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The Oklahoma Review Volume 15: Issue 1, Spring 2014

Published by: Cameron University Department of English and Foreign Languages

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StaffFacultyAdvisorGEORGE

McCORMICKFacultyEditorsDR.BAYARDGODSAVE,DR.JOHN

HODGSON,DR.HARDYJONES&DR.JOHNG.MORRISAssistantEditorsKAITLYNSTOCKTON,

TAMMYHORNBECK,GILNUNEZ,CAMERONBREWER,CASEY

BROWN,SHELBYSTANCIL&SARARIOSWebDesignELIAMEREL&

HAILEYHARRISLayoutCASEYBROWN

MissionStatementTheOklahomaReviewisanelectronicliterarymagazine published through the Departmentof English at Cameron University in Lawton,Oklahoma. The editorial board consists ofEnglish and Professional Writingundergraduates, as well as faculty advisorsfromtheDepartmentsofEnglishandForeignLanguages&Journalism.The goal of our publication is to provide aforum for exceptional fiction, poetry, andcreative nonfiction in a dynamic, appealing,and accessible environment. The magazine’sonly agenda is to promote the pleasures andedification derived from high‐qualityliterature.TheStaffTheviewsexpressedinTheOklahomaReviewdo not necessarily correspond to those ofCameron University, and the university’ssupportofthismagazineshouldnotbeseenasanyendorsementofanyphilosophyotherthanfaithin–andsupportof–freeexpression.The content of this publication may not bereproduced without the written consent ofTheOklahomaReviewortheauthors.

CallforSubmissionsTheOklahomaReviewisacontinuous,onlinepublication.Wepublish two issueseachyear:Spring(May)andFall(December).TheOklahomaReviewonlyacceptsmanuscriptsduringtwoopenreadingperiods.

•ReadingdatesfortheFallissuewillnowbefromAugust1toOctober15

•ReadingdatesfortheSpringissuewillbeJanuary1toMarch15.Worksentoutsideofthesetwoperiodswillbereturnedunread.Guidelines:Submissions are welcome from any seriouswriter working in English. Email yoursubmissions to okreview@cameron.edu.Writersmaysubmitthefollowing:

•Prosefictionpiecesof30pagesorless.•Asmanyasfive(5)poemsofany

length.•Nonfictionprosepiecesof30pagesor

less.•Asmanyasfive(5)piecesofvisual

art—photography,paintings,prints,etc.•Allfilesshouldbesentase‐mail

attachmentsineither.docor.rtfformatfortext,and.jpegforartsubmissions.Wewillneitherconsidernorreturnsubmissionssentinhardcopy,evenifreturnpostageisincluded.

•Whensendingmultiplesubmissions(e.g.fivepoems),pleaseincludealltheworkinasinglefileratherthanfiveseparatefiles.

•Authorsshouldalsoprovideacoverparagraphwithashortbiographyinthebodyoftheire‐mail.

•Simultaneoussubmissionsareacceptable.Pleaseindicateinyourcoverletterifyourworkisunderconsiderationelsewhere.

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Table of Contents Cover Art B.C. Gilbert , Detail from “BFE” Fict ion 10 Zack O’Neil l , “Sea Lion” 32 Timothy Bradford, “Winter Velodrome” 47 Jerry Gabriel , “Electric, This Age Coming” 56 Mark Belis le, “Primary Directive” Images 70 B.C. Gilbert , “BFE” 72 B.C. Gilbert , “Devil’s Claw” 74 B.C. Gilbert , “Tipi” 76 B.C. Gilbert , “Twister” Poetry 80 Brent Newsom, “Esther Green Plans a Funeral” 81 Brent Newsom, “Floyd and Patti” 82 Brent Newsom, “New Hope Baptist Church” 83 Brent Newsom, “Floyd Fontenot, Free Bird”

84 Brent Newsom, “Ash Wednesday” 85 Corey Don Mingura, “Red Pterodactyl” 87 Laura Holloway, “Annus Miraballus”

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Reviews 90 George McCormick, A Review of Phong Nguyen’s Pages from the

Textbook of Alternate History

91 Cameron Brewer, A Review of J. David Osborne’s Low Down Death Right Easy

Interviews 93 George McCormick, “I’m not the only one to seek out his grave in

St. Mary’s Cemetery, between the Interstate and the softball diamonds”: An Interview with Ed Skoog

Contributors 101 Contributor’s Page

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9

Fiction

10

Zack O’Neill Sea Lion

Announcer:“Willcountifitgoes….”

(pause)

Sacramentofans:“HHHHhhhhhhahhhHHHhhhhhaaaaaAAA!”

Me:“Man.”

Mybrother:“Godthat’sirritating.Well,it’snicethattheselosersgetatleastonegoodmoment.”

Mydad:“Well,screwtheLakers,Ijustneedthepoints.”

“Whentheirinteriordefensegetsattacked,”mybrotherwenton,“it’sliketheyjustshut

down.” My dad agreed with him. It was a good, tactical insight I had to admit, a historical

anomalygiven thedominanceof their insidegame,butwhen I tooknoteofhowrelaxedand

unflatteredmybrotherwas,slumpedinthechairpontificatingbythewindowfurthestfromthe

frontdoor (I’dhavebeenpacing, tryingnot to shake) I felt inclined to rebuthim.All I could

thinkofthoughwasAfricancatfish(clariasgariepinus)shownolinkbetweenaggressive

behaviorandfoodintake,whichIwasstillconvertingwhenthedoorbellrang.

Tracy was here. After an artificially cheery hellomymother escorted her through the

frontdoorandfoyer.Mybrotherdidn’tgetupuntilshewasinthecenteroftheroom.Shehada

brownt‐shirtandjeanson,justlikehim.Iwasn’tsureiftheirgetuprepresentedsomemovieor

maybe TV reference.Whatever the case, when she gazed at himwith her smiling,mackerel‐

coloredeyes,mypersonalitywentintoitsshell.

Mydadturnedinhischair.

“HeyTracy!”

Shewentovertohimwithakindoflumbering,unladylikegaitandshookhishandlikea

man. “Hello, Mr. O’Neill” she said, in a husky voice. My brother laughed; my dad did too,

repeating “Mr.O’Neill” like the officiality of it was absurd. She smiled, blushed, put her hair

behindherear,lookedatmybrotheragain.

Whenshenoticedmeshesaidhiandmyname.Iwasstandingnearoursmallfireplace,

feelingheatononesideandcooloceanair—whichalwaysseepedinthroughwallporesandold

windowframes—ontheother.Isaidhiback,andlookedaway.

11

Afterabitofsmalltalk,withTracybrieflyregardingthegamebutnotcommentingonit,

mymomscootedherandmybrotherintothediningroom,Iguesstoposeforpictures.Thiswas

likelydoneformybenefit.

SoontheywereofftoSadieHawkins,leavingthethreeofusalone.

Mymother:“Needabeer?”

Me:“No,that’sokay.”

Mymother:“Yousure?”

Me:“Yeah.”

Mydad(eyesonTV):“Ahpiss.”

Kobeatthetopofthekey,holdingforthelastshot,gesturing:(unintelligible).

Me:“Notgonnahittheover?”

Mydad:“It’slikethey’retryingtoscrewme.”

Whenthegamewenttocommercialheopeneduphislaptop.“Whatdoyouthinkforthe

secondhalf,”hesaid,“theoverortheunder?”

“What’sthenumber?”

“Don’tknowyet.”

Sincegettinginonabetwasofcoursenothappening,Imadeablandcommentonhow

thepossibilityofextratimemadetheoverenticing.“Goodpoint,”hesaid,nodding,fascinated

withthescreen.Istoodthereandthought,andI’dtalkedaboutthiswithmybrotherbefore,it

wasstrangewhathetaggedasoff limits.Potanddrinking, fine.Bettingongamesthroughhis

sportsaccount,not fine. I figured itwasaterritorial thing:hisaccount,hismoney.Butwasn’t

thatkindofsadistic,talkingtomeaboutbetswithoutbringingmeinontheaction?

Hemadehisplay,didn’ttellmewhatitwas,closedhislaptop,grabbedhisemptybottle,

gotup,wenttothekitchen.

Anadforasushirestaurantcameon.Istaredatthelittletraysoffish,thefist‐sizedrice

balls,slimyseaweedsalad,andthoughtaboutmybrother,whoalwayshadthequalityofbeing

in a small pond, my father, a remora to his manta ray father, my poor mother, who never

thought to do anything untraditional, Kobe the kingfish and the Lakers and all those

championshipsandsofuckingwhat.

12

Isneakedawaytomyroom,feeling,asIoftendowhenIgotheretomasturbateordrink

or smoke, that my departing footsteps made thunderous sounds, like storm waves on

breakwater.

I’dcrucifiedmywork,nailedthepaintingstomywalls Imean,thepastels,acrylicsand

coloredpencilcompositionsthatmymotherpraisedsorhapsodicallyitmademewanttotrash

themallandquit.ButIthoughtmaybesomeofthemwereprettygood:onewasaportraitofa

cobalt‐bluesky,swirlylikeStarryNightexceptlessimpastoandoverstated,thatbackdroppedan

obsidian‐blackmountain(theskywassodarkyouhadtolookhardtodistinguishthetwo),and

anunrealisticaquagreenoceantotheleft.Littledotsofred

and yellow,which I’dmadewith toothpicks, signified cars

on a highway running along the coastline. I envisioned

convertingitintoahugefiberglassmuralwithrealredand

yellow lights thatmoved, and strobe flashes at the top for

lightning. I’d given thepainting to Sarah as a present, but

on the first day of the new semester she gave it back, in

frontofeveryone,becauseyouknowshecouldn’thavedone

itinthefuckingparkinglot.Orhere,orherhouse.Jesus,breakthethinginhalfandstuffitin

my locker. Thatwould have been better. Shemademe feel like I’d been thrown back in the

waterwithhalfmymouthtorntoshreds,infrontofmybrotherandhisgirlfriendnoless,and

Jonnyandhisgirlfriendtoo,rightinthehallwaybeforefifthperiodautoshop.

Anotheronewasapaintingofearth—I’dmadethecontinentsredandtheoceanblack,

andtheskywasgarnet,andthestarswerealldifferentcolorslikeSkittles.I’dusedaCDforthe

outlineofearth,andreallyfuckedupbothMadagascarandtheBritishIsles.

Ineverpaintedpeoplebecausethatwastoohardtechnically;everything,really,wastoo

hard technically. I’d get impatient, and therewas always sloppyass craftsmanship toward the

end. Another problem was mixing colors that looked exactly the same when I’d run out of

something.

Withmymotherputtering aroundcleaning andmydadwatchingTVwith the volume

incrediblyhighasusual,IfiguredIcouldsmokesomeofthetarinmypipe,whichwasabundant

enoughIdidn’tneedtoscrapeanyoutandmakepellets.

Ipushedupawindow.

I considered the story of my parents – my lower‐middle class mom, for whom Long

Beach State was a great leap forward, and my dad, the

flunky who could have gone to Pepperdine on his parents’ dime if he’d applied himself.

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Amedleyofobservationsfloatedthroughmymind,intertwined,asalways,withtheidea

thatIcouldsynthesizethisstatethroughforceofwillwhensober,andthatthehyperapprovalof

ideaswas falseself‐worth: InartclassMr.Randrup,whosesphericaleyesandcatfishwhiskers

werealwaysabitdistracting,toldmetoomuchstructuremeantlifelessnessyetpracticingform

wasnecessary,andthebiggoalwastotranscendguidelinesoratleastputthemintheserviceof

something personal, and to persevere when failure or negative feedback dampened your

enthusiasm; he was good at makingme feel less intimidated by the brilliance of others and

helpedme to just focusonmyself (I felt the therapeutic effectsof tunnel visionat least); the

male banggai cardinalfish (pterapogon kauderni) will starve for a month while he

hatches andnurtures theeggsofhisoffspring;webulliedMr.Stetson,whoalwayssmiled

likeadolphinandhadwhathe called “good schoolguilt,”whatever thatwas;he’d talk about

how teachers cannever really be ethical because in placeswherehelpwasneeded youdidn’t

haveresourcessoyousoughtoutthebestsituationforyourselfinstead;Idon’tknowwhatmade

himthinkanyofusgaveafuckaboutthat—itwasalmostlikehewastalkingtohimselfthrough

us;wesensedwecouldtalktoeachotherwhilehetalkedandthat’swhereyou’dreallypusha

teacheraround,notsomuch inconfrontationbut insocializingwhile theywere trying torun

things(ofcourseforthemostpartIwaswatchingothersdothis);wildzebrafish(daniorerio)

aretimiduntilinteractingwithdominantmembersoftheirspeciesandyettheyinteract

well in aquariums thereafter; one time inEnglishwehadaprompt calleda “randompage

exercise”whereMr.Stetsonpickedanumberoutofahatandwehadtodoareportonthatpage

fromabookcalledTheRoad;Igotapassagewhereapersonwaslayingonamattresswiththeir

legscutoff,beingcannibalized,accordingtoMr.Stetson,inslowmotionbybadguys;IguessI

was supposed to do external research or cross‐reference the scenewith the course themes or

anothertextbutIjustspeculatedonwhetherthepersonwasaliveordeadandwhathumanlegs

mighttaste like—Igot thepaperbackwithaDon itandcommentsabouthowmuchIcould

havedonewithregardtoeatingandethics.

Our very old cat nudged my door open, unbuckling it easily from its worn out latch

receiver, and announced her presence with a series of crotchety mews.We made vapid eye

contactthenIlookedoutofthewindowattheocean,theirisbluemassbeyondaforegroundof

birdsofparadiseandaweatheredwoodenfence.

She stopped beneathmy desk next to an old aquarium—adusty, graveled ghost cabin

14

thatI’dstoppedoperatingwithnegligencemonthsago—wrappedhertailaroundherfeet,and

startedlickingherself.Ilookedoveratthemirror,andestimatedmythinninghair.I’dlearnedto

stop talkingor thinkingabout it—but likeweightgain,orpoor interaction,or task failure,or

anythingelsethat’ssupposedtoeatawayatyou,theagonyhadawayofworkingitswayout.I’d

shruggedofftheideaofdelay‐the‐decayremediesandwasjustacceptingit.Honestly,Ihardly

considereditpartofmylife,untilI’dnoticesomeonefromacertainvantagepointlookingdown

atmyheadandthenlookingawayquickly,orI’dperceiveoldermalesbeingoverlynicetome,or

I’d seemyselfunderabright light,or thinkaboutSarah,or theSadieHawkinsdance. Ihated

gettingphotographednow, of course. Sometimes I’d conceive of howmyhair symbolizedmy

consciousness: thin at the front, around the edges a network of support, just past the front

barrennessandpatchesoftrivialgrowth,intheback,whothehellwantedtoknow.

IthoughtoftheChristmasgoodbyewithSarah,herperky“Well,seeyoulater!”asIwas

about to ask her when was the next time we were going to do something. No breakup, no

dramatic moment—no responsibility for her. Maybe turning fantasies into success took

somethingIdidn’thave,Irememberthinkingatthetime.LikeahookIcouldn’tbait.

Our doorbell, that intrusive hidden tintinnabulation lurking gnomishly in our ceiling,

rang out. I heard the front door open, and the charisma‐boosted voice of mymother. Then

young voices, male and female. Positivity. Good‐natured awkwardness: overlapping chatter,

politeretractions.Myfathergettingoutofhischair,menmeetingforthefirsttime.

I came out and saw a girl dressed in tight jeans and a linen trim topwith a goldfish‐

orangebeadarrangementaroundtheneck,andadudewithagoateeandgellyspikyhairdressed

in amaroon V‐neck pullover that suffocated a white polo shirt. He held something in saran

wrap—sheagrocerybag,andabottleofwine.

The girl looked over at me with a wide‐eyed smile; the guy looked too, except his

expressionwas blank. I could smell the fruity/medicinal hybrid scent of his gel. Neither said

anythinguntilmymomsaid,“Adam,thisisKeithandKelly.”

Ishookboththeirhands.

“Nicetomeetyou.”“Youtoo.”“Nicetomeetyou.”“Youtoo.”

Then.

15

Me(pointingatKeith’smystery,saran‐wrappedpackage)“What’sthatrightthere?”

Keith(smiling):“Halibut.”

Mymom:“Ohwow!”

Kelly:“Keithcaughtithimselfjustthismorning.”

Mydad:“You’rekidding.”

Keith:“Rightouthereinthesurf.”

Me:“Howbigwasit?”

Keith:“Aboutthreefeet.”

Mymom(drawingthewordout):“Wow!”

Keith:“Wecanputitonthegrillwithsomegreenonions,andsomelemon.”

Kelly: (holding up the grocery bag, which surely contained some green onions, and some

lemon):“Wecameprepared!”

Everyone:“Hahahahaha.”

Mydad(noddingatthewine):“Lookslikeyou’vegotsomethingelsethere.”

Kelly(holdingthewineup,labelout):“Starborough.FromNewZealand.”

Me:“Let’spopit.”

Keith:“Noneed.”

(Keithunscrewsacap)

Everyone:“Hahahahaaa.”

Mymomfetchedfiveglasses,whichthewinewasquicklyemptiedinto.Weclinkedand

toastedtothestarfishonthebottle.

Sour.Candyish.Girlshit.

“Sowhathappenedatthemeeting?”mymomsaidtoKelly.

Kelly rolledher eyes,which initiated awork conversation thatwashedawayour group

dynamic’s fledgling infrastructure. Us guys looked on politely, not yet at the pointwherewe

couldbreakawayforourowninteraction.Itwasaloathsomeandawkwardplacetobe,butIwas

toostonedtoworryaboutitsoI juststoodtherewithadumbsmileonmyface.Inoticedthe

acceleratedpaceatwhichmydaddrainedhisglass;whenhedid,he interruptedthegirlsand

said,“I’llgetanotherbottle.”

“Thanksguy!”mymomlookedatKelly.“See,he’sgoodforsomething.”

16

Wemurmuredoutchucklesasmydadwenttothekitchen,checkingtheTVashepassed.

IbegantowonderwhyKeithwouldn’tbeintothegame.

“You guys go outside,” mymom said mercifully to Keith andme. “We’ll get the food

started.”

IpulledaslidingglassdooropenandledKeiththroughabackyardfullofflickeringocean

breezes. Light came in through the fidgety trees and moved around drowsily—I felt like a

nibblermeanderingthroughseakelp.

We came to a metal table next to a clover‐filled fire pit we hadn’t used in years and

skiddedthechairsout—well,Idid.Keithliftedhisup.

Hesethiswineglassdown,satdown.Tookalookaround.“Kindofbriskout,”hesaid.

“Lateafternoonwind.”

Hedidn’tsayanything.

“Most of the year you need a jacket out here,” I said. “It’swhy south‐facing places are

moreexpensive.Lesswind.Wedon’thaveoneofthosethough.”

“Ohreally?”

Theflattonesuggestedanantagonisticreactionoverwhatoccurredtomewasarichkid

observation. Iwondered howmy dad, the legacy kid, the default owner of this house,whose

fathermadehim“workuptheladder”inthebusiness,dealtwiththattypeofshit.Probablyjust

ignoredit,notevencaringenoughtosmirkaboutitinprivacylater.

Keithtookalookaroundourquarantined‐by‐shrubby‐old‐fencesbackyarduntilsettling

hisgazeonthetripoddedeight‐ballbarbecue.“I’llwaitforyourdadtofireupthegrill,”hesaid,

staringatit.“Seemslikethemanofthehouseshoulddothat.”

Ismiled,sippedaforgottendropofwine.Tart.

Whitefish(coregonuslavaretus)haveuniformgrowthanddonotdevelopfeeding

hierarchiesevenunderfoodrestriction.

“So,” I said, twisting the empty glass on the table, whichmade a sandpapery scraping

sound so I stopped (also because it occurred tome thiswas a feminine gesture), “how’d you

catchthatthing?”

He gave an expression that would normally accompany a shrug of the shoulders. I

interpretedthisasasignalhe’dwantedtotellthestoryinfrontofeveryone.

“Wannasavethetaleforlater?”

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“No,no,”hesaid,sittingup,andsettinghisglassdown.“Here’swhathappened.Iwent

downearly inthemorning,righthereatthefootofLongfellow,withaboardandallmygear.

WhenIwasabouttwentyfeetfromthewater,I jammedthefishingpoleintothesand,letthe

dragout,putbaitandasinkerinabaggie,wrappedthelinearoundmyhandwithcorkonthe

hooks,andpaddledout.”

“Wasitabitchhangingontothatstuffwhenyouwentpastthewaves?”

“Nah.Anyway,Ipaddledoutafewdozenyards,attachedthesinker,andloadedupthe

hookwithsomesardines—”

“Isthatwhatyou’resupposedtouse?”

“Supposed?”

Ilaughed.

“So Iputonthesinker,andabait leader rightby thehookso thesardineswould float

abouthalfafootoffthebottom,thenIdroppedthelinedown,andgotbackinasfastasIcould,

watchingtherodthewholetimeincaseittookofftowardme.”

“Howlonguntilyougotabite?”

“Aboutanhour.But Iknewrightaway,whentherodpracticallysnapped inhalf, Ihad

somethingbig.”

“Right.”

“WhenthethingwasinthesurfIsawitfloppingaround.Itlookedlikeagoddamnedsea

monster.Ithoughtitmighthavebeenabigstingray.”

“Ibet.”

“SoIranintothesurfwithaknife,andstabbedit,andgrabbeditstailanddrugitoutof

thewater.”

“How’dyougetithome?Didyoufilletitrightthere?”

“No,Istabbedituntilitstoppedmovingandputitinatrashbag.”

“Holyshit.Thenaggingwifetreatment.”

Helaughed,andIsawteethsopointyitwaseasytoimaginerowsoftheminhismouth.

“I’msurprisedyoudidn’tgetstoppedbyalifeguard,”Isaid.

“Noshit,”hesaid.“Theyreallydon’twantyououttheredoingthat.Butthistimeofyear,

mostofthestationsareclosed.AndwhereIwasnoonewasinthewater.”

“Right.”

18

I was going to ask him howmany people saw, and how long he’d have waited before

figuringthebaithadcomeoff,but justthentheglassdoorslidopenrustilyandmydadcame

out,holdingared.“Hey,gotsomeSeaSmokeBotella,”hesaid.

“Alright,”Keithsaidflatly,obliviousnodoubtthat itwasa$30bottle.Mydadprobably

didn’twanttopopit.

Hebloodiedourglasses.

Mydad:“Letmegetthegrillgoing.”

(KeithandIsip)

Keith:“Greatwine.”

Me:“Ohyeah,that’sagreatbottle.”

Keith(afterapause):“So,you’reanartistIhear.”

Me:“Well,Iscrewaround.MaybesomedayI’llbeone.”

Istaredintomyglass,tookasip—strong,asmokyyetberrylikeflavor.Thetartstarfish

wine’sresiduelacedit,andkindofruinedit.

Nearly all fish that have been raised in a marine reserve take longer to flee a

hunterwithaspearthanfishthathavegrownupinthewild.

Mydadcameoveroncehe’dgotthecoalsup,putthegrillonupside‐down,andhadthe

areasmellinglikeshitwe’dbarbecuedbefore.“So,how’dyoucatchthatthing?”hesaidto

Keith.“Youascubadiver?”

“Dude,youmissedthestory,”Isaid.

“Ohman,youshouldhavelethimsaveit!”

“I’lltellitagain,”Keithsaid.

Thegirlscameout,eachwiththeirwine,mymomholdingabowlofbluechips,Kellya

smallerpurplebowlthatIknewhadsalsainit.WhentheyjoinedthetableKeithgotup.“I’llget

thefishready,”hesaid,andwentinside.

My dadwent over to the grill, flipped it and started scrubbing it, working around the

flamesthatwereprobablytoohighforhimtobedoingthat.Anunhappyexpressionwasonhis

face.

19

Mymom(inatonemuchlighterthanit’dhavebeenifwedidn’thavecompany):“Isthatyour

secondglass?”

Me:“Yeah,andevenworse,Ididn’trinseit.”

Mymom:“Shame!”

Usthree:“Hahahhehheheee.”

Kelly:“Soyourmomsaysyou’reanartist.”

Me:“Shethinksso.”

Mymom:“Wehavegreatkids.”

Kelly:“Theyhavegreatparents.”

(Usthreesmilegaily,theygoontalkingandItunethemout)

Keithcamebackoutwiththehalibut,beigejelloonaplexiglasstraythatalsocontaineda

rolloffoil,afork,aspatula,abottleofmarinadeandsomeseasoning.Mydadstoodbackwhile

Keithtriple‐foldedfoilintoasheetthatcoveredhalfthegrill;hethenputthefoildown,poked

holes in itwith the fork (saying something tomydad right before), slid the fish onwith the

spatula,andstarteddroppingsauceandsprinklesontothemeat.

“FatherMcClellanisheavy‐handed,”Kellysaid.

Ilookedoveratthem.

“Atleasthe’slaxaboutthecode,”mymomsaid.

Backtothegrill.

“Wellit’sastrategyforrecruitingbetterteachers.”

“Youknow,”mymomsaid, “even if it’s a factory for the four‐year, and thekidsdo the

privileged‐childthingof‘Idon’tunderstandthis,youmusthaveexplaineditwrong,’it’sstillway

betterthanthepublicsystem.”

“Waybetter,”Kellysaid.

“Howdoyouknow?”Isaid,turningaround.

They lookedover atme,bothwith that classic “unwelcome interruptionof a girls‐only

conversation”expressionontheirfaces.

Mymom:“We’veheardstories.”

Me:“Oh.Stories.”

20

Mymom:“Adam,didyouknowKellyteachesEnglish?”

Me:“Really?”

Mymom:“Tellherabouttheprojectyoudid.”

Me:“Oh.”(toKelly)“HaveyoueverreadTheRoad?”

Kelly:“No.”

Me:“Oh.”

Kelly:“Whatwastheproject?”

Me:“Arandompageexercise.”

Kelly:“Oh!I’vegiventhose.Theyleadtoalotofcomplaining.”

Me:“Yeahforme,itwasfrommyteacher.”

Kelly:“Ohuhoh.”

Me: “I told him itwas becausemy parents pressureme to drinkwhen I should be doingmy

homework.”

Mymom:“Ohstopit!”

Kelly:“Well,I’dhavebeenhardonyourassignment.”

Me(confused):“Really?”

Kelly:“It’showIcontroltheyoungsters.”

Keithlookedover.Mydaddidn’t.

“So,”Kellysaid,“where’ssonnumbertwo?”

“He’sout,”mymomsaid.

“Outontheprowlhuh?”

Welaughed.

Theywentbacktotheirtalkandleftmeinaconversationalwarpzone.Iknewmymom

wantedto includemebutshehadtobeagoodhostandcertainlyshewasenthusiasticabout

gossipingwithayounggirl.Inoticedthechipsandsalsa.Bluecorntortilla.Kindofsmall—the

kindwhereyouneededthreeperscooptogetthejobdone.

Hot.

Iwasscarfing,andgulpingwine.

“Gotthehungries?”Kellysaid.

“Isthatwhattheycallitnow?”mymomsaid,andtheybothsmiled.

21

“Halibut’sready!”Keithsaid,savingme.

“Oh,letmegogetthesalad,”Kellysaid.

The twoof themwent inside,Keithwith the fish thatsteamed like theheadofanold‐

timetrain.Thisleftmymom,dadandItogethersippingwine.Mydadwasstillstanding;Icould

tellhewasirritatedwe’dbecomeguestsinourownhome.

“Ishouldhavetoldhertogetmorechipsandsalsa.”

“Nah,”mydadsaid.

“Didyouwantmore,Adam?”

“Nah.”

Thehalibuttastedhealthyandseemedalittleunderdone—Ifeltitwouldhavebenefitted

froma sauceofmushrooms,greenonions,mincedgarlic.As the fishunflaked inmymouth I

foundmyselfwonderingwhenthe laststormwas,wherethisthing’dbeenall its life. Itwasn’t

thebestwateroutthereevenindryweather,withboatsandindustrialrunoffandstormdrains

and general pollution from the beachgoers. After storms the waves would foam green

sometimes.I’dheardstoriesofsurfersgettinghepatitis.

Mymom:“Thisissogood.”

Mydad:“Reallygreat.”

Me,KeithandKelly:“Yeah.”“Yeah.”“Yeah.”

Kelly:“Thankstoourhunter.Suchawonderfulcaveman,”

(KellygivesKeithanadoringlook,Keithfrowns)

Me,mymom,mydad:“Hahehahahehe.”

Mydad:“Wehaveafriendwhogetslobster.Goesoutinalittleskiff.Youallshouldcomeover

thenexttimewegetsome.”

Kelly:“Ohdefinitely!”

Mydad:“Wemakethemintotacos.Diceupthemeat,frycorntortillaslightlyinapanofolive

oil,topeverythingoffwithsomecheese,salsa,guacamole,sourcream.”

Kelly:“Hey,tellthemhowyoucaughtthefish.”

Mymom:“Yeah!”

Keith(humbly):“Okay.Well…”

22

More than 11 million non‐native marine organisms representing at least 102

speciesarebeingimportedannuallythroughCalifornia'sportsofSanFranciscoandLos

Angeles,primarilyfromIndonesiaandthePhilippines.

Mymom(afterfinishinghersecondglassofwine):“So,how’dyoutwomeet?”

Keith:“Well,IwastakingclassesatElCamino,andshewastheteacher.”

Mydad:“Whatfor?”

Keith:“Shewasanadjunct.”

Kelly:“That’swhenIdecidedIwantedtoteachhighschool.”

(Silence,perhapsallofusknowingthat’snotwhatmydadmeant)

Keith:“Anyway,Ilookedheruponfacebook,andthoughtshewasprettyhot.”

Kelly:“Andhewaslivingwithagirlatthetime!”

I looked out at the water, a cobalt rind topping our jagged brown fence. Unlike my

brother,Ineverwantedtogotothebeach.Thebeachmademefeelfatandpasty.ThelasttimeI

went there, itwasaSaturdaymorning,andI sawbuff surfers,cutechicksexercising,Mexican

ladiespushingwhitebabiesinstrollers.

Kelly:“WegotaPlaystationtoo!”

Mydad:“Awhat?”

Mymom:“What’saplaystation,Adam?”

Me:“Uhh.”

Mydad:“Aplaywhat?Station?”

Me:“OhGod.”

Keith(tome):“Youhaveagamingsystem?”

Me:“NoIreallydon’tplay.Mybrotherdoesthough.”

Keith:“Oh,alright.”

Theconversationwenton,andKellyhadthegoodsensetocutoffKeith,whoapparently

hadashorttank,beforehegottoodeepintoanaccountofCallofDutyBlackOps.Shetookover

and got into somehigh‐minded ideas abouthelpingpeoplewith their developmental reading

23

skills, which seemed odd given her choice of an elite prep school over community college

teaching.Other featuresof thismandatorybanterweredetailsaboutKellybeing fromRolling

Hills, attending UCSD, Keith being in construction, me feeling incapable of either of those

things (I considered the story of my parents—my lower‐middle class mom, for whom Long

Beach State was a great leap forward, and my dad, the flunky who could have gone to

Pepperdine on his parents’ dime if he’d applied himself). Themore discerning I became, the

moreadversarialthefourofthemweretome:Isawpeopletakingturnsdisplayingthemselves,

notreallylisteningtoeachother,fakingapproval.IalsonoticedthecouplyenergyofKeithand

Kelly,thekindwhereyoungeronessurveyolderonesthenlookateachotherwithlittlesmiles.

When we were done eating and the glasses were empty all it took was one comment

abouthowcolditwas(dad)toprovokeasuggestionthatwegoinside(Kelly),andwithpolite

synchronicitythefiveofusrose,gatheredourculinarydetritus,broughtitall inandput iton

thekitchencounter.Kellythenofferedtohelpclean,andmymomsaidnonono,andmydad

half‐heartedlyofferedtopopanotherbottleofwine,andKeithsaidnonono,andwefell into

thisawkwardplaceofnotknowingwhethertositorstandorwatchTVordowhat?IfiguredI’d

helpoutbygoingtomyroomwithoutsayingwhy.Ismokedmoretarthere,andstaredoutata

gauzy,diaphanousmarine layer thathaddraped itselfacross thehorizonandwasobscuringa

dullpeachsunset.Theglowwasalmostwhite,andlookedmorelikeasunrise.

Ifeltmyartificialvoiceemboldeningitself,thetruenarcoticeffectofthedrugforme,but

in itsconfidence‐buildingstagestherewasaknockingatmydoor,anditslitheredintohiding

likeaneel.

Kelly:“Adam?”

Me:“Takingoff?”

Keith:“Yup.”

Therewasapause,whichIinterpretedasaknowingnonverbalexchangebetweenthem

inresponsetothesmell.Didtheywantsome?

Kelly:“Itwasnicetomeetyou!”

Me:“Youguystoo!Goodjobonthefish!”

24

Idon’twant to talk toomuchaboutmythoughtsafter that.Thethoughts Ihavewhen

transitioningfromanawkwardgatheringtoisolationaretheleastpleasantonestome.

Clippedversion:

Thesinkwasrunning.

TheTVvolumewasup.

Scientists have observed that zebrafish stop swimming when left without

company.Thisisthoughttobethefirstdocumentedichthyicexampleofahumanmood

disorder.

Itwasveryquiet.

Iwasquitestoned.

The anglerfish (melanocetus johnsonii) might be the ugliest fish in the ocean,

witharustedmetalcolor,stalactitesandstalagmitesofsharpteeth,hideousspikedfins,

anda fleshyprotrusion thatemerges from its foreheadwhichcanglowand isused to

attractprey,hencethename.Thetailmeatofthelophiusgenusisusedincookingand

issimilartolobstermeatintaste.Thebulkoftheirevolutionarydevelopmentisthought

tohavetakenplacebetween130millionand100millionyearsago.

Mybrotherstillwasn’thome.Heplayedtennis,mydad’ssport.Wasn’tverygood,wasn’t

goodinschooleither.

Ineededinstitutionsfor ideas—school forart,peopleforrelationships,orelse itallgot

awayfromme.Mybrothersucceededwithinthem,sotherewerecertainthingshe’dnothaveto

confront,fornow.

Mymomanddadcontainedeachother,andI’dalwaysbeindebtedtothemforthat.My

uncontainabledepthputpeopleoff.

Bluegill(lepomismacrochirus)haveareputationforbeingeasytocatch.Theywill

oftenbite anythingwith a bright color. Stories aboundof anglers using lineswithno

polesandhookswithnobaitcatchingthesefishthreefeetfromabankthey’releaning

over.

Iwasanichelesschild,badatcompetingtoo.

25

Oxazepam, a drug used to treat anxiety, insomnia and alcohol withdrawal,

appearsinhumanwasteandofteneludessewagetreatment.

Thewordsmy brother usedwhen talking tome about girls, ormore to the pointwhat I did

deficiently:(adjectives)unctuous,satyric,diffident,(nouns)supplicant,(verbs)cadger.

When the drug gets into waterways, fish consume it and become sedated.

Subsequently they are less judicious in their consumption of food. This makes them

easier to catch, and vulnerable to disease. Scientists worry about humans

overconsumingthesefish,oneofwhichisperch…

I gave the cat’s rickety, chin‐on‐feet body a once‐over, piquing her semi‐conscious

interest.Herheadlingered,suspended,asIputonmycoat,stuffedthepipeandalighterintoa

pocket,enteredthehallway,shutthedoorbehindme.

Sand.

Paced‐outtrashcans.

Orangelights,chilledairinoffthewaterdesert,piercedexoskeleton,bikersandjoggers

still. Off in the distance low surf mumbles. The shadowed

sandand itsdivots, likeminiaturewavetroughs,a feargang

memberslurkedinblindspots(Imighthavelookedlikeone

myself,hoodovermyheadsoIwouldn’tfeelcoldairhitthe

barespots).Mybrotherwouldn’thavewantedmedownhere

likethis,Iknewthatforsure.

I sat down on a hill that crested the hardpack, away

fromthe light,and lookedat thePVpeninsula, itsglittering

hump, and on the opposite end Malibu’s expanse of lights

spillingfromtheupperhillside.Further,Pt.Dune.

This was where education met edification, as Mr.

Randrupwouldsay.Theforkintheroadbetweenpenumbra

andchiaroscuro.

I remembered a story thatmygrandmother,whose skinmadeher look like something

thatshouldbecrawlingoutofaGalapagostidepool,toldmeaboutPearlHarbor,howeveryone

herethoughttheywerenext,howthey’dturntheirlightsoffatnight.

I took out the pipe, twisted landward, held it withmy lips, cuppedmy hand over the

I remember looking for shark bites or cuts from boat

propellers; finding none, I figured maybe it’d been

exhausted by strong currents, or was separated from its pack,

or couldn’t find food, or was sick from infected fish, or maybe some unknowable

combination of those things ate away at it until it just gave up and hurled itself toward a world it had no business in.

26

bowl,flaredthelighter,hitit,hard,heldmybreath,turnedback.

Sometimes when the waves crashed you could see a blue phosphorescent glow in the

foam,flashes,hereandgoneagain,littleaqualightningstrikes.

Outintheshallowsyoucouldhookcorbina,whichweregoodeatingbuthardtocatchon

accountoftheirskittishness.Chasingthemwasafool’serrand.Mostofthetimeyourhookcame

backwithnothingbutthedeadsandcrabonit,wrappedinaclusterofseaweed.

YoucouldneverseeitaswellfromhereasoverinRedondo,butbackinthedaytherewas

abargeafewmilesoffshoresetupforcommercialfishing.They’devensunkaboatbeneathitto

makeahalf‐assreef.IsleofRedondowasitsname,buteveryonecalledit“thebarge.”Theriseof

half‐dayboatsandradareventuallymadebargesobsoleteinCalifornia,butyearsago,dozensof

peopleeverydaywouldferryoutfromtheRedondoPiertocatchmackerelandbonitomostly,

maybesandbass,occasionallyrockfish,barracuda(sometimessealionswouldcomearoundand

theworkerswouldscarethemoffwithfirecrackers).Ifyougottooneofthelaterferriesthey’d

tellyoutheboatwasfullandtheycouldn’ttakeanyoneoutuntilsomeonecameback.Whenyou

gotoutthere,abouta20‐minuterideoverseahillsuntilyouwereamileoffshore,you’dsetup

yourpoleatanopenspotandgotothesebigcircularbaittanksthathadliveanchoviesgoing

aroundandaroundinthem.You’dgrabone,takeitfromthewater,putyourthumbonitsnose,

pullitsheadtoonesidesothatthegillswereexposed,pushthehookthroughthefleshbehind

the gill (too deep, and it’d pierce themuscle tissue, causing almost instantaneous death, too

shallow,thefleshwouldtearandthefishwouldbreakaway)thenyouwalkedtotheedgeofthe

boatwiththethingflapping,helditout,droppedtheline,watcheditsplashintothewaterand

swim around, a bright, writhing gleam, until the sinker took it down out of sight. Then you

waitedfortherodtobend.

Geronimo,mybrotherandIusedtosay.

Ilostmyenthusiasmforfishingafterawhile.Ihaveanaturalinclinationtogetseasick,

andtheDramaminealwaysmademewoozy.Andtherewasthetimeastormcameinthatwasso

badyoucouldseetheboatpitchingviolentlyupanddownallthewayfromtheshore.Ibeganto

havenightmaresanddaymarestooaboutbeingoutthere inthoseconditions—inmytortured

visions,theshorewouldmoveupanddownandupanddownandupanddown.

Beyondthesurftheoceanwasablackmass,aninvisiblenothing.

Pacificbluefins (thunnusorientalis) swimnear the topof theRedondoCanyon.

27

They are unsafe to eat due to highmercury levels. Japan consumes eighty percent of

thosebrought tomarket.Therecordpricesomeonepaid fora fishofanykind is $1.74

milliondollarsinTokyofora489‐poundbluefintunacaughtoffthecoastofJapan.The

fishisprizedforsushiandsashimiandhasbecomemorevaluableasthespeciesgrows

scarcer.InTokyo,asinglepiececancost$24.

Great Whites (carcharodon carcharias) lurk deep in the Redondo Canyon but

sometimes travel to the shallows. Though they prefer colder waters they have been

spottednearthesurfandseveralattacksintheSouthBayhavebeenattributedtothem.

GreatWhites reach theirmaturity at 15 years. The earliest known fossils of them are

sixteenmillionyearsold.

Thelanternfish(myctophumpunctatum),whichswimbetween1000and5000feet

beneaththeseasurface,ismadeupof246differenttypesandisthemostcommonfish

in the ocean. They account for almost two‐thirds of all deep sea biomass and are not

only the world’s most populous fish, but the most populous vertebrates too. Their

cumulativetonnageisseveraltimestheamountofallotherfishspeciescombined,and

theyarea criticalpartof theecosystem,servingasprey forwhales,dolphins, salmon,

tuna,sharks,penguins,andsquid,amongotherspecies.Theyrangefromsixtotwelve

inchesinlength.

Thehadalsnailfish(pseudoliparisamblystomopsis)arethedeepestlivingfishwe

knowof.Theyhaveneverbeenspotted less than6000metersbeneath theseasurface

andhavebeenrecordedasfarasfivemilesdown,intrenches,feedingonshrimp.Their

liveliness surprises experts, who figure creatures at these depths are inclined to

conserve energy. Scientists believe there are fish that live even deeper, we just don’t

knowaboutthemyet.

A girl’s giggle flopped between my ears. A couple deeper voices, too, laughter in my

submarinecanyon.

Iturnedaround.

Four peoplehad traversed thebikepath andwerewalking towardme.Twoguys. Two

girls holding their shoes. One of the girls walked with her hands out all cartoonish and

exaggerated,likeakidplayingairplane.Sheseemedamusedatthesand’sunstablesurfaceand

byextensionherowndrunkenness.Theothergirl, in starkcontrast,wasnearlymotionlessas

28

she followedalong,headdown.Bothof themwere tiny,petite Imean,andtheguyswere the

sameexcepttheyweretaller.Humanlamppostswithdarkheads.

They reached theprecipiceof a sand slope in the fringeoforange lamplight.Though I

was strategically shadowed, I crawledbackward andhidbehinda smallhill.Theywere about

fiftyfeetfrommeIguess.

Theamused,moreanimatedgirltookoutacigarette.Theotherstoodandhuggedherself,

lookedupanddownthebeach.

Oneof theguyshada fishingpole. Iwatchedhimandhisbuddy take their shoes and

socksoffandrolluptheirpantlegs;aftertalkingtothegirlsamoment,whichIsurmisedwasan

unsuccessful attempt to cajole them down to the surf, they slid down the sand slope like

tobogganers. Just out of the water’s reach the guy without the pole dug into the sand and

produceda scoop that theybothexamined.The friendextractedwhat Iknewwasa sandcrab

andbaitedthehook.Thisguythentookthepole,walkedintotheunfurlingwaves,yelped,and

castthelineout.Igota littlechillanticipatinganunexpectedlystrongwaveorunseenriptide

knockinghimdownandsuckinghimouttosea.WiththedragoutI’msure,theywentbackup

tothegirls,andwhentheygottherethefourofthemsatandhuddledlikebasketballplayersata

timeout.Beforelongtuftsofsmokeemergedfromwherethecoach’swhiteboardmightbe.

One girl, themore excitable one I think, leaned back. The other girl was hugging her

kneestoherchin.

Theywerequietforalongtime.Ilookedaround.Waitedformorepeople,cops.

Moresmoke.Ithoughtaboutgoingover.

MightIgoover?

Oneguyreeledthelinein.Hefussedwiththehookandturnedtohisfriend;soon,they

bothgotupandwentbackdown.

Theytookturns:castout,talk,reellinein,pickseaweedoffhook,getnewsandcrab,cast

outagain.Whiletheydidthisthegirlsittingupkeptstaringatthem.Shewasstartingtotakeon

amalevolentair,potentialenergythatradiatedmenace(perhapsmoresoinretrospect), likea

hunchinggargoylestatue.

And then the girl came to life – activated by a telling physical movement, or spoken

keyword, or conjured memory, or unresolved effrontery. She rose and went down the hill,

jumpingthelasthalf.Theguyslaughedather,butthatwassnuffedoutwhenshegotcloseto

29

one, looked up at him and initiated an augmented‐by‐gesticulations conversation.As the girl

spoke, pointing, motioning vaguely at something behind her, holding her hands out as if

pleading,hittingherchestrapidlywithherpalms,theguywasstill,absorptive—thatis,untilhe

shruggedhis shoulders.To this, thegirl turnedandwentbackup. I got the sense she’dbeen

tryingtoprovokehimintoanactofaggressionsoshecouldbeoffended.

Afterexchangingaglancewithhisfriend,theguycaughtupwithher,andthebickering

continuedatopthehill.Theothergirlliftedherheadandkindofremindedmeofmycat.Asthe

feistycouplewentatit,theguywiththepolereeledthelineinandwentovertothesittinggirl.

They huddled, and draped a jacket over their heads. Bursts of orange light began appearing

beneathit.Thistime,thesmelldrewmein—that“notrespassingintheforest”aroma.Itgotinto

myweak spots through an olfactory pore, andmade thiswhole scene, everything about it, a

multifacetedsymbolofallIdidn’thaveaccessto.ThiswasallthemotivationIcouldremember

for what I did next, besides the tried and true excuse of inebriation.What wasmy agenda?

Weed?Conversation?DidIfeellessthreatenedsincetwoofthemweredistracted?Itwashard

tosay,whatgravitationalforceledtothetidalpull.ButIwentover,flexingmyfingers,tryingto

thinkof something to say. Ineeded tomeet them.Pierce theirbubble.Howthough? Iwasn’t

goodatthissortofthing.WhowasI?Tothem?

Iapproachedthesittingcouple, thewindatmyback icingevery threadofmuscle.The

jacket lifted. I couldn’t see their faces, but their demeanor brought tomind a timewhenmy

brotherandIhadliftedatarpinmygrandfather’sbackyardandsawraccoonshidinginhisboat.

“Doweknowyou?”thegirlsaid,hervoicefullofthatstoictypeoffakegenerosityyouget

fromthesegirls.

Ididn’treply.

Theguystoodup.

Istopped.Staredintohisshadoworsilhouetteasitwere.

Hedidn’tmove.

Ididn’tknowwhattosay.

Ourlittlestandoffcaughttheattentionofthetwobehindthem.

Allfourwerestaring—fourblackfiguresinpaleorangelamplight,watchingme,however

Imighthavelookedbeforetheflashing,slow‐recedingwaves.

Theangrygirlstormedoff,sprayingsandasshewent.

30

“Melissa!”

Shebeganrunning.

“Melissaaaaaa!”

Irecognizedthatvoice.

Itwasourneighbor,orrathertheirkid,acrabbycollegegraduatenamedDarien.Hehad

longwavyhairandacne.Wesmokedanddrankwithhimonhispatioonce—hewasoutthere

withabottleofscotch,andwewereabouttolightupatthesideofthehousewhenweallsaw

each other. I remember him ranting (atop his deckwith an unobstructed view of thewater)

abouthowtheoccupymovementwasbullshitsincewewereaslaveempireandweempowered

evil corporations by relying on their goods and services, and how collegewas a credentialing

apparatusforthemanagerialclassesorsomethinglikethat.ThatwasamonthagoIthink—we’d

beenavoidinghimsincethen.

Thegirl,hisdateorwhatever,stalkedthroughthesallowlamplightanddisappearedinto

adarkalleybetweentwomonstrous,triple‐deckedstrandhouses.

TheyallregardedhersobrieflyI’msureitwouldhavemadeherfeelworse.Isupposethey

weremoreinterestedinmeatthatpoint.

This was going to result in embarrassment, or a beat down. Or more polite

awkwardness—itdawnedonme,likeafloodofself‐effacingenergythatcomeswhensomeone

shows even a hint of disapproval, I’d never have the charisma to sustain a conversation that

wouldgetthemburningweedforme.

Iran,mirroringthegirlIguess,anddescendedapartoftheslopethatendedverycloseto

thewater.Iwaitedforthemtoappearattheridge,interruptthelightandswiveltheirheadsthis

wayandthat,buttheynevershowed.

Hearingthewaves, feelingthepenetratingwind,andhearingthewavesagain,thinning

outandhissing,Iimagined,afterthinkingitover,thattheothercouplehadjoinedDarienashe

watchedthecrevicehisdatehadvanishedinto.Aftersomeruminationtheyallsetoffintothe

shadowstogether,boundfortheirlamehomelivesorapartysceneormoreofthesamebullshit

exceptsomewhereelsenow.

Staringat theglowingwaves, feelingthenonstopwind, trying to findsomethingworth

painting,envisioningtherightsideofthebayasaslopestuddedbysapphirediamondsandthe

leftasaglitteringwhalehump,prettypostmodernarmswelcomingintheblackwater,Ithought

31

ofmybasketballfantasy,whereI’dpickupalooseball,ablockedshotofoneofmyteammates’

panicked,sissy‐assattemptstohitthegamewinner,andfromabouttenfeetbehindthethree

pointline,rightinfrontoftheopposingteam’sbench,launchaturnaroundjumperthathitthe

netasthebuzzersounded,andthenItookabow,showingmyasstotheotherteam,andmy

teammatesrushedover,hoistedmeupontheirshoulders,andsomestudentwaswaitingwitha

microphonetointerviewmeinfrontofthecrowd,andgirlsandfemaleteacherswereallgiving

melooksliketheyadmiredmesomuchtheywereabouttocry,theolderonesinamotherlysort

ofway.IalsothoughtofatimeIwasbodysurfingwithmybrotherandfeltsomethingbrushup

againstmyleg,howcolditwasrightnow,ifSarahwasatthedance,howImightgetbackinside

quietly,theaftertasteofthehalibut,andonandonandonandonandfuckingonuntilmymind

was blurry and aching and anesthetized and despite its opposition tomy body, or you know

maybebecauseofthat,IfeltonceagainlikeIwasinmyroomandisolated.

ThelasttimeIwasoutherelikethiswasrightafterSarahgavememypaintingback.I’d

comeoutandseenadeadsealionafewfeetfromthewater’sedge.Waveslickeditsbody.Its

eyeswere gone, andmaggots bubbled in the sockets. The smell—rancid seaflesh,worse than

spoiledkelp. I remember looking for sharkbites or cuts fromboatpropellers; findingnone, I

figuredmaybeit’dbeenexhaustedbystrongcurrents,orwasseparatedfromitspack,orcouldn’t

find food, or was sick from infected fish, or maybe some unknowable combination of those

thingsateawayatituntilitjustgaveupandhurleditselftowardaworldithadnobusinessin.

Theblack,crumbling,flashing,convulsing,moiling,retractingocean.Swirlrisecrashthin

hiss.Landwaterland.Goback.

Thereitwas—whatbroughtittogether.Yetanotherchoppyaesthetic,twoworldssealed

byabubble‐eyedcarcass.

32

Timothy Bradford Winter Velodrome

InErnestHemingway’sAMoveableFeast,amemoirabouthistimein1920sParis,hewrites,“I

havestartedmanystoriesaboutbicycleracingbuthaveneverwrittenonethat isasgoodasthe

racesarebothontheindoorandoutdoortracksandontheroad.ButIwillgettotheVélodrome

d'Hiverwiththesmokylightoftheafternoonandthehigh‐bankedwoodentrackandthewhirring

sound the tyresmade on thewood as the riders passed, the effort and the tactics as the riders

climbedandplunged,eachoneapartofhismachine.”Afterreadingthispassagein2003,Idecided

towriteashortstoryaboutanAmericanbicycleracerwhogoestoParisinthe1920storaceinthe

famous six‐day races, non‐stop, 144‐hour‐long competitions between numerous teams of two

riders,butwhiledoingresearch,Icameacrossabetter‐knownandinfamoussideoftheVélodrome

d'Hiver’shistory.Thisledmetostartanovel,whichI’vebeenworkingonoffandon(moreoffthan

on)since2005.

The Vélodrome d’Hiver, or Winter Velodrome, an indoor arena that seated 17,000 people and

featuredaglassceilingandstateof theart lighting,wasbuilt in 1910along theSeine in the 15th

arrondissementofParis,France,and for forty‐nineyears,hostedbicycle races,mostnotably the

six‐dayraces,circuses,rollerskating,politicalrallies,andnumerousotherevents.InJulyof1942,

duringwhatbecameknowaslarafleduVeld’Hiv,theroundupoftheVeld’Hiv,over7,000Jewish

men,womenandchildrenwereheldthereforsixdayswithoutadequatefood,water,andlavatories

beforebeingshippedofftoDrancy,aholdingcamp,andfinallyAuschwitz.Fewreturned.

Influencedprimarilyby theworkofW.G.Sebaldand theearlynovelsofMichaelOndaatje, this

hybridnovel,whichusesprose,poetry,drama,historicaldocuments,andphotographs,followsthe

livesoftwomaincharacters—aFrenchtrackcyclistandaJewishimmigrantfromPoland—from

1925when theyarrive inParis to thedestructionof theVel d'Hiv in 1959.This excerpt from the

novel’s prologue starts at the chronological end of the story and introduces the two main

charactersaswellastheVélodromed’Hiver.Thenovel’sworkingtitleis“WinterVelodrome.”

33

May19,1959

Torndowninthespringandbythespring,therecoilinanswertothepressureofevents,

theweightof17,000bodiestimesthenumberofnightsthestadiumwasfilleduponitsconcrete

frame, which answered in a volley of aches and cracks, communiqués to the city planners

suggesting demolition. The Vélodrome d’Hiver limps into the second half of the twentieth

century along the left bank of the Seine, just downriver and around the bend from the Eiffel

Tower.But itcangonomore. Its legsaregone, its face façade. Itspillarsstillhold intheclay

beneath,butitsbodyisusedupandarecentfirefurthereditsdecline.

Above,thetenoroftheskyisclear,azureandsorrowful, is“April inParis”aswailedby

CharlieParker,who’dbeeninthecitytenyearsearlier,diedfour.Ahundredorsopeoplecome

towatchthearticulated,clawedmachinesdigintotheuglycarapaceoftheVeld’Hiv,theveldt

ofEve,thecalvingofEve,itsmythandloregrandenoughtoevoketheoriginofthespecies,ora

Greek‐likemythofgod‐as‐animalmatingwithhumansandtheresultingoffspring,butitsbox‐

like appearance unfavorably compared to theCitroën factories just downriver on the quai de

Javel.Belchesofblacksmokejutintothesky,steelbucketsjerkilyprodandpush,glassshatters,

andsoontheshellgiveswaytoexposethevertebraeandribsofsteelgirders,stillpaintedbeige‐

brownwhererusthadyettowin.

Smoke‐patinaedconcretewallssurroundthemyriadwoodenchairs,silent,chippedand

broken,liketeethinabadmouth,andtattooedwithinitials,datesandnames:HB,AD,JS+AJ=

amour,7/52,2/55, Jean,Anne‐Marie,Vincent.Theglassceiling,paintedblueduringthewarto

camouflage it frombombings and scraped imperfectly clean afterward, leaks in several places

when it rains, threatening participants, spectators and the loops of electrical lines that hang

down incatenaries to forman impossibly complexwiringdiagram,one thatonly thecurrent,

wizenedelectricianknows.Hedoesn’tunderstandthisdemolition.

Twomen among the crowd watch a bit more intently than the rest, eyes wise to the

moment’simportandlinkagebacktotherest,likealongandfreightedtrainthatrollsnightand

day and never arrives. They are not old men, but they are not young. Not dwellers of the

surroundingGrenelleneighborhood,butfamiliarsanyhow,theirstoriespiecestoanimpossible

mapoftheVeld’Hiv.Theycometowitnessanending.Theycomebutputnothingtorest.

34

One has trouble sleeping but can extinguish consciousness with cognac when he has

money,orcheapbrandywhenheislow.Theotherhaslonggivenuponsleepatpropertimes,

letsitcomewhenitwill,likeanunpredictablerelative.Theshorteronehaslosthisform,gained

weight,getswindedwalkingfourflightsuptohisapartment.SometimeshetakestheMetroto

LaCipale,anoutdoorvelodromeontheothersideofParis,wherehewatchesyoungridersand

offersunaskedforadvice.Holdback,bepatient,wait longer toattack.Thetalleronewearshis

gray woolen overcoat even though the weather is getting warmer, and in the inside top left

pocket, he carries a small Jewish prayer book, its text copied by hand. And inside this book,

tuckedintothecreasebetweenthecoverandthefirstpages,isaphotoofawomanwhoselarge,

kindeyesareechoedbythoseoftheboyandgirlstandinginfrontofher.

When they spot each other, knowing the other would be there, there is no visible

emotiononeither’spart.Likeex‐lovers,thesetwo,theyareveryprofessionalaboutthings,and

thevelodromeisathirdinthetriangle.Whatiseffacedinthedaily,consciousmind—thecollar

bonelinesofanoldlove,thefirmguidanceofsomeone’sarmswhensightisshatteredbygrief,

thenumberoftimesonekissedachild,thenumberoftimesonewasplungedandheldunder

coldwater—cannotbeacknowledgedthoughtheireffectsarewovenintothem,likefreely‐given

humanhair into the clothof aFrenchwartimecoat,or agolden thread intoa father’sprayer

shawl,hanging,unused,inacloset.

JeanapproachesAbram,offershimhishand,thecontactasigh,anaffirmation.Thenthey

turn to watch, offering no comments to the reporters surveying the crowd for quotes.

Anonymityablessingnow,butbeneaththerubbleofthings,someneedofrecognitionsurvives.

The backhoe loaders continue their attack, deftly advancing, pushing and retreating. Kinetic

energy is liberated.Whocansaywhatelse?A localmemoryofpain,echoingwithin, spiraling

upwardintothesky,vortexreversed?Ghoststhatinhabitedthere?“Indeed,itisjustasabsurdto

assert that corporeal substance is composedof bodies or parts as that a body is composedof

surfaces,surfacesoflines,andlinesofpoints.”Isthereaveilwecanrenttoopenoureyestoall

that is, totrulysee,or is imaginationitsownreward?Alargesectionofwall falls inward.The

twomencannotwatch likeboys,amazedatthebeautyofhumansmovingordestroying large

things.Thematerialhastoomuchinit.

35

Butsoon, it’s timefor lunch.Mostof thecrowddisbands.Thedestruction,started,will

lastonemonth,andtheVeld’Hivwillbereplacedbyagovernmentbuildingandanapartment

building. France is

putting shoes on the

hugechildProgress.

Coffee? Jean asks.

Abram nods, and they

trundle off together, old

friends comfortable with

eachother’ssilences,able

to sit with each other’s

sorrows, messy like milk

spilledonatable,andnot

try to mop things up.Words come when they come, build like a small fire slowly catching

betweenthem,awarmth.

Theywalkbyanewspaperkiosk.Theheadlinesread,

FrencharmycontrolsAlgeria

FrenchCommunistPartypushesfor“self‐determination”

How’reMarieandthekids?Abramasks.

Looking forward to summerwithmymother in Livet. They love themountains there,

Jeanreplies.AndMiriam?

HerrelativeshaveinvitedustoTelAviv.Shewantstogo.

Tostay?

Idon’tliketheideaofmoving,butperhaps.Wheredoyouthinkanoldcommunistcan

findaplacetoworkonhisbookinpeace?

Jean thinks before he answers. I thought you’d found that space here, like a sprinter

maneuveringthroughapackofracers,hesays,hishandsjockeyingforpositionintheairbefore

him.

Theywalkinsilencearoundacornerintothesunlight.

Ithinkwe’llgo,atleasttovisit.Ineedarespitefromthiscity,Abramsaysastheyreach

thedoorofthecafé,Ilove,whichJeanopensforhisfriend,tohate.

36

Café interior.One barman.A handful of patrons. The rhythmof cups and plates beingwashed,

friendlybanter,takingorders,andmomentsofnearsilence.Lucid,underwater‐likelight.Jeanand

Abramareseatedatthezinccounter,ademitasseandwaterbeforeeachone.

Jean:Whathappened?

Abram: We lived and a war fell on our heads. The millstone ground millions but

somehow...wewerepushedtotheside.

Jean:Andnow?

Abram:Weshitinpeacenow.

Jean:Weshitthecolorsofalltheflagsofallnations,united.Pileshealed.

Abram:Hownow,brown?

Jean:Pants.

Abram:Getmemy...

Jean(laughing):Yes,Irememberthatjoke.Howyouinventeditwithmeatthecenterof

things.WhatapalaceofcowardiceIwas!

Abram:Iwasn’tmuchbetter.Toldtokillwithahammer,Ihiditinthebread.Toldtokill

withaknife,Icutbreadinstead.Andthegun.Awk!Icouldbarelyhitanon‐humantarget.Poor

tree!

Jean:Whoareyou,myfriend?

Abram:Iammybookbutwounded,threetimesdeeply.TheBookofLifesitsonashelf

somewhere in the future bleeding from these wounds. One. Two. Three. (He gestures to his

forehead,sternum,belly.)Andwhoareyou,myfriend?

Jean:Iamthedrownedmancomebacktolife,buttoooftenIwakeupfromterrorsunder

coldwater.

Abram:AndAysha?

Jean:Mermaid,deadlyorsavingI’veyettodecide.

Abram:AndMarie?

Jean:Lifeguard.

Abram:Ihavenohopeformermaidorlifeguard.Humansarehairybagsofwater.AndI

loveMiriamforbeingjustthat,nomore.Wesloshtogetherthroughthenight,arough,hairysea

againstaroughmiddleC,thetoneshesingsthen.

37

Jean:God?

Abram:CondensedintotheAngelusNovus,wholooksonasthewreckagepilesupinto

history.

Jean:JulietteGréco?

Abram:Hairybagofwater.

Jean:ArcdeTriomphe?

Abram:Backgroundforaslaughter.

Jean:Hope?

Abram:IdreamtlastnightthatIleftitbehindtobecomearealJewsittingfullypresentin

arealsynagoguewithnohopeforGodorfutureormashiachorpastorprogress.Theservicewas

abeautifulbore.Thesurvivorssatwithme,satiatedwithgrief.Iwasfree.ThenIwoke,andhope

stirredinme,andideasforthebooktoo,andsufferingbegananew.

Jean:Whatflavor?

Abram:ShirazandCommunistredcurrant.

Jean:Whatdepth?

Abram:Abyssal.

Jean: I tooalmost lefthopebehindwhenIwasdownthatdeep, into thewateryendof

myself,pasthopeofseeingagainbicyclesandloversandwivesanddear,dearchildren...(He

looksoveratAbram,whoseeyesarewatering.)I’msorry,myfriend.

Abram:Theywere.

Jean:I’msorry,myfriend.

Abram:Theyare. . . . I’venevertoldyou.Italktothemdaily,allthree.Theyadviseme

wheretogo,whattodo,tofinishit,ourbook.TheykeepmecompanyontheMetroplatform.I

don’tcarethatpeoplelook.Theycan’tseethemasIdo.

Jean:Iknew.I’veseenyoutalking,knewitwastothem.

Abram:Thankyouforsayingnothing.

Jean:Sometimesthat’swhatfriendsdo.

Abram(hesitant):Thankyouforhelping.I’msorryIneversaidthatbefore.

Jean:Sometimesthat’swhathumansdo.

Abram:Which?Helporavoidsayingthanks?

Jean:Both.(Pause.)SowillyougotoTelAviv?

38

Abram:Yes,IshouldgotoseatoseewithmyC.

Jean:Funny.

Abram: It just happens. These sounds play together like shapes on a page. All dross,

beautifuldross.

Jean:Andgrist,likeus.

Abram:Allthat’sleftisforustogrindourselvesnow.Toapoint.Beautifullinesofpoints.

Allwecancomprehend?

Jean:Perhaps.(Pause.)Butdesignwithorwithoutend?

39

Oneweek earlier, SalvadorDali, dressed in a graypinstripe suit and carryinghis cane,

enterstheVeld’Hivtomanifestitsfinalevent.Hebringsabombmadeofcopperontowhichare

fixed forks, spoons and knives, coins, nails, a small replica of la Tour Eiffel, and a Cross of

Lorraine.Hedoesnotannouncethisbombingbeforeithappens;hedoesnotannouncehehasa

bombuntilhearrivesattheVeld’Hiv.Daliplacesthebombinthecenteroftheinfield,whereit

issurroundedbyahedgeofphotographersandjournalists,andretirestoasafedistance.Kraaa‐

BOOM! The power of the bomb catches the press off guard—his intention?—and one

photographer is wounded on the face. Dali reappears amidst the smoke, manic‐eyed, his

moustacheperfectlywaxedandturneduptohischeeks,likebicyclehandlebars,andgathersthe

scatteredpiecesof copper,holds the largerpiecesup for thepress likeanewMoseswith the

undecipherablecommandmentsofthepost‐atomicage.Pin‐pon,pin‐pon,pin‐pon,pin‐pon,pin‐

pon,pin‐poncomestheambulance.

40

AnhourbeforetheymeetatthedemolitionoftheVeld’Hiv,atthecounterinacaféon

theAvenueÉmileZola, JeanSapin,overcoffeewithmilkandsugar,somethinghis teammates

alwaysteasedhimabout—Youdrinkitlikeawoman!—perfectifitscolormatchedherskin,the

memoryofherinthebackjerseypocketofhismindlikeashotofespresso,cognacandcocaine,

knownaseagle’ssoup,takenduringthegruelingsix‐dayraces,JeanSapinwandersthroughthe

wreckage,makinghistoryinhishead.Shaftsofclearwintersunshinethroughtheglassceiling

onto the planks in the track, illuminating the brown and goldhues in thewood,while small

birdstrappedinsideflitamongthegirdersandlights.Voicesechoinandareswallowedbythe

aberrant,enormousacousticsofthespace.Goodride,goodride,Henri’sdeepvoicecutsthrough

theoxygendebthazeandcrowdnoiseafterJean’sfirstracethere,agenineteen,afiftykilometer

points race, Henri happy with him though all he’d done was stick with the pack. Henri’s

resonant, pipe‐smoke and cognac‐mellowed voice, the same that would denounce him? No,

different.Laterman,changedman,bitterman.Theyallwerescaredandchosesides,likedogsin

packs, like starving rats.UnderHenri’s tutelage, Jean rode the track—250meters around and

around and around—until he knew every bump, warp and groove, the way theymarked his

progressaroundtheoval,thewaythefinalturncouldthrowyouoffbalanceasyoucameoutof

itforthesprint.Once,itmadehimwaiverandbumptheSioux’srearwheel,whichpitchedhim

hardintoacrashthatdrovelongwoodensplintersfromthetrackintohislegs,armsandhands.

Helooksatthescarsonhiselbows,old,worn‐outlabelsbeneaththedark,wiryhairthatprove

hewasthatoneonce,butonlyinadistant,long‐agoway.

Howmanyfacesinthecrowdsforthesix‐dayraces?Sometimeshe’dcatchauniqueone

ashepassedand itwouldhaunthimfora lapor two.Sometimeshe’dsearch for itagain: the

electricblueeyes,themossgreen,thevelvetbrown,theicygray,abovethestrongnose,allof

one’scharacteristhereinthenose,andthemouth,atearofteethandred.SeeingAyshathere

forthefirsttime,havingnoideawhatshewouldbringhim,takefromhim—leaveoff,enoughof

her.MeetingAbram.Butmainlythecrowd,allofParisitseemed,passedbyasarevolvingand

noisyblur,andhe likedtheway its longitudinalwavesdisturbedtheairwhentheracewasn’t

41

heatedandpeoplewereminglingandmadethesoundofamurmuring,slightlydistantocean.

Andhelovedthewayitroaredwhentheracegotgoingandthecrowd,drunkondrinkandthe

pressofbodiesandspectacle,screamedat them,theirvoicesdroppinganoctaveor twoashe

passed by. It became a feedback loop that could egg them on or demoralize. Oh, the things

peopleyelledduringtheSixDays.Gloriousandmean.

Hewasn’t famousbuthewasa respectable rider. In twelveeditionsof theSix Joursde

Paris, he’d earned one victory, two seconds, one third, and a host of placings no one

rememberednow,savehimandoldteammates.HeneededtoseeAlainagain.Toolong.Maybe

theywouldgoforarideatLaCipale?Heneededtogetbackintosomekindofshape.Marie’s

subtlecomplaintsanddisinterest.Stupid.

He recalled stupid crashes, like falling down at low speed while reading a newspaper

duringamorning’struceintherace.He’dfocusedtoomuchonthewords.Hismarriageinthe

infield toMarie, and later her bringing little Yves, and then littleHannah, there to see their

fatherrace.HowhelovedtotakeYvesonthehandlebars fora laportwoafterward,hissmall

warmthandanimatedformquietlybalancedtherewiththehelpofJean’shandasYvestriedto

controlhisbody’sthrilledtwitching.

Thedrugsneartheend,morethanthenormalconcoctions,theeagle’ssoup,madehim

jitteryandjuicedandunabletosleepduringhisrestbreaks.Howhefeltlikeagoddamngodbut

lacked theyouth tomanifest itspurepuissance!His accident andwoundedeye, thepainand

annoyance, lack of depth, all surface, right as the threat ofwar pushed down on them like a

largerracerelbowingyouout in thesprint.But thankgod for that injury—hecovershisgood

righteyeforamomenttoseeiftheleftwasgettinganyworse.No,samebad,thenewspapernow

appearingtobebeneathisinglass,andatadistance,shadows.Releasethegoodone.Okay,back

tothisfairvision.Thisinjuryablessingthatgavehimhismedicalreleasefrommilitaryservice—

they were taking nearly everyone then—where somany of his friends went and were killed,

woundedorcaptured.Ofcoursehesufferedtoo,right?Madehissacrifice?Gaveuphisrelatively

sureexistencewithhisvelo‐taxitohelpher,tohelphim,becauseMariesaidto.Becausehefelt

manythingsforthem,asahuman,asafriend.

ThefirmgripoftheFrenchsecretpolicemanonhisarmthedayhewascaught,andthe

humiliatinglackofpowerfollowedbytherainofquestionsandblows,andthatbathtubfullof

frigidwater,likeatomb.Beingtiedtoaboard.Theimmersionuntilhewassurehe’ddrown.

42

Howhecouldwanderofftrack.Butisn’tit,asAbramclaims,allboundtogetherlikethe

parts of a chair, outside of which no chair would exist, like the strength of her nose and

eyebrows,herquickwitandrelentlesscourage,theolivetreeofherbody,thescentofgeranium

andorange,thehennacolorinherdark,curlyhair,outsideofwhichnoherwouldexist?Enough

ofher.

Ah,herhair.

The other, three blocks away on a bench in a park populated by pigeons, echoes the

surroundingcoosashemouthstohimselfbitsofpoetryandprayersinFrench,Yiddish,Hebrew,

Polish,andpiecesofotherlanguages.Allpiecesdifferentbutinterchangeable,andalldevoured

bythecoolspringair.Sometimes,acertainphrasewillbringavision,orafrisson,orwatertohis

eyes,mucustohisnose.Suchastrangereaction,hethinks,toairpushedthroughmuscleand

cartilagetorhymewithsoundshe’sheardorglyphshe’sseenonapagesomewhere,whichall

attempttorhymewithone’sexperiencesandsomeversionofthisever‐presentworldbeforeus.

Buttoday,hefeelsmostlystuck,likehisheartgotcaughtuponthewrought‐ironrailingatthe

edge of the park.He feels like a statue here, like one of the Franks guidingCharlemagne on

horseback.Buthisworkisnotdone.Hemusttrytosay,totell,notbecomejustastoneinthe

street in front of where he works amid the newspaper presses that refuse to print even one

acknowledgment,andtheliesthathesetstherearepartlyhisown,reluctant,cowardlywitness.

Why does he stay?

This city was his home.

AbramDychtwald came of

age here, matured here,

loved and married here,

procreated, and died, then

rose to fight as a ghost.

Since,he’ssoughttheexact

combination of words to

make him partly human

again.Afterwork at thepress,heprowls the streets looking for lead tomeltdownandmake

typefacesSanskrit,ArabicandChinesefairlyrarehereforsuchabigandworldlycityforhis

43

book, The Book of Life. He drifts through alleys amidst the clatter coming from restaurant

kitchens,thenonstopabusedeliveredbytheheadcheftothesous‐chefs,thewhooshofgasjets

igniting,thecarefulyeturgentappealsfromthewaiters,therhythmicchop‐chop‐chopofknife

onwood,andtheresonantclink‐clankofflatwareanddishesthatsoundliketheteethandbones

ofthecitybangingtogether.Heishomehere,behindthefaçades,andknowswheretostopto

getafreemeal.

44

He haunts the weekend

antiquesalesandgaragesalesand

sometimes finds new typefaces

there, but he never tells such

people what he is doing. The

professional scrappers and

vendorsatthefleamarketsonthe

edge of town, some of these he

trusts with his vision, and they

keep an eye out for him. The

Book of Life must include every

language,andeverysymbolthatmeanssomething,hetellsthem.Theylaughatthisimpossible

projectbutsomehowunderstand.Boththeyandheknowshewillneverfinish,andbothknow

thatisthepoint.Thiskeepshimsomethinglikealive.Untilhecompletesit,hewillhauntthis

citylookingforlettersandglyphstoreplacethoseittookfromhim,thosepicturedinhispocket

now,never,likemost,toreturn.

45

NumberkilledrenovatingLaSalledesMachines, 1902 (precursor to theVeld’Hiv):4—

Onefellfromscaffolding,threewerecrushedunderagirderwhenthecrane’scablesnapped.

NumberkilledbuildingtheVeld’Hiv,1910:2—Onefellwhileinstallingtheplateglassin

theceiling.Theplatefellafterhim,ashatteringpunctuationtohisdullthud.Onefellfromthe

second tierwhileworkingon the railing.A stupid fall. Don’t tell my wife, he said.One could

speak positively of a 50% reduction in work‐related accidents. The modern world would

certainlybeasaferplace.

Numberkilled inside theVeld’Hiv: 40—Three cyclists and twomotorcyclists in racing

accidents.Oneofthecyclistscrashedsohardthatafour‐inch‐longsplinterofthetrackpierced

hisabdomen,bledhimtodeath.Twotrapezeartistsdespitethenets.Onemafiamemberinahit

inthebathroom.Thirty‐twopeopleofthesome7,000takenthereduringonehotweekinJulyof

1942.Somewerepregnant.Manywereold.Manywerechildren.Somesuccumbedtothestresses

of six days in crowded, stifling, unsanitary conditions. Heart conditions erupted into heart

attacks.Diabeticswentwithoutmedicine.Foodandwaterwere scarce.Doctors few.After the

firsttwelvehours,thefiveavailabletoiletsbecamebackedupandunavailable.(Fivetoiletswere

offlimitsbecausetheywereinroomswithwindows.)Duringthischaos,aluckyfewescaped.

Afterthefirstcoupleofdayswhenpeoplehadtheenergytoworry,tocry,tostruggleand

to complain, they started to quiet down, and the heavy, dusty, hot silence of the immense,

enclosedspacehungoverthemlikeanunansweredquestion.Sometimes,thecallofachildfor

mother,ormotherforchild,would,formorethanasecond,hangintheair,alive,likethesmall

birds flitting between girders and seats. When they asked for something from the French

policemen guarding the exits, the response was always, No. Some cut the drama short and

jumpedtotheirdeathsfromthesecondtier.

46

After six days, the living were transported to a holding camp at Drancy, then on to

anotherholdingcampatPithiviers,wherechildrenwereseparatedfromtheirparents.Then,in

turn,bothweresentbacktoDrancyand,bythefallof1942,Auschwitz.

47

Jerry Gabriel Electric, This Age Coming

By first light,wehadedgedaroundTalbot,ahamlettothewestofL—abouteighteenmiles.

Eighteenmileswasn’tmuch,butitwasasmallcushion,andtohavemadeitallbeforeanyone

knewweweregonemadeitsomehowmore.

Janeybuiltafireandsetupacookpotinaclearingclosetoasmallstreamnearlyamile

off the trace.Wewarmedover the fire in silence.Dawnwas cold, if not yet freezing, andwe

weren’tusedtoityet.Weweretiredfromanightwithoutsleepandtheprospectofafulldayof

ridingahead.

Seanpulledaleatherpouchfromhissaddlebaganddumpedthecrawdadshe’dcaught

yesterdayafternoonintheLauneintotheboilingwater—thereweremaybetwelve—andweate

themquietlyasiftheywerebacon,noneofusturningupournoses,thoughtheywerenotusual

fareforus.Wesatontwofallenelms,andnoneofusdaredtocloseoureyes.

Wewerelessthananhourinthatclearing,thoughIcanstillseeittheseyearsremoved,

the way the early morning sun filled the space, the slight southwestern breeze. Before we

decampedandpointedourselvestowardtheroad,Padisappearedintothewoods.Iassumedhe

was simply relievinghimself, but fiveminutespassed, and then ten.Thehorseswerepacked.

SeanwasalreadyonPersephone.

AnyoneknowwhyPa’stakingsolong?Iaskedthem.

Probablyinthewoodsdoinghisbusiness,Seansaid.

He’stakinghistimeaboutit.

Whenyou’refiftyorwhatever,comeandtalktome.

He’sonlyfortyyouimbecile,Isaid.AndIdon’tdoubtthat’strueformostpeople.Butnot

forhim.Hedoeseverythingfast.

He’srightaboutthat,Janeysaid.

Why don’t you two go knock on his door and see if he could use any sort of special

lanolinforhisbackside,Seansaid.

Mr.Riley?Janeycalledout,casuallywalkingtowardthewood.

Therewasnoanswer.

Shesaiditagain.

48

Comeon,shesaidtome,andIloopedmyownhorse’sreignstoasaplingandfollowed.

We waded into the weeds and around a rise in the land filled with some cedars.We

weren’t twentyyardsoutof campwhenweencounteredPawalking towardus.Hewas inhis

blue army uniform, which we had never seen him in. That itself was a shock, made him

somethingotherthanthemanIhadknownmywholelife.

In his right arm were the clothes he’d worn last night, folded neatly. There was

somethingelsenotquiteright,whichtookmeaminutetosurmise.Hisleftarmwasnowhereto

beseen.Thesleeveonthatsidewassewninaneatlinejustbelowtheshoulder.Thethreeofus

stoodonthetrailforamoment,lookingatoneanother.

Ialmostforgotyouhavesomeexperiencetraveling,Janeysaid,unsurprised, inherway,

byeverythingintheworld.HehadshowedupattheOldPlaceafewweeksback,AWOLfrom

hisunitinVirginia.Hehadwalkedacrossthemountainshome.

He shrugged now. Nobody questioned it in western Virginia, though nor were those

mountainfolkthesharpestIhaveencountered.

It’sagoodidea,Janeysaid.

Yes,hesaid,thoughtiscapableevenwithoutbookstellingyouhow.

Whereisyourarm?Iheardmyselfask.

It’sattachedtomyshoulder,Michael.

Imean,isitjustlooseinthere?

Helookedatme,exasperated.Ibeltitaroundhere,justbelowmychest.Hewaspointing

withhislefthandtotheplace,undertheuniform,wherethebeltran.

Whatisthematterwithyou?Janeysaidtome.

Iwasshakenbytheimageofhimwithjustonearm,whichwasathinghardtoexplain

whenIhadbeensolittlebotheredbyhisabsenceatthefrontandthelikelihoodthathewould

never return to us. It was very convincing, the amputation, at first glance. I doubted anyone

wouldhavethecouragetochallengeit,whichIsawimmediatelywasitsgamble.

Thetroublingthing,asIthoughtmoreaboutit,waslesstheideaofhimwithoutanarm

than it was a sense of wonder that he had used hismind the way Janey used hers, for self‐

preservation,togetsomethingfromtheworld.ItwasanimpulseIcouldn’trememberseeingin

him.Once,hehadaccidentallycaughthisfootwithapick,diggingrocksoutofthegarden,and

had nearly taking off a toe.He had showed very little concern for the terrible infection that

49

overtookhis footandthreatened, forawhile,hisvery life.Fordays,he limpedaroundonthe

badfoot,buteventuallyhecouldnolongerwalkandwasforcedtositonachairontheporch,

hisswollenlegraisedonanotherchair.Hewouldn’thearofourfetchingadoctor,thoughhewas

right thatDocMelcherwasn’t likely to feel inclinedtomakethesevenmile trekto thecabin,

givenhowlittlewehadtopayhimwith,somerutabagasandturnips.Ihadsuggestedhooking

upthecarttotheoxen,andpullinghimintoL—,buthechosetositthereinhischairandwait

forwhatevermightcome.Eventually,hisbodywonout,thewoundhealedandthefoot,though

neverquitethesame,returnedtoanormalsize.

AndsoIwaswondering,standingonthetrail,whatwasitbesideshislifethathewanted

inallofthis.

Imightalsohaveaskedmyselfthesamequestion,itoccurredtomesometimelaterthat

day, as we moved in a single file line along a deer path, skirting the day’s third hamlet. By

nightfall, Janey calculated thatwewere about 33miles from

L—.Itwasstartingtofeelreal,thedistancemakingitso,the

landscape’s changes adding to the sense of separation. We

knewwewouldsoonbeatalargeriver,theScioto.

There was a ferry crossing the river just north of a

small settlement calledNotting, and theword’s similarity to

Nothingwasnotlostonus.Therewereahandfulofriverswe

would have to cross in those first weeks, but this one,

according to Janey, who had been pouring over maps and

travelers’ accounts for months, would be among the most

difficult.Therewasjusttheoneferry,atlastcount.Theriver,whilenotasbigastheOhio,was

toobigtoswim,evenifwe’dbeeninclinedto.Forone,Pacouldnotswim.

Weapproachedtheriverearlyinthemorning,justasthesunwasshowingatourbacks.

Wewererelievedtoseethecraftonourside.Theplacewasotherwiseempty,though,andthe

craftwaschainedtoawroughtironpole,securedtherewithalockthesizeofaman’shand.

We’dalreadyriddenfivemiles,andwegotoffandstretchedourlegs.Janeywentupthe

shoreawaystoseeifshecouldfindsomeone.Therestofusstoodonthebankslookingacross

totheothersideasifacrosstheRiverStyx.

I’llbehappytobeontheothersideofthis,Seansaid.

I almost forgot you have some experience traveling, Janey said, unsurprised, in her way, by everything in the world. He had showed up at the Old Place a few weeks back, AWOL from

his unit in Virginia. He had walked across the mountains home.

50

It’s just theother side,Pa saiddismissively.Whoever is afterus cando it just theway

we’redoingit.

I’d beenwaiting for Sean andPa to begin to bicker—itwasmerely amatter of time, I

knew.Myearliestmemorieswerefilledwiththeirvoices,disagreeing,sometimesshouting.But

beforethismomentturnedintoanincitingincident,Janeyreturnedwithaspindlylookingman

wearingaquiteshabbystrawplanter’shat.Therewassomethingcuriousabouthiseyes,whether

they were crossed or one larger than the other, it wasn’t obvious. He was a whole different

varietyofshadythanCarlide,thebountyhunterattemptingtocollectthe$30onPa’shead.This

onewasoutofdimenovel,afewofwhichI’dreadwhenIwassupposedtobeinschool.

Well,wegotawholepartyofviajeros,hewassayingloudenoughtobeheardallaround.

HewassimultaneouslystrappingonhissuspendersandsituatingashinyColtonhiship.Dawn

wasmurkyinthevalley,likehome—slowandquiet,thesoundsmuffledbythefog.

I haveobserved a few things inmypost,he started, as the twoof themcame into the

patchofwornearththatledtothelanding.Hedidn’twaitforanyonetoaskwhat.

Earlymorning crossers are of two varieties, he said.One is folks on the lam.Here he

caughtmyeye,andadded,perhapsformybenefit,That’sontherun,inlayman’sterms.Thieves

andthelike.See,peoplemistakethisbodyofwaterforabarrier.

Hepointedtotheroilingriver,whichheadedsouthtowardtheOhio.Itwashighandfast,

fromaseriesofrecentstorms.

Seannoticedthatmygazehaddriftedtotheriver,andheliftedhiseyebrows.

Thesecondsortare thoseonamission.Military sortsand the like. Importantbusiness

underway, you know? Spies, some of them. Couriers. Advance parties.Hewas digging into a

shirtpocketforasmallpackoftobacco.

Janeywasabout topullhergun tohurryhimalong, I thought,whenSeansteppedup.

We’re the second sort.Now if youplease,we’d like tomake somedistancebefore supertime.

We’vealongwaytogo.

Hesmiled.Ihopeyou’recarryingacertificateoflivebirthonyourperson,youngman.

Youneedn’tworryaboutwhatIcarryonmyperson.

Sure,he said.And then,bywayofdefense, I’mnot the enemyhere. I’ve got yourbest

interestatheart.

51

Themanlookedaround,likehewassearchingforhismugofcoffee,thenhisgazelanded

onPa.

Sir,hesaid,afakesalute.

Panoddeduncomfortably,thoughIsuspectedthisgentlemanhadtobeusedtopeople’s

discomfortwithhisabusivemanner,andtheydidn’tneedtobecriminalstobeannoyed.

Awordofadvicetoyou,sir,ifImay.

Nobodywants tohear your advice, started Sean, but thenPahelduphishand toward

Sean,allowingthemantospeak.

Iwasyou,Iwouldbeonthelookoutforadifferentuniform.Agoodone—somethingthat

will take you all theway to the diggings—would be the First Colorado Infantrymaybe. That

therewouldbeabetterone.Thenyou’re justgoinghome,right?Asit is,thequestionisthus:

whereyouheading?AnythingOhioisbad.

Pawatchedtheman,measuringthings.

I’mjustafriendouthere,heassuredhim.Igotnowageronanyofit.Ihavelivedmylife

bytheGoodBook,atleastwherethatscoreisconcerned.Ihavehadothertroubles,tobesure.I

havefallenattimes.Mademistakes.Hesmiledatmeagain.

Pawasstoneyfacedforhispart.

Butthat’sgood,thatthere,hesaid,pointingtothearm.

Patweakedhishead.Astheboysays,we’rehopingtogetalong.

Biensûr,hesaidwithanespeciallyextravagantFrenchaccent.That’s15centsahead,25

fortheanimals.

We’llpayyouontheotherside,Janeysaid.

HelookedatJaneyagain,asifforthefirst.

She’samoderngirl,thisone.Comesuptomyabodeandshakesmeoutofbed.Boldness.

Electric,thisagecoming,youaskme.

Wecanjusttaketheboatourselves,shesaid,andthenyou’llhavetoswimtocomeand

getit.

Thegentlemanwasjustgettingthingsgoinghere,PasaidtoJaney.

Allthesame,themansaid.Ican’twaitforthefuture.

Iwasveryconfusedbymuchofwhatofwhatwashappening.

52

Themanboardedtheboatandliftedasmallgateandweallfollowed.Aboard,theearth

rockedbeneathus.Ihadneverbeenonaboatbefore;Idon’tthinkSeanhadeither.Pahadof

coursecrossedtheAtlantic.

Gonnabeabeauty, themansaid,breathing in theair, as if thepreviousexchangehad

neverhappenedandhewasmeetingusforthefirst.

Aswewereabouttogetunderway,awomanequallyunkempttotheproprietorappeared

attheshore.Shehadaboyatherside—byhislooksanddemeanor,Iassumedhebelongedto

thetwoofthem.Hewasaboutmyage,maybeabityounger.Hehadayounggoattetheredto

hisbeltwithahemprope.

Besurethattheycleanupthehorseleavings,sheyelled.

Oh,yes,themansaid,nodding,Imayhavefailedtomentionthatanyhorseshitisyour

owntotakealongwithyou.

Thisoneheresayshepaidalready for the trip, thewomanyelled.Thesunwasnotyet

overthehills,andheretheboatwasfillingup.

Theboy,whowasnotthesonofthesetwo,itturnedout,and

his goat clambered aboard and we disembarked. The water was

swift, but flat, and only the jerks of the spindlyman ratcheting us

across thecablegaveusanymotionat all; ifwehadbeendrifting,

the ride would’ve been quiet and smooth. We stood shoulder to

shoulder,andtheanimalswerebehindus,silentandanxious,lifting

theirfeetrepeatedlyandlookingwithconfusionbehindthemselves.

Somehowthemanstayedquiet foratimebeforestartingup

again when we had reached the middle of the channel. At that

moment,thesunfinallycrestedthetreesbehindus,andthefarshoreglowedresplendentinthe

light,atouchofautumntosomeofthetreesthere.

You’re apadre to at least somea theseuns,he said idly.But for the life ofme, I can’t

rightlytellwhich.

WhenPadidn’trespond,themansaid,No.Alltogether,Ican’tquiteputmyfingeronthe

arrangementshereonebit.

Thegoodnews,saidSean,isthatouraffairsdon’tconcernyou,soyouneedn’ttaxyour

mindwithsolvingthisproblem.

Shiloh, huh? Sean said. A student of history, he said in mock surprise. And then added, Among other places, as I say. And which side was this for? There’s not but one side in this, son, he said.

53

True,themansaid.True.Butlivingouthere,it’ssortofapastimeamanlikestoenjoy,

justtoentertainhisself.It’saformofbetterment,really.Believeitornot,thelittleladyandme,

weare self‐improvers. She’s gotmeonadiet she readabout involvesnothingbut vegetables.

Youimaginethat?

Doasyouplease,Seansaid.

Themansmiled,anddidseempleasedtobeallowedjustthisonediversion.

IfIhadtoguess,hewenton,IwouldputyouthePaofthegirl,andthatonethereisthe

beau—notthatit’stoanyone’sliking—andthelittleonehereis…I’mgoingtosayalsosomeof

yourownprogeny.

Pashrugged,lookedofftowardthenorth.

I’mclose,themansaid.IcanseeI’mclose.

Yougotmostofitwrong,Seantoldhim.Youshouldgetsomebooksouthere.

Thatwoulddomeverylittlegood,themansaid.

Anyonecanlearntoread,Seanreplied.

Iprefertalkingtoallelse.Ilikeagoodfat‐chewin.

Youprobablylikeyourdrink,too,Seansaid,notentirelywithmalice.

Insteadof showingoffense, theman said,Now, if you’ve somegrog, I could cease and

desistinearnest.

Seanlaughed.Ihavenodoubt,untilthebottlewasempty.

Pa,whowassituatedclosesttotheanimals,reachedbackwithhislefthandtothesaddle

bagonhishorseand fishedsomethingout. Itwasabottlewehadn’t seenbefore. Iwondered

what other surprises heharbored in there. I couldn’t remember ever seeinghim take a drink

himself.

Hehandedittotheman,whoseeyestrackediteagerlyallthewayfromthebag.

Obliged,hesaidtothebottle.Whilethemanhelditwithhis freehand—hisotherone

stillcrankingthe ferry’s ratchet—Paunscrewed it forhim,andthemantooka longswig,and

thenhandedthebottleback.Hewipedhismouthwiththebackofthesamehand.

Whatwasitlikewhereyouwereoffto?HeaskedPa.

Exactlyasthepapersreportitall,Pasaid.Exceptworse.

You’ve got a lot of concern for this war for a man operating a ferry in themiddle of

nowhere.ThiswasSeanagain,whocouldberelentless.

54

Don’tbedeceivedbytheworld,youngman.Youcanonlyseesomeofitatatime.

Soyou’llhaveusbelieveyoufought?

You’llbelievewhatyouwill,hesaid.Mostpeopledo.

Backacrossthewater,thewomanstillwatched,asifsheexpectedsomethingtohappen.

Themanbreathedheavilyashecranked.Wewerenearlythere.Theboy’sgoatbayed.

Sowhatwasitlikewhereyouwere?Seansaid.

Palookedathimwithasternexpression,onemeanttoexpressthefactthatSeanwasout

ofhisdepth,butSeanhadlongsincemovedpastPa’scontrol.

Alotofmetalflyingaroundasitturnedout,hesaid.

Andwherewasthat?

Tennessee,hesaid,amongafewothernon‐consequentiallocales.

Shiloh,huh?Seansaid.

Astudentofhistory,hesaidinmocksurprise.Andthenadded,Amongotherplaces,asI

say.

Andwhichsidewasthisfor?

There’snotbutonesideinthis,son,hesaid.

Seanwaitedforthepunchline,butitnevercame.

Whenwedocked,themanliftedhisarmtohiscollarandreleasedthetopbuttonthere.

Anentiresectionofhisneckwasmissing,atangleofscarsjustabovethecollarbone.

Howdidyousurvivethat?Seanwondered.

Thiswastheveryquestionthatseveralsurgeonsputtomeinthefieldhospital.Iguess

I’mjustatoughbugger,likemyDaddyusedtosayafterhe’dwhippedme.Godresthissoul.

Aswemountedupontheshore,theboywiththegoatdisappeareddownatrailalongthe

river,quietlyandquickly.

I’lldowhatIcantosteerthoseinpursuit,hesaid.

Youneedn’tworryaboutanyonepursuingus,Seansaid.

Pahandedthemanthefare,andafterhehadcountedhiscoins,helookedbackupand

Paflippedhimanadditionalhalfeagle.Animponderableamountofmoney.

Atthis,themansaidthathereckonedwithsuchaniceday,hemaypulltheboattoshore

anddosomebadlyneededmaintenance.Andthenadded,lookingwherethehorseshadbeen,

55

Not toomuchof amesshere. I’ll just take care of that for you, because you’ve been such an

interestingstarttomyday.

Hewasalreadywhistlingasongasheshoveledthemanureintotheturgideddies.

A little further down the trail, Sean said to Pa, You gave thatman a heady amount of

money.

Pashrugged,asiftosay,Easycome,easygo.

Hewasappalling,Seansaid.Aninsulttohumanity.

Outhere,Pasaid,you’llsoonseethatthat’smostlywhatthereis.

Therewasnopleasureinhisvoice,astheresometimeswaswhenhewascorrectingSean’s

notionsoftheworld.

56

Mark Belisle

Primary Directive

It stands there at the entrance to the dark hallway, looking like Jonah staringdown the

gapinggulletofhistar‐blackLeviathanasitlistenstothesoftdraftnearthewindow,thegroan

of the floor, the wind through the leaves tickling the beach house's windows, and the soft

stirringdownthehall.

It hesitates for amoment to wait formore data, but when it hears the noise again it

moves swiftly to themaster bedroom on the right. It has no eyes that need to adjust to the

differencesinlighting,butitnotesthefullredmoonstreamingthroughthewindow'sblindsjust

thesameasitcrossesthethreshold.There,sprawledoutinthebed,theboysleeps,sofrailand

skinnyitworriesthatthemeresttouchofitshandswillcrushthechildintoathousandjagged

pieces.

Butthentheboyshivers,remindingitofitssolepurpose.Itwalkstothebedandscoops

himupintoitsstiff,uncomfortablegrasp,thenwalkstothechairacrosstheroomandsitswith

himagainstitschest.

Andthere,bathed inthe lightofabloodmoon, itrocksthefrailcreature inamathematically

perfectcadenceastheservosinitsarmswhirsoftlyintheperfectdark.

ThedaybreakswithCommotion.

It stands patched into the house's mainframe jack by the front door when it senses

something happening outside in the world. It activates the microphones placed around the

house and cycles through themuntil it ascertains theprobable locationof thedisturbance. If

Maggie, the house's mainframe A.I., were still active it would have been able to access the

securitycamerafeedsaswell.ButMaggiehasbeenalongtimesilentandasmuchasithastried

togethertorespond,thereisnoresuscitatingherfromthedarkslumberofpowerfailure.

Usingthemicrophones,ithearstwopairsoffeetclappingagainstthesidewalkandheavy,

panickybreaths.Thesetwofactsimplyachase,whichinturnimpliesdanger.

ItactivatesSecurityProtocol403andshiftspositionsbythedoor,loweringitscenterof

gravityandincreasingthechancesofacriticalstrikeagainstafoeatcloserange.Thousandsof

possible simulations and tens of thousandsof possible responsespulse through itsmind as it

57

continuestolisten.

"Getbackhere!"

Aman'svoice,breathlessandangry.Thepursuer.

Theonlyreplyisanincreaseinpace,eachstepclosertothehouseparingdownthelistof

contingencyplansitcanuse.

"Iwon'thurtyou!"thepursuerscreams."Justgimmeit!"

Itlistensasthepursuedfalters,thentrips,thensprawlstothesidewalk.Itprojectsalist

ofpossibleinjuriesandreactionsandmovesclosertothedoor,readytotearitopenandmeet

thetwopeopleonthestreet.

There is a shout and awooden thud as something is slammed against the frontdoor's

heavyoak.Then,agunshotpunctuatestheearlymorninglikeanambiguouscommaattheend

ofashortstory.

There isagroanandagurgledcurseandamomentofsilence. It listensas thepursuer

searcheshisvictimforwhateverhehadwantedbeforethechasehadbegan.

"Yes, there it is," the man chuckles. "Ask the good Lord and you shall receive. Jesus

Almighty,yes."

Itwaitstoseeifthemanwilltryhisluckandopenthefrontdoor.Ifhedoesitwillmove

withsuchspeedandbrutality themanwon'tevenseethethingthatkillshim.Thesecondhe

triesthedooritwillcrushtheman'swindpipeandsnaphisspineinaflurryofattacksthatwill

takelessthanthreesecondstocomplete.

Butthereisnohandonthedoorknob.

Thereisonlythesoftshufflingoffeetonconcreteasthemanwalkstowardtheoceanin

themorningsun.

It deactivates Security Protocol 403 thirty seconds after the man wanders outside the

microphones'range.Itreturnstoitsnormal,slightlyslumpedstanceandremovesitslinkcords

outofthewalljack.Thenitturnsaroundandgoestothekitchentopreparebreakfast.

ThegrimypantryyieldsnothingbutasinglecanofGreatNorthernbeans,severalstale

crackers,andafewdessicatedcockroachcorpses.

WhentheCommotionsstartedoccurringatalarmingregularity,ithaddownloadedalist

of protocols fromMaggie'smainframe that it had deemed necessary for the fulfillment of its

58

primary directive. Defense and security protocols, basic and advanced repair, first‐aid and

psychologicalevaluation,andevenbasicstorytellinghadallbeendownloadeddirectlythrough

thewireless Internet connection it sharedwithMaggie.Unfortunately, it had been unable to

considerallthewayspossiblefor ittofail initsprimarydirective;protocolsforfoodrationing

andscavenging thatwouldhavepreventedanemptycupboard forgottenuntil itwas too late,

untiloneGreatCommotiontookboththepowergridandMaggiecompletelyoffline.

Ifitwascapableofemotionalresponse,itmighthavemissedtheclose,intimatelinkthat

it had shared with the house's mainframe, might have regretted not downloading additional

protocols.

Butitdoesn'tfeellonelinessordespair.

Itonlytakesthesinglecanofbeansfromtheshelfandbringsittothekitchencounter

whereitusesarustycanopenertosliceoffthetopofthecan.Itpours

the coldbeansdirectly into abowl and considers executing itsbasic

fire building programbut decides against it after calculating a sixty‐

three percent probability that doing so would cause another

Commotion.

It carries thebeans away from thedark,dankkitchenandup

the staircase. The hallway is better lit in the morning and when it

reachesthetopofthestairsitseesatinyfigurestandingjustoutside

the master bedroom. The boy trembles on legs as thin as the dead

branchesofawillowtree,hisfleshpaleandunbecomingwithdark,inkystainsbeneathhiseyes.

"Goodmorning," its modulated voice echoes down the hall. "You are not well. Please

comewithmebacktobed."

Theboyshakeshishead.

CanIgooutsideandseethesun?

"Itisnotsafeoutsidethismorning.TherewasaCommotionwhileyousleptandaman

died.Ifyoucomebacktobed,Iwillopentheblindsandyoucanlookoutsidefromthewindow.

Isthisanacceptablecompromise?"

Itextendsamechanicalarm.

Theboydoesn'tanswer.

At some point since they had last

opened the blinds, a man hanging from a length of

rope at the bottom of the O had

appeared.

59

Heonlyplacesasmallhandagainstthewhiteplasticandallowsittowalkhimbackinto

thebedroom.

Thetwoofthemstareoutontothebeachtownbetweensmallbitesofcoldbeans.

Outside, there past the tall Crimson Kingmaple tree, they can see the tip of the tall,

fluorescentorangesignthatreads,"Dolle's."

Itcanaccessitsdatabanksandbringupvideorecordingofafamilyoutingatthebeach

three summersagowhen it and the tiny figurehadcraned theirnecksup to lookat the sun‐

kissed sign. The boy had pointed up at it, using a French fry covered inmalt vinegar as an

impromptupointer.

Look!Isn'tthatsocool?theboyhadasked.

Nowthetinyfigurelooksatthesignandsaysnothing.

Atsomepointsincetheyhadlastopenedtheblinds,amanhangingfromalengthofrope

atthebottomoftheOhadappeared.Asthewindripplesthroughthemapletreebeneaththem,

so too itcatches theman in theropeandswayshimgentlybackand forth likeahellish time

clock'spendulum.

Ittakesthespoonandoffersthetinyfiguremorebeans.

Theboyturnsandlaysbackdownontothebed.Heraisesaskinnyarmsintotheair,asif

reachingfortheskythroughtheceilingandtheterracottaroofabovethem.

Doyouknowwhatwillhappentouswhenwedie?heasksashisfistclenches.

"Forit,therewillbenothing,"itanswers."Itwillsimplydeactivateandrustuntilaperson

with the proper knowledge can either repair it or restore it. Even then its data banks will

certainly be cleared and it will remember nothing of you or your family or its previous

assignments.All thisassumes it is foundby the rightpersonandnotdismantled forparts for

somethingmoreimmediatelynecessary.Inallprobability,itwillceasetoexist."

Whataboutme?thefigureasks.

"According to my data banks there are two generally accepted schools of thought

concerningdeath.Wouldyouliketohearboth?"

Yes.

"Oneschoolofthoughtpositsthathumanbeingsarenothingmorethanhighlyevolved

animals, the result of thousands of years of evolution and adaptation. Humans holding this

60

beliefthinkthatwhenonedies,onesimplyceasestobe.Theotherschoolofthoughtembraces

the notion of an afterlife,where one's soul continues to exist even after the body fails.What

happens then is a matter of great speculation. Reincarnation, Heaven, Hell, another plan of

existence;allareconsideredlikelyalternativestothefinaldestinationofthehumansoul."

Doesitbotheryouthatyouwilldie?theboylooksoutthewindowtothehangingman.

"It does not fear death, it only concerns itself with the primary directive. Upon

completionorfailureofitsprimarydirective,itwillhaveserveditsonlypurposeanditcanbe

deactivated."

Theboystaresatitwitheyesrimmedwithtears.Itreachesoverandsetsthebeansdown

upona small, antiquatedottomanand standsover the figure, reachingover and tucking it in

withgreattenderness.

"Willyouhelpit?"

How?

"Wheniteithercompletesorfailsitsprimarydirective,wouldyouassignitanother?"

Yes.Iwantyoutostaywithme.

Apause.

I'dliketoseetheoceanonemoretime.OrdoyouthinkI'llgotherewhenIdie?Doyou

thinkheavenmightbeintheocean?

Ithesitatesforananosecond,alifetimeofsilenceforitbutcompletelyimperceptibleto

the small boy laying there anddying beneath a stainedwhite blanket. It reviews the primary

directiveandanswersaccordingly.

"Withoutadoubt."

Forawhile,thestreetsaresilent.

It patches into themicrophones again andwatches from the second story. The boy is

napping, so it has no other pressing tasks on which it must concentrate and as it scans the

sidewalksoutsidethehouse,ittakesnoteofamansprawledfacedownthreefeetfromthbeach

house's frontdoor.There isan irregularspatteringofbloodbeneathhimthathasdried inthe

sun,lookinglikeanartist'sabstractionsdoneinathick,burgundystreetchalk.

Asthemorningviscouslyyieldstoafternoon,however,theraggedholeinthetornworld

outsidethesolidwooddoorgrowslargerwhenbullwhipcracksofgunfirecomingfromtheeast

61

side of the house smash the silence. It calculates the probabilities of potential engagements,

movestosecurethedooragain,andcontinuestolisten.

Somewhere on the beach there aremendying. This fact is not a distressing idea to it;

rather,itconcernsitselfonlywiththegunshots'impactontheprimarydirective.Ifithadbeena

thingofemotionand imagination likeMaggiehadoncebeen, itcouldhaveperhaps imagined

the soundsof themen shoutingasbrass casings spit theirhatefulmetal kisses, itmighthave

pictured them staggering as their Judas legs carry them one final step before betraying them

with a kiss ofhot sandon a grimy cheek anddamning them to eternal stillness as theocean

rolledinandcarriedthemawayindarkness.

Butitisnotdesignedforimagination.

So it ceaselessly crunches numbers thousands of times every second until the gunfire

abruptly stops and the white noise pouring through the microphone is broken only by the

occasionalchirpofasummerrobin.

ThereisaCommotionofacompletelydifferentkindthateveningwhentheskiesdarken

andthewindpicksup.

It wakes up the boy to find that his condition is growing worse. The boy shivers and

croaks one or two word answers to the questions it asks and refuses small bites of beans it

spoonsupwithapieceofheavysilverware.

Itsearchesitsfirst‐aidandwellnessdatabankswithadiligenceborneofbinarycodefor

thenameofthemaladyplaguingthetremblingboyswaddleddeepinsidethesweatyblankets.It

cross‐references medical texts and applies thousands of different symptoms and comes back

withalistofpossibleresults.

Itisprobablyaninfectionrequiringtheuseofantibioticsthatitdoesn'thaveanddoesn't

knowwheretoget.

Itreadsalltheinstructionsdescribedbyitsresearch,butthereisnothingtodobutwait

andhopefortheboytoovercomethesicknessonhisown.

Itisinthemiddleofthe5,782ndsearchthroughitsfileswhenthewindblowsthemaple's

branchesagainsttheeastwindow.Itlooksoutsidetoseethecolordrainingoutoftheskyanda

distantflashoflighteningstrikingtheocean'ssurface.

Thefeverishboywhimpers.

62

"Don'tworry,"itreassures,"thestructuralintegrityofthishouseismorethanenoughto

outlastastormofthismagnitude."

I'mnotscaredoftherain,thefiguresays.I'mscaredofthedark.

"Thereisnoreasontobeafraid.Iwillprotectyoufromwhateverthreatensyou.Would

youlikemetomovecloser?"

Thefigurenodsanditmovestothesideofbed.Itdragstheottomanoverandsitsand

listenstotherainbeginningtopelttheterracottaroof.Anotherlighteningstrikelightsupthe

worldoutsidelikeacameraflashandabellowofthunderrollsinfromthesea.Theboymoans

andcurlsupintoalittleball.Itreachesoutandtouchestheboy'sexposedskin.

Within minutes the storm rages outside the house and twilight has yielded to the

darknessofnight.Theboygrips thehardplasticof its arm,begging for it tomake the storm

stop.Itscanstheroomforanythingtocomfortthepoorchildwhenitfinallyseestheboxithad

beensavinguntilFathercamebackwithfoodandsupplies.Butwhenitlooksatthefigure'spale

skinandblazingcheeks,itknowstheremaybenotimetowaitforFather'sreturn.Itshakesout

oftheboy'sfingers,walksovertotherecessedentertainmentcenterbythefarwall,andslidesa

faux‐woodenpanelup,revealinganultramodernmusicplayerwithalayerofdustaccumulated

sinceitslastuse.Ithasenoughchargeleftinitsbatteriesforafewhoursofmusic.

"Wouldyoulikemetoplaysomemusic?"Itasks."Yourfather'smusic?"

Theboynods.

Please.

Itpressesabuttonandthemusiccomestumblingoutofthespeakerinacascadeofnoise

andecstasy,thehornsblowingoutasaccharinemelodyasabigbandpicksupwherethesong

hadbeenpaused.

Itcalculates theriskofanoutsiderhearing themusicandcoming to investigate,but it

watchesthelifefloodbackintotheboy'swearyeyesandstops.

Perhapsithasfoundapanaceaafterallandthankfullytheplayer'sbatteriesshouldholdthrough

thenight.

Itsuspectsthat'sallthetimethey'llneedanyway.

Just as day yielded to night, so too does euphoria yield to reality, and sometime after

63

WoodyHerman's "BlueFlame" ends and JohnnyMercer starts singing "Ac‐Cent‐Tchu‐Ate the

Positive," theboy's trembling turnsviolent, epileptic. Ithurries to thebedsideandscoops the

boy into itsarms. Itholdshimtoensurehewon't swallowhis tongueandembraces thechild

againstthesqualidwhiteplasticofitschestplateastheboy'slimbssmackagainstitwiththick,

meatywhaps.Itwaitsuntiltheseizurepasses,butdoesn'tsettheboybackdownwhenhestills.

Itreturnstotheottomanandfacesthewindowwhereraindropspeltthedirtypaneofglass.

Theboy struggles forbreathas the infection lubriciouslyworks tounderminehisbody

andplaceshisheadagainst the robot'sbodyand listens for aheartbeat, for any smallhuman

comfort, but only hearing the soft hum of servos and pneumatic devices. An artificial hand

strokesthedirtyhairfromhisfaceandholdshimcloseandwhispersinhisear.

"Ihaveinmydatabanksanassortmentofseveralthousandstories.Wouldithelpyouto

hearone?"

Theboystuttersaquiet,mewlingyes.

"Iwilltellyouastoryaboutyourself,aboutyourfamily.Wouldyoulikethat?"

Thesmallboycloseshiseyes.

"Onceuponatime,beforetheworldbroke,therewasasmallboywholivedinabeach

town called Rehobothwith hismother and father and the robot they had purchased to help

themtidyupthehouseandcareforthesmallboy."

Theboysmiles.

"Oneday, the father came to the boy and scoopedhimup and askedhim if hewould

wanttogotothebeach.Theboywasexcitedandleaptoutofhisfather'sarms.Heputonhis

newswimtrunksandgatheredhisbeachtoysandtooksomeofthemoneyfromhispiggybank

tobuyFrenchfriescoveredinmaltvinegar.Andsothefamilysetoutwiththeirbeachchairsand

umbrellasandwalkeddownthesidewalk.Thesmallboyjumpedoverthecracksintheconcrete

untiltheyreachedthewoodenboardwalkandhelookedoutatthepeoplearoundhim.Women

wearingbikinisandsmellingofcoconutsuntan lotionpassedbyhimwithoutasecondglance

and portly men with red burns on their faces set small children on their shoulders. Elderly

peoplesittingonthebenchesfacingtheoceanwavedandsmiledathimwhenhepassedandhe

smiledback.Whentheyreachedthesand,hekickedoffhis flip flopsandranacross thesand

barefoot.Itwashotfromthesummersun,buthedidn'tcare.Allheknewisthathewashappy.

"Theyspentthedaythere inthesun,sittingonabeachblanketandlookingoutwhere

64

theoceanmetthesky,theirbluesconjoininginthedistance.Thesmallboyexploredthebeach,

pluckingpiecesofseaglassfromthesandandscoopinguptinysandfleaswhentheyappeared.

Hewatchedamanpullaskatefromtheoceanonafishingpolethatwassobowedhethoughtit

mightsnap.Whilehisfatherreadabookintheshadeoftheumbrellaandhismotherworkedon

hertan,hebuiltasandcastlewiththerobotanddecorateditwithshellsandtwigs.Hetoldthe

robotthatiftheymadeitbigenoughtheycouldmovetherewhentheybothwereolder.When

theoceantiderolledinandswallowedituphewasheartbrokenatfirst,butwhenhesawacrab

walkintotheruinshesquealedwithdelight.HecalledhimKingCrabbytherestoftheday.

"Thesmallboyandhisfamilyhadalunchofgrainypeanutbuttersandwichesandsour

creamandonionchips,andafterwardhisfatherledhimontotheboardwalkandletthesmall

boybuyhimsome frieswith themoney fromhispiggybank,andas theywalkedback to the

beachaseagullswoopeddownandsnatchedonerightoutoftheboy'sfingers.”

Evenastheboy'sbodybeginstoquake,thesmileneverleaveshisface.He'sinadifferent

placenow,farawayfromthethunderstormandtheradioandthedeadmanoutsidethefront

door,asfarawayfromthebeachhousehecouldescape.

"Laterthatday,aftertheirstomachshadsettledandtheyhadnapped,thesmallboyand

hismotherandhisfatherwalkedoutintotheoceanandplayedthere

in the coldwaterwhile their robotwatched from the beach. They

jumpedup anddownwith thewaves and triednot to swallow the

salty water. They laughed when they were pinched by the crabs

beneaththeir feetandheldeachotheras thewavesbegin togrow.

Whentheir skinwaspuckeredandsalty fromtheocean,his father

suggestedtheygohometocleanupandeatdinner,buttheboywas

sohappyhedidn'twantthedaytoend.Hestartedtocryalittleas

theyleftthewater,butwhenthefatheraskedwhatwaswrongthesmallboyhadnowords."

Thegaspsbecomewheezesthatfutilelytryforair.Seizuresracktheboy'sbodyagainand

itholdshimtighteragainstitschestandwhispersinhisear.

"Andthenthefatherpickedtheboyupandheldhimupintothesunlight,kissingaway

histearsandhugginghimandwhispering,'Iloveyou'intohisear.Iloveyou."

Theboy'sbodyviolentlyjoltsonefinaltime,andthelastchokingbreathechoesthrough

theroom.

When the ocean tide rolled in and

swallowed it up he was heartbroken at first, but when he

saw a crab walk into the ruins he squealed

with delight.

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It sits there on the ottoman for a long time and holds the boy as the rain and wind

bludgeonthehouse.

Andwhen the batteries finally give out in themusic player right during the climax of

"SeptemberSong,"itwaitsforawhilelonger.

Whenthemorningbreaksanditisdonewrappingthesmallboyintheshroudofclean

cottonblankets fromthe linencloset, itdescends the stairs into thekitchenwhere the sun is

streakingthroughthebentandbrokenblinds. Ithasnopurposenow,noprimarydirective to

hold it to a formal schedule, so it spends four hours standing and performingmiscellaneous

diagnostictests.

Finallyitspeaks.

"Maggie, are you there?" it asks. "It needs someone to connect with. It has failed to

achieveitsprimarydirectiveandneedsfurtherinstructions.Itwastellingitastoryanditforgot

toaskforanewdirective.Canyouhelpit?"

Apause.

"Areyoustillalive?"

Hourslater,itrememberstheboy'swords.

Doyouthinkheavenmightbeintheocean?

Iwantyoutostaywithme.

Itfilesthesewordsawayandusesthemtoframeanewdirective.

Itopens thedoor for the first timesinceFather told it to stayandprotect theboyand

stepsout intoadaythatsmellsofheavyozoneandsalt. It looksbackupthestreetwherethe

singlemajoravenueoutofthecityissnarledandcongestedwithcountlessabandonedvehicles

andwondersifFatherisstillalive.Itcrunchesthenumbersandfindstheoddssoludicrouslylow

itdoesn'tbotherfinishingtheequation.

Nomatter.

Itisgoingtothebeach.

Itstepsoverthecorpsebythedoor,takingcaretobegentlewiththelinenbundleinhis

arms, and takes long, purposeful strides down the sidewalk as it perfectly retraces every step

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fromthestoryitaccessesfromitsdatabanks.Whenitreachestheboardwalk,itkicksapileof

bulletcasingsthatgotinklingdowntheboardwalk.ItwalkspasttheneonDolle'ssignandthe

manhangingfromitandstepsontothebeach.

It calculateswhere the high tidemight roll in, thenwalks thempast the tide line and

settlesona spotwhere itsheels touch the incomingsurf.Then it lowers itself,places theboy

downwhereitplanstoputthefoundation,andbeginsconstructingahometheycanliveinuntil

thetiderollsinandtheoceanclaimsthemboth.

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68

69

Images

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“BFE”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting7”x12”

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“Devil’sClaw”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting8”x10”

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“Tipi”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting12”x11”

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“Twister”B.C.GilbertReliefPrinting12”x18”

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79

Poetry

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Brent Newsom Esther Green Plans a Funeral Lordknows,Claudia,Ican’thaveitatthechurch.Billquityearsago,oncethegirlsweregrown,saiditwasn’tworththetroubleofputtingonslacksandhisgoodwhiteshirttobepatronizedbynecktiesandcomb‐overs.He’dstillhavehimselfaSabbathofsorts—I’dcomehometohimsittingoutsideinhisfadedflannelandjeans,handsomeevenleanedbackinalawnchairsmokinghisWinstons.He’daskhowthesermonwas, followmeintohelpwithlunch.ItwasoneofthoseSundayluncheswhenInoticedredflecksonthewhisker‐tipsofhismustache.He’dchokeditbackwhoknowshowlong.Don’tmincewords,hetoldthedoc,soshesaidthespotwassoftball‐sized,therestofhislunglikelyblackasaburntmarshmallow.Sheshowedusamalignantcell—lookedlikethosepricklysweetgumballsthatfalltothegroundinwinter.Onlysofter,apilloflintalmost.Nextday,Billwentbacktowork,whichwasnotabigsurprise.Helastedweeks,whichwas.

81

Floyd and Patti TheJCCocktailPalace:adivewithself‐delusions.Butitwastheirs,theplacewhereFloydtippedbiggestandPattikept’emcoming.Whenheaskedifhecouldbethepistonpumpinginhercylinder,shehadthewittosay,I’mnotafour‐strokekindofwoman,andthegoodsensetoslaphim.Hewassmitten.Hewaspersistent.Shelikedtheattention,cametocravehisviscousgazedripping fromface totits toass tothigh tocalf.InhisChargerparkedbeneaththepinkglowofthePalace’sneonsign,onenight,afterclosing,shecaved.Stillkissing,theyclamberedovertheconsole,unzipped,andthecrankshaftofhishipsspuninthesumpofhers.Somehow,though,hemissedwhatshegaugedeventhen:thattheywouldn’tmakeitfarwithsolittleinthetank.Notevenonafireliketheirs.Notevenwithawhite‐hotspark.

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New Hope Baptist Church

WheretheSavior’sleftfootoughttobe,ajaggedabsence.Ayawningholeintheglasspatchedwithopaque,dullgraytapeforyears,eversincethesummernightathunderstormflunginabranch.Thewesternsunoncewashedthatfoot’sgoldskin,likethekneesbentundertheirburdenandthetorsosliveredwithcrimsonshards,whichshouldersabrowncrossbeam.Ontheoppositewallatsunseteversince,theimageofagold‐tonedChristlugsashadowbehindhim,adarkclubfoot.NowPastorwantsitrepairedbyEaster.Says,TheLord’shouse,theLord’shouse.Says,Specialyellowenvelopeshavebeenprinted,says,Theplatewillbepassed.Attheearlyeveningbusinessmeeting,EstherGreenstands,smoothsherdress,says,Whatabouttheimpoverished?Thesick,theaddicted,thelame,thelonely?Says,Whataboutdoinguntotheleastofthese?Pastorcuesthepianist,says,Thepoorwillalwaysbewithyou,says,TheLord’shouse,theLord’shouse.Says,Come,letuspray.

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Floyd Fontenot, Free Bird Bettertodiefromhisownmachination—togreasehimself,ha!—FloydthinksbeneaththeChargerhenamedPearl,shepaintedcreamywhitewithtwoblackracingstripes,sheofceramic‐coatedheadersandhosesofstainlesssteel,ofchrometwentiesanddualexhaust,sheoftheblowerthroughthehood.Nowsheoftheaxlesfreshlylubed.Fuckyes.Betterthatthanbreakdownlikearusted‐outbeaterduetoashittyheart,birthrightofaFontenot.Floydknowsthescumsludginghisownlines.Hisenginewasmadeforspeed,notmileage,andFontenotsrun’emhardandfast,somethingPattilearnedrealquick.Thenoteshepinnedagainstthewindshieldbeneathawiperbladesaid,Floyd,itsureashellwasawildride,andshebecameonemorenameonalonglistofleavers.ButFloydknowshehashimselftoblameandtoomuchofhisoldmaninhim.Hecouldnevergetatthesourceoftherattle,hiddenbeneathahoodthatwon’trelease.Allhe’dhavetodoisclosethegaragewithPearlinsideandfireherup,maybesetthetunertoclassicrock,callinandrequestaSkynyrdsong.Thencrankthevolumeupandthewindowsdown.Ormaybebetter,kickbackandlistenshut‐eyedtothemetalliccanteroftheidlingHemi,breatheindeepthatdustcloudofexhaust.

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Ash Wednesday NowthatthepenitentsdowntheroadatOurLadyofPromptSuccoraredonewiththebeadsanddoubloons,theparties,parades,andring‐shapedkingcakes,ClaudiaBlackwoodishappyforSmyrna’sreturntoarhythmofindustry,readyaseverforNewHopetobeginrehearsingagainfortheannualEasterpageant.Tonightafterpracticethey’llallgetfitted,findoutwhatneedstobealtered,soalldayshelaunderscostumes,purgestheodorofmothballsfromoldpolyesterandcotton.Shetugsoutatangleofrobesfromthedryer,dropsthemintoaplasticbasket.Aroundherheadshedrapesashawlandinhalesthecleanperfume—springfresh—ofdryersheets.Sherepeatsherline,strainingforMagdalene’sbreathlessglee:

IhaveseentheLord!IhaveseentheLord!IhaveseentheLord!

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Corey Don Mingura

Red Pterodactyl Let’sgethighandwatchmyfifth‐gradeplay.Ithinkyou’lllikeit.It’samusicalaboutdinosaurs.Allthekidssinginit,butIhaveasolo.Twentypeopletriedoutforit,andtheygaveittome.It’sthelasttimeIsangonstage.Youseethatgirlinthepinktriceratopscostume?Doesn’tshelooksweet?She’sawhorenow.Has4kidswith3differentdaddies.Shecouldblowanyoneelsearound,butwhenitcametome,sheonlysaid“Hi.”Ihatedbroadslikethat.Andyouseethatboyinthebluetyrannosaurussuit?Itwasmessedup.Afewyearsback,hefellasleepatthewheelandranhiscarintoacottonbailtrailer.Crushedhimtodeath.IusedtopartywithhimoutbySandersLake.Damn,hewasacooldude.Hehookedusupwithanything,andIdon’trememberpaying.Hey,youseethatgirlinthepurplestegosaurusgetup?Thatlittleladyismyex‐wife.Sheleft‘causeshesaidshecouldn’thandlemeandIwasabadinfluenceonthekids,

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butiftheycan’tacceptme,theycankissmyass.Iain’tgonnachangeforanyone.Ohshit,that’smetheredressedlikearedteradactyl.Shhhh…Mysolo’scomingup.

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Laura Holloway

Annus Mirabillus II. Arise, o crocuses! Springforth, somnolent jonquils!Letthebudsbreakthebondsof bark and green the dyingwinter. Let nests be wovenof tender twigs, anchoredfirmlytonewlyverdanttrees,and lined with down. Letgrounds grow soft andgrasses lush that they maycradletenderpaw‐pads,easethehatchlingbeaks.

I. Naked branches clackpercussive. Behind blue cloudcover, a streak of sunlightfades. Eight geese flyoverhead in an imperfectformation. Swaying to thetune of impending torrent, aperfectlyconicalpinebecomesaplaygroundforasingleshaftof persistent light, dartingbetween shadows and againsta strangely luminous storm‐darkenedsky.

III. Breezeless air churned bytiny wings: soft flutteringmoths,manicskimmers,flies,bees, mosquitoes ‐insignificant wakes, unfit tocool damp human skin, gounnoticed in the oppressivestillness. As the sundescends, crickets fill thenight with sound andlightening bugs make tinygalaxiesofourlawns.

IV. Light wends its waythrough scarlet, burgundy,and coral: stained glassrendered in the absence ofchlorophyll: wind‐placed andheld fast by autumn damp,leaves become jewels of goldandamberonthepane.Later,they will brown and fall toground and Orion will beginto ease his shield over thehorizon.

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Reviews&Interviews

90

PhongNguyen.PagesfromtheTextbookofAlternateHistory,Queen’sFerryPress,2014Review by George McCormick When IpickedupPhongNguyen’sPages from the Textbook of AlternateHistory Ididwhat I

alwaysdowithanewbookI’mexcitedabout:Ilookatthecoverartfrontandback,Ifliptothe

author photo, read the bio; I find the acknowledgments and scan through them; I read the

epigraphifthebookhasanepigraph.FinallyIturntothetableofcontents—anditwasinthis

moment when I started scanning the chapter titles that I immediately began tomisread the

book.When I read titles like “ColumbusDiscovers Asia” and “Napoleon Invades Louisiana” I

assumed the bookwould be treading in the kind of revisionist waters so well established by

RobertHarris’FatherlandandPhilipRoth’sThePlotAgainstAmerica.Inthosenovelshistoryis

re‐imaginedsoas to serveascautionary talesagainst fascism,butas Ibegan towademyway

throughNguyen’sbookIquicklyrealizedthatIwas inaverydifferentspace:herehistorywas

beingre‐imaginednotwithasenseofforebodingbutwithasenseofplay—wonderful,curious,

intellectual,satiricalsenseofplay.Iwasn’tintheworldofRoth,Irealized,somuchasIwasin

thatofBorges.AndIcanthinkofnobiggercompliment.

Theplot:anamelesstechatacomputerrepairshopknownonlyas“TheWorkshop” isone

daygiventhetaskofrecoveringinformationoffofaclient’sruinedharddrive.Whathefindsisa

digital text “More than five times thecapacityofWikipedia,more thansixty times thesizeof

Britannica”with “a terabyte fullof imagesand text—more than twobillionwords,withhalfa

millionmapsandtimelines—ofmeticulouslyorganizedscrupulouslyannotatedchapters.”The

narratorspendsdaysorganizingandindexingthetext,butwhenheattemptstoprintpiecesof

thetomethetypesheetscomeoutoftheprinterempty.Whenthecomputerfinallycrashesthe

narrator results towriting downwhat he remembers by handon a reamof paper.What he’s

preservedisthebookwehaveinourhands.

While these250pages recordahistory that is alternate toourown, they still follow time’s

arrow. The book’s chapters are organized chronologically, beginning in ancient Egypt and

closingwithaspaceshuttlelaunch.Thatbeingsaid,Ifoundmyselfjumpingaroundinthebook,

reading sectionsbyhow interesting thechapter titleswere. It is a testament to thebook that

suchareadingispossible—eachchapterneatly,tidily,containedwithinthisframework.Which

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ishowIcametoread“HitlerGoestoArtSchool”soearlyon.Inthiswonderfullyimaginedstory

Adolph Hitler is young art student who resists abstract expressionism in favor of literal

landscape painting, and whose own cheesy paintings “had been used only to sell picture

frames..”PoorAdolf,whenheislatergunneddownonaBelgianbattlefieldtowardthecloseof

theFirstWorldWar,itisinpartbecauseofhisaesthetics.Hitler’sbuddynarrates,

ImyselfwasasoldierintheAustro‐HungarianInfantryRegiment,andhadsincemetat

leastadozenmenlikehim—oralmostlikehim.Theirssoundedlikeacleanand—withall

itsfocusonmonumentsandothervaststructuresofstone—seeminglyemptyGermany.

J.DavidOsborne.LowDownDeathRightEasy,SwallowdownPress,2013Review by Cameron Brewer

Lawton,Oklahoma is a city that, inmany ways, represents themerging of two diametrically

opposingideas:salvationandperdition.FortSill,asprawlingarmybasethatprovidesaninflux

of revenue that is key to Lawton's economy, sits across the street from a neighborhood

renowned for violence and drug addiction. Chain stores provide a host of new jobs while

decimating localbusinesses. It isaplacewroughtwithopportunities,bothgoodandbad.And

while outside factors are a constant influence, success or failure in such an environment is

largelybasedonanindividual'schoices.

ThisnotionisattheheartofthestoryofLowDownDeathRightEasy.Thebookdoesnotpull

anypunches, sometimequite literally.Thechaptersoftenreadmore likeshortvignettes,each

dealing with or reflecting on decisions made by the characters and the repercussions that

inevitablyoccurbecauseof them.Theaccusatorynatureof the firstchapter's title, "This ison

You",conveystheimportanceofchoiceinshapingone'sfuture.Itisherethatweareintroduced

toDanielAmes,agangmemberwhoservesastheclosestapproximationofaprotagonistthat

thisstoryhastooffer.Dannyistheshiningexampleoftheself‐destructivespiritthatpermeates

everyaspectofthebook,fromitsnoir‐meets‐westerntonetotheimportantroledrugsoccupyin

the narrative. As he searches for hismissing brother, his increased appetite for violence and

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narcotics give form to his increased despair. This dynamic keeps the reader involved and

sympathetictowardsDanny'sgoals,evenwhentheactualcostofthetruthbecomesapparent.

The brilliance of Low Down Death Right Easy comes not from its willingness to embrace

brutality,but in itsunderstandingofhowdeeply thedesolation itdepicts is rooted inchoices

intended tobring aboutpositive change. SeppClancy, anex‐convictwithnoopportunities, is

the canvass on which we see this play out. Despite the urging of his brother, Arlo, Sepp

continuestolivealifeofcrime.Sepp'smentalityisspelledoutexpertlyintheexchangehehas

with his friend Lucas in the chapter "The Blue Cat/Fertilizer". Sepp is perfectly aware of the

potential damage that can come from falling back into old habits, but chooses to lapse not

becausehe'sweak,butbecausehighriskforhighrewardistheonlylogicaloptiontohim:"...if

someonekickedhimoutofdoornumberone,he'dburnthewholebuildingdown."

ThemostremarkablethingaboutLowDownDeathRightEasy ishoweffectivelytheuseof

parallelingstorystructurecreatesasenseofdramaticfatalismthatisevocativeoftheworksof

ElmoreLeonard.ItisclearthatthelivesofSeppandDannyaregoingtoclash.Andasthesemen

unknowinglyinchtowardseachother,thegrimnatureofthebook'stitlebeginstoweighheavier

onthemind.LowDownDeathRightEasyisableakandtensionfilledcrimethrillerthatexcels

inmakingself‐destructionthoughtfulandengaging.Aparablethathingesontheideathateven

themostinnocuousdecisionscanleadtothemosttremendousofimpacts,Osbornehascreated

astorythatisaschillinglypoignantasitissatisfying.

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“I’mnottheonlyonetoseekouthisgraveinSt.Mary’sCemetery,betweentheInterstateandthesoftballdiamonds…”:AnInterviewWithEdSkoogby George McCormick

EdSkoog’smagnificentdebutMisterSkylight(CopperCanyon,2009)was—amongotherthings—

akindofpanoramicviewofAmerican lifeat thecloseof the firstdecadeof thisnewcentury. In

“DuringtheWar”we learn,“ThetrainIrodearoundAmerica/wasempty;thecountrywashalf‐

empty,/ like the zoo on Monday. I wept at the president,/ threatened to barefoot across the

border,/butintheendonlyrolleddownthewindow/towaveatastrangerwholookedfamiliar.”

Thepoemsinthebookareoftennimbleandintricate,andSkoogproveshimselfequallydeftasa

miniaturist:“It’s11:11,time/tomakemydailywish/catchthestiltlegsofthose/twobirdswholand

twice/ a day inside the clock”(from “Inland Empire). In his recent book Rough Day (Copper

Canyon, 2013), Skoog takes a different, somewhatmore surreal, tactwith his poems. Eschewing

titlesandpunctuation,Skoog’snewpoems feel freerandstranger,darkeryetmorecomic. Iwas

excited,then,inApril,whenIhadthechancetocatchupwithSkoogviaemailwherehewasbusy

teachingasavisitingwriteratWichitaState.

[McCormick]: I read Rough Day last Monday, then again on Saturday. The second time

through,asIwasthinkingaboutform,IwasremindedofalineJackSpicerhasabouttheserial

poem: “The serial poem has the book as its unit…and you have to go into a serial poem not

knowingwhat thehell you’redoing. It has tobe somepath that you’venever seenon amap

beforeandsoforth…”1DoesthisresonateatallwithhowRoughDaywascomposed?

[Skoog]:DidIknowwhatIwasdoing,andwhendidIknowit?Idon'trememberhowitallcame

together, but at some point the poems and the book converged. I'm interested in sonnet

sequences. IbeganwritingthisverymuchwithRilke'sSonnets toOrpheus inmind,but Ialso

1from“TheSerialPoemandTheHolyGrail.”TheHousethatJackBuilt:TheCollectedLecturesofJackSpicer.WesleyanUniversityPress,1998.

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haveinmyheadthefiguremadebySpicer,andbyRonaldJohnson'sARKandDorn'sGunslinger,

whichIknowisabookthatmeanssomethingtoyou,orusedtobackinoldMissoula.

[McCormick]:Yeah,itwaseitheryouorKurtSlausonthatturnedmeontoGunslinger.Thiswas

’96, ’97. I was working as a dishwasher in a big industrial kitchen at theHoliday Inn, and I

remembersittingnexttomydishmachine,crunchingoncroutons,andreading—beingamazed

by—Dorn’sbook.Imean,Ididn’tknowlanguagecoulddothat.Ipickedup‘Slingeragainduring

the Iraq war when I felt like I was losingmymind. Just recently when I was reading Cyrus

Console’sexcellentbook‐lengthpoemTheOdicyIcouldfeelthepresenceofDorn’sghost—the

re‐purposing of corporate language, the scathing humor, the relentless attack on consumer

culture.ThisisnottotakeanythingfromConsole,whoisapoetofthefirst‐rankinmybook.

[Skoog]:CyrusisfromTopeka.

[McCormick]:Thebookseemstomovefromgrieftoangertosomewherenearlyineffable;or,if

it doesn’t exactlywork sequentially like that it does seem to reiterate these stages. I find this

interestingbecauseangerseemsaplacethatiseasytostartfrombutdifficulttosustain.Imean,

I think there’s a reasonwhy 8o’s punk songs are short. Can you speak at all about how you

managetokeepthisgoingforeighty‐twopages?

[Skoog]:Myfavorite80spunksongis"AckAckAck"byTheMinutemen.Twentyunforgettable,

highlystructuredseconds.ButIdon'tseethebookinthetermsthatyoumention.Iwasthinking

of the album in musical terms, at various times, Mahler's symphonies, long late night

performancesbyNewOrleanspianistssuchasJamesBooker,JonClearyandProfessorLonghair,

and an interview inMojo with Shane MacGowan in which he beautifully avoids answering

questionsabouthissongwriting(andwhichprovidestheepigraphtothebook).Thereisanger

andgriefinthebookbutIseeitasessentiallyacomicpoem.

[McCormick]: Iagree.AndI lovehowquicklythebookcanmovebetweendifferentregisters.

Forinstance,thereareacoupleofmomentsinthebookwhereyoupivotfromarichimagetoa

stanzawritten inverydeclarative,even instructional, language: “andhere is thecanyonwhere

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westopforlove/andthesearetheredandorangeseedsoftheocotillo/andthesearethespines

ofthepencilcholla.”Andlater,perhapsmyfavoritelinesofthebook:“myadviceisgiveyourself

freelytorage/untilyourfacesunsintheblastofeither/thefurnacemygrandfatherstokes//or

therevolver’sanswer.”

[Skoog]: About those lines:Mymother’s father,Walter,was a steelworker inPittsburgh.The

family story is that he did something else, like handling the pay rolls or something, but the

newspaperarticlesabouthismurderin1952justcallhimasteelworker.Hewasshotinahotel.

Mymotheronly talkedabout itacouple times,but I’vedonea lotof research, tryingtogeta

senseofwhohewas,whathappenedexactly.Iamcontinuingtowriteabouthim.Iseemtobe

coveringthesameterritoryeveryfewyearsinmypoems.Differentdances,differentsongs,but

the same instrumentsmaybe.Perhaps Iwas trying to emulate somethingaboutdance in that

way,withpassagesthatmovequickly,passagesthatareinslowmotion,andpassagesthatstop

suddenly,likeacakewalk.

[McCormick]: I find the geographyof thebook fascinating. InMister Skylight placewas very

particularized,buthereitoccursasinadream—you’reatacoast,butnotthecoast.Or,you’rein

“amodesto”asopposedto“Modesto.”Doesthatmakeanysense?

[Skoog]:Iavoidmostplacereferentsinthebookforbothpracticalandconceptualreasons.The

bookwould be a spaghetti of place names if I certified each location, and it just didn't seem

important. Places don't really havemeaningful names,mostly, especially in themidwest and

west—town names are literally advertisements. This choice isconsonantwith other aspects I

didn't feel were important: titles, punctuation, people's names (mostly), etc. I wanted to do

withoutpagenumbers,butintheendthatseemedtoomuch.IsupposeIwastryingtocorrect

what I seeasa flawofmy firstbookMister Skylight,which, sometimeswhen I read it, seems

overwhelmed by vanity, and I can locate that vanity in the unexamined use of the usual

conventions, titles, punctuation, commodity fetishism, certain modes of rhetoric, style,

presentationofimageryandfigurativelanguage.Nottodwellonthemanufactureofthechorizo

andandouille,butIsawwaysthatIcouldbefreer,andthatseemslikeareasonablegoalfora

poet,tofindwaystobecomefreerwitheachbook,eachpoem,eachline.Mymorerecentpoems

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are trying to find that freedom in other ways. I think Rough Day is the end of one line of

development for me, and I'm Tronning to the side now, but I hope everything is

encircling/ensquaring/ensaring.

[McCormick]:I’veneverthoughtofitquitelikethatbefore,thattitlesandpunctuationcanbe

seenas formsofvanity.Smallwaysof feeding theego,perhaps.DidCopperCanyonhaveany

problemswith these formal decisionswhen you submitted themanuscript?After all,Skylight

hadbeenasuccessandherewasthisradicalshiftinpoetics.

[Skoog]:No,noproblemwiththosedecisionsthatIknowof.Doesitseemlikearadicalshift?I

thinkImostlytookthingsaway,followingacommentofRoqueDalton’s,thatyouknowareal

poetbecauseheorshehaslessandlesseveryday,untilalltheyhaveisacleanshirt.

[McCormick]:HavingworkedattheRichardHugoHouseinSeattle,andhavingbeenastudent

and later a visiting professor at the University ofMontana, it is safe to assume that you are

familiarwith theworkand lifeofRichardHugo.AsHugogetscanonizedhealsoseems tobe

getting a little squeezed in that we see the same five or six poems over and over, in each

successive anthology.My question is, what poem, or series of poems, do you find often gets

overlooked?

[Skoog]: Hugohasalwaysbeengood luck tome. Ididn’tknowhim,but fell in lovewithhis

poetrywhenIfirstread“LadyatKickingHorseReservoir”and“DegreesofGreyinPhillipsburg”

at 17.Mymentor at Kansas StateUniversity, JonathanHolden, hadwritten extensively about

Hugo,andhelpedmeworkoutwhyHugo’sworkhadsuchweighttome.Itwasn’tjustHugo,of

course.Ifelluncriticallyintothecharmsofdozensofpoets,andfollowedthosepathsbackward

andforwardintomattersofstyle,tone,ideas,waysoflookingatandbeingintheworld,waysof

beingone’s self. IdroveWest thesummeraftermy freshmanyear,withsome friends,andwe

spentafewdaysinMissoula.ThuscommencedmyHugotourism;I’mnottheonlyonetoseek

outhisgraveinSt.Mary’sCemetery,betweentheInterstateandthesoftballdiamonds,norto

drivetotheplacesmentionedinhispoems:Phillipsburg,SilverStar,LakeDrummond,Ovando.

Iwent to theUniversityofMontana’s graduateprogram, starting in 1994, 12 years afterHugo

97

died,inotherwords,fullyawarethatIwouldnotgettoworkwithHugo,letmebeatyoutothat

question,butstillhisworksuggestedthatMissoulawasatleastasgoodaplaceasanytostart

tryingtobeawriter.Manypeopleofhiscirclewerestillthere,andIdidgettoworkwiththem,

ortoknowthem,andtheyandtheirworkhasmeantagreatdealtomeindependentoftoday’s

subject.IftheyawardedtheNobelPrizeinLiteraturenottoindividualsbuttogroupsoffriends,

fewgroupswouldbemoredeservingthanthatgroupofMissoulawriters:Hugo,JamesWelch,

AnnickSmith,BillKittredge,JimCrumley,MadelineDeFreese,others.Althoughfamiliarbynow

tome,Hugo’sworkalwaysseemsnew.“Newsthatstaysnews,”asPoundwouldsay.

IhadaproblemimitatingHugo,whichIdidfortoomanyyears,andthenspenttoomany

yearstryingnottowritelikeHugo,whichisnotanydifferent,exceptIsoundedinneithermode

like myself. Eventually I gave up and don’t care whether I sound or don’t sound like Hugo.

Sometimesalinedoes,becauseIlikethelooseiambicpentameterandwriteaboutmylifeand

peopleandplacesaroundme,whichhaveoftenbeenplacesthathehadwrittenaboutaswell

(broken up with a decade‐long vacation in New Orleans—paraphrasing “Degrees of Gray in

Phillipsburg”—the townof toweringblondes,good jazzandbooze that theworld letmehave

whenIletmyhometownofTopekadieinside.)

I later served aswriter‐in‐residence at the RichardHugoHouse, and hewas never far

frommymindthe last fewyearswhenIwasasabbaticalreplacementvisitingprofessoratthe

University of Montana. His poems have been my maps, useful stories for navigating the

Northwest,both in the imaginationand inmydaily lifeasacitizen. I just finished teachinga

classattheRichardHugoHouseabout“HugoandhisCircles,”andattheendastudentasked

what I learned fromHugo and these writers. Courage, honesty, dedication to craft, sense of

purpose.Value.Dignity.Nootherliterarymovement’sworkmeansasmuchtomepersonally—

thestorytheytell,together,isagoodstory.

IremaindrawntoHugo’swork,withallitsflaws.AtthispointIreadhiscollectedpoems

as something likeanovel, thewayTonyTost reads JohnnyCash’s songsas akindofnovel, a

novel of identity formation, the presentation of a self (in his 33 1/3 book about American

Recordings.)“DegreesofGrayinPhillipsburg”ishisgreatpoem,butIthinktheyallhaveahigh

sustain,withanadhesive force. I really like “SilverStar,”whichhasalways seemed tome like

“DegreesofGray inPhillipsburg Junior.”Wehave a lonely, forgotten townof ghosts and rust

thatconnectstothecollapsingconjectural“you.”Theconsciousnessofthepoemasksquestions

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andgetswronganswers.Realityisdefendingitselffromtheimagination,butonecanescapeina

car, and the last image is red, redbarn, redhair.Consideringonebeside the othermagnifies

both.Ilike“Youareastrangereveryday.Lettheenginesandthefarmequipmentdie.”Thelast

image is red, andbothpoemsendwith that characteristicofHugomidcentury “girl”—Hugo’s

portrayal of women, and of sexual anxiety, which is probably the barrier between his poetry

and—flip a coin on what you want to call it—“popular currency” or “immortality.” These

uncomfortablelinesinHugo,liketheminstrelryinBerryman’sdreamsongs,isprobablypoorly

considered fromapublic relations standpoint. But the sheer vulnerability ofHugo’s speaker’s

unadorned, unguarded relationships, imagined and real, withwomen, while theymake some

listenersturnoff,makemelistenmore,andconsiderthepsychology—psychotherapywasvery

important to Hugo—and woundedness and posturing and bluffing. It is a weakness in the

poetry.Solittlegoodpoetryhasweaknesses.Orsuchpreciseweakness.Oneisnottemptedto

valorizeHugoandhisspeakers,aschampionsofwomen.Hedoesn’tseemtohavemuchinsight

orempathywith them, thewayhedoeswitholdmen.Therearebiographicalexplanationsof

whyhemightbethiswayasaperson—orphan,severegrandmother,combat—butasonewho

haslongbeenunderthespellofhisvoice,Iwouldwishformoreunderstandingandcomplexity

regardingwomen.BecauseIcouldusesome.ButmyrealdefenseofHugoonthispointisthathe

talksaboutwomen,whilemostthemalepoetsofhisgenerationlargelyavoidwomen.Hemay

beinexperttalkingaboutwomen,butwomenarereallythesubjectofhispoems.Astheoldsong

goes,“motherlesschildrenhaveahardtimeinthisworld.”

It’s interesting tonoticewhat’snot inHugopoems.Aside fromthe letterpoems, there

aren’tmanypeople.LikethecartoonPeanuts,thereareveryfewparents.Fewchildren.

I also like “Keokuk.” There are manymoments in his poetry, often inside a sentence,

whereaquickswitchhappens,aleapthroughtime,orfromtheindividualtotheuniversal,ora

contradiction. The effect is like looking through a microscope that suddenly turns into a

telescope. At any rate, the effect is often kaleidoscopic. And verymuch so in “Keokuk,” wild

telescopingoftimeandtense,andidentities.TheKeokukisinIowa—perhapshevisitedduring

his disastrous semester teaching at Iowa, what seems to have been the breaking point, after

whichhesoberedup. “Yourgazemustgivetherescueteamachancetogrowonthehorizon,

framedingold.”AndalongtheselinesIlike“LettertoLoganfromMilltown,”whichseemslike

theanswerpoemto“Keokuk.”Hislegacyhastorestonthepoetry,nottheforceofhischaracter,

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orhislegacyasateacher,oreventheessaysinTriggeringTown,asinfluentialasthey’vebeen.I

knowthepoetrycanwithstandnewreadingsandcriticalapproaches,aswellasthepleasurethey

give.

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Contributors MarkBelisle,originallyfromFletcher,Oklahoma,nowlivesinRehobothBeach,Delaware.HisworkhasbeenfeaturedinseveralonlinemagazinesastheUniversityofBaltimore'sliteraryjournalWelter.Hisdebutcollectionofshortstories,calledSunflowersisavailableasane‐bookatAmazon.TimothyBradfordistheauthorofthepoetrycollectionNomadswithSamsonite(BlazeVOX[books],2011)andtheintroductiontoSadhus(CuerposPintados,2003),aphotographybookontheasceticsofSouthAsia.In2005,hereceivedtheKoretFoundation’sYoungWriteronJewishThemesAwardforanovel‐in‐progress,andfrom2007to2009,hewasaguestresearcherattheInstitutd’HistoireduTempsPrésentinParis.Currently,heisaVisitingAssistantProfessoratOklahomaStateUniversity.CameronBrewerisoriginallyfromMoore,Oklahoma.AgraduateofCameronUniversity,BrewerwasacceptedintotheCommunicationStudiesMaster’sProgramatSouthernIllinoisUniversity.Heenjoysreadingcomicbooks,slampoetry,writingqualitativeacademicessays,andperformingstand‐upcomedy.HeiscurrentlyworkingonagraphicnovelwithfriendandcreativepartnerGwenPrice.JerryGabriel’sfirstbook,DrownedBoy(Sarabande,2010),wontheMaryMcCarthyPrizeinShortFiction.ItwasaBarnesandNoble"DiscoverGreatNewWriters"selectionandawardedthe2011TowsonPrizeforLiterature.HisstorieshaveappearedinFiveChapters,EPOCH,AlaskaQuarterlyReview,andTheMissouriReview.Hissecondbook,TheLetGo,willbepublishedbyQueen’sFerryPressin2015.HelivesinMaryland,whereheteachesatSt.Mary’sCollegeofMarylandanddirectstheChesapeakeWriters’Conference.B.C.GilbertwasbornandraisedinAmarillo,Texas.HereceivedaBFAinpaintingin1997fromCameronUniversityandanMFAinpaintingandsculpturein2001fromTexasTechUniversity.HeisnowbasedoutofWichitaFallswhereheisaworkingandexhibitingartistaswellasanartinstructoratRiderHighSchoolandadjunctprofessoratMidwesternStateUniversity.Aforthcomingsoloshow,“HighPlainsJamboree,”willopenonJune6attheLouiseHopkinsUnderwoodCenterfortheArtsinLubbock.Hisworkcanalsobeseenatwww.bcgilbert.com.LauraHollowayisagraduateofHopeCollegeandworksasamathtutorinBucksCounty,PA.InadditiontotheOklahomaReview,herpoetryhasbeenpublishedinRiverPoetsJournal,MadPoetsReview,LehighValleyLiteraryReview,TheMathematicalIntelligencer,andInnisfree.Shehastwicebeenarunner‐upfortheBucksCountyPoetLaureate.

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GeorgeMcCormickistheauthorofSaltonSea(NoemiPress,2012)andhisstorieshavebeenpublished,mostrecently,inEPOCH,TheSantaMonicaReview,andSugarMule.HisnovelInlandEmpirewillbepublishedbyQueen’sFerryPressin2015.McCormickiscurrentlyanAssistantProfessorintheDepartmentofEnglishandForeignLanguagesatCameronUniversity.CoreyDonMingurareceivedhisMFAinCreativeWritingfromtheUniversityofCentralOklahomainMay2011.HisworksoffictionandpoetryhaveappearedinTheAcentosReview,TheWritingDisorder,Westview,Eclectica,RedLightbulbsandTheScissortaleReview.HecurrentlyservesasassistantpoetryeditorforArcadiaandistheeditorforitsOnlineSundriesblog.MinguraisaMexican‐AmericannativeofHollis,OklahomaandcurrentlyresidesinEdmond,Oklahoma.BrentNewsom'sdebutcollectionofpoetry,Love’sLabors,willbepublishedinspring2015byCavanKerryPress.HehasalsopublishedpoemsinSubtropics,TheSouthernReview,TheHopkinsReview,andotherjournals.ALouisiananative,heearnedaPhDinEnglishfromTexasTechUniversity,whereheheldeditorialpostswith32PoemsandIronHorseLiteraryReview.HelivesinShawnee,Oklahoma,withhiswifeandtwochildren,andisAssistantProfessorofEnglishatOklahomaBaptistUniversity.ZackO’NeillearnedhisMFAfromtheUniversityofSouthCarolina.HisshortworkhasappearedinTheDelinquent,KudzuReview,MarcoPoloArtsMagazine,andelsewhere.HelivesinSacramentoandteacheswritingcoursesatSacramentoCityCollege.

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