curbside e-zine - september 2013

Curbside Splendor e-zine September 2013

Curbside Splendor September 2013

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Curbside Splendor Publishing Curbside e-zine September 2013 ISSN 2159-9475 Poetry: The Gentleman’s Club by Barb McMakin Two Poems by Wallace Barker Five Poems by Changming Yuan Fiction:

Boys Can’t Be Boys by Brandon Jennings The Waterhouse by Armel Dagorn Cover by Melissa Santos Photography by Melissa Santos and Christopher Woods Editor – Joey Pizzolato


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Brandon Jennings

is an Iraq War veteran and PhD candidate in the fiction program at Western Michigan University. His work has appeared in Crazyhorse, Black Warrior Review, The Berkeley Fiction Review, Monkeybicycle, Curbside Splendor, Blackheart Magazine, R.KV.R.Y and is forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review, Passages North, and Ninth Letter. He has been nominated for multiple pushcarts and was runner-up in UNO's non-fiction contest last year.

Photo by Melissa Santos


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Boys Can’t Be Boys by Brandon Jennings

A strange boy kicks my son in the face as they

dangle from the monkey bars and my son yells, “Daddy, I’m slipping.” The strange boy catches fire and flares, becomes angry-ash that crumbles and flutters to the sand that lurks beneath my son, sand that claims it will break his fall. Blood rolls over my son’s lips, down his chin, and soon that blood, our blood, will spill to the sand and be washed away by the chilled rain that swells black clouds overhead. I want to catch him, squeeze him into my chest so that he’s crushed into myself to create a stronger thing than either he or I will ever be alone, but he is him and I am me and his blood will replenish itself, his tears will dry, and I will let him fall again.

That sand beneath his feet has suffocated me,

consumed me, carried me from desert to desert, to death and flesh shrapnel: hurt lockers, sand boxes—places with stupid nicknames where boys don’t survive because we can’t use them, places where boys don’t survive because we kill them. And when my son falls he calls for me until his throat rattles and shreds into blood-caked cords. I shut my eyes before he hits the ground and listen for my father’s bones clacking for my grandfather, and for my grandfather’s bones cracking for his father, and I know as sure as this cold rain will soon drench us to the marrow that the echoes of those cries won’t end once my ears cease to hear. Too much


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hate bubbles within our bones for boys to be boys long enough for a simple thing like peace, and I hate my son for showing me such an ugly thing is truth.



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Barb McMakin has work that has been published in Kentucky Monthly Magazine, Pegasus, The Heartland Review, Winning Writers, and Country Dog Review. Winning contest entries have been published by Writer's Digest, The Binnacle, and Grandmother Earth. Barb serves on the board of Green River Writers and is a director for the Kentucky State Poetry Society. In September 2010, Finishing Line Press published her first chapbook, Digging Bones. Barb works for the Oldham County Public Library.

Photo “Liquor Store, Evening” by Christopher Woods


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The Gentleman’s Club by Barb McMakin

He follows a bare concrete floor that slopes to his seat, a theater-style fold-up. His shoes creak like rubber on shellac. A bare bulb lights the stage, smoke clouds the air as men cower in corners, dark suits grown tired. Speakers spill hashy bars of Summertime as the curtain opens on a pale-skinned girl. She wears a black mini-skirt with stockings that lay tracks to the floor. Her tuxedo blouse clings to knobby breasts. Drawn lips cake red, thick as icing. She sways to the music as she slides off her skirt, runs her hands down thin hips.


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Each button of her blouse is a time capsule she cannot swallow. Her eyes fix on the back wall beneath a dark projector room as men howl Come to Daddy. Her fingers work until she stands bare, picks up her clothes and walks off stage. Outside, he spots her leaning against a stop sign. She lights a Lady cigarette, grinds it out in her palm.


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Wallace Barker

lives in Austin, Texas and his work has been published in Banango Street, Screaming Seahorse and Thousand Shades of Gray. He also writes for Banango Lit and more of his writing can be found at wallacebarker.com


http://www.wallacebarker.com/


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Two Poems

by Wallace Barker

Never Again Will The Waters Become a Flood

Night to a faint glow tangerine blossom horizon downtown bars ejected patrons shivering at dawn. Drunk and enraptured by the earth slowly tilting toward its polestar lit cigarettes dangled as an automatic hand brushed hair. This orange morning when flocks of city birds wheeled in the sky bisected by slack telephone wire a dying buzz cottoned the periphery. What glory crowned the earth! The moon still reflected in skyscraper glass last stars winking into transitional light how could this portend daytime recriminations? As if the covenant between god and man were reversed and the coming of the great flood prefigured by a cruel promise of hope.


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An Education Mopping the floor smelled sour perhaps the water was old late shift winding down fluorescent lights bright cold. I went to check the bathroom the mess I’d have to clean it smoked with wispy fumes faintly gasoline. I did not open the door but turned and mopped right back because I knew inside my boss was smoking crack. Unsure but sure not scared even at sixteen working the convenience store it wasn’t the craziest thing I had seen.


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Changming Yuan

is a four-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman, grew up in rural China and published several monographs before moving to Canada. With a PhD in English, Yuan teaches independently in Vancouver and has had poetry appearing in nearly 500 literary publications across 19 countries, including Asia Literary Review, Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Exquisite Corpse and London Magazine.



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Five Poems by Changming Yuan

Natural Confrontations 1/ Orchid Far on the hillside Alone on a shady spot The orchid blooms aloud, albeit There are neither eyes Nor ears open nearby Paying the slightest attention To its shape or melody Be it ever so fragrant So fulfilling 2/ Firefly Burst with courage You are flying around, using Your little light Like a sharp scissor tip To rip off the heavy curtain Of all the darkness Blown out of frenzy dreams 3/ Swirl A gossamer-like breeze


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Left far behind In the summer heat By a running dog Tries to stir up The stagnated twilight Wrapping the whole city Before the storm sets in

Human Humor We are all born to be birds That can fly high in the outer sky But since we came down for a rest We have been caught on this huge web Weaved with five-colored silk Stickier and stronger Than our will or wisdom That is spewed by fame Wealth, power, sex, habit Thus beginning our lifelong struggle Until our very last flapping

Teh A finger neither deformed nor really fat But it happened to hit the wrong key At the right moment, or the right key


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At the wrong moment, thus making A handsome typo stand out Among all normal-looking words On a different keyboard You would be a thrilling improvisation A fresh note rather than a strange noise Or, like a comet in the summer sky You might strike the whole night bright You are never meant to be, but you always are The commonest nonsense making perfect sense In every context, or are you not?

Y

You love ‘Y’, not because it’s the first letter In your family name, but because it’s like A horn, which the water buffalo in your Native village use to fight against injustice Or, because it’s like a twig, where a crow Can come down to perch, a cicada can sing Towards the setting sun as loud as it wants to More important, in Egyptian hieroglyphics It stands for a real reed, something you can Bend into a whistle or flute; in pronouncing it You can get all the answers you need, besides You can make it into a heart-felt catapult And shoot at a snakehead or sparrow, as long As it is within the range of your boyhood


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Arboreal Aesthetics

1/ Every tree is unique not only in shape but also in spirit. 2/ No tree tries to appear different, but it naturally grows to be so. 3/ Trees are much more beautiful than humans, in general as well as in particular. 4/ Each tree leaf facing towards the sun is clearer, sleeker and brighter. 5/ All leaves are strictly symmetrical, but no two twigs or trunks are exactly identical. 6/ A crow or human may not be distinguished from its like, but a tree always can. 7/ Young or old, plump or skinny, living or dead, each tree is handsome its own way. 8/ Never tired of standing, trees have feelings, impulses, attitudes, thoughts and dialects. 9/ Every tree ring keeps a growing secret at heart. 10/ Trees may look more graceful as they dance in the wind, but they actually prefer rain. 11/ Whoever appreciates the beauty of a tree is rich, wise and healthy. 12/ A tree always keeps its head, heart and hands wildly open. 13/ The beauty of a twig, a trunk, or the whole tree is deeper than its heart. 14/ Every tree is a great artwork of line, shape and color. 15/ Two trees may grow together, but they never lose their independent individuality.


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16/ Trees may bend or break in a storm, but they never budge from their position in life. 17/ Obscure or outstanding, no tree pays serious attention to the comments of the wind.


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Armel Dagorn

was born in France in 1985 and has been living in Cork, Ireland for the past few years. His stories appear or are forthcoming in magazines such as Southword, Paper Darts and Wordlegs. He has a little place at http://armeldagorn.wordpress.com

Photo “House of Weary Dreams” by Christopher Woods

http://armeldagorn.wordpress.com/


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The Waterhouse by Armel Dagorn

Jonah's decision to start working from home had

been a mistake. It had been a last-ditch attempt on his part to avoid falling into a deep depression, but of course all he'd done was bring the boredom of work into his house. He'd thought the calm and familiar environment would make him more productive, but for the past few months he'd fallen behind on more deadlines than he ever had working in the office. It didn't make the job any less unpleasant either. At times he felt he was going mad, spending the whole day on his own in front of the computer, and he surprised himself by missing the camaraderie of the office, the dull, harmless friendships he had there. He thought of changing jobs, pursue younger, more creative career dreams he'd never had the balls to go for.

In the past few weeks, it had taken a turn for the

worse. The heatwave turned his attic office into an oven and he sat cooking bare-chested at the computer, often in his underwear, staring into space. He had to leave the window open at all times, and so he remembered the exact moment when the house across the street had started leaking water. It had been on a Tuesday morning at eleven about a week and a half earlier, and Jonah had turned to the window expecting to see dark clouds and pouring rain but the sky was as blue as ever. It hadn't stopped since, day or night. It was a very strange thing, a little pipe that came out of the side of


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the house from where the attic would be. It hadn't rained in weeks and the government warned of drought and preached restraint in water consumption. Now Jonah found it even harder to get any work done, and every so often he found himself lost in daydream, imagining himself standing naked in the street under that thin gutter shower, fresh water cooling his boiled skin, naked under waterfalls in the lushest jungle, diving down pools of sky-blue water... Water: sometimes the word itself was enough to conjure up worlds of freshness to his mind.

One morning after sitting at the computer for ten

minutes without moving a finger he put his t-shirt back on and got out of the house, crossed the street and rang the bell of his neighbor's door. He didn't hear it ring, but very quickly there was noise behind the door: the noise of water pouring down. It lasted a good few minutes, then water came spurting out from the door, splashing Jonah's pants. He hadn't noticed that the lower half of the door was riddled with small circular holes, closed by wine corks. Someone was popping them out from inside, and water poured out the door as through a giant colander.

“It'll just be a minute,” a voice called from inside,

echoing as if in a tiny box. Finally the flow stopped, and the door

shuddered. It quaked a few times then it opened.


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“Hi, come in,” said a dripping young man in swimming trunks, holding a strange kind of fishbowl under his arm. Jonah came in, too surprised to argue.

“Give me a hand, there, will you?” asked the man,

bending down to pick up the corks and lodge them back into the door. When they were all in the man gave Jonah a fishbowl and put one onto his head himself. He turned to the door behind him and started pulling out the corks that were all over that one too. Water came cascading down, and Jonah didn't have time to worry about his shoes because the small entrance hall they stood in, this weird little air lock, was already filled to his knees. Jonah looked around in panic, at the bloated plaster walls, the rotten wainscot ceiling.

“My name's Matt,” said the man before water

reached his head-gear. His peaceful face somewhat put Jonah at ease. The cool water was soaking the sweat off his back.

When the whole entrance hall was full Matt turned around and opened the door. Jonah only realized now that his neighbor was wearing heavy boots like a Goth’s, with wedge heels that weighed him down to the floor. Jonah was floating mid-water.

Matt leaned against the door, putting his whole weight on it. It swung open in slow motion. Inside was a living room, which looked quite exactly like Jonah's except that heaps of cardboard boxes lay along the walls, and it was full of water. Two men and two women


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sat on couches in the center of the room, and waved at Jonah when he swam in. They smiled under their fishbowl helmets, and when the guy closest to him offered him a long soft straw he saw that they were all drinking from a huge five-liter bottle which sat on the table. Not knowing what to do, and paddling about not to drift away, Jonah looked in alarm at Matt, who put a solid hand down on his shoulder to stabilize him and guided the straw to the base of his helmet. Jonah noticed a small opening there, a valve of some sort which allowed the straw to be put in and out without any water leaking in.

The straw reached his lips and he sucked in the

liquid, some sweet alcoholic beverage that made him raise his eyebrows in appreciation. He had a few more mouthfuls, then felt Matt patting him on the shoulder, inviting him towards the stairs. Matt's slow steps across the room disturbed the water and a fine dust rose from the cardboard boxes. The closest one almost entirely disappeared, like a cigarette left to burn in an ashtray puffing into nothing at the slightest breeze, leaving stacks of plates exposed. Jonah pulled the straw out of his helmet and from somewhere in his unconscious a signal came and his brain made his forefinger and thumb join in a circle, and his other fingers extend, in the internationally recognised diving sign for everything's fine. They returned his smile. What a friendly bunch they were, these underwater drinkers! Matt started going up in slow weighted footsteps, and Jonah followed, light as a bubble, grabbing the banister


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rung after rung like a horizontal ladder, flipping his feet, swimming upstairs.

The landing of the first floor was darker. Light only came from the stairs, from both up and down. Red lights glowed above three of the four closed doors, from little digital displays which read 37.0. Matt brought his finger to his helmet in front of his lips, and Jonah wondered why he was to hush and how he could possibly be anymore silent than he already was.

Matt leaned on the door, and it opened slowly onto a dark room from which warm water flowed. At first Jonah only saw two little lights, which he realized were the glint of two feral-looking eyes. As he got used to the darkness he saw the eyes belonged to a man, floating mid-room, naked, huddled in fetal position. He had an oxygen mask on, like an umbilical cord coming down from the ceiling. Jonah realized there was another person behind the first one, and another. Behind that the darkness hid everything, but he could sense movement. Above the door the digital display dropped steadily. 36.3, 35.9, 35.1, 34.7...The three men-fetuses he could see were getting fidgety, shooting wild angry looks at the men disturbing them. Matt closed the door and went to the only one on the landing that didn't have a temperature display. He opened it and they came into what had been a bathroom.

Two men were busying themselves there but

they all turned and smiled a welcome to the newcomer. Jonah just had time to see what they were doing before


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Matt closed the door and led him away again. In the bathtub were hundreds of goldfish, kept in by a big Plexiglas plate. They were kept separated according to size. A few more, the smallest ones it seemed, were kept in the sink and the toilet bowl. One of the men was feeding them, big handfuls of fish food he grabbed from a bucket, red specks billowing in his wake. When he was done he washed his hand by rubbing them in the water in front of himself. The other one fished around in one of the bathtub boxes for ripe goldfish that he then put in plastic bags he tied up. There was a heap of bagged fish at his side.

Then Jonah grabbed his way up the final flight of

stairs and was surprised, when he got to the end, that he could see the surface. He got to his feet on the last few steps and when he reached the floor water was only up to mid-thigh. He took off his helmet like Matt had, and looked around. Half the ceiling was missing: the side that faced south, and a nice sunny glare fell down on the flooded attic. The other half, the one that faced Jonah's house, was still up.

“Yeah,” said Matt pointing up, “We got rid of that.

Not much use any more!” At the end of the lengthy room there was a little

beach, a sandy bank propped up against the wall. It was just about big enough for the four guys who were lounging there in the sun, reading books, sipping beer they took from a big icebox. They waved at Jonah,


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calling out hey’s and how-are-you’s. One of them was playing The Girl from Ipanema on a ukulele.

“It's a lovely house, Matt.” “Oh, thanks. It's a mess, though. We just moved

in. You know how it is: we've mountains still unpacked. Say, want a beer?”

“Thanks, but I'd better go. I've work to do.” Jonah

gave his helmet back to Matt, and they walked to the end of the room, where the infinity-pool attic turned into the small-town skyline. The water poured into a drain there, which circled the house and ended in a pipe at the side. There was a rope ladder going down. Jonah shook Matt's wrinkly hand and thanked him, then climbed down. When he stepped onto the footpath, he looked up and saw his neighbor smiling at him. “Hey Matt, I live just there you know, if you ever feel like calling up for tea or something...”

“Thanks man. Tell you what: why don't you call back here. The ladder's there. Anytime.”

Jonah walked the twenty meters back to his front

door, the sound of water dripping off his drenched clothes accompanying the pipe's waterfall. He felt both rested and sleepy as he turned the key in the lock.

Later, when his wife came home from work, she

would find him asleep in the bath with his skin wrinkled in the cold water, a blissful smile on his lips.


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About the Photographers

Melissa Santos

[Concrete Jungle] is a 34 years old graduate student at Bridgewater State University pursuing a MA in English.

Christopher Woods [Liquor Store, Midnight; House of Weary Dreams] is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Texas. His photo essays have been published in Public Republic, Deep South, Glasgow Review, and Narrative Magazine.


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www.curbsidesplendor.com

http://www.curbsidesplendor.com/

curbside e-zine - september 2013

Documents

curbside splendor ezine

boys dont

melissa santos photography

berkeley fiction review

brandon jennings

heartland review

barb mcmakin

sand boxesplaces