Vegas closed down the year I turned forty, the Strip going dark just as I was finishing my last shift at a misnomered bar called Smile Time on the east side of town that slumped crookedly between a tanning salon called Ray’s Rays and an ancient gas station called nothing at all.

On my last day we had a meeting about not making enough to cover overhead and how to fix that – Dark Tuesdays was Jim’s idea, as the dumbest things we did usually were.

 “We’ll take a dollar off Guinness pints,” he said, gazing into the middle distance above our heads as if we were standing in front of the Rockies or some tall assassin. “And do two-dollar Black Russians ’til close. The girls will come flocking in! It’ll work, I’m sure of it.” He’d just told us were about a month away from going bankrupt.

“Jim, there’s  no way in hell that would work.” This from Arlene, the only bartender who had been around Before Jim, and she spoke of that paradise often when we took smoke breaks together “Before Jim,” she’d say, “you’d take home sixty, seventy bucks on a weeknight.” or “Before Jim, this was a classy place. Clean.” Sometimes, “Before Jim” became “Before Mina died,” but it amounted to the same thing. Before everything fell apart on us. Before the bar fell into hands of a simpering, sniveling fool.

“Aw, c’mon Arlene!” Jim simpered and sniveled. Arlene had been his mother’s best friend in life, and, while dying, Mina had extracted promises from her and Jim both that he would never fire her and she would never quit. Those promises made Arlene the voice of our hearts, the only one who could exclaim insulting truths to the idiot god who’d inherited us, this self-loving teetotaling dictator who came to work every day drunk on his own obscure genius. Arlene could be honest – the rest of us could only keep silent and fidget.

“Every show in this town is dark on Tuesdays,” Jim said, as if that was the point. “It’s a play on words.” We fidgeted.

“I know it’s a play on words, numbnuts,” Arlene said. “I’m saying showgirls don’t drink Guinness and Black Russians. We’re just going to get the same old men we always do.”

“Maybe a chocolate martini?”

“And they don’t drink chocolate martinis, either.” Arlene over-enunciated each word carefully, as if speaking a language in which she was not yet fluent. She would have walked out on a man this dumb years ago – she wore her  divorces like medals. “Steve fucked my sister, so I fucked up his car,” which seemed only fair to me, a fuck for a fuck. “Joel put his hands on me once,” she told me on break, blowing blue smoke toward the street light. “Once.”

Like Before Jim stories, Shit Husband stories came as easy to Arlene as breathing, and, as the days before the shutdown grew longer and longer but no more eventful for that, she fed them to me like sour candy. She could see I was hungry to hear them, I think. My own divorce had been insultingly dull, free of children and drama. We owned nothing substantial in common – he let me keep all the books and the records. He just didn’t love me anymore. He woke up one morning and looked over at me and said, “I just don’t love you anymore,” and that was it. Why stay and make us both live in misery?

“Now, I know this apartment is small, but don’t you think ‘misery’ is a stretch?” I’d joked, because if we could laugh, it wasn’t real. If we could laugh, he still loved me.

But he didn’t laugh.

“Maybe we could do Skinny Bitches,” I whispered sidelong to Arlene. Jim’s eyes were a flat and unlovely species of medium brown, and whenever he turned those dirty pennies my way, I felt every memory of every moment in my life when a pair of shineless eyes had seemed see me at all only when they could see me failing clump up in my throat like sour milk.

“We could do Skinny Bitches,” Arlene said to Jim. A Skinny Bitch is vodka and Diet Coke. “We could use up all that Popov you bought, and all those plastic champaign flutes.” He’d bought hundreds of those for the New Year’s Eve rush we never got. Arlene didn’t call him a moron out loud that time. “You know, make it festive! Make it a party!”

“Yeah, a going-away party,” I said to myself, or maybe I just thought it. In school the other kids called me Casper and the teachers called my parents: “Even when she’s here it’s like she’s not here.” I listened in on the extension in the kitchen, winding the curls of the cord around my finger until the tip turned purpley-black, and then regarded it in wonder. Magic! To be held so tight it changed you! My algebra teacher sighed in frustration. “Where is she?”

Jim blew out a long sigh and put his hands to his back and arched it, like a washerwoman taking a break from that hard work to stretch and let the pinched-up blood go roaring back through her body. I’d grown up seeing my mother stretch her body that way after hanging up laundry, after doing the dishes, after sweeping, and cooking, and stomping on soda cans in the garage so we could take them in and sell them for scrap. Cans went for about a quarter a pound, and getting a pound of aluminum cans crunched into saleable discs meant an hour’s worth of work for that twenty-five cents. That’s what makes hard work hard – understanding how little it’s worth while you do it. But Jim had never done a day of hard work in his life, so he just looked like a fat assless duck.

“Ok Arlene,” Jim said finally. “We’ll try it your way. For now.” He dropped that last line on us like an anvil so that he could still feel like he was in charge, even though you could taste his relief in the air like you can salt near the beach. He must have realized deep down he was stupid, and so Arlene’s idea was the perfect rock to slither under. If she was right, we’d be saved. And if she was wrong, it wouldn’t be his fault. His filmy eyes glittered as much as they could.

When would Jim understand just how little his work was worth? Probably never. The virus saved him from figuring it out this time because it made the bar’s failure an act of God. Now the bar is only one of thousands of the city’s now-lifeless bodies: closed up like a box with nothing inside, simply taking up space, empty even of ghosts.

“We’ll try it your way,” Jim said again like he was doing a favor for Arlene or anyone, like we would be at all fooled about who was to blame if this idea failed as the former ones had, like saying “We’ll try it your way” is the same as saying “Sounds great!” or “Thank you!” He tried to sound grudging but he only seemed bloated, and it didn’t of course matter anyway no how, because along came the virus to kill us for good.

I’ve not seen him since, but I still see Arlene. She comes to my complex and smokes outside at the foot of the stairs while I smoke at the top, and she feeds me her stories, stories where she is the hero and she makes herself known. I’ll see her tonight and wrap myself in her strength like I would in a bulletproof vest before combat. Combat. Ha. As if life isn’t combat already.

But first.

First I’ll drive into the desert outside of town and find some stretch of unoccupied hardpan and park. I’ll take off my shirt and lay down on the hood and say to the stars, “I am alive in this body.” I am. Whoever has loved me or lost me, whoever has left me behind. I’ll look at my hands in the starlight. I’ll lay one down hot on my chest, skin against skin, and remember. I am alive in this body.

Pushcart prize nominee Martha Stallman’s work has appeared in The James Joyce Quarterly, Joyce Studies Annual, The Offing, Electric Literature, and Playboy. She lives and writes in Austin, Texas.

The kids petitioned me to tell them a story. They begged, actually. I’m not big on Halloween and ghost stories, but that’s what they wanted to hear. Picking the right story to freak them out is a challenge – they’re tweens – it’s that in-between age where they’re still children, but think they’re grown. Kids that age go through big physical changes.

I pick an old scary story from my own childhood memory – you know the one; it’s the one where the monster is under the bed. The five children under my care gather together crossed-legged on the faux bear skin rug. I sit on the floor too, but I’m on a slightly raised platform with a very thick cushion under me. At my age a lotus posture is impossible to maintain. So yes, I’m a summer camp counselor and telling scary stories is one of my many “side” duties. I volunteered to help out at the children’s summer camp this year, mostly because I’m out of work right now. I’m sure Jennifer, the camp manager, appreciates my help. She is short-handed and needs counselors a lot more mature than the preppy college kids who apply for those summer jobs.

I have to make the scary story as real as I can. I start with a dire warning to set the mood; I use suspense and act it out where necessary. Sound effects help too. I moan and groan in a deep mysterious voice. The kids are wide-eyed and frightened. I have them on the hook, and just as they ready themselves for the big surprise at the end of the story, I leave them hanging. The shock on their pretty little faces could kill a cow. A brash Puerto Rican kid raises his hand.

“So, what happened?”

“That’s for you to figure out, Juan”

My answer does little to satisfy the boy. He pouts. I’m sympathetic. I understand that feeling of being let down. As a young boy, it happened to me every Christmas. I would ogle at all the gifts under the tree – the funny shaped ones, the boxy ones and the soft wrapped ones all shrouded in the prettiest holiday paper. But come Christmas morning I never get the toy that I really wanted.

“But . . . is he still under the bed?”

“Well, what do you think, Tabatha?”

The tall-for-her-age blonde unfolds her long legs and sits on her heels. She takes my response as a challenge and quickly backs down. Jamal frowns, turns to his twin sister Jamila sitting next to him and nudges her to say something. She twirls her twisted hair locks and meekly whispers her objection to the story ending.

“That’s not how it ends”

“Ok then. Can you tell us how it ends?”

“My uncle Calvin says that he died . . .”

“And how did he die?”

“In a fire . . . he got burned . . .”

Uncle Calvin must have altered his story to kill off the monster under the bed – probably to appease his frightened niece and nephew. But that seems to defeat the whole purpose of getting the kids to use their imagination. Story telling should be more than just relating a series of events. David, the son of a wealthy local politician, snickers.

“Nah, he didn’t die. I think he’s still under the bed”

That starts a robust exchange between the five children. They each present their ideas as to what happened to the monster under the bed. I smile. The kids are engaged. I feel satisfied knowing that I’m doing something worthwhile. Up to this point, my life has always been about me – pretty selfish, I have to admit. Caring for children can be very uplifting. I don’t have any of my own.

So, I’m currently between jobs. My radical ideas for customer loyalty refunds didn’t sit well with the CEO and he suggested we part ways. I’ve posted my resume but got nothing worthwhile so far. Prospects are slim and my money is quickly running out. I’m still hopeful, but this is new territory for me. I’ve never been unemployed for more than a month. My landlord shows no mercy. Every knock on my door sends shivers up my spine. I’ve already received warnings, late notices and threats of eviction. I’m scared.

I have a girlfriend – sort of. We just started dating and I’m not ready to commit to a permanent relationship. My last attempt was a disaster. I’m simple. She was needy. I like my freedom and the price for that is solitude. The down sides are my clumsiness when dealing with other humans and the occasional loneliness – although there’s this feeling of not being alone sometimes – that’s when I check under my bed . . .

The twins are still convinced that the monster is no longer under the bed, but David holds on to his theory that it’s still there. Juan, who was deep in thought, offers another possibility.

Juan: “Maybe there’s a trap door under the bed and he escaped”

David: “Are you serious?”

Jamila: “Yeah! That’s it!”

Jamal: “Huh?”

Tabatha shrugs her shoulders. Whatever. She’ll go along with any outcome just as long as she gets to go horseback riding in the morning. I admire her nonchalant attitude. Nothing touches her or upsets her. I need to learn to be more like that; I would be less stressed and mentally healthier too.

It’s bedtime. Lights out. The kids will get into their beds, but they’ll never sleep. I guess that’s typical for kids their age. I promise them that I will give them the true ending to the story tomorrow tonight, just before lights out. They moan and grumble but accept the deal.

The following night I take a slow walk to the log cabin to finish the scary story for the five kids as I promised. It’s just minutes before lights out. It’s a nice evening; not too hot, but unusually dark and quiet. The tall pine trees loom eerily against the pale night sky, shrouding the pseudo-log cabin in darkness and making it even more creepy than the rustling in the underbrush at the edge of the camp grounds. It’s a perfect setting for a scary story.

I step up on the stone steps, push open the door and right there on the wooden floor is a body – it’s Tabatha, in a pool of blood. The red body fluid is smeared all over her face and chest and there is a huge gash in her head. A bloody hatchet is lying next to her body. The other four kids are standing around traumatized and in a state of shock.

The horror paralyses me and for what seems like forever, I stand there speechless. I eventually recover and look at each of the kids, looking for bloody hands, trying to figure out who killed Tabatha. No clues. Then there must be a murderer loose in the camp. Why didn’t I check the log cabin for intruders? Why didn’t I check under their beds? Thoughts of Freddy Krueger and Chucky burn my brain. My next reaction is to call 911. I reach for my cell phone and frantically plead with the operator to send help ASAP. My incoherent ramblings reduce me to a five-year-old child and my words tumble over each other. I’m a total wreck.

Jamila comes over to me crying, and hugs me. I feel responsible. I should have protected the children. I’m moved to tears too. And through my boo-hooing, I hear laughter. I open my teary eyes and see David, Jamal and Juan belly rolling with laughter. I’ve been punked. A bloody Tabatha rises from the floor, hugs Jamila and they both laugh at me. My immediate reaction is anger and then humiliation and then acknowledgement that this is just a joke. They got me good.

News about the prank went viral throughout the camp. A secret video taken by David circled among all the kids in the camp. Jennifer got a kick out of it too. The kids are feeling pretty smug about their little prank. I ate humble pie for the remainder of the week and swore that I would never be a camp counselor again.

Today, I open my mailbox and along with the junk mail and the utility bills, there are three formal looking envelopes. Two are responses from jobs that I have applied for and the third is from an attorney – my landlord’s attorney. My heart skips a beat. Thoughts of homelessness invade my mind. Living on the streets and sleeping on park benches and begging for hand-outs terrify me. But even in this dilemma, my thoughts turn to my five kids; that’s one more scary story I can tell them tomorrow night. But this time, I will have the last laugh – they will never know how this scary story ends; I will leave them hanging – again . . .

Carl Ernest currently lives in Atlanta GA, but grew up in Brooklyn, New York. His Computer Science degree has allowed him to earn a living as an avid computer programmer, but writing is the love of his life. So far, Carl’s work has been published in RIGOROUS magazine and he’s looking at a busy future.

We finally have cold temperatures here in Arizona and look forward to more logs on the fire.

This will be an abbreviated issue since we are working on all the other issues inside our wheelhouse. We hope you are all closing out the year well and excited to see what 2023 brings.

We are, too.

The weather on a winter day in northern Michigan is nothing to write home about. For starters, why would you be writing? The ink in your pen is frozen. Your fingers are too numb to grip a yellow #2 pencil. And a trip to the post office would be like an Iditarod run, only without the dogs.

And when the short January day ends, the weather worsens. Shadows, heretofore hidden, suddenly lengthen as the day darkens. Then, when full dark arrives, all outdoor life known to mankind comes to a glacially quiet standstill.

Squirrels, huddled high in a nearby tree nest, are spooning to preserve body heat. Dense, furry tails are comfortably comingled like coats on the sale rack at a downbeat fur salon. The moon, hanging low in the winter sky, appears to be perched on the neighbor’s rooftop, casting a pale blue aura across the land. Meanwhile wisps of gray smoke slowly curl upward and outward from a nearby chimney, as if fearful of wandering too far from home.

Under that roof, four of us are playing bridge, oblivious to whatever is going on outside. We’re warm as raisin toast. The once roaring fireplace, now down to a gentle crackle, issues an occasional pop. Warmth is felt from the hypnotic, dancing flame as well as from the obvious friendship between these card players.

Bridge requires a fair degree of concentration. You’re thinking about your hand, what to bid, what your partner may have in their hand and more. Then once the game gets rolling, the concentration and quiet increase as you mull which card to play.

Sometime during this somnolent time, one of the players was taking forever to decide her next play. So I made a faint whispery whistle, not unlike the sound wind makes as it sneaks under a window that’s a little ajar. Six eyes looked up as one, all with the “Did you just hear that?” look. Then, deciding it was nothing, the somnolence continued.

A minute later, I did it again. This time, the host asked, “Is it getting cold in here?”
We all murmured different versions of, “No…I’m fine…it’s good.” Just then, another howling sound was heard and all eyes searched for the offending window.

The host rose, checked all the windows, disappeared into a closet and came out wearing a heavy cardigan sweater. “I’ve got some other sweaters and jackets if you start feeling as cold as I am,” he said, chattering through his teeth.

Years later, I bumped into this old friend. He asked if I remembered that fierce January evening. Furrowing my brow as if in deep concentration, I slowly nodded and emitted a soft, subliminal whistle. “Yeah, actually, I do.”

Spotting a nearby bar, he said, “Hey, let’s go wet our whistles.”

To this day, I don’t know if that sly smile of his was a hint that he was onto the gag or if his whistle simply needed wetting.

Jim is a former creative director at two prominent U.S. ad agencies. Today, in his chilly mountain town, he enjoys word-wrangling, playing pickleball and staying warm.

My domains are covered with them, fallen, gray-
brown, still unsprouted, for they never took
the big chance to become great oaks. They are
myself in many ways. And so I look
away—

though being human I can walk around
on legs, enjoy a little sipping, munching,
playing games. . . . I’d even still go far,
save that with every step I hear this crunching
sound

reminding me of what I’ll never be.
Is it an ogre? No. Mischievous boys?
No. Drunkards in a sawdust-riddled bar
trampling out seeds of greatness? . . . Oh. The noise
is me.

James B. Nicola is a regular contributor to Underwood and its sister publications.

I walk.

Walking is all I can do.  Walking is all anyone can do.

Some walk to the end.  Some walk to the beginning. 

Today, I am of the former.

The mud makes walking difficult, more than before.  Those who depend on my walking do not care if the mud slows my progress.  They expect me to continue walking.  Soon, others might walk for me, but of this I have my doubts.  What was once is no longer true.  I remember this as so.

I am old and I have little time remaining in which to walk.

My first memories were of the end.  I remember the colors, the smells of baked goods, and seeing birds in flight.

I also remember space.

I had space in which to play.  I could run and jump without even seeing another, let alone touching another. 

Let alone, tens of thousands touching me.

I took some shelter under an awning, squeezing between the three waiting for orders to walk to the beginning.  The instant the first turned to his left, I wedged myself into the space.  I claimed “rights by vision” in that I actually saw the wood plank before I sat.  The smart ones respected this right.

They respect few others.

How long I remained is a question for another to answer.  I sat, legs pulled up against my chest, feet pointed upward (as was the custom), flat against my shins, thus permitting those walking toward the beginning to remove the mud as they brushed past.

As a child, so many people touching my feet would make me ticklish.  As an adult, I remain happy just to see my toes uncaked from their daily clay encasement.

Nightfall brings my assignment and my rations.  To live in town, I may eat only half of what I earn.  The rest pays for my stay among the thousands living with me.  It is not enough to balance the work I do, but it is enough to wager against another’s in a game of chance.  Among the hundred in close proximity to me, always in close proximity to me, I take the chance on a single coin flip.

Lady Luck looks favorably upon me.

I quickly eat his ration before the other winners eat theirs.  Later, they will eat from tonight’s loser who is too weak to fight back.  One less face will never be missed.  Not when you cannot see past the crowds.

I walk the muddy path toward the beginning.  The smell of food on my breath keeps me uneasy.  I am not making time today.  Too many people out today.  Too many bumps from those bumping.  The mud is too thick and the sky too gray.  I got lucky last night.  I am not so lucky today.

The first punch came from my left.  The next from the right.  I fell to avoid the ensuing pushing and kicking that inevitably follows.  The rule is to (try) curl and roll away from the melee, preferably against a building or a wall.  In doing so, one encounters only a few who can reach you to continue beating you.  Why such a fracas begins is of no consequence.  Only surviving counts.  While curled, I absorbed a groin kick that left me unconscious.  Only the fall woke me.

Perhaps I was out for an hour, perhaps more.  Where I am is still a mystery.  I am in shock when I gather my senses.

I am alone.

I am alone in a room.  For the first time in decades, I can move without touching another.

Or being touched by another. 

The room is magical in its spaciousness.  Akin to my bedroom as a child, it is habitable.  Its entry must be from a false (horizontal) panel on the ground outside.  When I hit the panel, it released and I fell.  Small slits in the stone permit some light to enter.  I want to scream.  I want to tell the world. 

But first, I want to sleep.

The room is large enough for me to lay down and sleep.  The wood flooring is a relic of another time.  I think it is pine, but I know it is warm to the touch.  I stretch my limbs to their fullest extent, slowly hearing my muscles protest against an action now deemed foreign.  For the first time since this nightmare began, I can sleep as all humans are meant to sleep.  I can dream.  I can breathe.  But mostly, I can sleep without the touch of others seeking such solace.

And sleep I did.

When the slits in the wall displayed a brighter light than normal, I realized the Sun was rising and so should I.  I was covered with dried mud.  I missed my appointment and I was hungry.

The room now displayed its spartan contents in all of its grandeur.  The ceiling was green.  For the first time in years, I am seeing the color green.  Except for the mud I tracked in, the floor was clean.  The false panel was higher up than I was tall, though not by much, so leaving was going to be difficult, but not impossible.

The room held me spellbound.  So much so, I did not notice the other occupant lying on the floor, covered in mud.

He was unconscious from both the fall and his wounds.  Like myself, he has no possessions.  His breathing was erratic and both arms were broken.  From the looks of his injuries, he wouldn’t last for long.

But, he would awaken, and when he does, he will make noise.  Then my room will no longer be mine.  I have neither food nor medical supplies in which to care for him.  But I do have a knife and I know what I have to do.

The streets are still muddy.  Today I walk toward the end.  Later, I will wager what could have been my ration on a coin toss.

If I win, I will trade for some salt.  In my youth, I learned to make jerky.  In the morning, I will awaken under a green sky while relishing my new breakfast.

All by myself.

Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 40 years. He lives in 1974, and has been married for 30 years. His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.

barbarians

Oh yes
we were the first and true barbarians
riding our wild ponies down from fields afar
our hair and shirttails flying out behind us
while we shrieked with glee and daring
holding on to nothing ever we were light
as air new-made and ripe with musk
and possibility

Our happy nights each ended way too soon
the mornings dawned and ever always
much too soon all this of course while
nothing else came soon enough
we tugged at every coming thing
and pulled fast to close the distance
to bring it to our grasp as though
it were a triumph or some signal
of great and lasting import

New affinities dawned each waking day
our blood rose up to meet them each
it hardly mattered what or when or who
and with every bruise or disappointment
assailing us in new confounding ways
we received them as our unfair due
but artistry we gained raw and soon those
potent tools and ripe inventions of our tribe
that early on felt awkward in our hands
yet brilliant with risk and foreign
as our first spoons

Was it all so good such dear confection as
we all tell each other now and was
it all so true or even possible
that all our days were golden then
the time when we were all so full
of everything we were and might become
so eager for the tests
so restless hot and needy
for the next the new the never known
the splendid danger of the first
of all and everything that came

We no longer ride down from those raw hills
to meet each fresh beginning and have learned
to crave peculiar airless things to own or trade
and have forgotten when it was we found
the strange unholy need to hold on to
things not needed

Some nights now won’t come soon enough
and many days that dawn aren’t new enough
we must find our peace in other ways
and satisfaction in the quiet yet remain
some longings still unmet we know
at this far unimagined point in this new
mysterious trajectory and it is still as
foreign as untamed as our beginning

at 3:18

Three in the afternoon
it was I think, or no,
she made a point of
looking at her watch
and saying clearly 3:18
“…and would you like to
wash him first?”

A daughter does not wash
her father—not the man whose
safe consoling chest I sought
to rest my troubled head
in the easy rumble of it soothing
all the raw and restless parts
of me, and surely not
that great immortal man who
just my childish power could calm
and lay aside the cuts and bruises
of his longest days.

Three times, I think, or ten or more
as I remember, his frown and growl
each time would not forbid
my reckless instincts though
there were those other times,
the blast of his dark rages
scorched the earth yet
left no mark on me; he
the sire whose potent body
had made a girl where
there had been none before.

I only smile at those old growls,
but rather laugh and conjure up his
quips, outrageous observations,
wicked wordplay with his
playful mimes that shaped
his supple face made ever brown
by summer sun that followed him
down each row he drove that
roaring monstrous engine.
Rain or sun the farm had made him
strong and clean and good yet plain;
he knew no callousness nor cunning;
his bold and upright answers
left no mistaking truth.

Beneath these graceless hands
that plied the cleansing cloth
on that hard day at 3:18,
and while I washed his naked chest
the sweet warmth I had known
so well faded like a whisper taking
the world and all devotion with it.
No this should never happen
yet so it does and why not
drench with grief and longing
this rough goodbye even
as despair and grace
might meet.

interstices

So where can we find them, those glistening
bits, overlooked, unacknowledged yet calling
to us from distances of our day-to-day?
If we see them or if we don’t, still they
whisper in the rain and dart among the trees
of every hazy forest like wind or a light we
see only in the half-blink of an eye, as in
a spinning top, or windows of a passing train,
and almost there among the ripples in some
green river or waking in the fresh moments
of an unexpected morning.

It’s in the gaps between things, like apertures
of a side-blown flute, bright intervals we don’t
hear or see with eyes distracted as they are
by the things themselves,
as in sunlight through the window blinds,
private possibilities, unspoken truths. Through
time we may regard but may not recognize jewels
shyly blinking there in the in-between, in small
hops of imagination, not intending to show
themselves or proclaim, but rather
waiting to be discovered
or missed.

They can surprise us when we suppose
we’re simply looking for something else.
But what of uncounted times we do not,
can not notice them in a disappearing day
or in a lifetime?

Regret would consume us if we could know
it is the tender in-between places we’ve lost, and
where what’s true and shining happens, where
we could have been stunned by some brief perfection
or some little pleasure where we might have
played in places unimagined
and unforgettable.

I’ve been a working writer/editor and a closet poet all my life, but my time is short now and through poetry, I’m probing the past’s bruises, joys, and wounds. My three published books are: “Small Wonders,” “Treasure in Clay Jars, and “Little Church at the Head of the Bay.” My first (and only—so far) published novel is “Limestone County Almanac.” I’ve been sharing my verses with writers’ groups and classes of late and hope to share them with a wider audience now if there’s an open door somewhere.

I wonder if I’ll find her dead inside. This is something I worry about. I don’t want to find her dead, I don’t want to be the one that finds her—would it be gruesome? How would she do it? I think probably pills, but maybe a razor blade, and I don’t want her PTSD to give me PTSD and then I feel selfish for even having that thought but—I wonder if I’ll find her dead inside. This is something I worry about.

I’m sitting in my car, parked in the narrow lot outside our building. It’s raining, the New England autumn chill is seeping steadily in, and my windshield wipers are still on even though I’m not driving anymore. Each soft thump of the wipers sends the water gushing across my vision, makes the house undulate and waver like it’s sinking. I can’t go in yet because right now in my head the bathroom tiles are clean, and if I go inside I might find them splashed a violent red. Or maybe she’ll be hanging—why do I always picture this happening in the bathroom? Why can’t I stop?

 My thoughts drift to the chocolate cake she bought me when we first moved into 15 Whipple Avenue together, after her brother and I got back from Paris at the end of the summer, when I finally realized that he was never going to marry me and maybe it was a mistake to agree—to offer—to look after his little sister during her first year in Boston. Because she did need looking after, she still needs looking after, and I thought—I thought—who better than me, who will one day be her family? Who better than me, when I spend my days taking care of young people at work? I can do this, I had thought. I love her brother, and so she’s my sister, and I’m trained for this.

But I was so stupid, before, so arrogant even though I hadn’t meant to be. I just wanted to help, but I didn’t know then what it had done to her. What it’s still doing to her. It still keeps her up at night, and because she’s up I’m up, listening to the creaking of the kitchen floorboards beneath her feet as she paces back and forth, and they whisper to her Go to sleep, Sarah, sleep softly. Or sometimes instead I wonder about why she stays with her long-distance boyfriend even though she screams at him—a bottle of wine in—from our basement every other night. She thinks I can’t hear her, when she yells in the basement, but the vents carry her voice to me, beg me to step in, and I don’t know how. I’m not trained for this.

A door slams nearby and I realize I’m still in the car. I reach out and turn the windshield wipers off, turn the car off. Remove the keys from the ignition. This is progress. Slowly, slowly. What if she dies, while I’m moving slowly? What if my time in the parking lot is what kills her? I don’t want to leave her in there alone, but I spend more time in the parking lot every day.

It hadn’t always been like this. First there was cake, and a therapist, and perfume in my purse that she could spray on her scarf to block the smell of cigarettes while we walked outside. The men were smoking, she said, when it happened. While they did it. And now—now she can’t smell smoke without remembering, and the first time I saw her remember I understood, suddenly and vividly, what it meant to have a thousand-yard stare.

But her move to Boston wasn’t as bad as we feared it would be, and we figured out that the perfume in the purse worked and that therapy worked and that we could do this. Before now, there were trips to the grocery store together, and to my friend’s house in a rented pickup truck to buy a used sofa that made us feel grown up. There were snow days that we spent killing bottles of red wine, watching the Marvel movies in order because I was obsessed with Captain America being gay for Bucky and I wanted her to experience their epic love and really, when better to do that than on snow days with red wine? Our first year in our apartment passed like that, with us together, watching movies, facing her demons, and even though I wasn’t with her brother anymore I was still with her. Her friend.

And then the season changed, morphed into spring, and sometime over the summer she decided she didn’t have PTSD anymore. Fall came around again and she told me she didn’t need a therapist anymore, either, because she was cured, but I wasn’t sure so I kept the perfume in my purse anyway. Just in case.

And now I’m sitting in my car, homeless, wondering if I’ll find her dead inside.

Caitlin O’Brien received her Bachelor of Arts with a focus in Creative Writing from the University of Rochester in 2011. She then earned her Master’s degree at the Bread Loaf School of English at Middlebury College in 2019. Her favorite genre to read is fantasy, although most of her own work is creative non-fiction or poetry. She is currently a literature teacher and resides in Naples, Florida, USA.

“You have a new memory”, my computer alerts me,
with its iPhoto pinwheel that indicates it has
compiled a collection. Irony bubbles.

It is good to know, computer,
that you have taken charge
of my memory storage and cataloging.
But some things you must know,
and by your nature, cannot know.

Photos are memory packages,
boxes made of soaked cardboard,
Boxes dredged from the river of our lives.
They contain what we do not want, or broken shards
of something we once wanted, or nothing.

We hold no photos in our heads.
Instead, pieces of moving candids,
charged with understanding, hindsight.
many quiet moments too outwardly insignificant
to warrant any kind of countdown.

The river stops for no man, is compiled by no computer.
The moments of our lives blur together;
we are only grasping at debris.
The flowing, not the sopping brown paper,
defines the nature of our memories.

Perhaps this poem will not age well.
Perhaps my children will giggle at the word iPhoto.
An expired word, strange on the tongue,
in my children’s time of ripening.
I will have many more memories, then.
But I will not have you, computer.

“you have a new memory”, you alert me, with your iphoto pinwheel that indicates you have compiled a collection.

Irony bubbles in my chest. I want to laugh.
It is good to know, computer, that you have taken charge of memory storage and cataloging for me.

But there are some things you need to know, and by nature, cannot know.
Photos are not memories, but memory packages, and they are weak ones at that. They contain what we do not remember at their worst, and at their best, can only remind us of what we do remember. We cannot snapshot ever moment of our lives to be compiled by you, computer. Most memories are formed around the flowing river of our own lives, and this flowing is what defines a memory. The memories we contain are often of quiet moments too outwardly insignificant to warrant any kind of “one two three, smile”. Our minds are filled with pieces of moving candids, charged with understanding.

Mausoleums of our minds.

Amanda R. D. Turner is a High School ESL teacher who lives in a tiny house with her husband and her mini dachshund. She collects and hoards good poems like unusual buttons or old coins, and she also secretly writes her own. They are usually terrible. Sharing is a big step for her.

The elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top,
the maintenance man blames it on faulty wiring.
It will start, sometime stutter, then stop.
After a time, it gets old and quite tiring.
Some wires were crossed,
all functions were lost.
A short circuit ensued,
all the exits were secured.
All because of faulty wiring.

The porch light is on, but flickers all night,
I believe it’s got to be some faulty wiring.
We had an electrician out to try and make it work right.
He made it worse,
it flickered faster, and he said with a curse,
he didn’t know how to fix my faulty wiring.
So, we decided to throw a 70’s style strobe light party.
With rock and roll music in the background playing loudly,
we decided to make the best of our faulty wiring

The car won’t start on a chilly winter morning,
when I turn the key, it just clicks at me,
then gives me a yellow idiot light that says: WARNING.
My mechanic checked it out, and you know what it’d be,
yes sir, that’s right, it was caused by some faulty wiring
I knew it might cost a lot to repair,
so I didn’t ask, I would not be inquiring,
I didn’t want to think about it, I didn’t want to go there.
Another day ruined by faulty wiring.

The house down the street caught on fire the other day,
everyone got out safely and the whole house didn’t burn down.
The family felt they were lucky,
no one was hurt, and was glad it stayed that way
When the town fire marshal came around,
he needed to investigate the cause of this near catastrophe.
It was no surprise to him what had been transpiring,
he wrote in his report what the obvious cause to be,
“Blaze was the result of faulty wiring”.

There are some folks that you wonder what they use for a brain,
sometimes they flicker in and out.
When asked a question they seem like it’s far too great of a strain.
Their thoughts won’t start to form or are incomplete,
You can see with their eyes all filled with doubt.
While some put on a real good pretense,
I’m afraid their stupid ideas make no sense.
There are those among us that go out screaming in the street,
like raving lunatics with no clue at all.
At some point, intelligence came calling,
and they missed the damn call.
Their mind was somewhere else wandering,
perhaps incapable of correctly working.
In my humble opinion, it’s my belief,
like everything else that causes too much grief.
They just might be afflicted with “faulty wiring”.

After a successful career as a Senior Designer working with international mining companies, William David is retired now and living in Tucson, Az. He likes spending time now devoted to his passion: writing poetry. William writes for his pleasure and for the pleasure of those who might read his poems.

I’ve always been intrigued by that “Sunkist” logo stamped onto oranges. Who ever
dreamed up the idea of taking a commodity fruit and putting a brand name on it?
Whatever becomes of the inadequate oranges that don’t make it onto the Sunkist
conveyor belt? Where do they wind up?

I realize these are hypothetical questions and that there are far more important ones to
consider. Like, why do I find spiders in my bathtub when the drain is closed? How many
of those chip clips are considered enough? We always seem to be short one clip, no
matter how many we keep buying. Finally, how long after dinner is it considered impolite
to still be chewing kale?

But I digress. My wife and I rented a condo recently in Palm Springs. It was winter and
the sunny days, golf course location and nearby snow-capped mountains were just too
good to turn down. Settling in, we asked some friends to come visit for a few days.
Awaiting their arrival, I went out onto the patio and noticed something I’d not seen
before. It was an orange tree laden with big, fat oranges and none with the Sunkist logo.
That’s when I hatched a very bad idea.

Grabbing a black Sharpie Marker, I did my best to remember the Sunkist logo. In an
effort to impress our friends, I drew it from memory onto as many oranges as possible.
Reaching for one last orange, I stumbled off the patio and into the garden. In mid-
stumble, I knew trouble was on its way, as I was about to land atop several cactus plants.
Only later did I learn that there are 12,500 different species of cacti, subdivided into 26
families. My drop-in visit introduced me intimately to several family members.
My backside and legs were punctured with spines and as I tried to extricate myself (a
maneuver requiring abnormal contortions usually only seen in high-level gymnastic
events), an impressive number of these spines came along with me.

A quick call to a walk-in clinic told me they were open and, thankfully, nearby. The next
problem arose when I tried to figure out how in the world I was going to sit in a car with
all these spines sticking out of me. I grabbed a pile of blankets, grimaced and made it,
causing quite a stir when I walked in. I heard someone say, “That guy looks like he needs
to go to a vet. He got mixed up with a porcupine.”

When the laughing stopped, the doctor grabbed some plier-like device and went to work.
Before long, he’d finished and I got back to the condo just in time to catch up with our
guests out on the patio. And that’s when my friend said, “How come that orange over
there doesn’t have a Sunkist logo? And why do you have all those dots of blood all over
you?”

“Porcupine Man” scarcely knew where to begin.

Jim is a semi-retired ad agency creative director living in Lake Tahoe. He’s now a busy freelancer and and even busier pickleball player. Recently, he’s been editing a book about the fascinating life and times of a good friend.