July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Kerry Lanigan
Amy’s voice is on the line before Ellen even hears a full ring.
“Thank God you called. I’m at my wit’s end today, Ellen – he is On. My. Last. Nerve.”
Ellen sighs into her receiver; in her ear the air reverberates with a harsh blast. “What time did he wake you up?” She pinches the bridge of her nose between her eyes, pulls her hand slowly across her temple.
“Six-freaking-AM! He wanted waffles. Wouldn’t stop yelling until I made some waffles and then he knocked over the bowl of batter and it went everywhere. He spread it around the table with his hands; it was a fabulous freaking mess.”
“Did you try playing that puzzle that I sent you a few weeks ago? Sometimes if you can get him to do something constructive with his hands—”
“I tried the puzzle! He kept getting up from the table and getting into the cupboards instead. He’s going through everything, pulling out papers and silverware and…” Amy’s voice is thick and wobbling as it trails off, fat clouds of tears gathering, ready to open and pour. “Jason can’t stand it. He can’t sleep either and then he yells at me and…I don’t know if our marriage can handle this.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s hard.” Ellen bites the inside of her cheek, a raw, smooth, sweet-tasting spot that she’s been making worse all month, an aching worry stone for these daily phone conversations with her sister. “Maybe it’s time to consider some other living arrangements for him.” There. It’s out.
Amy is silent in her ear, only breathing. Then a sniffle, a shaky breath. Ellen listens hard, her body clenched, waves of energy pulsing toward the phone in her hand. Finally: “Maybe.”
“Poor dad.”
“Yeah. Poor dad.”
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Patricia Guzman
Isabella became Iiisssaaa, moments after she was born. Her older brother, Miguel Trubino was five years old and was unable to pronounce her name as he held her in his twig-like arms at the hospital after her birth. What seeped between his jagged teeth was Iiisssaaa!
Their mother, had only minutes before pushed her newborn daughter through the narrow opening of her vagina the way you would force a boiled egg, absent of it’s shell, into a long stemmed shot glass. As she sat, her back propped on flat hospital pillows, her legs stretched beneath the thin blanket, she smiled and said, “¿Iiisssaaa? Qué lindo nombre.”
Iiisssaaa became: Isabella Rosalinda Trubino, weighing 7 lbs, 6 oz, and 13 in.
Isabella would grow up with a preference for knitting rather than sports, reading over socializing, and wearing rainbow colored clothing as thought a bag of skittles had melted and amalgamated into the thread that wrapped itself around her petite body. She wore dresses that reached the cap of her knees and sweaters with pearl buttons. Her dark brown hair and she wore it parted at the center with two braids crowing the top of her head.
She would often hide underneath the kitchen table while her family watched television in the living room or during parties her mother would throw for her and her brother’s birthdays, graduations, or holidays. As everyone else was outside battling for first crack of the piñata or waiting for their slice of strawberry and chocolate cake, Isa was under the table, in her pastel pink dress with hot pink ruffles and purple polka dot socks, knitting or reading.
It was there, with her dark brown hair haloed above her head where she first parted her lips and began to talk to Refugio, her imaginary dog.
Ms. Guzman is a first generation Mexican American with a Bachelors of Arts in Fiction Writing at Columbia College in Chicago.
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Kim Farleigh
The glass roof left rectangular light on the sand, the swaying bull swaying beside the light, as if listening to music, death’s orchestra calling, the bull’s left back leg in front of the leg it should have been next to, blood dripping from its nostrils, a gold rectangle of light next to where the bull was swaying, swaying to an irresistible calling, the sword sticking out of the bull’s back, the matador’s triumphant hand shaking before the bull’s face, the bull falling into light, a courageous bull that had run in straight lines.
The bull got dragged by horses around the ring, the crowd applauding a being whose courage had taken it from darkness to light, the bull floating through that light.
A blizzard of fluttering, white handkerchiefs erupted around the ring, an expression of appreciation for both man and bull, fabrics like butterflies escaping towards light.
Kim’s stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Whiskey Island, Southerly, Island, Mudjob, Write From Wrong, Sleet, Negative Suck, The Red Fez, Red Ochre Lit, Haggard & Halloo, Down in the Dirt, The Camel Saloon, Feathertale, Descant, The Houston Literary Review, The Sand Journal, Full of Crow and Unlikely Stories.
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Diana Cage
This morning I really wanted you. I’m not sure if you wanted it and if you didn’t then it isn’t the same. You got out of bed while I was still sipping coffee, not yet awake enough to realize I should have moved faster. Should have made a move or even just asked.
Your brain is somewhere else now, sipping Kenyan coffee in a café that boasts about its hand pours, but how else would it get in the cup? My mind is on a dull, dual ache, a dichotomous throb split between my left temple and a spot considerably lower. Artifacts from last night. The beer animated me, your hand on my lap gave you away. You like me like that.
Other couples seem fragile. I’m worried about Julia and Allison’s fate. The west coast is mythical, until you are there and realize anything outside the city proper is as populated by strip malls as the midwest. Don’t go, I kept thinking. They couldn’t hear me. They weren’t tuned into the same frequency.
You were shocked when I told you I thought they were making a mistake. They are teetering. Why don’t I stop them. Their fragility fortifying us. Not to worry, we aren’t them. We aren’t moving to California.
You were tapping your foot, our glasses empty. Ready to go. We fell into bed too tired and drunk for sex but this morning I regret it. There aren’t enough perfect moments to let any get away.
Diana Cage’s most recent book is A Woman’s Guide to Sexual Ecstasy, forthcoming from Seal Press. She was formerly a pornographer, then a radio talk show host and now teaches Women’s Studies at Brooklyn College.
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Mary Cafferty
He looked at her and he asked: are you dreaming still? She closed her eyes and her hair burst into flames, sending shimmering golden sparks across the wooden floor of their tiny one-bedroom apartment. And his eyes were blue and they were pouring out water that could not quench her or drown her but hold her only, curving around her small smoldering shape. She looked in and in and into him and said, finally: yes, I think I am. And the day drained out of their tiny space and then there were no walls and then they were just fire and water standing together in a field of sunflowers. In the yellow field, the two wove entwined until they were one elemental rope, fire and water holding hands, arms against arms, mouths against mouths. And then they were steam – two bodies become one cloud. Recombined, they felt their atoms grating together as they floated up over a thousand wavering yellow suns, relishing that delicious atomic friction and he looked at her and he looked at her and he was water again, crying back to the earth, where she collected him in small galvanized buckets knowing the answer to the question he could never ask was: always, always.
Mary Cafferty enjoys the sound of typewriter keys. Her work has appeared in Borderline, as well as Westfield State University’s literary journal Persona, and has been presented at Sigma Tau Delta’s annual international conference.
April 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Bea Epstein
Momma was worried. “Three weeks until Paul’s Bar Mitzvah, and Beebee still has nothing beautiful to wear.” Saturday after Saturday, we traipsed all over Brooklyn, from one store to the next, trying on party dresses. I fell in love with a black velvet dress with a white stand-up collar and lacy ruffles down the front. Momma shook her head. No black dress at a Bar Mitzvah. Frieda, Momma’s best friend, took us to Greenberg’s Dresses for Girls. Mrs. Greenberg showed us a white chiffon dress with a slip underneath. She suggested we dye the slip light blue, so I could be blue and white, the colors of the Israeli flag. Momma thought about it for a minute, but shook her head.
Aunt Rose, Momma’s sister, who loved fine things, suggested we meet her at Lord and Taylor, on Fifth Avenue. “I know it’s expensive, but the quality is tops.” Momma was tired of shopping and ready to end the search, even if it meant a big splurge. She shrugged her shoulders and agreed to meet there.
The next Saturday morning, Momma and I walked ten blocks to the 7th Avenue subway and rode to 34th Street in Manhattan. Coming up out of the darkened subway, we were greeted by the noise of traffic in Herald Square. 34th Street was crowded with shoppers. We walked along, stopping to look at mannequins in the windows of Macy’s and Orbach’s. One more long block and we arrived at the quiet refinement of Fifth Avenue. Neither Momma nor I had ever been there before.
Aunt Rose was waiting in front of the large stone building. We pushed through the glass revolving door and entered the store. I froze. Shoppers in elegant dresses, examining treasures, glided from one display of glittering jewels to the next. Brightly lit crystal chandeliers cascaded from the ceiling. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of heavy perfume. Wide-eyed, I drank it all in.
We approached a saleswoman in high heels, hair perfectly coiffed, eyelids painted iridescent blue, brilliant red lips fixed in a broad, permanent smile. “May I help you?”
Momma pointed to me. “I need a dress for my—”
The woman glanced at me. “Oh yes, of course. You want the Children’s Chubby Department. Take the elevator to the second floor.”
Ears burning with shame, I stared at the intricate pattern of the black and white tiled floor, the magic of the moment draining away.
Bea Epstein is a a psychotherapist and writer living in Rockville, Maryland. Her work has appeared in “My Words Are Gonna Linger” 2009, in “Pegasus” 2010 and in Storyteller Magazine”, March 2011
