by

Joshua Michael Johnson

I knelt and examined the buttons on the red flannel shirt, little ivory eyes staring up at me in the evening light. The man’s head was caved and lop-sided, but mostly it was splattered across both lanes of the back 154. Wide black skid marks on the pavement curved away fromhis back and arms, spreading like wings underneath his crushed body. His face was wiped clean of expression and feature, a peace I hoped he’d found before he sprouted wings. I shook his hand, kicked his crushed fishing rod and reel aside, and loaded his cooler of fish into the trunk of my car, hoping I would remember to stop somewhere for ice in the next few hours.

Around a bend in the road, I saw a little steel frame bridge and I thought about dumping the fish over the railing and how that would feel, the little guys flipping and splashing into the cool water while I smiled on them from above. I stared at the bridge in my rear view mirror and wondered when I’d past it, but I kept driving. I had hours to go anyway and I couldn't be late or my cousin wouldn't give me the $700 for delivering this package.Late. No money. Pedal down.

The curving road opened to large fields of corn, each stalk standing shoulder to shoulder with its brother, an army holding fast against some fuzzy enemy horde.I had stood shoulder to shoulder with my brother Frank once, inside a convenience store, and from behind a nylon mask, my sweaty hands had clutched a bulky pistol and the wooden grips dug splitters into my palms. My brother brandished a sawed-off shotgun, clearing a wire rack of Little Debbies with one shell, the clerk’s face with the next. While my brother stuffed money into paper bags, I stood in the ringing of my ears, concentrating on the angelic squealing words, but not understanding anything they were trying to tell me.As my brother dragged me into the alley, I did make out one word, but everything else they said was drowned out by the sounds of us running through alleys scaling fences, dogs barking, and when we had finally stopped, I couldn’t hear their droning words anymore.

That road with the corn curved on forever, or long enough and suddenly fell away into a little town with a gas station that must have been made out of scrap wood from the ark. I bought a soda and gulped it down with three pills and a Twinky, and when I swallowed glimmering stars joined the sun in the sky and I floated underneath them through town after town. Frank woke up in the back seat. The soda, the angels, the stars, I’d forgotten he was back there buried under all the blankets and pillows he’d brought. He’d taken something and passed out in the back seat before we even left the city behind. He asked me where we were, and I told him we were forty-five minutes past the corn, forty-four past the ark. He thought about that for a moment and then drank the rest of my soda but said nothing about the stars, sitting there bending forward between the two front seats studying the lean cows and skeletal barns as we drove on.

“What’re we doing when we get there anyway?” Frank asked.

 “Don’t know,” I said.

Frank exhaled loudly.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. I just hope it’s not boring like last time.”

“Me too."

A hefty pothole in the road jumped the front wheels off the ground and Frank's head into the ceiling. He cussed and I wondered how big of a pothole it would take for a car to break gravity and pop into orbit.

"There was something I wanted to do when we get there, but I can’t remember what.”

“Huh,” Frank said.

“Uncle Mike’s supposed to be there. He’s cool.”

“Hey, remember when he moved to Canton to dust crops?”

“Yeah, he flew for that old farmer. Cummings, or something like that. Uncle Mike loved that job.”

“Really? Why’d he quit then?”

“Didn’t. Got fired. Flew the plane too high, blacked out and almost crashed.Said he just wanted to touch a cloud.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t blame him. I’d try to touch the clouds too.”

“Yeah.”

“Got anymore soda?"

"No, that was it."

“Damn."

Frank sat back against the seat and swayed in the rear view mirror as if he were  balancing on something, something high up. His vacant gaze studied the spot where his head had dented the ratty headliner and I wondered if the sky would ever rot away or dent, its seams coming loose and little fuzzy pieces falling away as the earth raced its way around the universe, windows down.

The 154 was supposed to join to I-57 at some point, but the daylight stars and Frank distracted me enough to miss the turn, and we continued through one dusty town after another. Each one featured an old post office, a hardware store, and a bank or two, and each was a less interesting than the one before. Eventually we decided we must have missed the turn-off and doubled back. Now we saw the towns backward and fast-forwarded through as quickly as possible, but with each one it got darker and when I flipped on the headlights only the left beam worked. I flipped the lights on and off several times but it made no difference, and the one headlight poking into the darkness between the small towns just wasn’t enough. When we found a town with a motel we decided to stop for the night and continue in the morning.

While Frank went in the office and got us a room, I popped a couple more pills in my mouth, then remembered Frank had finished my soda, but I wrestled the pills down my throat anyway. Frank came out of the office and we drove the car to our room down at the end of the building. I had to piss really bad, so I grabbed the key from Frank and ran into the room. As I pissed, I saw a yellow stream of stars, a constellation joining a pool of celestial bodies in a white sky. When I walked back outside Frank was standing at the trunk.

“Why do we have a cooler full of fish?” He asked.

“Oh, I found that. Dammit, I meant to get ice.”

“You found it?”

“Yeah, and hey, I just remembered what I wanted to do when we get there tomorrow. I want to wash the car.”

“Wash the car? That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“OK. Whatever. Hey, that right headlight is totally shattered. We’re going to have to get that fixed tomorrow.

"Alright."

"That whole front corner is kind of banged up actually."

Frank looked at me, or for something.

“I’m confused,” he said.

“About what?”

“Not sure,” Frank paused looking at the cooler again. “You just found it?”

“It was sitting on the side of the road. Someone dropped it. Well, someone must have dropped it anyway.”

“Never mind,” he said holding up his hand, “Let’s just get some ice in here.”

We took the cooler to the ice machine by the office, filled it and placed it back in the trunk. We returned to our room, kicked off our shoes and watched TV, but the cable signal wasn’t clear and I fell asleep to the pitchy sound, the static clouds spreading wings and floating into my ears. Flecks of light swam all around my head, their cool rippling flowing over me. Something plopped right in front of my face, wriggling and perfect, and I knew I wanted it in my mouth. Suddenly I was jerked into the air, into a blinding light where I couldn't breath. There was a loud thud and a squeal of tires and I sat up in my bed, the TV still flickering its static-filled light across the motel room. I thought about wings. So that's how they do it, I thought. And to think they call it a sport.

by Ashely Ledford

I make banana oatmeal for the first time, stirring chunks of the white fleshy fruit into sugared Quaker. The wooden mixing spoon in my hand wobbles as I lift it to my mouth. I press my upper lip into the concoction. Slide the spoon out. Lick my lips. It’s strange, but not unpleasant. Not like he said it would be.

Marcus hated bananas. I found out the morning I offered him one to go with the breakfast I’d fixed him. The one morning he came by before work.

“Everyone says it’s apples,” he told me. “All the kid’s Bibles you see depict Eve holding an apple. But it was a banana. Because the moment Eve bit into it, she knew she owned him. And then she made him eat it, and he lost everything. And now women rule the world.” He piled scrambled eggs on top of his grape-jam-smeared toast and said he would never eat a banana.

I didn’t bother telling him about the all the trouble Eve got into. Pain of childbirth. Servitude under Adam. Because I don’t believe in it. I told him that bananas are just bananas and they taste good. They taste good by themselves. They taste good in Special K. They taste good in ice cream. They taste good with peanut butter.

“Those are woman foods,” he said and bit into his mound of peppered egg, jam, and toast.

I asked how peanut butter is a ‘woman food.’ He had a peanut butter sandwich the day before. And he said only because he was subject to the world of women’s needs at the grocery store, but he would never eat a peanut-butter-smeared banana. I ate one yesterday. I also had banana pudding and a banana wrapped in toast with grape jam. I saved my iguana, GAR, the tip of one. He only likes a bite or two. Then I went back to Food Lion for the largest bundle on display. I drank homemade banana daiquiris that night until I vomited all over the coffee table and passed out on the couch.

The spoon scrapes the bottom of the mixing bowl as I stir. Criss-crosses like the bark on a banana tree. I mash the oatmeal down and stir again. Foster Mother 1 would have taken the bowl away from me by now. Commanded me to stop playing with my food. But I’m not playing. I’m mixing. Stirring. Smashing.

Marcus and I met on a blind date at the Pagoda three months ago. I was the waitress. His date was a plump but perky brunette. A good decade older than he was. She forked white rice into her mouth like Foster Mother 2 shoveled dirt. I had made the mistake of standing behind the pseudo-mother once and gotten a faceful of potting soil. She got it back, mixed with saliva, in her hair.

I asked Marcus’ date to hand me her glass when it was time to refill it, because Foster Mother 3 had cows, and I learned early on not to get between them and their sweet feed. After a thoughtful glurp of Diet Coke, the woman said something about powdering her nose. She lumbered off toward the bathroom. The gait of a rhinoceros.

“I hope you don’t think I knew she was like that before I brought her into public,” the man I would come to know as Marcus said. His hair, yellow as a banana peel, brushed the top of the straight back chair. Green eyes stared at me from beneath untamed brows. I wanted to pluck them for him. Instead I shrugged and asked if he’d ever been to a cow show. He laughed and asked if I was a cowgirl. I told him no, I was a waitress and asked if he couldn’t he tell the difference.

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he said.

“Only because it’s close to my brain. My fingers aren’t nearly as smart.” I laid the check down on the table.

He announced his name as he handed me a Mastercard. I glanced down at it, back up at him, and congratulated him for knowing his name. When I returned with it and a receipt, he told me his date had left.

“What time do you get off?” he asked.

I get that question a lot, only in Spanish. Latin American immigrants with ties to the cooks. Ignatio, the head chef, runs them off when he’s there, though. He tells them that I’m his chica, and they leave me alone after that. But he doesn’t see me that way. Still pining over the woman who left him with their two-year-old daughter, Alicia-Maria. He’s the only one I trust in that place.

I should have yelled for my chico when Marcus asked me, but I told him to stick around and find out.

He did. He stuck around for two months. Ate alone at the Pagoda at least three times a week. Moo Goo Gai Pan, Beef and Broccoli, General Tso’s Chicken. I was impressed. Even I can’t even eat Chinese more than once a week.

The same doesn’t apply to bananas.

I take another bite of my oatmeal. Sugar crystals cover the neck of the spoon like a bow tie. I lick them off. Marcus hated when I did that, especially when I put the spoon back in the bowl. I do that now. There is one more banana on the counter. I peel it and slice it into the bowl.

Mix.

My hair tickles my neck, and I tie the frizzy red ringlets into a ponytail. Stir. Smash. Stir.

Marcus liked to tell me my hair was beautifully undomesticated in Greek. At least, he said it was Greek. I wouldn’t know if he had lied. I know he didn’t lie about being the noon DJ on Metallic 91. “Your home for all your metal favorites.” That sort of occupation is easy enough to check, though I never did. I like jazz and hip-hop. Anything with a syncopated rhythm. Metal’s usually just like rock. Beats on 2 and 4. Formulaic.

But I loved Hampton, his pit bull. He’d wear my sunglasses when I came over. Slobber like he was the happiest beast alive. I wonder if he actually was happy or if it was just a glandular problem. Dogs will endure about anything for food.

I make my own.

About a month in, Marcus and I started spending nights together. Rather, I spent nights with him. We couldn’t make love in my apartment, Marcus said, because GAR watched us. But GAR goes to bed at 9pm every night. In the front room. In a wooden cage. The Plexiglas sides covered by a quilt. Ignatio calls Marcus’ fear a derivation of mal ojo, the evil eye, blamed for the unexplained deaths of little boys in the lower Americas. But I don’t think Marcus was afraid of dying. Maybe he should have been.

Marcus also said that the reptile’s gender ambiguity was bothersome. I told him I only named the iguana that because when GAR was a hatchling, it was impossible to tell the sex. GAR was officially a male now because he was growing spikes on the inside of his legs.

“What are those used for?” Marcus asked.

But he knew. He just wanted me to say it aloud. I told him to remove the grin from his lips. He did but moved it to his eyes. My shoulders twitched then, and I blamed it on a cold chill. It was 80° in the house.

Marcus wasn’t sadistic— I’ve dated sadistic men before; they leave more than their thumbprints behind on my shoulders—but he was aggressive in bed. And always on top. He pressed against me until I couldn’t breathe, and his wiry chest hair left abrasions on my sternum. He even wanted to have sex while I was on my period. Said he wasn’t afraid of contamination. But I didn’t go to his house during that week of the month. I stayed at home, where he wouldn’t venture without his pants for fear of catching GAR’s mal ojo.

Toward the end of our second month together, Marcus’ speech dripped with hostility, like saliva from fangs. He even called me the unmentionable c-word during one of his visits to the Pagoda. No teriyaki sauce on the table. Ignatio flung a shrimp de-veiner at him through the server window. It stuck in the wall three inches from Marcus’ head. Ignatio speaks almost fluent English, but I didn’t think he knew that word.

Dr. Hettings, the psychiatrist my last foster mother made me see, said I feel comfortable in negative situations and that’s why I went through four sets of foster parents after my real mom died. I intentionally aggravate normal situations, he said, so I can feel abused and self-piteous because I’m afraid of feeling loved.

But he’s wrong. It’s true I’ve always dated the “bad” guys. The mentally abusive ones. The bums. The ones who were always out doing someone else behind my back. But the “good” ones are either taken or pining. Not a lot of options. That doesn’t mean I let the bastards get to me, though. I don’t crawl into bed. Watch Jane Austen movies. Cry. I just knee them and move on. I know when too far is too far.

Clattering and a successive thump make me wince. GAR has leapt onto the coffee table from the couch again. I stop stirring. He extends his dewlap and bobs at the green coffee mug I left on the table corner. Anything green is a natural enemy. Unless it’s a sugar snap pea. Then it’s food.

I have a teakettle to match the cup in my cabinet. My last foster mother gave them to me for my 18^th birthday, right before I moved out. I’m not sure why she thought the two went together. Maybe a hint that I should drink less coffee. But that was almost eight years ago, and the kettle hasn’t replaced my Mr. Coffee maker. It would have made a decent bludgeon, now that I think about it. The opportunity has passed, however, because Marcus is gone.

Smash. Stir. Smash.

Two nights ago, he came over, whiskey swirling in his breath. The tips of his ears were red.

“Let’s go back to my place,” he said. “I’m ready for love.”

He glared at GAR, who lay across the back of my couch. The iguana opened the eye that faced us.

“The only thing you’re ready for is a hangover,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why not?” His eyes were emeralds, always greener when drunk.

“Because I’m cramping and bleeding like a knifed drug dealer.” I sat down on the couch near GAR’s head and folded my legs. The iguana licked my hair.

“I’ve told you before—”

“This tampon is not coming out for you,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got to open tomorrow, which means I have to be at the restaurant at 9. I need sleep, not sex.”

His face reddened to match his ears. He swallowed. Adam’s apple bobbed. GAR jerked his head.

“Put the lizard up,” Marcus said.

“He doesn’t go to bed for another thirty minutes.”

He leaned closer to my face. “I said, put the bastard animal up.”

I coughed and fanned my hand between us. Alcohol usually doesn’t offend my nose—it doesn’t offend my stomach either—but whatever brand of scotch he’d gotten his sweaty hands on melted my nose hairs.

“It’s not time,” I said.

“Woman, I’m not going to tell you again.”

GAR raised himself, puffing out his dewlap and elongating his sides. His tail curled upwards and tilted. I moved my head more to the left, away from the iguana.

“Back up,” I said.

He grabbed my face. His fingertips pressed against bone. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

I tried to look at GAR, to judge his stance, but Marcus held my jaw in place. “You’ll leave here in a stretcher if you don’t back up,” I said.

“I’m not moving.”

GAR’s tail cracked against Marcus’ cheek. He backed up, clutching his face.

“Told you so,” I said, rubbing my jaw.

He moved his hands, chest heaving. GAR’s tail must have caught Marcus’ eye because blood oozed from beneath his eyelid. Dripped down his cheek.

“I’m not apologizing for him,” I said.

“It,” he said and lunged for GAR.

I kicked him in the stomach, wishing I was still wearing my heels. He fell over the coffee table. His head bounced on the floor. I breathed. He didn’t. I went over to nudge him, but he sat up and turned. Grabbed my knees so that I fell beside him. He tore at my shirt collar with his sweaty hands. Wrapped his fingers around my trachea. I shoved him. Hard. Into the coffee table. The base of his skull crunched onto the corner, his mouth agape to scream profanities. But none came.

A few drops of blood gathered on the carpet beneath his head. He didn’t move, not even to close his mouth. I wanted to shove a banana in it. Maybe smear on some peanut butter. But I left both on the counter and checked his pulse.

Nothing. His throat was still warm. Flushed from the alcohol.

I didn’t want to call the cops. Each of them carried a wallet-sized photo of my latest mug shot every time there was a protest in Dannersby. At the bottom of the photo in photocopied ink, it said “typical ringleader.” I know because the last officer to arrest me showed me. But I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that you can’t dump a body, even if the reason he’s a body and not a person is self-defense, and expect the police to pat you on the head and send you on your way. Which goes doubly for me.

So I dialed 911 and told the nice woman who asked what my emergency was that there wasn’t much of an emergency now. That he was already dead but I’d like him off my coffee table. The police arrived in less than ten minutes. Stuffy old sergeant who knew me by name. His newbie partner, who gagged at Marcus and had to “take a moment.”

The sergeant didn’t arrest me. This time. The bruises on my cheek and throat and the angle of Marcus’ impact concurred with my statement. He, frowning, told me that no charges would be made. At this time.

I told them it was okay to be disappointed.

“Can’t you stay out of trouble for once?” the sergeant said as he was leaving.

He and the coroner took Marcus with them. Gurney. Stretcher. There isn’t much of a difference. I ate the banana I’d wanted to stick in his mouth. It was still a bit green.

I lay the mixing spoon on the counter. The outline of a banana shrinks in the bottom of the bowl, oatmeal rolling in on itself like the closing of a secret passageway. Dr. Hettings would probably tell me I’m grieving. In shock. That it’s perfectly normal to gorge yourself on bananas when the guy you’ve been dating would have most certainly raped you if your formerly gender ambiguous reptile and you hadn’t done something about it.

But I wonder if it’s normal to feel nothing. No loss. No anger. No fear. Nothing.

If Ignatio were here, he’d tell me, come más hortalizas, eat more vegetables, and throw a frozen pea at my head. That seems to be his answer for everything.

The oatmeal within the shrinking outline looks overripe, like the innards of solid brown banana. The kind fruit flies deposit their eggs on. My stomach heaves, and I vomit into the bowl. A tropical whiff embedded in the stench of the gastric juices makes me flinch. Heave. I vomit until nothing comes up.

Shaking, I cover my mouth with a napkin. Back away from the counter. The contents of the mixing bowl don’t look much different. Still like banana oatmeal. I dump it, bowl and all, into the trashcan. Tie the bag shut. Sit on the floor against the stove. Breathe. My eyes water, but I don’t dry them.

The bananas are gone.

By Joshua Michael Johnson

Creative Nonfiction

First published in Static Movement 2009

I paddle one stroke, then another, each deciding my direction as I guide my canoe down the whispering creek. A toothed rock facing, crowned by tall trees, lines the left side of the creek, stretching on for a mile or so, while a sloping collection of mud and broken, rotting docks crowds the right. I listen to each quiet ripple as the governing current pulls me through scenes of giant trees, and fleeting fish, and lazy ducks, and abandoned cabins, but not too quickly, or too slowly, or too perfectly either. It just pulls, and pulls, and pulls the canoe along its flowing path, pulling me away from the city, and the traffic, and the noise, and the faces that I am.

As the bow of my canoe glides down the creek, I watch a wobbling v stretch through the quiet water, widening out until its shape is lost into the erratic lines of the current. My canoe–this isn't my canoe. It belongs to a guy who a couple of days ago was one of my best friends. Three days ago I was at his house into the early morning hours, hanging out with him and his X Box 360. He cussed at me when I won a game of MLB 2009 and I was excited because I had never beaten him before. We played co-op Rainbow Six Vegas 2 and obliterated the terrorists like always. We talked about work, and the direction of the store, told crazy customer stories, and laughed. We talked about going canoeing on a shared off day during the week. We store the canoe at my house since he lives in an apartment.

He was late to work the next morning, and I laughed at him for over sleeping. He responded with a shrug and an annoyed grunt. Later I saw him sitting in the store director's office as I walked by, he was hunched over and dejected and I walked to my car knowing something was wrong. That night I received a frantic, crying phone call from an employee, who told the sobbing story, with the police, and the handcuffs, and it kept me awake. I remember my ceiling fan at 2 o’clock, and 3 o’clock, and 4 o’clock, and 5.

$40,000. I don't understand how he could've stolen that much money. I didn't want to believe it at first. I didn't want to believe that he hadn't really been my friend, that he'd just manipulated my trust, but the black and white security footage showed everything. He'd gotten away with it for a while, but he slipped up and now he's going to jail. And I didn't really feel sorry for him either.

I took the canoe out alone today, knowing that he probably won’t come to get it in the short time between his arraignment and trial. Then it won’t matter because he’ll be gone for a long time. I tried to forget all those things as I put the canoe in the water, and stepped in. The current pulled the canoe into its grasp. I paddled on one side, then on the other, guiding the canoe down the creek –the dock slipped away and I wished my thoughts could slip away too.

Today I'm happy to be on the water–away, just away. I wonder if there's a lesson in nature, if it's a lesson of simple respect, or repose or perhaps there is no lesson and nature just is. I've a tendency of either infusing meaning into everything, or depleting everything of all meaning until it's just life-less lump of textbook ink. But I'd like to think that nature is somewhere between these.

I duck as I float under a tree fallen across the creek, its roots poking skyward in all directions. Ahead, a crane flies low along the water, its long crooked legs held out behind–its wings flecking droplets of water with each beat. Alongside the canoe, a turtle swims, flipping its little feet behind its clunky shell, cruising in the flowing water. The creek narrows along this stretch, as the trees grow close to the banks, and the current grows stronger. And as I feel the current pulling, and pulling me along its whispering path, I realize this canoe was probably stolen too.

By Katie Christie

The giant mouse down the hall had been stalking me since I moved in. Flashes of his fuzzy tail disappeared around corners behind me. In the hallway, overgrown grey ears with a soft pink center poked up behind artificial potted trees and the wreckage of dirty silverware and half-empty condiment tubs piled on abandoned room service carts. Whenever I tried to leave, a blue plastic eye the size of a softball would find mine just as the elevator doors closed.

I finally confronted him. Stepping out of my room, I saw the point of his tail bounce around the corner and I took off, heedless to the pounding of my feet on the lower floor’s ceiling or my girlfriend left alone in our doorway, calling to my back, “Adam?” I followed him to the next hall, his wide hips sauntering upright to the elevator, and I ran harder. He turned and pressed the button, jet-black, spaghetti-thick whiskers stabbing out in his profile.

The light on the button went out as I flung myself forward, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I panted.

He turned his huge, perpetually smiling face towards me, “Going down.”

“The hell you are. Who do you think you are, going around dressed like that?”

“I’m a kid’s entertainer. I do the Macarena and juggle and take pictures in front of a giant piece of plastic cheese.”

The elevator pinged and he put his fat finger on the button to hold the doors open.

“Well, I don’t like it.” I crossed my arms, “I always see you, everywhere I go, creeping around and being sneaky. Watching. I don’t like it at all.”

“We’re neighbors,” he said, “I work a lot.”

“Well, go to work then,” I said, stepping back, “Just don’t hang around me anymore.”

The mouse entered the elevator. It pinged again when he pressed the floor button, and he turned, holding me in the shiny black paint of his plastic eye.

The doors slid shut and Susan’s voice came from behind me. “What is going on?”

“I had to catch that mouse—”

“Not this again! I’ve never even seen this guy.”

“That’s because you work all the time. I’m here all day. Every time I walk around the hotel he’s there, watching me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time here. It’s not like you’re going to get a lot of job offers in the hotel.”

She turned her back as she said it to push the elevator button.

“My paintings aren’t inspired by the customer.” I replied, “The customer is inspired by my work. The perfect customer and the perfect piece have to meet spontaneously, like lovers—”

“We met on a blind date.”

She stepped into the elevator. I tried a different tactic.

“What if one of those internet rating companies came and saw him around? It would give the hotel a bad reputation, and then other crazies would start coming here and before you know it this 5-star hotel would turn into a rent-by-the-hour dump right around us. Then what would we do?”

“We’ll go to another one. Or we’ll find our permanent place, the one you’re supposed to be researching? How’s that going, by the way?”

“I’ve got some leads.” I mumbled and didn’t complain again on the ride down but followed her across the lobby, her pert heels ringing against the marble floor. She hailed a cab and I waited, my hands buried in my coat pockets against the frozen air.

As the taxi curved through the lanes towards us, she suddenly turned to me and wrapped her gloved hands around my upper arms.

“I’m sorry for pressuring you about working. Sometimes I get just frustrated with the creative process. Let’s have a nice Sunday, okay?”

She smiled, bouncing onto tiptoes to peck my lips and left a faint slickness of her bubble-gum gloss before getting into the cab. I shut the door behind us as she gave the cabbie the restaurant’s address. Dinner was nice—though I couldn’t bring myself to sample the cheese plate. Later, drinks and dessert with a married couple Susan had met through work was pleasant, but even the chocolate mousse they served was too much for me. I was measurably more tipsy than Susan when we collapsed under the covers before eleven so that she could turn over and get some decent sleep before her early workday.

The next afternoon I stood barefoot in our suite, grey jockey shorts baggy around the backs of my upper thighs, contemplating the unfinished piece positioned beside the largest window. It was a nude study of Susan, though camouflaged because she refused to pose for me, even when drunk.

“I’ve seen what naked pictures can do to a woman’s reputation.” She always said, slurred or not, “I have a career to think about. Besides, what if I had kids? How would they feel about seeing their naked mother displayed on somebody’s wall?”

In the two years I’d known her, she’d steadily increased the frequency of these two topics—her future career and her future family—in conversations with me. Now that twenty-nine was her next birthday, she had to decided to re-prioritize, canceling her efficient, single loft and moving me into this extended-stay hotel with her until I found a house suitable for a family.

So in the painting my beloved Suzie’s glossy hair was a willow’s black branches, her pale breasts doves and her moist pink vagina cooled into a blue iris. Or that’s what I had planned. Much of the top portion was white canvas, interrupted by only the most cursory of pencil lines. I closed my eyes and the completed picture emerged from the darkness, but when I opened them it seemed impossible to transcribe that image into reality.

Feet crinkling the plastic drop cloth, I went to the other side of the window where an impressionist landscape of the Manhattan skyline waited. Done in oceanic blues and steely grays, it was one of Susan’s favorites because it was most similar to the prints she’d studied in school. Thinking it was finished, she’d protested when a rare fit of inspiration had caused me to add a black sphere in the lower right corner, swirling its edges into the blue daubs of skyscrapers and bridges. My enthusiasm on the project had waned at her criticism.

I trained my gaze on the sphere and then unfocused to the surrounding impression, trying to contact whatever had moved me to place it there. Turning my head sideways, I let the grays and blues swirl around the emptiness, like a hole in the canvas or a watching eye …

Startled with recognition, I looked away, then leaned in closely. Like one of those trick pictures in a magazine, the image had just revealed itself to me and I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Blue, with a bottomless center, surrounded by gray—I’d painted the fucking mouse’s eye.

Bursting into the hall, then back into the room to pull on an abandoned pair of lounge pants from the floor, I ran out. A glance both ways down the hall proved his insidious grey fur was nowhere to be seen. I started left, towards the elevators, at a fast walk, my bare feet slapping on the flattened carpet. I went around the corner and squinted down the hall, then quickly backtracked to check around that corner. I walked slowly back to our door, realizing that I didn’t know exactly which room the mouse lived in. I stood for a moment, my hands twisted in my unwashed hair, the reeking forest in my underarms displayed for the world to see, but the hall was empty. I settled down on my heels, and then sat cross-legged in front of my door, swiveling my head from side to side, waiting for the mouse to appear. A maid and a room service waiter, each armed with their individual carts, passed by at different times. The maid sped up as she passed me, the front right wheel squeaking and spinning crazily, but the waiter slowed, his eyes and mouth open to stare as he went by me. I paid no attention. I stared to the left, intently scrutinizing the distance, and then jerked my head right, afraid the mouse would escape behind my back.

I must have been there longer than I’d realized. When the dull thump of Susan’s heels came from around the corner I only had enough time to stand up before she saw me. She stopped, her room key pointing out from between her thumb and forefinger, purse and coat draped over one forearm, balancing take-out cartons in the other hand.

“Adam?”

I stood with my hands in the pockets of my pajama pants, bare-chested, unshowered.

“Hey baby. How was work?”

She tilted her head to one side, “What are you doing?”

“Just, um, opening the door for you. Is that dinner? Let me get that.”

I took the food, pushed the hotel door open, and smiled. She walked forward slowly, turning her head to keep me in her gaze until she entered the room.

“Oh, Adam!”

I cringed. My paints and supplies were opened and spread about on the drop cloth. A trail of kid’s cereal lead from the warehouse-sized bag on the counter to the bowl on the floor, crusted with a dried kaleidoscope of marshmallows and grain. I dropped the food on the counter and ran into the bedroom behind her.

“I’m sorry, the day just—just got away from me.”

I snatched up knots of yesterday’s clothes, wading through mounds of feather pillows in the floor. She stacked her work things carefully on the side table and went into the bathroom, “You didn’t even take a shower?”

By the time she came out in her college hoodie, hair twisted up, I had made the bed and picked up the front room, the drop cloth and other messes of my art hidden away.

“Are you hungry?”

She nodded and said quietly, “I worked through lunch today so I wouldn’t be too late getting home.”

I opened the cartons and inhaled the cumin-scented steam, “Mmmh, vegetable dhal, great idea. I’ll just get plates and forks—what kind of wine do you think goes best, white or red?”

“Adam.” Her voice was still quiet, calm, “What’s going on? What did you do all day?”

“I’m sorry, baby, I just got distracted.”

“From what? You barely interact with the real world, haven’t you spent enough time being distracted?”

The plates rattled against each other as I set them on the counter.

“You know I work all day. Painting is a process that has to build over time, like a tree—”

“You were working all day today?”

“Ok, not today.” I turned away, and dug through the utensil drawer, “There was something—else, that kept me from working.”

“What?”

I sighed, my back to her, “The mouse.”

“What.”

I turned around, forks in hand, “You don’t understand, Suzie, he’s everywhere, he’s always bothering me, and now I’m putting him into my paintings!”

She looked back at the two paintings flanking the window that I stabbed at with my fork.

“I don’t see a mouse.”

“It’s not the whole mouse—it’s just the eye, the big, creepy plastic eye. Go look at the black part of the cityscape, it’s there.”

She walked away and I watched her stand before the paintings, her back to me, arms crossed. I brought the food to the coffee table, poured two glasses of wine beside it, and sat on the couch, still waiting. Finally she turned around, sat beside me and unfolded her napkin.

“I don’t see anything.”

She took a deep drink of wine. We ate in silence, and I did the few dishes while she curled on the couch, a second glass of wine delicately clinging to her fingers as she stared out the darkened window. I sat on the other end of the couch, close enough to leave only a breath’s space between us.

“I’m sorry about today, Suzie. Now that I’ve got this block figured out I’ll be able to get back on track really quickly. It’s temporary.”

I reached out and squeezed her upraised knee. She elegantly tipped back the last sips of her glass and turned to me.

“You know, Adam, I really want to believe you. I think I’ve been very understanding of this whole—sabbatical—you’re on, but I’m now starting to wonder how temporary it’s actually going to be.”

“Suzie—”

Her soft palm stopped me, “It’s becoming clear that you and I want different things in life and prolonging the inevitable isn’t fair to either of us.”

Straightening up, she set her feet on the floor and her glass on the table.

“You’re wrong,” I looked up at her, “All I want is you.”

She went to bed and I went to the window. The mouse’s eye stared at me, refusing to leave the painting. I took it off the easel and went to a collection of other works in progress neatly leaning against the wall. Choosing a still life, I spent some time working on the exact texture of peach fuzz until I saw it: a vertical pink plate on a grey tablecloth was actually a huge, round ear. I discarded that canvas as well, dropping it to the floor quietly, and moved on. Through the night, all of my unfinished works succeeded each other on my easel and then the floor. An experiment in cubism prickled with heavy black whiskers, grey tails dominated an abstract painting; he’d been creeping into my work for weeks. I let the last one drop, its wooden frame clashing against the others in the pile, and stood in front of Susan’s portrait. The mouse’s other eye stared at me through the blue iris.

This time, I didn’t run after him. I even locked the door behind me and placed the key in a deep cloth pocket. I didn’t have to look far this time. Back at the elevators, his broad shoulders, bisected by a thick seam, seemed to touch both walls. He turned around as I came to a stop, and my eyes met the solid darkness of his open, smiling mouth.

“Hello Adam.”

 by Emile Hamm

So off goes the mobile medical professional, screaming down the road on the way to a little bar where there is a gunshot victim. This isn’t the typical bar or even general shithole that can be found in any city, it is an only sometimes open place. Basically, it gets hired out for private parties only and you have to know the right people to make that happen.

Like any shooting scene, there are cops everywhere. Gunshot victims, and scenes for that matter, can be a real pain to deal with. On one hand, the whole reason the medical cavalry is called in is to treat the said victim. However, at the same time, don’t disturb the evidence of the crime scene.

Imagine if you will a small building that is completely surrounded by cop cars all with very annoying flashing lights in the middle of the night. The music is still thumping loudly – typical heavy bass stuff that makes your teeth rattle. Going in the back door, there is a bathroom directly to the right which is where the shot-up G is lying.

Now this bathroom is about 4’ X 10’ so it’s bigger than your average half bath but that’s about it. Scatter all over the floor are at least 15 .45 shell casings. The now fully alert medic starts to think about how bad this guy must look like Swiss cheese under his Army camo jacket. He also wonders, “How am I going to walk in here and not disturb anything?” Generally speaking, paramedic training teaches to look for hazards. After all, it does no good for the rescuer to get hurt and need rescuing. The only hazards noticed in this place aside from the general health hazard of the bathroom are the shell casings lying about like cylindrical bearings.

Luckily, the quick thinking cop had already whipped out his digital camera and took a bunch of pictures. That way, everyone can be happy especially the CID guys who can be a real whiney bunch at times.

Said guy is lying on the ground moaning and groaning about how he needs to pee. “At least he is still breathing,” thinks our medic, “and if he is breathing, he still has a pulse and something to work with.”

Upon opening the ever stylish camo jacket, it is discovered that homeboy has a few holes. Three of them to be exact: One over the bladder which explains why he wants to pee, one over the stomach left of center, and one on the mid belly right of center. The last one has an accompanying smell of colon which tells about some of the damage.

Like a freshly tenderized slab of meat, the perforated OG got loaded onto the stretcher and slid into the truck. Just enough got done before rolling to ensure that general life would continue for the 2 mile trek to the hospital.
While roaring down the road, the green EMT asks if he can cut the rest of the guy’s shirt and jacket off. This makes sense so permission is granted. After cutting through the tough rip-stop material, two more holes are found in the perforated homie. In addition to the aforementioned three holes, he now has one in the right shoulder and forearm. Over the sound of the engine and the siren, the quiet sound of a bullet hitting the floor was not heard.

Arriving at the ER and getting in the room, the sweet nurse states, “So he’s been shot 3 times?”

“Nope, he has 5 now.”

“But you said 3.”

“I found 2 more.”

The final tally of injury for this upstanding piece of humanity was: one punctured bladder, one punctured colon, one punctured stomach, one fractured right arm (both bones), and one fractured clavicle.

It was also found out that this was a drug deal related shooting. No drugs were found on the victim but they were most likely taken by the person that shot him. Despite all the people that were at the party and all the shots fired, no one heard a thing. “The music had gunfire in it,” was the official answer.

That quiet little plink of the bullet hitting the floor of the truck officially put the truck out of service for two hours waiting for CID to get done with processing the bar. They then had to come over and take pictures of it and collect the bullet since its considered evidence.

Moral of the story kids is gun control is hitting what you are aiming for.

By Ashely Ledford

It wasn’t the reaction he expected. She was supposed to be confused at first, to ask him why the windows were covered and all the lights were off. He was to offer a clue, remind her they saw this once on CSI and she thought it would be an interesting experience. Then she was to recall the episode and say how amazing it was that he remembered.

“Happy first anniversary,” Tad said.

But Joselyn, his wife, said nothing. He pictured her oval face propped up by a slender hand, her brows, one pierced, arching above earthen green eyes. She had just showered—a nice gesture after spending the last couple of hours training the neighborhood canines—so her wet hair fell in long, black walnut tangles down her shoulders and back, soaking her oversized Kent State T-shirt. Hers was so unlike his own hair, thick African curls he inherited from his mother.

His cooking had warmed the kitchen to a cozier temperature than the November chill outside, and from the table the aroma of garlic, blue cheese dressing, naval oranges, and oregano rose with the steam. The CD she had surprised Tad with that morning, Nat King Cole Sings for Two in Love, crooned, set on random, from the counter. The voice and instruments were clear, much less grainy than in the old record Tad had listened to growing up. She always knew what to get him.

“Did you forget to light the candles?” Joselyn asked.

“There are no candles,” he said.

“Then...how are we supposed to see to eat?”

“We’re not. That’s the surprise.” Tad reached for her hand but found only a napkin, the paper ridged like Braille. He sang to her instead, his voice much less smooth than Nat King Cole. “There will be many other nights like this...”

“Why?” Joselyn asked.

“Because we’re going to be together until death do us part.”

She laughed. “I meant, why are we eating like this?” Her tone hit a step above its normal pitch, as if a musician had missed an accidental. “I mean, it smells good, but...”

He couldn’t see if she was still smiling, one side of her mouth raised slightly higher than the other, or if she was pinching the skin on her elbow, a sign of irritation, nervousness. He was about to give her the CSI clue when she spoke again.

“What did you make?”

Smiling.

Yes, I may dream a million dreams,/ but how can they come true,/ if there will never, ever be another you? And there wouldn’t be. Joselyn didn’t want kids.

“To your left are two celery sticks stuffed with cheese. Then there are five jalapeño chicken wraps, an orange vegetable kabob, and an Italian round. I poured you milk, but it’s in a coffee cup.”

“Milk to curb the zest and a coffee cup to prevent an accident, nice. But why do we have to eat in the...Ah, the CSI episode.”

The backrest of the kitchen chair huffed as Tad leaned onto it. She remembered. “Actually the restaurant they based it off of is in California. Los Angeles, San Diego, and somewhere else.”

“That’s...special,” Joselyn said.

I had my chance/ but it’s all over now...Perhaps this wasn’t the best CD to set the mood.

Dog tags jingled under the table and a warm back pressed against Tad’s leg. Beowulf, Joselyn’s brindled Irish wolfhound, believed the kitchen table was her doghouse. Tad had protested at first; the silly beast bonked her head every time she stood up. But Joselyn said Beowulf had always lain under the table in her parents’ house, and she’d done the same thing when Joselyn moved her to the apartment in Canton, so why should their house in Dannersby be any different?

Why indeed. Joselyn probably had her bare feet buried in the wolfhound’s wiry fur.

Tad moved his legs. “I know I can’t take credit for originality, but you said it would be an interesting experience.”

“You do realize that somebody died eating this way,” she said, the odd pitch returning.

“In the restaurant?” He had viewed a few reviews online. No one had written anything about that.

“On CSI.”

“Someone always dies on CSI.”

“Sure, but...I think I could enjoy the food more with the lights on.”

The table shook. Joselyn or Beowulf must have bumped it.

“But the point is to heighten your senses,” Tad said. “It’s like being blind. Touch, smell, and taste become—”

She inhaled as if she were about to enter a tunnel. “Tad, I’d just feel better if—”

“But you like things to be dark, creepy, and weird. I thought you’d like it. You said it would be—”

“Interesting, yes, but I never thought you’d actually do it.”

She never thought he would do it. That’s what she had said nearly five years ago, the day before Christmas break when he stood in Kent State’s library, presenting her with the eyebrow piercing she’d said she wanted, the silver dog bone. Joselyn hadn’t accepted it then, though. She was dating someone else. He’d known that, of course, but they could still be friends, couldn’t they? She said friends didn’t kneel when they exchanged gifts, but he only knelt because she was sitting down and he was 6’3”.

He saved the piercing, though. She broke up with her jerk boyfriend sometime during the break, and once the spring semester began, she agreed to go with him to The Steaming Mug for its famous hot cocoa, which Tad knocked over on the table. Joselyn laughed, and helped him clean it up. She said she’d never met a man who liked Jane Austen and rock climbing. And he had never encountered a woman who could discuss the historical satire in Gulliver’s Travels as easily as she could sensory receptors in a gray wolf. On Valentine’s Day, Tad took her to the climbing wall at Hawkins Park, and as they dangled suspended from cables, he re-presented the silver dog bone.

“I can’t believe you kept that,” she said, taking out the other piercing and replacing it with his gift. She’d worn it ever since.

The meal, however, he couldn’t save for three months.

Tad pressed his palms against the table. “I’ll go turn on the lights.”

“No, wait. I feel bad. You worked so hard on this.” Another tunnel breath. The table shook as if from a 2.6 earthquake.

“Joselyn? Are you okay?”

“Let’s just eat,” she said. “The food’s getting cold.”

He reached for his milk, but his fingers landed in the blue cheese dressing. Tad cursed inwardly, found his napkin, and wiped off the dressing. He thought he was past this. She hadn’t been disappointed with a gift since he had paid to have her eyebrow pierced for a second time. The woman nearly pierced Joselyn’s eye, which required two stitches at the corner of her eyelids. She still had the scar.

“So how are the books?” she asked.

Tad smiled, pulling an orange slice off the skewer. She’d coined that question after they started dating. He’d been an assistant librarian then at Kent State. He now worked for Dannersby Public Library. Despite the dark, the orange didn’t taste sweeter or tangier, just like a Food Lion orange.

“Dusty,” he said. “I’m still working through the box Mr. Kilmore donated.”

“I thought you—Ow! Did you put toothpicks in these wraps?”

He twirled the accused food, the pick splintering between his thumb and index finger. “To keep the bacon on. Sorry. Are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

“I don’t think so. All I can taste is garlic.”

“Is it too much?”

Maybe she's not to blame,/ leave me with silent hours...

“No, it’s fine,” she said off-pitch. “Everything’s fine.”

Dinner for one please, James...It certainly would have been more successful. He should have just bought her Loveopoly. She liked regular Monopoly. Didn’t she?

The table still vibrated. Tad moved his arm from the table and bit into the Italian round. The butter had solidified over the cheese and garlic powder. He swallowed hard and dropped the rest beneath the table. Beowulf shifted from side to belly, her tags jingling. He couldn’t see Joselyn, the scar that bunched in the corner of her eye, her elbow propped on the table, and he didn’t know how much of her hair had dried or where she rested her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she said a little louder than necessary. “The food’s great, Tad. Thank you. It’s nice.”

The shaking amplified to a 4.2.

“Can you please stop?” Tad said. “I don’t want my food to end up in the floor.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just Wulf’s taking up most of the legroom, so when I move my leg, the table shakes. We should probably invest in a sturdier one anyway. I mean, I know this table’s special to you. I’d hate for Wulf to break it.”

Tad’s grandfather had made the table with scrap oak from his employer’s lumberyard. She had loved the table when they moved it into the house. Did she not like it now?

You stepped out of a dream,/ you are too wonderful/ to be what you seem...Had Joselyn always been this fickle? She liked dark things, but now she didn’t; liked the table, but now it was too fragile; thought he was the best thing to happen to her—was she beginning to reconsider? Or had she just settled when she said yes before the justice of the peace, rain dripping off the roof of the pavilion?

“I can’t please you.” His voice was small, like the bit of red pepper on the kabob skewer.

“What?”

“I can’t please you,” he said more loudly, peering at the invisible woman across from him.

“But I’m the one shaking—”

“The table’s not good enough; the food’s too pungent. You don’t like my gifts. I can’t give you what you want.”

“Don’t be like this, Tad.”

“I don’t know how else to be.”

“What are you saying?”

He rested an arm on the table, now still. “Why didn’t you want to eat in the dark?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to. I appreciate your efforts, Tad, but I...”

“What, do you have to check the food before you eat it?”

A thousand thoughts of you/ will haunt me ever after...He would put this CD in his desk drawer and never listen to it again.

“You know Aunt Chris was blind,” she said quietly.

His diaphragm stretched, pulled, and twisted beneath his ribs. Tad shut his eyes and propped his head against his hand, the grease from his fingers slicking his skin. Joselyn and her aunt had been close, spending every Sunday afternoon at the dining table working puzzles, a habit they continued even after her aunt developed a genetic eye disorder that deteriorated the cones and rods in her retinas. After three years, Aunt Chris became legally blind. She died two months ago from pancreatic cancer. How had he not made the connection?

“Dr. Sobczak said your eyes were fine,” Tad said.

“For now.”

His hand thumped against the table, and he leaned back against the chair, mouthing the words of Nat King Cole, Your face,/ your smile,/ the moonlight in your hair/ your lips,/ your eyes,/ I’ll see them everywhere...He was an idiot, a simpleton.

“I’ll get the lights,” Joselyn said.

“No, I’ll get them.” He stood.

Her chair scraped across the floor. “I’m closer. It won’t—”

Dog skull cracked against the bottom of the table, and the dishes clanged, followed by a yelp and shout, crash and thud, and one final crack of wood on linoleum. Nails clicked thickly and were gone. The CD player whirred, and Nat King Cole sang no more.

“Joselyn?” His chest warmed with adrenaline.

“I’m fine, tripped over Wulf.”

“Anything broken?” She hadn’t cursed. That was a good sign.

“Just get the lights.”

Tad pulled the chair back, waving his outstretched hands as he walked around the table. His hand traced the side of the fridge, sticking to a picture, the only one on that side. Joselyn sat in a tire swing at Hawkins Park. She was laughing, clinging to the chains as she spun, hair sweeping after her. But the camera had only captured a whirl of streaks, slowed motion. Beneath his hand, the picture was just a different texture in the dark.

When he could see again, would her head be on the floor, hair fanning out like thousands of seeping rivulets? Would her eyes be open, or closed as he pictured? He assumed her cheeks would be sticky with salt, but would she be smiling instead, one side higher than the other?

Did he want to see?

He located the switch and pushed up with his thumb.

Written by:

Danny Giraldo

Characters

The Writer

Block, his writer’s block

The Narrator, their story teller

ACT 1

(From darkness, a VOICE speaks)

Narrator. One evening, a lonely writer hurried home after a long day’s work. He had remembered that he had to write a drama, complete with a character page, inserts of stage directions (when characters enter and exit and the change of setting) and characters’ reactions (outward facial expressions or outward signs of emotion.) It was to have at least two characters, a recognizable plot, four to five pages in length, double-spaced, and to have all conflicts resolved. The writer had spent the past two weeks in agony over the assignment. Idea after idea, everything he tried to come up with just did not seem to work right in his head. Nor did he know what he was doing. Now, it was the night before , and countless hours passed by until finally, he was ready to give up. Maybe the five extra credit points would cover up this disaster? When hope was almost lost, and just before he threw in the towel before going to sleep, something strange and unexpected happened.

SCENE. The Study.

Curtain opens to reveal a disgruntled writer, at a desk. LIGHTS fade up to illuminate a multi purpose bonus room, complete with weight bench, treadmill, tv, electronic keyboard, and computer. The back walls are lined with bookshelves, containing books, movies, and picture albums. Papers are scattered across the desk filled with ideas, writings, and doodles. The writer stands up from his chair and paces around the room.

Writer. I can’t take this anymore.. I don’t know what I’m doing, and this isn’t going anywhere! I need help!

(Enter BLOCK, from a cloud of smoke. A bright blue-ish purple cube, standing four feet tall. There’s not much else to say about a talking square.)

Block. (Clearing his throat) You rang?

Writer. (With fright) Holy smokes! Wh-wh-what are you?

Block. I’m your block of course! Notice my square complexion. (Pauses for a moment to model and pose)

Writer. But, but –

Block. (Before the writer can continue) I know it sounds crazy, but believe it or not I’m here to help you.

Writer. Like a fairy godmother?

Block. (without thinking) Yes- No! (shaking his head) Not at all like fairy godmothers. I would be a fairy god-father, if I were a fairy, mind you, but I most certainly am not. (looking over his shoulder) We blocks do not mingle with that kind.

(The writer moves across the set, stage left, away from the desk, and slumps down on a weight bench letting out a sigh. He looks down at the floor)

Writer. But this thing is due tomorrow! There’s no way I can finish by then.

Block. Now, now, I will not have that sort of talk. Do you know why I’m here?

Writer. (With a usual smarty pants college student attitude) Yeah, because I’m stuck.

Block. (He answers too quickly) Right. (a beat) But why else?

Writer. (looks at BLOCK and shrugs his shoulders)

Block. Because you have no idea what you are doing!

Writer. Well, how am I supposed to know? I’m no playwright!

Block. (aside) This kid’s got heart, let me tell you.

Writer. What was that? I didn’t hear you.

Block. (rolling his eyes) That’s the point, its an aside.

Writer. An aside? What’s –

Block. (Before he can continue) It’s something that’s said by a character intended to only be heard by the audience, not the other characters. Didn’t you pay any attention in class?

Writer. (Lowers his head into his hands)

(A beat)

(Realizing that the writer truly needs his help, the block moves over towards the writer.)

Block. (sighs) Lucky for you, I’m here to see you through, and I’m not going anywhere until I do. So let’s get started, shall we? All the late night infomercials about losing wait are coming on in about an hour and a half, and I’ve just gotta do something about my figure... (winking)

(The writer looks up, smiles, and nods his head.)

(a single PIANO starts)

INTO THE SKY

Block. There’s no use feeling down.

Writer. But I’m already feeling blue!

Block. Then kid, do I have some advice for you!

IN EVERY THING THAT MUST BE DONE,

THERE SHOULD ALWAYS BE A LITTLE FUN.

WHEN THERE’S DRAMA TO WRITE, HOPE WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT,

AND SOON YOUR BLOCK WILL BE THERE WITH A PLAN.

But first things first, we’ve gotta change your attitude. Come with me!

(Music still playing, the cube reached out to the writer in a way only cubes can do, and together they flew outside the window and into the night sky.)

UNCHARTED GALAXIES, A WHOLE NEW WORLD OF FANTASIES

RIGHT OUTSIDE OF YOUR WINDOW.

IF YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES, I’LL DO THE SAME.

NEVERLAND’S NEVER TOO FAR AWAY

JUST TAKE ME BY THE HAND, HERE WE COME TO EXPLORE

Writer. LET’S CATCH A RIDE ON A SHOOTING STAR

WE’LL TAKE IT TIL WE GET TO MARS

WE’LL FLY FROM ALL THE WRINKLES AND WORRIES AND STRIFE

Block. WE’LL LEAVE RIGHT NOW, BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON

Writer. AND BE BACK BEFORE CLASS IN THE AFTERNOON

Block. IT’S A COMMICAL BUT ASTRONOMICAL POINT OF VIEW

CAUSE WHEN YOU CHANGE YOUR THOUGHTS

YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND

YOU LEARN HOW TO LEAVE THIS WORLD BEHIND, YEAH

IT’S NOT AS HARD AS EVERYONE SAYS IT IS

SO BUDDY LOOK UP

THE STARS ARE SHININ’ BRIGHT FOR YOU

DON’T YOU KNOW THAT EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT?

C’MON KIDDO LOOK UP

SET A COURSE FOR A BETTER DAY

COME ALONG WE’LL SAIL AWAY,

INTO THE SKY

(MUSIC ends)

Writer. Man, I feel better already! You know, this isn’t as hard as I thought it was. You can really change how you feel about something by changing your attitude towards it. I’m sure I can get this done in no time!

Block. You’re absolutely right.

Writer Ok so first, I need some ideas.. (scratches head) Ooh! How about a story of an archaeologist who makes a fascinating discovery of a record of events that dates back to Ancient Egypt and the time of the Biblical Exodus? The main character can discover a tablet or manuscript of some sort detailing the life of an Egyptian back in that time..

Block. (interrupting) Lame...

Writer Well, then, perhaps I can write about a horse who’s born end first into a bucket of paint, and when the farmers finally get the bucket off, her tail leaves behind a trail of brilliant colors just like a paint brush!

Block. Eh.. too girly..

(The WRITER crosses his arms and paces across to center stage. He pauses to think and comes up with another idea. Then, raises one hand in the air, as the light bulb in his head suddenly turns on)

Writer (With passion) Well, maybe I can write one of a business man who finds himself suddenly questioning everything he knows because of a chance trip to an island off the coast of the pacific, where he learns that life isn’t all about making money. Quality, not quantity.. (The WRITER smiles with satisfaction)

Block. (Pretending to wake up from being asleep) Huh? what? Oh yes that’s nice..

Narrator. But remember, your teacher doesn’t want any cliffhanger endings. How are you going to finish that up in four or five pages?

(Both the WRITER and his BLOCK turn to exchange glances)

Block. He does have a point.

Writer . (Up towards the ceiling) Wait a minute, do you have any ideas?

Narrator. Actually, I have plenty of ideas, but I’m really not supposed to be doing this. I’m breaking the Narrator guidelines talking to you like this. I’m only supposed to tell your story.

(BLOCK nods in agreement with the NARRATOR)

Writer. Wait a minute... That’s it!

Narrator and Block (in unison) What’s it?

Writer. I’ll just write my story!

Narrator. And so the Writer did just that. He sat down with his Block, and together they stayed up all night, writing out the script to this drama. After they were done, the Block disappeared just as he said he would, with a final message to the Writer; Next time, kiddo, don’t wait til the last minute.

By Matthew Fisher

CHARACTERS

MARSHALL: Minister. Forties. Eli’s father.

ROSE: Early forties. Married to MARSHALL. Eli’s mother.

SETTING

A hospital waiting room in ICU.

MARSHALL and ROSE sit outside their son’s hospital room in ICU. Both are silent for a time, then MARSHALL speaks.

MARSHALL

I know exactly how you feel. You know that?

(Silence)

I do.

(Silence)

It hits you in waves, doesn’t it. I mean, sometimes I feel just completely at ease. Powerhouse faith. (pause) Then it hits me, you know? Fear. Grief. Just washes over. It comes in waves.

ROSE

No it doesn’t.

MARSHALL

It doesn’t?

ROSE

No. I’m drowning in it.

(Silence)

MARSHALL

Let’s pray.

(Silence)

You don’t want to pray for Eli?

(Silence)

Answer me, Rose.

ROSE

I feel like you’ve given up. You just want to pray, that’s it? That’s like opening up, just gulping the water down. It’s not working.

MARSHALL

No? What will work?

ROSE

Action. Doing something. Faith without works is dead, right, Pastor? I think broken sons might be the same way.

MARSHALL

For goodness sakes, Rose. Prayer is doing something. I know you feel like it’s not making a difference. But that’s the thing. It could be making all the difference.

ROSE

I think it is making a difference.

MARSHALL

You do.

ROSE

Yes. Quite consistently, God has done exactly the opposite of everything I’ve prayed for. Maybe I should pray for Eli to get worse.

MARSHALL

Lord, Rose. No. I can’t listen to you be flippant about our son’s condition. It makes me sick.

ROSE

I feel sick too.

MARSHALL

Because I’m not doing enough? I’m making you sick because Dr. Palmer said it would be dangerous to move him?

ROSE

Please, for the love of God, do not pretend that’s why you don’t want to do it.

MARSHALL

Money is not an issue here, Rose.

ROSE

You’re right. It’s not that, either. You don’t want to take him to another hospital because Dr. Palmer, or brother Palmer I should say, is an active board member. Wouldn’t want to offend him, would we?

(Silence)

ROSE

Perhaps we should put that on our son’s tombstone, hm? “Died for the sake of a church board member with a comb-over.”

MARSHALL

You’ve got it all figured out, then, don’t you? Think what you like, Rose, okay? Just sit quietly in your delusions.

(Silence)

MARSHALL

You really think that moving him will make a difference?

(Silence)

I’m asking you seriously.

(Silence)

Rose, I want you to know something. As bad as it looks, I believe he’s going to pull through this. God is going to heal him. And God is just as capable of doing that in this hospital as He is in the other. Okay? It’s in His hands. It’s hard to say that, and even harder to believe it, but if it’s God’s will for Eli to—

ROSE

No! It’s my will I’m concerned with. You remember the man in the middle of the ocean, Marshall? He’s stranded, treading water, and he prays for God to save him. A rescue boat comes by and offers to help him, but he says no, God will save me. Another boat comes by and he says the same thing. You remember this story? He dies, Marshall. And when he gets to Heaven he asks God, why didn’t you save me? And what does God say? He says, I sent you two boats, stupid! Two boats just for you, you stupid idiot! Okay? All right? And the other hospital, that’s a boat. It’s a boat, Marshall. And I am not going to let my son drown.

(Silence)

MARSHALL

I know how you feel. Okay? But we can’t lose it here. We have a responsibility. People look to us--look at us during times like these. When pastors have crises, it’s not well received.

ROSE

I’m not a pastor. My responsibility is to my son.

MARSHALL

You have a responsibility to pray for him. That’s why we’re going to do it.

ROSE

Why?

MARSHALL

I just told you why.

ROSE

No. Why. Why did God make this happen?

MARSHALL

Rose, you can’t blame God. He didn’t make this happen.

ROSE

No? We thank God when good things happen, but when young boys are crushed it’s someone else’s fault. Everything happens for a reason, you’ve said it a thousand times. Everything? You still want to stand by that?

MARSHALL

I stand by the Word. On the Word. And The Word says that it rains on the just and the unjust.

ROSE

Rain would’ve been okay. Maybe even a sedan would have. But it wasn’t. It was a van. A really big van.

MARSHALL

Bad things do happen, okay? Even to good people.

ROSE

(Sarcastic) Platitudes. So comforting.

MARSHALL

Excuse me?

ROSE

You aren’t providing me with a valid answer. But my question is valid. You say for everything that happens, there’s a reason why. (pause) Well I want to know why.

(Silence)

ROSE

Do you hear me? I’m asking my Pastor a question. Enlighten me, Pastor.

MARSHALL

I think you need to get some rest.

ROSE

This would almost be funny if our son wasn’t lying in that bed. Watching you dodge around it. Why can’t you just say “I Don’t Know”?

(Silence)

MARSHALL

It’s time, Rose. We’re going to pray now. I’m going to pray. For my son.

(Silence)

(prays) Dear Heavenly Father, we come before You now in a time of adversity. But as difficult as it is, Lord God, we must remember to be still. We must be still and know--

ROSE

No.

MARSHALL

We—we must be still—

ROSE

Stop. I don’t want any of it.

MARSHALL

Lord stop us—

ROSE

God doesn’t want any either.

MARSHALL

(To ROSE) What is wrong with you? This is for our son! Eli!

ROSE

Your sugary little prayers aren’t enough right now.

MARSHALL

My prayers are insufficient. Okay, then. You pray. (Pause) Yes, I think that’s only fitting. After all, you love Eli so much more than I do, right? You always know just what’s best for him. Go on. Show me how it should be done.

(Silence)

ROSE

(to GOD)

Part the waters, Jesus. Save him.

End of scene.

By: Bryce Wynn

Craig Kelly closed the book and removed the pair of horn-rimmed glasses from over his face. He didn’t need them but figured that they gave him that certain je ne sais quoi that devoted readers look for on the back of novels. The version of himself on the back cover of his latest work appeared more handsome and certainly classier than his present, dressed in a dark suit, a windsored, green tie and his green eyes looking remarkably greener underneath hair that had been gelled, styled, and made darker to mask the sporadic patches of gray. He leaned in close to the microphone hovering over the glass podium and looked out into the audience seated in five rows of folding chairs, mostly middle-aged women with time to kill between the Young and the Restless and picking up their kids from sports practice.

“What I just read was an excerpt from my latest book, Halo, which is now available here in the store. I want to thank you all for coming out this afternoon and I also would like thank Barnes and Noble for organizing this event.” Holding his hand in front of the mike, he cleared his throat. “I’m gonna take a short break and when I return, I will be more than happy to answer any of your questions and sign copies of the book.”

Craig stepped down from the platform at the back of the store and reached for his bottled water sitting on a table stacked high with copies of his novel. The silhouette of a contorted body was prominent against a blood-red background on the cover of his book. Above the bold, yellow title sat a halo, darkened blood dripping off of it.

“Mr. Kelly?” a voice called from behind him.

He took a swig of the lukewarm water and turned around to face a woman his age, a copy of Halo clutched against her chest. Long, dark hair did little to hide eyes that were wide and blue and he noticed that though covered, her clothes fit in all the right places.

“Yes?”

“You’re absolutely incredible. I have read all of your books, including this one, and I love all of them.” She looked as if she were about to jump from her skin as she shifted and fidgeted. “I’m Carrie.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Carrie.” His brow raised. “You’ve already read the book?”

“Got it this morning, opened it and couldn’t put it down until I finished it.”

“Impressive. And flattering.”

“And the main character – I thought it was so cool that you named him after you.”

“Pure coincidence.” Craig watched the girl’s face contort into something resembling confusion. “Just kidding.” She laughed, nasally and high-pitched and he was willing to forgive her for it.

“On top of being a genius, you’re funny too.”

“Well, I try to be.”

“Mr. Kelly, I would absolutely love to sit down and discuss the book with you, that is if you have time.”

Friendly and non-threatening Didn’t seem the type to flip the switch on a guy and end up cutting his balls off. He would take her somewhere public ensuring no repeats of Kathy Bates and James Caan. “I’m gonna use the restroom really quick and then sign a few books. How about afterwards we grab a coffee and you can tell me what you thought of the book?”

The young woman’s eyes widened even more and he feared that they would pop like ping-pong balls from her sockets like some 60s cartoon. “That would be great. I can’t wait.”

Ø

Craig licked and ran his thumb over the wiggling toddler’s chin, wiping away remnants of cinnamon and sugar. He sat the tiny spoon with the teddy bear handle into the half-eaten bowl of oatmeal and hoisted the child from her highchair. She squealed and talked in her indecipherable baby speak, each word punctuated with spit bubbles and flecks of oatmeal. He did the jiggle thing that every parent learned early on and ran his thick fingers through her thin, light-brown hair.

“It’s nappy time, Hannah,” he told her. “That way Daddy can get some writing done.” She began to cry and fidget and he hugged her pillowy body close to his own as he moved around the kitchen. Looking up, he saw Rose enter the room, the thick heels of her leather, zip-up boots clacking against the tile floor, her auburn pulled back into a severe ponytail and dressed in a black, knee-length skirt and a red turtleneck sweater. “There’s Mommy.” He held her arm up and waved it. “Say Good Morning Mommy.”

Slamming her leather attaché case down on the kitchen table, Rose popped the latches and pulled it open. She flipped through its contents until she found what she needed. “I need you to pick up the dry cleaning by four.” She handed him a manila envelope. “Here’s the check for the rent and for the utilities. It’s due by five. We’re also out of milk and diapers so you’ll need to pick up some. I’ve transferred over some money into the household account so please don’t go over like last time. I have a meeting at five so that should put me back here around 7:30.” She closed and locked the attaché case and picked it up.

“You coming home for lunch?” he asked, sitting the envelope down on the counter next to the coffee maker.

“I’m meeting a buyer outside of town at noon so I’ll just grab something quick. By the way, if you should call the office and I’m not in, please do not leave a message with the receptionist. She’s extremely incompetent and frankly I would prefer you not to call less it’s an absolute emergency.” She looked down at her watch and frowned, the three lines across her forehead becoming tight and pronounced, her painted lips practically nonexistent. “I’m late and traffic’s gonna be hell. Bye.” She snatched her car keys off of the counter and clack-clacks out of the room.

As Craig walked down the narrow hallway beyond the kitchen, he heard the front door slam shut behind her. Hannah was no longer crying as he walked into her bedroom. The lace white curtains around the single bay window were drawn offering an eighth-floor view of the calm waters of the aptly named Cerulean Bay. Thousands of golden rays, like tiny fingertips, caressed the pale-yellow paint coating the four walls, filling the room with a warm glow despite the frigid temperature beyond the window. He placed a quiet Hannah in her spacious crib and covered her with a yellow blanket, her initials stitched in white thread, knitted by her Craig’s mother. Before leaving the room, he pressed play on the Baby Mozart CD and flipped off the lights.

He massaged the back of his neck as he trudged down the hallway to the third bedroom that functioned as his office. Stepping inside, he yawned and stretched before taking a seat at behind his desk. He rubbed his hands together as the screen slowly illuminated. Along his black IKEA desk sat a stapler, a canister of paper clips, his laptop and printer, a jar of green jellybeans (his favorite candy), his clock radio from his dorm days, a recently-purchased Optimus Prime action-figure still in the box, and a tall bottle of hand sanitizer. To the left of his laptop sat a photograph of he and Rose taken on their honeymoon in Antigua, framed in black. On the shelf above his desk was a picture of him at the hospital holding a newborn Hannah. He opened the document containing his latest manuscript, which was due in mid-March, and for the first time since the afternoon before he felt in control.

Ø

“So, is it you and Rose’s anniversary?” Mrs. Sara Lemley held Hannah close to her heavy chest as she stood in the doorway of her apartment across the hallway from Craig and Rose. She was a short and stout woman, smelling of a mixture of mothballs and Bit-O-Honey. Thinning, charcoal-colored hair pinned up with a plethora of bobby pins framed a round, chubby face. Sara Lemley had no grandchildren and she always relished in looking after Hannah whenever Craig asked.

“No, I just thought it would be nice to cook dinner for her tonight.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “She works so hard during the day. Just wanted to do something special for her.”

“Aren’t you sweet. You know, in the entire time that me and my husband were married, he never, not once, cooked a romantic meal for the two of us. Lost count of how many meals I cooked that man. But boy, he sure loved my cooking.”

“Really appreciate you watching Hannah this evening.”

“It’s really no problem at all, Craig. I love this one like she were my own.” She nuzzled her nose in the crook of Hannah’s neck and the child cooed. “Now you go on and get started. Dinner don’t prepare itself.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Craig stood in the center of the hallway until the door to Mrs. Lemley’s apartment closed and locked. Walking back into the apartment, he headed for the kitchen. The clock on the microwave told him that he had nearly an hour and thirty minutes to get dinner cooked and on the table before Rose came clackity-clacking across the threshold, tossing her attaché case down on the beige chaise just beyond the front door. He stood at the sink, shoving each of the sleeves on his long-sleeved hunter-green polo shirt past his thick forearms, remembering the last time he’d cooked for Rose. It had been during their first year as man and wife, living across town in a shoebox that had seemed adequate at the time, especially for two post-grads struggling to make rent and student-loan payments. Craig had just finished his first book while Rose, then a platinum blonde, was spending her nine-to-fives behind the counter of the 8^th-Street bank. It had been an icy January 2 when she’d arrived home to a candlelit meal on the anniversary of the night he’d proposed to her.

“Craig?” she asked, slipping off her corduroy jacket and dropping her keys onto the warped surface of the coffee table. Three tall flames balanced on the wicks of three slender candles at the center of a folding table covered in a dark-red cloth in the center of the room. “What’s this?”

He slipped the jacket from her hand and walked it over to the front closet. “Hungry babe?”

“Famished,” she sighed, rubbing her manicured hands together. “What exactly we celebrating?” She reached up to push her hair away from her face.

Craig lumbered over to the table, pulled back the seat closest to the front door, and gestured for her to take a seat. “It’s our anniversary.”

“Um, no … our anniversary’s in May. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Haven’t forgotten.” Craig ran into the kitchen, grabbed their dinner plates off the stove an quickly moved back into the room. “Two years ago today, I do believe I got down on my good knee and asked you, Rose Andrews, to spend the rest of your life with me. And I recall you jumping off that couch back in your old apartment, screaming so loud that both your neighbors came over to see if I were killing you or something.”

“You remember that?”

“Heck yeah. Can’t forget it.”

“Proposing? Who remembers those kind of things?”

“I do and I reckon that’s why you decided to marry me baby,” Craig had answered in his best John Wayne impression. He had then placed a kiss on her soft, parted lips before taking a seat across from her at the table.

It was half past nine when he heard Rose’s keys in the lock. Prime rib, steamed broccoli, and mashed red potatoes had long been deposited into the trashcan; the pots, pans, and utensils had been washed and returned to their cabinets and drawers; and the tiny vein running along the side of Craig’s face was rapidly pulsating in time with a heart of the verge of meltdown. She came through the door, flicked on the light in the front room, and tossed her attaché case onto the chaise. Looking up, startled, she found him standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She slipped off her fur-trimmed coat and draped it over the back of the couch before moving over to where he was standing.

“You remember to pick up the dry-cleaning?” she asked, leaning over to unzip her left boot. “I need one of the blouses for a presentation tomorrow.” She kicked the boot from her foot.

Several seconds elapsed before Craig answered. “You’re standing there asking me about fucking dry-cleaning?”

“Excuse me? Craig-.”

“Craig what? What you got to say, Rose?” His nostrils flared.

She folded her arms across her chest, eyes squinted in examination. “You been drinking?”

“You hungry?”

“Am I hungry?”

“There’s food in the garbage if you’re hungry. Do you even give a shit that I spent the last two hours waiting for you to get in?”

“Look, I told you that I would be in at-.”

“7:30,” he cut her off. “So to answer your question, I picked up your goddamned dry-cleaning; I went to the grocery store to pick up the diapers and the milk; and you know what, I used one of my checks from my bank account to pay the fucking rent.”

“I swear to god, Craig.” Rose’s voice matched his in loudness and emotion. “How dare you get pissed at me for asking you to do something that you have more than enough time to do. I work all day long and last time I checked, it’s my money that’s paying the goddamned bills. Now I’m not gonna feel bad for asking you to get off your ass and run some freakin’ errands.”

“Off my ass? Not only do I work hard but I run this household and I take care of our daughter. I try so fucking hard to be perfect for you, Rose. So fucking hard.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Where’s Hannah?”

“Across the hall.”

“You left her with Mrs. Lemley, again?”

Craig cleared his throat, his body shaking. “Forgive me, Rose, for wanting to spend the evening with my wife.”

Rose threw her hands up and turned to face the front door. “I can’t deal with this right now. Got too much shit to do. I’ll go get her.”

Craig watched as the door slam shut behind her, his body warm and trembling all over. The anger emitting from the two of them seemed to have sucked all of the air out of the room making it hard for him to breathe. He braced himself in the doorway, squeezing his eyes closed. He could hear Mrs. Lemley’s door open and her and Rose exchanging pleasantries. Craig turned around, stormed through the kitchen, and made his way back to his office. He needed to feel in control again.

Ø

Craig met up with Carrie at some hole-in-the-wall a couple of blocks away from the bookstore. He didn’t want to be seen, not that he cared to be seen with another woman. Their meeting was innocent enough. After the two of them ordered drinks, he a cup of green tea and she a iced coffee, the two of them found a booth with tattered seat cushions near the window.

“So why did you choose to name the main character after you?” Carrie asked thirty minutes into their chat.

Craig folded his hands on the table between them and watched her watching him with such an intenseness. “Well there’s a lot of me in the Craig in the book and vice-versa. I oftentimes think that most writers put a little bit of themselves into their characters. Craig and I are two peas in a pod but we’re not that much alike.”

“Well, I would hope so. Craig was last seen driving around with his wife’s body in the trunk of his car.”

“Well you know what they say, art imitates life – or is it the other way around?”

Carrie laughed a modified version of her laugh due to the close proximity of other customers. “You are too funny. Thank you so much for meeting me. You don’t realize how much this means to me.”

“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you. It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan and someone so passionate about reading.”

Carrie stood up and grabbed her car keys off the table. “Well, I have to get going. Gotta be at work by three. I’m looking forward to reading your next book.”

“And I’m looking forward to you reading it.” Craig stood up, grabbed the briefcase at his feet and followed her out the door. Once the two of them were outside the restaurant, they took opposite paths along the sidewalk running parallel to Main Street. Walking a couple of blocks he found the half-empty lot where he’d parked his car. Popping open the trunk, he dropped the case in on top of the contorted lifeless form, the carpet lining caked in blood. He slammed the trunk close, looked around the lot, and then slid in behind the wheel.

Pulling out onto Main Street, Craig thought of Hannah, probably watching some cartoon in Mrs. Lemley’s living room while Mrs. Lemley chatted away on her phone in the kitchen. He could hardly wait to see her little smiling face. As he coasted through a green light, he pondered the possibilities of a newfound freedom and a life where for once he would have the control.