October 2014 | back-issues, nonfiction
In the beginning the air was cold and sweet like a backwards mausoleum. Cameron said this was the kind of sky you could drink, and then the wind picked up soft-armed and rolling. Listen: the rain rhythmic bent and streaming. The rain forming a film. I talked about half-truths and we couldn’t count how many clouds were in the sky anymore. We walked slow and made everything ours, pretended the city block was a house and we could have stopped anywhere we wanted to.
by Emily Zhang
Emily Zhang is a student. Her poetry appears in theNewerYork, The Louisville Review and Word Riot.
April 2014 | back-issues, nonfiction
My father bought rounds of shaving soap wrapped in crinkled pastel paper and stored them in the bathroom drawer. When I was small enough to perch on the counter, I’d watch him wet a caramel-colored brush, swirl the bristles around a mug of soap, and paint his face with the froth. I loved the squelch of the bristles, the hollow ring of the wooden handle against ceramic, the razor’s chilling scrape, the satisfying reveal of soft, pink skin.
Later in the day, I’d sneak into his bathroom and peer into the mug, at the morning’s bubbles fossilized in dried soap scum. I’d press the damp brush to my nose, inhaling the concentrated piney scent, so sharp compared to the faint trace he wore at 5 o’clock.
When he was sick, the nurses used a plastic razor, too-blue shaving gel, and a kidney-shaped bowl of tepid water.
After his death, I wandered around my house, curiously poking in reorganized closets and cabinets. I found his bathroom drawer empty.
“Mom. Where did you put dad’s shaving kit?”
I was hoping she’d reveal a secret room where she stored his ties and shirts, combs, buttons, broken tools, old pictures and books. There I could rub my face in the soft folds of his sweaters, and once again breathe the mingled scents of piney soap and sweat. I could clean the shaving cup, set it on my desk, repurpose it, use it to store pencils or thumbtacks or something.
But we lived in a house of three girls; there was no need for collected masculine accouterments to gather dust.
“His shaving kit? I threw that away…”
Of course she did. She saw bristles stiff with age, a ceramic mug ringed brown from years of soap scum and water.
—Verity Sayles
Verity Sayles is a freelance writer from Massachusetts and enjoys airplane food and the ocean in winter. She graduated from Trinity College (CT) in 2011 and is currently reading all the Pulitzer Prize Fiction winners and writing about them at pushandpulitzer.com.
January 2014 | back-issues, nonfiction
Driving up a curvy incline, all that mattered was the beautiful sunshine which illuminated my rough, grey booster seat. Out the window I saw endless hues of forest green and muted browns that looked like my aged dinner table. Everything in the woods; the trees and faint noises of birds emanated a deep ingrained feeling of my own belonging. As the car crept up along side of a cliff I gazed out at gorgeous cracked rock. Half Dome laid right in the middle of the valley, just to the left was the thundering water drifting down off Yosemite Falls. Through the wonderland of heart-opening trees I rose higher and higher into the valley.
“You ok back there Daniel?,” asked my mom.
“This is better than Disneyland!”
My doctors had warned my parents of altitude with my seven life-threatening heart conditions, but they wanted to try it. As we reached a peaking ecstasy of life in the inner valley, I began gasping.
The world began to deteriorate into a mere image, then suddenly my body fell cold under a redwood as tall as the sky. Cedar, pine, and the valley floor were the only things tangible. A hazy gray seemed to encapsulate my existence. Loud sirens blared as men in white rushed me down the mountain, disturbing the natural world.
Opening my eyes seemed like a mission. What if I can’t open them? What if it’s only gray? The room was an exploding fluorescent white. The white bed, toxic cleaning products, the sting of the IV and of course the smell of rubbing alcohol. My eyes drooped forward and I slouched down. Turning over onto my side I peered out a cellar like window to see the bright sun, which only a few hours ago I had been under.
by Daniel Wallock
January 2014 | back-issues, nonfiction
The brightest star in the constellation Cancer is beta Cancri, or as it is commonly referred to, Al Tarf.
The biggest bruise was just above my collar bone on the left side.
The second brightest star is Arkushanangarushashutu, the longest name of all stars in the galaxy. It means, “the southeast star in the crab.” It is sometimes referred to as Asellus Australis.
I couldn’t see his face. My eyes had begun to swell from the brick wall I was slammed into. I don’t remember that hurting.
The constellation is often referred to as the dark sign as its stars are so pale.
For months I was silent. My therapist told my mother I was in a walking coma.
The fourth sign of the zodiac is Cancer. It represents the home.
My boyfriend didn’t believe that I was raped. He told everyone I was a slut.
Cancers are ruled by the Moon. The Moon, astrologers say, dictates the mood as well as impulsivity.
I ran away. The bruises on my skin were gone but my insides were still swollen. I went to the Sea of Cortez.
The element associated with Cancer is water.
I lived on a beach called Los Cerritos outside of Todos Santos. I slept in a tent. I ate plums for breakfast, fish for lunch and rice with Italian dressing for dinner. I read Henry Miller. I married a Colombian man
Cancers are not compatible with Capricorns.
I left my husband in the middle of the night. I needed to go home.
Karkinos, the giant crab who helped the serpent Hydra in the battle against Hercules, was crushed beneath Hercules foot. However, as a reward for the strength, and willingness to fight, Karkinos was given a place amongst the stars.
by Jacqueline Kirkpatrick
Jacqueline Kirkpatrick is currently an MFA in Creative Writing student at the College of Saint Rose in upstate New York.
September 2005 | back-issues, Jack Swenson, nonfiction
Everybody called her Grandma Scott, but Eliza Scott (nee Lingstad) was nobody’s grandmother. The Scotts didn’t have children. Eliza was the eldest of three sisters, and she treated her younger siblings’ offspring with grandmotherly affection. My mother fondly recalled spending several weeks each year at the Scott farm helping to tend and feed the animals and taking baskets of food and water to the fields for the threshing crews at harvest time. She and her older sister Nora helped Grandma Scott make the sandwiches for the noon meal for the workers. And every morning she and Nora were dispatched to the barn to search for eggs deposited in secret places by the Scott’s brood of laying hens. My mother said there was nothing like having fresh eggs for breakfast. Eliza’s sugar cookies, as big as dinner plates, were a special treat as well.
I was five years old when Grandma Scott died, and I vividly remember the day of her funeral. The family gathered at the farm and traveled from there to a small country church for the service. After the funeral, a meal was served for family and friends at the farmhouse. I don’t remember a thing about the church service except that it was long and tedious, or so it seemed to me, but I was used to that. Every Sunday I attended church services with my parents, and that year I had begun Sunday School.
I remember what happened afterwards, however, with searing clarity, thanks to my second cousin Joy Ann, a precocious and unpleasant seven year old whom I passionately disliked. I had experienced her treachery at a previous visit to the farm. We had been playing in the barn, and I found an egg in the corner of a stall, picked it up, and promptly dropped it. When we returned to the house, Joy Ann reported what I had done to the women in the kitchen. I heard no more about the incident, so I guess my mother did not think it was a grievous sin, although I had a few anxious moments while awaiting the outcome.
My mistake the day of the funeral did not have such a happy ending, and once again I had my obnoxious second cousin to blame.
After the funeral, they brought the casket back to the house and placed it, open of course, as was the custom, in a small sitting room next to the parlor. After the meal–a repast of homemade bread, an escalloped potato and ham hot dish, carrot sticks, celery, and Jello–the gathered guests went into the sitting room, one by one or in small family groups, to pay their last respects to the dead.
I went in with my parents. I stared at the white and powdered face of the small figure in the casket. It didn’t look like Grandma Scott at all. Her nose with its gaping nostrils looked like some monstrous bird’s beak.
Later, it was my mother’s cousin and Joy Ann’s turn. When they returned to the parlor, Joy Ann, smug in her tartan jumper and shiny, patent-leather shoes, had a rapturous expression on her face. To my surprise, she was smiling. She approached me and said, “Oh, isn’t it wonderful? Grandma Scott is sleeping so peacefully!”
When I had digested this, I replied in a loud and scornful voice, “She ain’t sleeping. She’s dead!”
There may have been a few “is nots” and “is toos” after that, I don’t remember. What I do remember is my father, a very large man, swooping down on me, picking me up and covering my mouth with his hand.
Painful as it was, I learned a valuable lesson from that incident. What I learned is a truth that has smoothed the path of life for me many times in the years that followed, and that is that honesty is not always the best policy.
That night, on the way home, I got back at Joy Ann. My mother’s cousin asked if they could ride back to town with us, and of course my parents said yes. Joy Ann and her mother sat in the back seat, and I sat between my parents in the front. It was after dark when we headed for home. After some initial chit chat, our passengers fell silent. As we reached the outskirts of town, I looked over my shoulder to see if Joy Ann and her mother were asleep. Joy Ann’s head was on her mother’s shoulder and her eyes were closed. Of greater interest, however, was the fact that Joy Ann had the thumb of her left hand in her mouth. I turned around and reported what I had seen. “Joy Ann is sucking her thumb,” I said.
“Shush,” my mother said.
September 2005 | back-issues, nonfiction
When the weather was nice, sometimes the boys in the art department would eat their lunches on the roof of the building. It was pleasant to be outside in the fresh air and sunshine after being cooped up in the cubicles all morning. For a time, the roof was the place to be from twelve o’clock until one, especially after Shuffle discovered the hole in the skylight over the fourth-floor women’s powder room. Shuffle was a big, happy-go-lucky Jewish kid from New York. He never ran when he could walk and seldom walked when he could sit still. When he did move, it was very slowly.
The broken pane in the skylight was a closely guarded secret. The men didn’t want the women to know that they were spying on them, and they knew better than to share the information with management. They didn’t tell any of the salesmen, either, fearing that if that randy bunch got wind of it, the roof would collapse from the sheer weight of the bodies.
The few employees who were in on the fun took turns watching and issuing whispered reports as to the traffic and activity in the ladies’ room. The women primped and squatted in the stalls, oblivious to the giddy observers on the roof.
The eye in the sky went undetected for weeks, or so they thought. Over time the voyeurs gathered a great deal of interesting but useless information about the female employees of the company. They could tell you a woman’s favorite color of underwear and whether so-and-so wiped with the right or left hand.
Then, however, something occurred that made all of their previous observations and discoveries seem insignificant.
What happened was that one of the secretaries told Bill and Shorty one day that what she was going to do on her lunch hour was go up to the fourth-floor ladies’ room, where there was a cot, and lie down. It was a hot day, and the girl, a shapely young woman whom the boys called “Betty Boop,” had spent the morning in the first-floor lobby wearing a bunny suit as part of an Easter promotion. She was sweltering, she said. She told the two men that she was going to take off the rabbit suit and everything else she had on and relax.
Well, the art department was deserted that day during lunch hour. On the roof, the men squabbled over who would have the first turn at the chink in the opaque glass of the skylight. One by one, they held their breath and peered through the secret portal.
True to her word, Betty appeared shortly after noon. The observers waited with baited breath; the bystanders jostled each other and giggled at each other’s lewd jokes as they impatiently awaited their turns.
But curvaceous Betty, that little minx, didn’t follow the script. She didn’t take off her clothes. Far from it! She did lie down on the cot for a few minutes, but all she took off was the head of her bunny suit.
The fellows were bitter about the turn of events. She was a tease, Bill said. But Al wasn’t so sure. Somebody blabbed, he figured. She knew exactly what she was doing. He walked back to his drawing board muttering.
When a few days later they found that the pane in the broken skylight had been repaired, Al told Shuffle about his theory. The next day, when Al came to work, he saw that somebody had put up a poster on the door of the washroom at the back of their work area. It was a color reproduction of an old wartime poster. “Loose lips sink ships,” it said.
