing pain. The only time his eyes squinted was when he looked at me.

The leader slowly pushed the heel of his shoes on his fingers, intertwined with a pencil. He closed his eyes and let out a huge cry; it was so loud that it startled the crowd. The leader quickly took off his foot and held his face. “Never take the name of our Gods from your dirty mouth.” And then they all ran back to the school. The cry was bound to get some attention. I walked towards him, his body sprawled on the ground, vibrating in pain, blood oozing from his face solidified as it mixed with the sand, but he kept repeating his prayer. I stood next to him for ten minutes, hoping to be caught by a teacher so they could force the truth out of me, but to my surprise, no one came. Ten more minutes passed, and another ten, and I just stood next to him like a tree as if providing shade. I had seen a lot of harsh punishment in school and students fighting, but I had never seen rage; I had never seen such despicable and contemptible behavior.

He finally asked for water, and I ran inside to get some. On my way out, I saw those seniors looking at me. The leader nodded, and I stopped immediately and walked back to my class with my bottle of water. The next day, I never saw Kabir or those seniors again.

As soon as I entered his cell, I feared being exposed. He kept looking at me intently and then at my name tag. His eyes inspected me and my behavior. My constables surrounded me, so I acted indifferent to our past and said, “ I have been told that you run a dispensary and are a respectable man. Why do you participate in such a protest with these people?”

“Because they are destroying our houses and place of worship.”

“No, no one’s destroying your house. They are only uprooting the ones that are built illegally.” I said and sat on the floor right next to him. Everyone was surprised by my actions. The constable ran and got an extra chair for Kabir, but we ignored it and continued our conversation.

“It took your department 20 years to find this legality, and no one complained when they paid their taxes, bribes, and electricity bills. No one had an issue until this election year?”

“You know how the system is. It takes its own time to correct itself.”

“Exactly, you know how the system is; it feeds on its own needs.”

“Stopping an officer from enforcing the law is a crime, and you and your people can be punished for it. You should take this matter to the court and not streets.”

“We are not stopping any officer for enforcing the law; we are stopping prejudice from becoming a law.”

He wasn’t moved by my care; I even offered him water this time, but he declined politely. I wanted to remove him from this situation, so I decided to increase the stakes for him and said: “This can lead to riots, Kabir, and like always, innocent lives will pay the price for it.”

“Innocence is corrupted when you suppress it, but you won’t understand it. You never had to grow up proving your love for this country. Being questioned on your looks or way of life.”

One of the constables shouted at him for answering back at me. I could see the disgust in his eyes; it was the same disgust I had seen in those seniors. I dismissed the constable and apologized on his behalf. I knew this was a battle both Hindus and Muslims lost the day partition was declared. It was as if the British had cut a single cloth and stitched buttons between them, leaving each side to decide to whom the cloth now belonged. I ordered the other constables to constantly attend to Kabir and ensure he was cared for. And just when I was leaving, Kabir said, “You seemed to be an educated and respected man yourself, yet during our entire conversation you kept saying your people, do they not belong to you?”

I shook Kabir's hand and left with a faint smile; I couldn't shake off the internal conflict that was now raging in me. My orders were clear: to charge all rioters and keep them inside the cell until their shops and prayer house were demolished. Now, it was up to me; I could either be a silent spectator or participate in the history of my town. I could either support the god-awful politicians or human innocence.

I released them all except Kabir. As much as I wanted them to fight for their rights, I wanted to save Kabir in case this led to any riots. While signing my new orders, my inspectors reminded me that this insubordination could lead to either an inquiry or suspension. But I had played this game long enough to manage the outcomes. Before my superiors could react, I requested the judge to pass an injunction. The injunction gave the government and the community time to fight for their rights and, more importantly, to have a say - the right to be heard, which, if not more, at times is as important as justice.

As soon as the judge listed the matter, the confrontation ended. The fight was now in court and not the streets. I ordered my inspector to release Kabir and stood at the gate to bid him farewell as he finally left the station. I am aware that unfortunately, one good deed cannot undo the burden of another sin. I extended my hand to shake his, under my breath my lips repeated my hearts apology. He looked at it intently for a minute. Then, he converted our handshake into a formal hug, whispering in my ears, “Thank you. It would be nice to have you home for dinner before you leave the city. My address is still the same.”

I don’t know if the walls have ears, but they do echo the whispers. The news of my transfer had reached his cell. But I wasn’t bothered by it because finally, the image of his inscrutable eyes was now replaced by the warmth of his hug, and as he exited the building, his forgiveness took the albatross that was hanging on my neck. Even though history cannot be changed, one can always add new chapters, and now, for once, I could sleep without being brewed in my own resentment.

Karanbir Singh

‘Eyebrows’, ‘Dangerously Distinguished’ & ‘Lonely Chardonnay’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Eyebrows

As my face has been so often close to yours
I’ve seen every freckle and every pore
I’ve noticed little scars even you haven’t spotted
I’ve counted every eyebrow hair you’ve forgotten
And with every stray hair
I seem to love you more
Your face alone
Is stunning to explore

Dangerously Distinguished

you’re dressed in jealously
and I must confess
you look dangerously
distinguished
I’m not saying you must wear it
but sometimes my heart just can’t resist
when we arrive at the party
and it’s covering you from ankles to wrists

Lonely Chardonnay

And I still have that now lonely Chardonnay, the one we were planning to pop on that day. But
I’m popping it now, pretending I was saving it for somebody else. And now when you hope my
icon displays on your little screen, even with that you’ll only know the half of me.

You built that wall, but now you’re attempting to push it back down. Claiming it was a past side
of you; nowhere near who you are now. But after you built your wall, I began building mine, and
I made sure mine would stand skyscraper high.

Mackenzie (Mac) Gellner completed her Bachelor of Communication in journalism at Mount Royal University. Her poetry has been published in literary magazines, such as You Might Need To Hear This, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, WA Magazine and Eunoia Review, along with a short story in Humans of the World. Mac also enjoys photography, with work published in Kelp Journal and WA Magazine.

‘Goblin Mode’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Goblin Mode

Soon, I will be a shadow, your shadow

When candlelight wanes over the warm hearth.

Can moonlight dissolve? My form diffuses,

Cells forge new bonds—a transitive power,

Thoughts tumble through your mind but never flower.

A storm brews, less thunder in sleeping eyes.

Your mouth opes--the secret grows inside,

Dreams sprout, mesmerized. Haunting shapes wait,

Then, I cut the string unraveling Fate.

When the sun rises, my charge is complete:

And the dew drips down pooling at your feet,

While lark’s callus song, dipp’d in revelry,

And the nightingale converts once fervent tune

Before the endless nights of the harvest moon.

If time has passed, your time has passed,

Lock’d eyes can’t dream. A feather hovers,

Rain freezes into ice, not mere alchemy.

If my life force wanes, will I get the same decency?

The world is no longer with you or me,

We fight to live, no chance for decency.

Jonathan Goldman, teacher and master's candidate at Harvard Extension School, is from Los Angeles where he has worked in education for over a decade. Other than poetry, Jonathan also has a wide array of short stories that deal with local social causes in Southern California and hopes to be considered as part of a new movement of Modern fiction. Currently, he's working on a Cozy Fiction portal fantasy called The Little Brown Bird.

‘Another Shot’

Daniel Wood Adams: Based in Austin, Texas, Daniel Wood Adams is a multifaceted creative with a passion for blending visual aesthetics and craftsmanship. As a graphic designer, illustrator, and woodworker, Daniel’s work reflects a unique intersection of artistry and skill. Daniel’s creative journey began with degrees in Illustration and Graphic Design from Pratt Institute in 2012.

Another Shot

Angel looked at the bric-a-brac that hung on the restaurant walls. Rickie examined the label on his beer bottle. Mary folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. Todd shrugged.

“A woman cannot be a feminist and work in a corporation,” Todd said.

“It’s that simple,” Mary said.

“It’s that simple.”

Angel shook Rickie’s arm.

“Look,” she said. “They’ve got a picture of Abraham Lincoln wearing sunglasses. That’s funny.”

Rickie squinted at the wall.

“I just see dogs that look like rappers playing poker.”

Angel pointed.

“See?”

“I do now.”

Rickie and Angel rubbed shoulders as they laughed.

“You know so much about feminism.” Mary leaned towards Todd. Her elbows rested on the tabletop.

“I took a few courses in Women’s and Gender Studies as an undergrad.”

“Women’s Studies?”

“Women’s and Gender Studies.”

Rickie and Angel paused their inventory of kitsch.

“And now you know all about feminism?” Mary spoke in a neutral, almost maternal, voice. “That’s good. I mean it. That’s really good.”

“Bet it helped you get laid in collage,” Angel said. She stuttered a half-laugh then pursed her lips.

“Sweetie.” Rickie raised his eyebrows. Angel shrugged and mouthed, “What am I supposed to do?” Rickie mimed, “Nothing.”

Even though he was sitting, Todd hitched up his pants as if he were getting ready for manual labor.

“There is a difference between feminism and women’s rights,” he said.

“You mean, you see a difference,” Mary said.

“It’s all about the view of the system. Whether the system is good or bad. Feminism is Marxist. The system is rotten and has to change. Women’s rights is like the current labor moment in the US. The system needs tweaking, but in general is OK. Women simply need a chance to participate. In a corrupt system.”

“Fascinating,” Mary said.

“Take Hillary Clinton. Not a feminist. She is all for the system, the neo-liberalism of 90s. She actually sat on the board of Wal-Mart and never spoke out about Wal-Mart’s anti-union activities. Very aggressive activities, I’ll add.”

“I can’t stand the Clintons.” Mary flinched.

Angel sat up straight in her chair.

“You know what I’d like do to?” she said.

“But the Clinton’s views on the world still represent both parties, pretty much.” Todd raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Rickie said.

“The Clintons are irrelevant.” Mary shared a knowing glance with Todd.

“They have deep fried deviled eggs here.” Mary made eye contact with everyone at the table. “I want some.”

“The Clinton’s neo-liberalism is the shadow behind both parties.” Todd waved his hand in dismissal.

“I’ll order some,” Rickie said. “The fried pickles, too?”

“They’ll die out.” Mary sighed, almost post-coital. “Like the rest of them.”

“Why not?” Angel threw her arms into the air.

“And then what?” Todd took a long drink from his beer bottle. “You think young people will simply end war, poverty, and environmental catastrophe?”

“They can’t make it much worse.” Mary raised her bottle in cheers.

Rickie and Angel looked towards the bar. Their server, the bartender, another server, and a guy at the bar were throwing back a whiskey shot. Rickie smiled weakly. Angel waved. Their server nodded and came to the table.

“We’re out of the eggs,” he said after Angel pointed to the menu as she ordered.

“Pickles?” Rickie said.

“We’ve got the fried pickles.”

“Then the pickles,” Rickie said.

“And fries,” Angel said.

The server slumped away.

“Let’s look at the fries,” Todd said. “As an example of how the system works.”

“Let’s not.” Rickey smirked at his friend.

“Sure,” Mary said. “Let’s look at the fries.”

“More than likely, they are not from around here. We can agree on that. More than likely, the potatoes for the fries come from hundreds of miles away. So then there’s the transportation costs. Also, they don’t cut their own fries here. They buy them precut.”

“You know this how?” Mary said.

 “I assume.”

“When you assume you make an ass out of you and me,” Angel said.

“So these fries come from a factory. Then there’s the oil the kitchen uses. And so on and so on.”

“And so on,” Rickie said.

“And so on,” Mary and Angel said together. They laughed.

Rickie signed to the server to bring a round of shots.

“What kind?” the server said.

“What kind of what?” Angel said.

“Rail bourbon,” Rickie said.

“Ouch.” The other three said at the same time.

“OK, you are making some good points.” Mary gave Todd a half-smile. He half-smiled back.

“I’m buying a round of shots.”

“Not for me,” Todd said. “I’ve got court in the morning.”

“And I’ve got a big presentation in front of one of our biggest clients.” Mary squinched her face.

“Well, tomorrow’s my day off,” Angel said.

“And I’ve decided to be a writer,” Rickie said.

The four tapped their shot glasses on the table and drank.

“Those deviled eggs do look good,” Mary said.

“I’m vegan,” Todd said.

“You can have the pickles.” Rickie lifted the plate of pickles.

“What’s in the sauce?” Tood sniffed at the sauce.

“Chemicals.” Mary stuck her finger in the sauce. She sucked on her finger like a pacifier. “Tasty, fatty, high sodium, and sugar, and chemicals.”

“I’ll just have a plain pickle.”

“Fried in lard,” Mary said.

“Really?” Todd held a pickle mid-air.

“Better put it back,” Rickie said. “It touched your fingers.”

“Now that you touched it, you have to eat it,” Angel said.

“Go ahead,” Mary said. “Eat your lard-fried pickle.”

“You two should date,” Angel said.

“Angel.” Rickie gave his wife a look.

“Well, they did date in high school.”

“We never dated,” Mary said. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Todd said.

“Not unless you count a few hook-ups.”

“We dated our entire junior year. We went to prom.”

“You did,” Rickie said.

“It’s true. Rickie liked me since grade school.” Angel sat upright in her chair. She almost appeared regal.

“Angel!” Rickie sat back in his chair.

“I need another shot,” Mary and Angel said.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.

‘Brushing Out the Knots’

Photogropher- Tall Eric

Brushing Out the Knots

“Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-Nine. One Hundred.” Alex lowered the brush and pulled at the clump of loose hairs that had gotten tangled in the splines.

Annabeth gave a satisfied sigh. Her eyes were closed and she bobbed side to side like a boat on the sea. In her lap their dog Charlie was urled into a tight bun. She was scratching his fuzzy little head absentmindedly. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Alex handed the brush over her shoulder and she took it. She leaned forward and deposited it into the drawer of their bedside table. Charlie, displeased with the movement, wriggled away and crawled to the foot of the bed where he splayed out, his tiny feet reaching back to them with the papery pads pointed up towards the ceiling.

Annabeth rubbed her finger over the bottom of the right paw and he withdrew it suspiciously. He turned back to face her,responding with a sour side-eye.

She laid back and pulled the covers over herself. Alex reached for the lamp and flicked it off. Some of the clarity of the room was lost with the light, but they always left the closet cracked with the soft glow from its bulb peering through. The room blurred and though visibility remained, every edge took on a softness and the scene became an impression of itself.

Alex pulled himself down beside his wife and draped his arm across her. They said “Good night”. They said “I love you”. They nodded off, two parts of a whole, and faded to sleep.

—

There was a blue band on the nightstand. It read Annabeth Turner. The adhesive that held it together was very strong. It had been clipped apart with scissors. She was laying in the bed with the covers pulled up to her eyes and the flinching of the closed lids spoke of fitful sleep.

Alex walked up to the table and dug through the drawer for the brush. He walked around the bed to his side and crawled in next to his wife. He pulled the cover back from her face and nudged her shoulder slightly. She made a sound and turned her face up. Her eyes crept open and she looked at him from the corners.

“Come on. Let me help you sit up.”

“No, please.” Her voice was weak. Alex had slipped his hand up under her back and goaded her with a bit of pressure. Her body was heavy.

“We can’t let you get all knotted up.”

“All of me is knotted up.”

“Well maybe so, but I can at least help where I can.”

She whimpered as she gave in and pushed herself up onto her elbows. He helped her along and pulled her up into a sitting position where he could hold her steady with one arm. She was very weak.

He ran his fingers through her dark hair and helped it to fall in an orderly way, like a single organism, to where it stopped just above her shoulder blades. He took up the brush and carefully drew it through the dark strands. “One. Two. Three.”

Her breathing evened out and her muscles, though still holding against the despondent weight of her body, began slowly to relax. He continued. “Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That’s how long we’ve been married this year.” He kissed her cheek. Her mouth smiled, but her eyebrows drooped low over her closed eyes. “Thirteen. Fourteen.”

When he reached one hundred, he helped to ease her back down into a reclined position. He walked around the bed and returned the brush to the drawer, then picked up the orange bottle that was sitting beside the blue wristband with her name on it. He unscrewed the lid and shook
two pills out into his palm. He replaced the cap and set the container back onto the table. Then he picked up the water bottle. The thin plastic crinkled as his fingers pressed into it. She was supposed to drink three before the end of the day. Outside, the sun was setting. This was the
same one that she had had since they returned home a few hours before. It was a little under half full.

“Here you go. Try to drink some.”

She accepted the bottle and struggled to screw off the lid. Then she took a couple of unimpressive swallows. He handed her the pills and she managed to get them down one at a time.

“The tests should come back in after a couple of days, but don’t worry about them. That’s just a formality anyway. We got some medicine and that’s what matters. You’ll be right as rain real soon.”

She held the bottle out and he took it back, returning it to the table. She slid slowly down onto the pillow and heaved the covers back up around her neck. She squirmed around for a bit until she found a comfortable spot.

Charlie sat at Alex’s feet, watching. He bent down and lifted the dog up into his arms. He rubbed his chin and scratched behind his ear. Annabeth’s breathing settled. Alex lowered the dog onto the bed and it inspected the area. It searched about and then stopped, turned two circles to the right, paused, turned once around back to the left, and settled down into the bend of her legs behind her knees. His wife’s face softened ever so slightly.

Alex looked at them both. He rubbed his hands together and stepped out of the room.

—

They were sitting in the dark. Annabeth was sniffling and from time to time she reached up to rub her eyes.

“Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. That’s how many weeks until Christmas. Did you know that? I just happened to look it up today.”

Alex’s voice was very unsteady. At times he would stop counting out loud. In the corner of the room, a sporadic crunching would begin and end time and time again as Charlie chewed on dog food. Random splashes of water interjected occasionally as he drank. “Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninety. Ninety-one. Ninety-two. That’s how many years you’re gonna live. That’s a good healthy number, think so? I might kick it at eighty. You’re gonna have to watch out for me so I don’t do anything stupid and we can enjoy those years rocking on the porch at the lake like we talk about.”

“Why’s the closet light off?”

“I’m sorry. I hit it without thinking when I was putting my shirt on. I’ll turn it back on. One hundred.”

—

Annabeth held the warm rag over her mouth. It felt good. Alex had run the water and wet it for her while she was bent over the toilet. He had wrung it out with his strong hands.

Alex sat behind her on the bed. His arms were wrapped lightly around her stomach but he was careful not to add any pressure. He rested his chin on her shoulder. He kissed her cheek.

“It’s getting kind of cold.”

“I’ll go run it back under the sink again.”

When he came back, he handed her the rag and retrieved the hairbrush.

He didn’t count. He simply ran the teeth through her hair again and again. Some resistance gave as he pulled down on the left side and a large clump came away and dropped into his lap. He paused. He tried not to give any reaction. None at all. He swallowed. His hands were shaking.

—

The brush didn’t get put back into the drawer. It just sat forlorn on the far corner of the table and was starting to take a layer of dust. Alex had brought the wheelchair into the room and
locked it into place beside the bed.

Annabeth was still sitting where he had left her, leaned against the headboard. He pulled the covers back and helped her drop her feet over the side of the bed. Before he moved her anymore, Alex reached for the bottle on the counter and squeezed a healthy dollop of white cream out into his palm. He rubbed his hands together and then started to gently massage the lotion into Annabeth’s scalp.

She smiled, but her eyes were wet. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look away from his task. “Don’t say that. There’s nowhere on this entire planet that I’d rather be right now.”

The sun was shining brightly, hotly, through the window. They had almost always left the blinds closed and the curtains drawn before, but Annabeth said she was starting to feel claustrophobic–like the room was getting smaller. Letting the sun in seemed to do the trick to calm her some. She especially seemed to like nights when a large moon would peer through into the room and illuminate things with its less fierce, cool heavenly light. On those nights, she asked him to turn the closet light off.

Alex lifted her up and then down into the chair. She wiggled until she found an acceptable spot for her sore bones, thin skin. “Are you sure you don’t want to see about a wig?”
Alex asked. “They make them so authentic looking now.”

“Do you love me right now?” She asked.

“Of course I do. There isn’t a thing you could do to wrestle away from that.”

“Then I just want to be what I am. Don’t want to cause a mess trying to mix things up.”

—

And she was. Not once did she ever betray herself. She liked to comment about how strong he was throughout it all, but to him, there was no one so awe-inspiring in the face of despair as herself.

Her doctors loved to see her. “You make my day,” they would say with a big grin that was only a fragment of her omnipotent smile.

She fought in an effort not to show it, and she never spoke it aloud, but she was worried about how she looked. Over and over he would think just how much he wished she could peer

into his heart to see how much he adored her. It would be a long time, if it ever came, before he could accept that she did. She never doubted it.

He wasn’t sure which of these things and more that he said about her in front of their family and friends, and what, conversely, remained in his own thoughts.
Back at home, he sat on the bed in a suit that didn’t fit. At one time it had, thirteen years before, but those days were gone. He felt like he didn’t have any emotions left–he was all tapped out.

He looked down. Charlie sat at his feet, nervous at the different atmosphere that he couldn’t understand. Alex saw the bedside table–the lotions, the bottles of pills, wrinkled magazines, and an assortment of books stacked up from which a dozen bookmarks jutted out haphazardly at various phases of completion. Incomplete.

He saw the hairbrush.

He reached for it. He blew off the dust. He scooped Charlie up from the floor and let him get comfortable in his lap. Contrary to assumption, the well was not dry. The spring boiled up again and again his eyes flooded with tears.

Charlie’s curls were getting out of hand.

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

Morgan Calcutt is a graduate of Francis Marion University. He lives on a dry hill of swampy, coastal South Carolina with his wife and Boykin Spaniel. He enjoys reading and writing in the rich genre of Southern Literature while sitting, hot and humid, on the hallowed front porch with a cool glass of iced sweet tea.