Crack the Spine Literary Magazine

january 27, 2020| ISSUE no 259 Literary Magazine crack the spine Poetry Stephen Massimilla Lorrie Ness Lisa Low Short Fiction Tom Barlow Marty Carlock ISSN 2474-9095 Creative Non-Fiction Jon Epstein Cover Art Jodie Filan Flash Fiction Kelle Schillaci Clarke L. Mari Harris Vacuum short fiction by Tom Barlow Adam didn't expect to suffer significant back pain at the age of 22, but now, approaching the end of his first week as a house cleaner, it announced its displeasure with a dull ache as he reached out to polish the bathroom mirror of his third house of the day. He'd spent the first part of the week cursing his fate, a college graduate without demonstrable skills in a dead job market, forcing him to take what work he could find. He tried to convince himself how lucky he was that the agency where his sister worked as a cleaning lady liked her well enough to hire him on her recommendation. Like the two middle-class houses he'd already cleaned that day, the owner of this million-dollar high-rise apartment was nowhere to be seen. The agency had told him the client worked long hours; Adam's predecessor had never met him. Adam considered himself something of a misanthrope, so the solitude didn't bother him. He plopped into a wingback chair, allowing himself five minutes of rest before continuing down his checklist. Unlike the cluttered, unkempt houses he cleaned earlier in the week, this place appealed to him. It was spare—white walls, lots of leather and blond wood, Scandinavian influence. The only primary colors were provided by the paintings, large, abstract, reminiscent of Calder. There was a fragrance about the place too, maybe apricot, a little neatsfoot oil, some pine from the logs nested in the pristine fireplace, not unpleasant but definitely masculine. He wondered just how clear an impression he could gain of the man from just his possessions, his home, like envisioning a face from a negative. He figured doctor, or something in finance. Gay? He hated to jump to such a conclusion, although he saw no signs of a female. As this was the last job of the day, he didn't have the time to dwell on his surroundings as he would have liked to. He followed the protocol laid out by his employer, Erica's Spotless Homes, Inc., starting with the bathrooms and kitchen, working his way down the rooms until there was only the sweeping to complete. In a way, it was an exercise in futility, as there was no dust, no cobwebs, barely even footprints in the nap of the carpet to show that the place was inhabited. ~ ~ ~ That evening his sister Crystal stopped by the apartment he had shared with his partner Christopher Watkins until the month before, when Christopher unexpectedly announced he had fallen out of love with Adam and moved to his own place in the Short North. His presence was still everywhere, even though Adam had bought new sheets and a comforter to rid the bed of his scent. "I wanted to see how you're getting along," Crystal said as she shucked her coat onto the arm of his beat-up futon. "It's more work than I expected," he said. He stepped into the kitchenette where he poured them both glasses of chardonnay. "I wondered how you were dealing with the lack of personal interaction. It can be a lonely gig." He returned, handed her the wine, took a seat next to her. "That's the best part of it. No drama." In the part-time job he'd quit at graduation, bartending in a college tavern, he'd spent too many nights dealing with drunken assholes. "I've got a Bluetooth phone, so I can talk to my girlfriends while I work. You ought to try it." "I don't even know your girlfriends," he said. ~ ~ ~ By the end of the next week Adam had become much more of a pragmatist when unobserved. Rather than following the company's checklist, he had learned to skip unnecessary steps. Therefore, he arrived at the clean apartment slightly before two p.m. with three hours to kill before quitting time. His sister had warned him that the company owner Erica had a habit of stopping by cleaning jobs on Friday afternoon to make sure her employees weren't cutting out early, so he kept an ear out for a key in the door. Once again, not only was the place empty, but it exuded vacancy. Not a paper was out of place, nary a sock out of the clothesbasket, not even a dirty coffee cup in the sink. Adam thought this place could be a museum to the memory of the man, rather than his home. He did scrub the tub, since the lack of gleam on the porcelain would be a tipoff that he'd avoided that task. In the kitchen, he polished the steel sink until it shone. Other than that, he could find nothing that demanded his attention. With time on his hands, he began to prowl the apartment, curious about the resident, who he learned was named Scott Biddle, from the address on anEsquiremagazine. He began with the medicine chest. No prescription meds, which surprised him. He had assumed the resident was older from his apparent wealth, and also assumed that older people would automatically be taking certain meds. A small flacon of Ambre Topkapi cologne sat on the dresser in the bedroom; the cap was a bust of Marcus Antonius. He opened it, and a heady scent of spices, citrus, lavender flooded his nostrils. He liked it very much. He didn't often wear cologne, but considered if he should. Would people view him as less masculine? He Googled the perfume with his phone, found that a bottle sold for over $600. So much for that. He drifted to the bedroom, poked his head into the walk-in closet. On one side there hung a row of tailored suits, a line of identical white shirts with an SB monogram and French cuffs, and silk ties. He checked the suit sizes: 40 regular, same as Adam. He wished he could have brought Christopher along; he was a clothes horse and would have appreciated the bounty in this closet. Below the suits were a multitude of shoes, all gleaming. He picked up a pair, made by G.J. Cleverley & Co. Almost $1,000 a pair, custom made, according to Google. Adam had been raised on a bus driver's salary, Wal-Mart his designer brand, but had every intention of cultivating more refined taste. Just for the hell of it, he tried on a pair of the shoes. They fit well and made him feel distinguished, for just a moment. He put them back before the infection set in too deeply. Below a wine rack in the kitchen stocked with brands like Diamond Creek and Haut-Brion was a liquor cabinet. It contained several brands of single-malt scotch, a drink that he often ordered when in groups he wanted to impress. The only one that had been significantly consumed was the 18-year-old Talisker, from the Isle of Skye. He lifted the bottle, uncapped it, looked carefully at the bottle to make sure it didn't have a level mark before he took a swig. Hints of smoke, oak, something like coffee, a rich flavor that he found immensely satisfying. Not like the flavored vodka that Christopher had favored, that he'd had to pretend to appreciate for the past three years. He had taken a seat in the living room, trying to appreciate the painting above the fireplace, a series of squares in the red family, when he heard a key in the front door. He leapt to his feet, grabbed a dust cloth from his cleaning supplies, and was wiping down the bookcase when Erica Baumgartner entered the room. Erica, in her mid-50s, had a craggy face, swept-back brassy hair held in place by a lacquer of hair spray. "How are you getting along?" she asked. Her eyes flitted from horizontal surfaces to the ceiling corners, fireplace surround, windows, curtains. "OK, I guess," Adam said, standing at attention. The woman intimidated him a bit. "Let's look around," she said, crooking her index finger at him. He followed her into the master bedroom. She knelt, ran her finger across the floor under the bed. "Dusty." "I haven't swept yet," Adam said. "I didn't see your vacuum." "It's in the car. I don't bring it in until I'm ready to sweep." She looked skeptical as she crossed to the master bath. Adam was glad he'd done the tub, but Erica found other things to be displeased with. "The mirror is a little hazy, the bath soap holder has a soap film," she pointed out. "There's a toothpaste ring where the electric toothbrush sits, which tells me you haven't cleaned the inside of the medicine cabinet." "The tub's clean," he pointed out hesitantly. She pursed her lips. "Our clients pay us to do a superb job, not just a wipe and swipe. There's no room for oversights with my company." "Yes, ma'm." By the time they returned to the living room, he was certain that he was about to be sacked. "You've got a lot of work to do here," she said, picking up her purse from the coffee table where she'd rested it. "I'll be back next week, and I expect to see this place up to our standards, if you intend to remain with us." Relief flooded through him. "You've got it. No problem." ~ ~ ~ He worked furiously the following Friday at his morning houses to give himself more time at the clean condo. Now that it meant the difference between a job and none, he attacked the place. He first hit every spot that Erica had criticized, then went through the checklist. By 4:30 p.m. he was done, ready as he would ever be for Erica's inspection. While he waited, he perused the bookcases on either side of the fireplace where he spotted a Brown University yearbook. Within, he found a photo of Biddle, in his senior year; Adam was pleased to discover that the man was only eight years his senior.He had a tall forehead, accentuating a receding hairline, and the shadow of a beard, suggesting he'd have to shave twice a day. His jaw was slightly more advanced than might be deemed handsome, but he had kind eyes. Not the best-looking man in the world, but Adam had dated worse. Certainly, he looked mature, the antithesis of Christopher with his unkempt, pierced look and his fucking guitar. 5 p.m. arrived and still no Erica, so Adam packed up. He called Crystal on his way home. "Erica said she was coming by to check on me again, but she was a no-show," he said. "That's how she works," Crystal said. "She never shows up where or when she's expected." "Great. So every week I have to scrub as if she's going to do a white-glove." "I never said it was a dream job." ~ ~ ~ Adam was growing used to getting up at 6 a.m., reserving time each morning to wake gradually through a couple of cups of Starbucks best. On Tuesday, after dwelling on Biddle for several days, he decided to sip his coffee in his car, parked in front of his client's apartment building. He wasn't stalking, he rationalized, just curious. At 7 a.m., the garage door opened and a Lexus LS pulled out. As the driver turned into the street Adam caught a glimpse of Biddle at the wheel. He was surprised by the full head of hair. He was also taken by the cool composure on the face of his client. Perhaps, he thought. Weirder things had happened. He followed the man at a distance, made easier by the light traffic, as he worked his way through the downtown. They ended up only a mile away in the Brewery District, the hottest resurrected neighborhood in the city, with old German-built brick buildings now holding the most expensive office space in town. Biddle parked in a garage cater-cornered from a law firm, Hadley, Biddle and Biddle. ~ ~ ~ Adam didn't believe in love at first sight, so he wrote off the appeal of Biddle to his libido; even before Christopher had moved out they'd fallen out of the habit of frequent sex. Either way, he thought about Biddle throughout the day, building fantasies in which he and the client met, fell in love, fell in bed. As he finished his last house of the day, he grew despondent at the thought of another long evening by himself. Given that Biddle didn't appear to eat at home much, he decided to see just what a rich, successful lawyer did in the evening. He returned home long enough to put on his interview suit, buffing the shoes to an unsatisfactory gleam. By 5 p.m. he was parked a couple of cars down from the Lexus, with a view of the office door. Biddle didn't appear until almost 6 p.m., talking on his cell as he crossed Front Street to his car. He continued the conversation as he pulled out of the garage. Adam followed him a few car's lengths behind as he made his way to the freeway. Twenty minutes later Biddle landed at a Lapinsky and Boggs Steakhouse, on the northwest side of the city. He valet-parked and walked into the restaurant. Adam knew the place by reputation; there wouldn't be any menu selections within his budget. Nonetheless, he found a place to park in an adjacent lot and debated for five minutes before deciding that credit card debt wasn't a sin, not in these circumstances. The interior of the restaurant reeked of money, with tapestries on the walls, white-on-white table services, waiters in formal livery. A bar to one side stocked only upscale liquors. The maître d' gave Adam a quick glance up and down, nodded slightly, then showed him to a table fortuitously behind a glass-topped partition from Biddle. From there, he could catch snatches of his conversation. Biddle had joined another man who was also expensively garbed, but much older, corpulent. He was drinking a highball; the waiter brought Biddle a glass of white wine. Adam ordered white wine also. From his vantage point he could watch the man in the bar mirror without fear of being caught, and he drank him in. The other man did most of the talking, about his golf game, while Biddle listened attentively. Biddle ordered the Caesar salad, twin petite filets rare, roasted potatoes, fresh asparagus. Adam did likewise. However, he didn't really enjoy the meal as he should have. He was more tapped into the conversation at the other table. Now Biddle was talking, about St. Kitts, about the diving, about the quaint guest house he rented every February, about all the friends that had joined him the previous year. None of the names were female, with the possible exception of a Jamey, or maybe Jamie, and a Bobby. When Biddle left, Adam trailed closely behind, following him in the dark back to his condo. He watched sadly as Biddle pulled into the underground garage, as though they'd come to the end of a successful date. ~ ~ ~ Over the next week, he found himself following Biddle almost every evening. The man had definite habits; work until 6 p.m., to Ultimate Workouts for an hour of exercise every other day, then dinner with someone afterwards; home by 10 p.m. While Adam couldn't afford to dine with him every night, he did manage to poke his head into each of the restaurants. Biddle's dining partners were varied, but usually men. Only one night did he join a mixed group, and took a seat at the opposite end of the table from the most attractive woman. ~ ~ ~ He usually didn't sleep well after drinking too much, and after dancing Saturday night away this Sunday morning was no different. He woke at 7 a.m. in a fog. A long shower and a couple of espressos brought him around, and he wondered what Biddle did on Sundays. He was aware that people who networked heavily, such as attorneys, often trolled churches for potential clients. He decided to see if Biddle was one. He dressed upscale casual, with pressed chinos, an ivory linen golf shirt Christopher had neglected to take with him under a puce cable-knit cotton sweater, and cordovan loafers. He carefully coiff-waxed his hair so that it would stand, deciding to go scentless rather than be caught wearing a déclassé cologne such as British Sterling. He was parked outside Biddle's building by 8:30 a.m., but the man didn't emerge until 10:30 a.m. Sure enough, he headed straight for a church, the United Methodist on High Street. The church was huge, modern, with enough parking for a third of its congregation. Adam found a parking place on a city street three blocks away. He lined up to enter the sanctuary only to find Biddle handing out orders of service in the vestibule. The man gave him a practiced smile as he thrust the paper at him. Adam smiled back, a bit flustered. He took a seat in a pew well back, hoping that the ushers sat back there too. To his disappointment, Biddle entered just before the service began and took a seat near the front. He sat by himself. The service brought back memories of Adam's early childhood, when his mother dragged him to church every Sunday, probably as much to escape his hung-over father as save his soul. After the service, there was a coffee hour in the community room. There he found Biddle surrounded by a bevy of suits, and it took him half an hour and a number of short conversations before he could sidle up beside the man. To Adam's delight, Biddle took the initiative, turning to him and saying, "Are you a visitor?" "Is it that obvious?" Adam said, smiling. "Scott Biddle," he said, and held out his hand. Adam took it, introduced himself; Biddle had a firm handshake. His skin was warmer than Adam's. "Church shopping?" Biddle asked. He was looking him right in the eye, and Adam felt flustered. "Yeah, I suppose. Could you tell me about this church?" Biddle launched into an elevator pitch, as though he had been well coached. Adam didn't tune much into what he was saying, but was taken by his presentation; confident, glib, with great enunciation. He could see how the man would thrive in the courtroom. When Biddle paused, inviting Adam's questions, Adam, giddy in the man's presence, said, "How do they feel about gays?" Biddle shrugged. "Could be better, could be worse. I've never felt any prejudice, but they're not about to perform any weddings." Adam's heart fluttered. "That's better than most." "Yes, it is." Biddle took Adam by the elbow and said, "Let me introduce you to our membership chair." And just like that he was dumped on an elderly woman who was selling the church like it was a used car. Adam didn't care about the transition; he was high on the contact with Biddle, or Scott, as he now thought of him. He was gay! And the fact that he was partnerless here in church, and elsewhere, suggested he was available. ~ ~ ~ Now that they'd talked face to face, Adam became much more cautious about following Scott. He limited himself to a glance as he passed Adam's car on his way to work, another at quitting time. ~ ~ ~ The next Saturday he blew three week's worth of wages on new clothes at Nordstrom—black wool pants, a periwinkle silk shirt and matching socks, black checked tie by Tom Ford, vanilla sport coat from Hugo Boss. Insofar as clothes could bolster his confidence, he liked what he saw in the mirror. Scott was not working the door when Adam arrived at the church the next Sunday, but he spotted him in the same pew up front. He took a seat a couple of rows behind and to one side, where he could watch him. He had a fine profile, would look great on a coin. Adam sat nervously through a service that he thought would never end. He was close enough to Scott to hear his voice as the congregation sang hymns; he had a lovely baritone. He waited for the sanctuary to clear before following the crowd to the community room, where he spotted Scott helping himself to a cup of coffee. He swallowed deeply before approaching him. "Hi," he said, extending his hand. "We met last week; Adam Young." The man switched hands with his coffee cup to clear his right hand and shook Adam's. "Welcome. We must have done something right, if you came back." Adam asked a couple of inconsequential questions about the church, working up his courage until, palms sweating, he said, "Say, There's a showing of a new movie by Almodóvar playing at the Wexner Center this Thursday. I wondered if you'd like to go." Scott filled his cheeks with air, blew it out. "Gee, that's a nice offer. But I'm not dating right now, if I take your question right. It's been a rocky year for me romantically, and I'm not in the right head space for a relationship." "Bummer," Adam said, "I know how that is. Just broke up with a long-term partner myself." He hoped he sounded calm, collected, but inside he was heaving. Despair, his frequent visitor, was raising its hand demanding to be recognized. "I'm glad you understand," Biddle said, patting Adam on the shoulder. Afterward, Adam couldn't remember how he'd ended that conversation, hoping he hadn't embarrassed himself. Not that he should care, he counseled himself; why should he care how Biddle felt about him now? He'd already blown the opportunity. He should have gone slower. He should have made himself more alluring. He should have dressed differently. He should have done...something different. Once again, he'd found himself wanting. When was he going to figure it out? ~ ~ ~ Adam spent the rest of the day in a funk, made deeper as he dug through the week's mail and found an invitation to a book-release party the following Saturday thrown by his friend Heather Hampton. She was the instrument that matched up Adam and Christopher, in their senior year at OSU. Having been one of her beta readers, he couldn't very well skip the party. But the same was true of Christopher, and he rued meeting his ex even in such happy circumstances. He also was growing an attitude about his invitation to Biddle. The man shot him down without consideration, he felt in retrospect. He grew just a little angry at the perceived slight. ~ ~ ~ That anger metastasized in the vacuum that was his life the next week. It bled into his continuing fury at Christopher, even after six weeks apart, and as he cleaned Biddle's walk-in closet the following Friday, he had a delicious thought. Certainly, he reasoned, Biddle didn't wear all his suits in strict rotation. There was a core batch of twenty that hung most closely at hand, while that many again were lined up toward the window. He found one, a subtle blue English worsted wool from Duncan Quinn, that had just a bit of dust on the shoulders. On an impulse, he pulled down the jacket and tried it on. It fit perfectly. He nervously kicked off his shoes, took off his jeans and put on the pants. A little loose around the waist, but with a pair of suspenders they would work fine. He replaced the suit and tried to do some cleaning but found his mind returning to the suit, to the expression on Christopher's face if he showed up at the party in it. 4:30 p.m. came and went without a sign of Erica. Fifteen minutes later, he grabbed the suit and a pair of shoes that appeared unworn, stuffed them into a trash bag and carried them down to his car. When he arrived home, he immediately hung the suit to remove any wrinkles. That evening, after a couple of glasses of scotch, he put on his best dress shirt, his new tie and the suit. He kept in on all evening. He thought he could smell Biddle in the fabric, but otherwise, it made him feel... important, and a little avenged. ~ ~ ~ The book launch party was much more crowded than he'd expected. According to Heather, who spotted him coming in the door, the publisher's publicist had roped in many of her acquaintances to flesh out the party, not aware that Heather herself was a polished networker. Adam, usually self-conscious at parties, found that the suit and shoes gave him a new, perhaps false confidence. Heather was the first to compliment him on his outfit, straightening his tie as though they had once been intimate. Several other friends commented on his nice threads. He was into his second mojito when Christopher entered the house. Following him was a short, swarthy man that closely resembled Dustin Hoffman when young. Adam had never seen him before. Adam circulated the room for the next five minutes, keeping away from Christopher as he tried to determine if he'd been kicked to the curb in favor of this unknown person. He was pretty sure that they were a couple when he introduced his friend to Heather, confirmed when Christopher turned to his friend and whispered something in his ear that caused the man to laugh. Adam fantasized for a moment about having Biddle with him to trump Christopher's companion, but it didn't work. He had only the suit. And when he finally came face to face with Christopher, his ex presented a polite face, but didn't hesitate to take a swipe at Adam. "That's a nice suit. Where'd you rent it?" ~ ~ ~ Adam returned the suit the next Friday; he thought about taking it to the cleaners first, but he feared that it would then stand out in the closet. He also returned the shoes, after giving them a good shining. He found cleaning good therapy for depression, but his mood was still heavily tainted with anger, at Christopher, at Biddle. After spending so much time pursuing the man, he felt abandoned for a second time. As he cleaned the bedroom, he spotted the bottle of Ambre Topkapi on the dresser. Thinking it might cheer him up, he poured a couple of drops on his finger and daubed them behind his ears. The heady scent did make him briefly feel better, more elegant, but as it faded so did his mood. He was mopping the kitchen floor an hour later when he heard a key in the door. He had a panicked thought; what if Biddle found him in his house? He should have asked for a different assignment after the fiasco at the church. He thought about hiding, but immediately dismissed such a foolish notion. The only way to play it was comical, he decided, as though in a cheap sitcom. To his great relief, however, he heard the heels of Erica approaching. "Adam?" "In here," he said. She appeared in the doorway. "How are we coming along?" "You tell me," he said, wringing the mop, confident that she wouldn't find much to criticize. "Let's see, shall we?" she said. He followed her into the living room, where she checked the picture frames, the mantle, for dust, knelt to scan for marks in the polish of the coffee table. She proceeded to the office, the guest bedroom and bath, the dining room, the kitchen, without comment. Finally, he followed her into the master bedroom, stopping closer to her than before. Too close. She turned to him, a puzzled look in her eyes. She took a step toward him, leaned in, and sniffed. A sad look came over her. "You know what I did to work my way through college?" Not giving him time to respond, she said, "I worked the perfume counter at Niemen Marcus. A couple of things I learned; cologne doesn't last all day. And scents like that cost a fortune." She looked around the bedroom, spotted the bottle of Ambre Topkapi, stepped over to it, picked it up, uncapped it, took a sniff. She shook her head. "You're fired. Give me your keys." ~ ~ ~ "You sure screwed the pooch," Crystal said as she poured him a glass of wine. "Erica told me all about it." Adam shoved her cat aside and dropped into her recliner. "You don't know the half of it." He told her about his pursuit of Biddle. "Jesus," she said, "I was afraid this work was going to do a job on you." "How do you mean?" "I mean the solitude. You need people around you, Adam. Without them, you get...funny. I think you had too much alone time growing up." "Define funny." He tried very hard not to sound snippy. "Peculiar. Like falling for someone based on his possessions, before you even meet him. That kind of shit develops in a vacuum." "Well, I spent a lot of time behind a vacuum." "Very funny." "I don't feel so funny," he said, swirling his wine. "But maybe you're right. Now that I have some distance, I can't quite recall what I found so attractive about Biddle." That's easy," Crystal said, with a sad smile. "He had a pulse." ~ ~ ~ After a month, Adam landed a gig at his local Starbucks hustling coffee. Despite the daily humiliation of waiting on Christopher, who ordered with hauteur, he liked it better than being a house cleaner. He interacted with people every day, even, on one occasion, Biddle, who ordered a macchiato without any apparent recognition. He still smelled terrific. Green Bean Casserole There is nothing sexy about green bean casserole. Just things being done the way they should be done, the way they’ve always been done. I pull out the apron he gave me our first Thanksgiving together, going now on 15 years ago, letting its pattern and ruffles unravel. It’s not my style, the belt sash has loosened, its fall-themed colors faded through years of washings, and yet. He smiles and acts surprised each time it makes its annual appearance, timed to his west coast kickoffs. I start with the beans. Del Monte Canned Cut Green Beans. Never French cut, generic, frozen, low-sodium, or other variations that might offset the flavor. We need salt to live. Salt on skin; salty tears; ocean winds. French’s French Fried Onions: These little devils can make a grown man cry, at least the one on the couch managing his multiple fantasy teams. He’s juggling four this year, almost too many to manage, but we have no children to distract him with TV demands, no one to blame but himself for Bloody Mary stains on light-fabric love seats. No sticky fingers, mis-matched socks, raspy preschool coughs. “Step away from the hot oven,” I’d have to yell if there were. “Put down those knives!” Of course, no sharp knives are required in the making of green bean casserole, which is part of its charm: simplicity, efficiency. The beans are pre-cut, the can’s pull-tab lid requiring no can opener, the soup can itself used to measure the milk. So simple a child could do it. Not that I’d make them, of course, or yell at them, except maybe to scare them if they were doing something dangerous, like plunging pudgy fingers into garbage disposals in search of lost thimbles, wayward marbles, twisted antique spoons. It’s better this way. A casserole dish: ours is a hand-me-down, rectangular-white with softly scalloped edges, perfect but for one nicked corner from when mom once grabbed the dish red hot from the oven. She’d forgotten to set the timer, forgotten to wear the mitts hanging from the oven’s handle. It made a terrific racket when it hit the floor, beans scattered everywhere. Dad, ever vigilant,had ushered mom out of the room to nurse her burnt hand, while I rushed to scoop still-bubbling casserole off the tile floor before their fat dachshund could get to it. Mom’s forgetfulness had become a problem we would soon be forced to address, but not that day; not yet. Now, it’s just the dish, bearing the brunt of the memory, that takes a place at our holiday table, my parents five and six years gone. I use the can lid to drain the beans, pour them directly into the casserole dish, then pull-tab open the Campbell’s Condensed Cream of Mushroom soup. It could be Cream of this-or-that, it doesn’t matter, the point is that it binds the ingredients, and Cream of Mushroom is always on sale this time of year. “God damnit!” my husband hollers at his Seahawks or Steelers, whichever team features his fantasy players. Damnit was loosely allowed in our house growing up, but mom insisted we leave God out of it. The phrase still makes my tongue prickle with the taste-memory of Ivory soap. My husband comes into the kitchen for a snack and cocktail refill while the refs review a questionable call. “There’s crudité,” I tell him, pointing at the fridge. We’re trying to eat more fresh vegetables, take better care of ourselves. “Can you please grab the milk?” I strike my hand against the base of the soup can so its contents slosh atop the beans. He feeds me a hummus-dipped carrot and we watch as the condensed soup defies gravity, retaining its thick cylindrical shape before rendering itself slack and moving over the beans like a sloshy, middle-aged body, full of jiggles and ooze. “How about a walk before dinner?” I ask, taking the milk and filling the soup can. “Not until half-time,” he says, dipping his fingers in the French Fried onions. “Besides, it’s pouring.” How had I missed the rain? I gaze through the kitchen window just as the neighbors walk up their driveway, their work-out gear soaked through, soggy race numbers pinned on the back of shirts. The little ones in full body rain protective gear have numbers pinned to gortex coverings as they climb out from a double stroller and strip off layers: rain boots with light-up soles, drenched hats and gloves, all left in dark piles like slick wet seals on the driveway. I offer a wave in case they see me watching, but they are already inside. Last year, we swore we’d do the Turkey Trot this year. The whole neighborhood takes part, grown-ups in sleek work-out clothes, children Saran-wrapped in rain gear, the smallest ones zipped into space-capsule stroller contraptions. But snuggled on the couch the night before, we had decided over good scotch and bad weather reports to sleep in instead. Who are we kidding? I’m liberal with the shaking and grinding of salt and pepper, give the ingredients a final spin with mom’s burnt-edged wooden spoon and squeeze the casserole dish into the over-crowded oven. Everything orchestrated just right. As it should be. “All this, just for us?” my husband says, later, when the oven timer dings. He rubs his hand on his thick beard, more salt than pepper, his Pavlovian signaling of joy. I like it best straight from the casserole dish, the milky soup mixture still bubbling, the salty, crispy onions hot enough to burn tongues. My husband waits for it to cool, working his fork through the other dishes first — the turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes— a bland study in beige, sparked with flecks of late autumn browns and burnt orange. Nothing flashy, nothing special; and yet, deeply satisfying. flash fiction by Kelle Schillaci Clarke poetry by Stephen Massimilla When the brain is quiet and the night too long with no love, to squint is to wake up images and call them fishhawks stealing under eyelids in sparse light, long skimming hooks over lines that might mirror their wings… They are gliding so low. The fins of far islands, all else, every shift there remains but a ridge in clear water moving, though I have visions of this shoreline other shorelines cannot know, each rip let loose, that dry screen of night. On the balcony I’ll meet the orange air, waking for a sign of prey, scanning for where I might have begun… In the darkness a single beaker sweats. See how the chill grants me ripples of light! Too clear to slake thirst, I am glass.  Aurora In this portrait by her sister, Vanessa, Virginia Woolf lounges in a summer chair, under the brim of her hat, her arms inside a summer shawl. It is so hot the fish could be boiling. She has squeezed every drop from the lime of June, every bit of it lapped on the held-out tongue. Beside her the bees are drowsy, murmuring in their bright summer jackets, buzzing and swimming; howling half drunk, muddled with heat; maddened by rain, most stupid at noon, tripping sideways drunk; diving into the mouths of the roses, and into the held-out hands of the lilacs; these flowers, as by bees averred, made sweeter than yesterday, but less sweet than tomorrow by the ripening sun and the rain that falls on sunny England. Vanessa has painted her sister leaning back. Her hat is tipped up; and though her mind is racing like blood; like the unpaced flood of mighty waters, that flesh-colored thumb, her walnut- colored face, is blank; and that pale string bean of a body is limp. She looks like a fragment. A mere fingerprint smear of thinking slab; and as the chill wind breaches and seeps, and she pulls at her shawl, and her next novel creeps, lifting its curious snout, and flicking its forked tongue, in the sky of her mind, four words appear: Richard, roses, more rain. poetry by Lisa Low Mrs. Dalloway A Lucky Man short fiction by Marty Carlock Socially inept in her youth, Margaret in middle age has decided the least awkward gesture is just to hug people hello and goodbye. She does that now. The group has been at a round table in the country club functions room, a reception after the memorial service for one of their peers. It has been a difficult hour. Patsy spent her last years in what is euphemistically called a Memory Care Unit. The family had to reach back half a decade and more to retrieve happy stories about her. The strain of it broke through more than once. But now they host an elegant buffet. The grown children are clearly relieved that it is all over, not just the service but the long years of their mother’s failing cognition. Margaret and her friends toss a few anecdotes around the table, then ease into less weighty topics. They compliment the food—so much of it! They have a touch of wine. Margaret gives quick hugs to Joan, to Maria, to Alison. What to do about Eliot? She does the quick meaningless hug. He kisses her cheek and murmurs, ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time. But Sam was always…’ She pulls away and stares at him in the pause. ‘Hanging around,’ he finishes, with a wry smile. Sam. Thirty-seven roller-coaster years with Sam, his unpredictable emotions, his demands, his needs, his efforts to control everything. She should have made the break years ago, but she kept thinking it would get better. He had his good side. He could be charming when he wanted to. He was successful in his work. He never forgot birthdays, anniversaries. He was a devoted parent, maybe a little too much so. They did couples therapy. Family therapy. Individual therapy. Nothing changed. Margaret got the house and enough alimony to live well. Sam couldn’t argue that he couldn’t afford it. Sam quickly charmed another woman into marriage and moved to a gated community in the most expensive town on the North Shore. Margaret found she loved living alone. Loved having what she wanted to eat, whenever she wanted it. Loved making decisions without an argument. Had a deck added off the kitchen, sunny in the morning, a great place for breakfast. Had her bedroom painted with one wall a stunning salmon color. Sold the Tesla Sam had insisted she should drive and bought a convertible. Best was seeing her friends without Sam’s opinions about them. She went to the theatre, to jazz concerts, to Japanese restaurants. She had no intention of marrying again, ever. And now here is Eliot Delano, making a pass. Hitting on her, as the current jargon goes. He has to be kidding. Eliot is what the young call a nine—handsome, tall, witty, rich, smooth-talking, still has his hair. Prep school, law school, prominent law firm. Margaret knows she is at best a six or seven—not blond or brunette or quite gray. Public school, scholarship student. Fit for her age but otherwise average. Makes up for it with personality, brains, enthusiasm. After Nancy died, Eliot occasionally has sat next to Margaret at lectures, at memorial services. He has told her how he has this great living arrangement, how he gave his house to his son and they remodeled an attached apartment for him and he lives there with his children and grandchildren. ‘You’re a lucky man,’ she has said. She looks at him now in consternation. What does she want, really? She has a split-second to choose her life for the next years. How does this story end? Do these two become a happy couple, Eliot’s virtues overcoming Margaret’s cynicism about men? Or not? There are more than two ways such a story can end. There’s the possibility that Eliot is serious, that he pursues Margaret, but that she is committed to the joys of independence. Or that Margaret is suddenly giddy with the idea, but Eliot didn’t mean anything. Or that Eliot was drunk. Except he hadn’t had anything to drink. Or that Margaret, who’d had a glass or two of wine, gave off some unintentional sexual signals. Or that they date enthusiastically for six months, then she finds he loves golf and he discovers her passion is birding. He represents Exxon; she supports Earth Justice. They gradually drift apart. His children may object to her (not our sort, Dad). Her children may object to him (patrician snob). They may travel together and find in doing so that they are not compatible at all. Or he turns out to be just another jerk. Charming, but a jerk. This is how the story ends: Margaret looks at him sharply and says, ‘Did you really mean to do that?’ He didn’t. He hugs his granddaughters often, often plants a kiss on a tan cheek. It was a reflex action. Then he didn’t know what to say. He was as stunned as she was by what came out of his mouth. A line from a movie or something. A Delano never lies. He says, ‘I—I’m sorry. I—please forgive me.’ One corner of her mouth turns up and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes appear. ‘We’ll forget it ever happened, okay?’ But Margaret is upset. She actually can’t forget. She was sure she wasn’t interested. But what if he persists? How would she handle it? What would she say? Her mind churns, her stomach clenches. She tests scenarios, dialogue that would gently dissuade him without leaving her looking like a bitch. Their paths don’t cross for a season or so. He goes to his summer place in Maine for three months, as he always does.She visits her friends who have a cabin at Lake Nubanusit, spends a weekend in New York, flies out to see her children in Portland, but is always eager to get home to her house, her house, and her quotidian chores. In the fall she goes to a lecture, one of the monthly forums the town Democratic committee offers. She sits on the end of the second row because she wants to make sure she hears everything. Eliot enters, tall and tanned. Her stomach lurches. Damn. I thought he was a Republican. Margaret looks past him, willing him to keep walking, glances up as he comes by. They both nod and smile noncommittal smiles. Without looking around, she hears him greet friends at the back of the room. Tension eases. But she has a hard time absorbing the lecture. It goes like that, polite chance encounters, for some months. In time, it seems they really do forget. He occasionally sits in her pew at memorial services. He tells her how he has this great living arrangement, how he gave his house to his son and they remodeled an attached apartment for him and he lives there with his children and grandchildren. ‘You’re a lucky man,’ she always says. They're Not Confessions if We Don't Tell Anyone Pain Point Serena has promised her environmental group she will go vegan, but her love of eggs is holding her up. Jude’s in the cubicle next to her, and for the last year now they’ve ended up back at her apartment after getting drunk on 99-cent mojitos most Friday nights. He’s the membership VP for Food Eco Warriors, and after one especially drunken Friday he convinced her to join so he could meet his membership goal that month. Serena loves her daily hard-boiled egg, and it seems silly to stop eating something that a hen lays anyway. She wonders sometimes if Jude would even notice if she ate her egg right in front of him like she used to, since only his stupid membership numbers seem to matter to him—she once caught him staring at someone’s turkey on rye in the company fridge in a way he’s never looked at her. Let’s Talk About This Offline Cody spends his days hunched over his keyboard, testing code. There are no women on his tech ops team. Actually, there are no women in all of R & D, and they plan to keep it that way. None of them is comfortable around actual women, yet they mimic what they’ve heard their fathers and other men half-jokingly say, that every woman is just one bad day away from crossing over to crazy town, so get what you came for and then get the hell out, ha ha ha. Then they snort and slug each other on the back, snickering how they’re all too smart to get into that kind of mix-up. Cody snorts with the rest of them, and once he even ripped a girl’s resume up to the cheers of the department. But underneath his Joy Disaster t-shirt and jeans, he wears a purple lace 34AA bra with matching thong panties, and last night in his tiny studio apartment, he read fashion magazines while a brightening sheet mask was plastered over his stubbled face. The other guys wouldn’t snicker over that. Disrupting The Space No one knows Matt spent four years in a youth detention center, where he was able to earn a computer science degree thanks to good behavior and an anonymous benefactor who believed in second chances. All his team members know is he sticks up for them when upper management squawks about expenditures, and every Friday he stocks the break-room fridge with beer he pays for himself. They know nothing of his grandfather, found dead of a shotgun blast in the corral behind the barn back in Missouri all those years ago. They know nothing of an even earlier time when Matt’s grandfather would hold him tight on his lap a little too long. And they know nothing of the lightness Matt feels every day. He did what he had to do. What’s The Perceived Value? Richard is CSO and has a corner office filled with Tiffany-framed industry awards and softly backlit family portraits. His wife is a lovely woman named Barb who volunteers her time at the pediatric hospital and the Society of St Vincent de Paul, and stops by the office to drop off blueberry muffins every week. Their only daughter is a sophomore at Brown. All of his Brooks Brothers dress shirts have his initials embroidered on the cuffs, and he prefers Berluti oxfords. Richard has built a perfect life for himself. But Barb bores him. Life bores him. He thought having it all would be more exciting. So he acquired more. One is Jenny in marketing fresh out of college who likes to be blindfolded and fed figs. The other is a woman he picked up one winter’s night after a client dinner, who he now visits every Tuesday evening and Friday afternoon in a condo he bought for her under a shell LLC he created for such expenditures. And, What’s The Takeaway? Gloria is the eyes and ears of the company. She has been there since the beginning, and even though she now spends most of her days ambling between the cubicle walls listening in on conversations, the owner refuses to let her go. He says retirement would kill her. She keeps a little notebook in the pocket of her pilled cardigan, and she jots notes on the snippets of conversations she hears. Sandra has a crush on Eva, Greg hates his neighbor and regularly pisses on her prize roses late at night, and Corey and Dmitri are up to something she can’t quite put her finger on, something about “monetary fractions” and “too stupid to catch on” each time she lingers outside their area. She’s tried telling her boss about the iniquity she hears, coworkers bragging about their immoralities, but he waves his hand away good naturedly and tells her to order him a pastrami for lunch and get whatever she wants for herself. She has started visiting Father Galligan each morning before work, confessing others’ sins to him, volunteering penance for their souls, but Father Galligan quietly tries to bring the confessional back to her. This upsets Gloria every time, and she questions if Father Galligan really does have a direct line to God because too often he seems full of hooey. Her soul is fine, thank you very much, if only someone would listen. flash fiction by L. Mari Harris after machinations of tongue throat sieves thirsts through snarled plumbing remains of water engorge her toes—oak buds purpled with spring swollen & sweat-dropped —body near full bloom ripe as the plums yielding to my knife peels splitting from a season of rain flesh dribbles & swells draws flies with its juice odor cankers the skin —her bouquet mouth hydraulic swallows while the body drowns ulcers stoma her legs syphon into sheets cultivating vines in bed knotted veins tangle her shins botanical name: phlebitis thirst drove her to botany a side effect of the pills & Florida heat begging water while roots rot i press slices of plums to her lips peel away her soaking cotton I cannot forget the smell Botany: A Side Effect of Treatment poetry by Lorrie Ness Beast or Slayer? I sat alone, surrounded by party-going couples, hunched beneath a cottage-cheese ceiling. My head hovered over a pile of cocaine. I chopped and chopped and chopped. I chopped my precious pearly rocks while life passed me by. “WAKE UP!” A girl’s voice across the room pierced my ether state. I raised my eyes from my faceless lover. There sat Sharon Goldstein on a beige-dyed, Naugahyde couch, trying to revive her drooling boyfriend, Gene Romano. My jackal instinct kicked into overdrive. I looked back down at my snowy mound, hastened my blade, and set my snare. I looked up and Sharon spun her head in my direction. Our eyes locked. Her frown melted and she smiled. I increased my chopping pace, hoping the ageless, Incan mating call would lure Sharon over. All five-foot-ten of Jewish legginess stood and sashayed across the avocado shag carpet. I’d only seen Marilyn Monroe in the movies, but if she were still alive, I’d swear she’d dress in leopard Spandex pants, a pleated, purple tube top, and nosebleed stiletto heels like Sharon’s. “Whatcha doing?” Sharon’s braces glimmered. “Sit down.” My frozen lips caricatured. Falling for my candy-man-charm façade, Sharon sidled up without hesitation. “Have a line.” I held up a short, plastic straw. “Okay.” Sharon’s tongue grazed her lower lip. “Get ready for the burn!” I knew Sharon would love my Peruvian flake but was worried she wouldn’t like me. Somewhere lost and forgotten, I knew I was rotten fruit. “Thanks for the warning.” Sharon reached for the uneven tooter, lowered her head, and huffed a fat, white rail. “OH MY GOD!” Her head whiplashed like an out-of-breath apple bobber. “Should I do a second line?” She rested her hand on my knee. “But of course,” I Grey-Poupon’d. Sharon leaned over, snorted the equalizer, sat up, and puckered her lips. Our mouths attached like hungry magnets. I closed my eyes and feasted on tutu-clad, ivory-laced snowflakes pirouetting in the blackness of my mind. Like two stowaways in a velveteen bomb shelter, we kissed long, deep, and without time on our side. An awful noise erupted across the room. Our rapture dissolved. I was too self-absorbed to worry about Romano asphyxiating on his own vomit. “What did he take?” I pretended to care. “That idiot took two 750-milligram Placidyls.” Sharon’s face oozed disgust. “Two Green Meanies?” Sharon shook her head in affirmative disbelief. Beads of sweat collected above my lip. I knew it could have been me, caught in the vortex of Romano’s stupor. “Come here, you.” Sharon pulled my face back to hers. Her plump lips consumed me. All I could see were ebony rose petals and thought: I’ve kissed no one like this since Lori. An abbreviated version of eternity passed. Our faces parted; I caught my breath. “Don’t forget your lines.” Sharon offered me the straw. I snatched the inhaler, dove down like a Japanese pearl-diver-turned-anteater, and snorted two gaggers back-to-back. My ears rang and my heart jackhammered. “Wanna go somewhere?” I ballyhooed false courage. “What about Gene?” Sharon asked. “He’ll never know what hit him.” I twisted the ends of my Oil-Can-Harry mustache. “Okay.” Sharon pulled a bindle from her tight, stretchy tube-top, opened it, and waved a shiny, green pill before me, and said, “Let’s split this first.” “Sounds good.” I loved my little dolls. “Back in a jiff.” Sharon stood and floated from the room. I sat engulfed in coca-leaf euphoria. My eyes were drawn across the muted living room to a framed oil of a matador finishing off a bloodied bull. I contemplated my measly place in life: twenty-one years old—living back at home—health-food restaurant dishwasher—never enough money to pay off my drug dealer—pending felony court case—no car. I looked over at Romano passed out on the couch, then back at the gored animal. Somehow I knew without knowing that sooner than later, my fate would be the same. “I’m back!” Sharon jolted me from my trance. She held a slice of bread, ripped it in two, and picked up the cocaine-coated razor blade. I watched her slice the green gel cap and empty the liquid sedative onto each half of the bread. “Here,” she said and handed me my portion. The irony slipped by me: we were about to partake in the same poison that half-nelsoned Gino. “Eat it fast, it’s nasty.” Sharon chased hers down with warm beer. “Take this,” she said, passing me the brown bottle. “It’ll help.” I reached for the Budweiser and slugged down the barbiturate-soaked bread. “Where do you want to go?” I covered my mouth and belched. “We can go to my house.” Sharon bit her lower lip. “I live in my parents’ guesthouse and they’ll be asleep.” “Let’s hit it.” I packed up my wares and stood. “Ready?” I offered my hand. “Uh-huh.” Sharon reached for my hand. I pulled her up. “We should sneak out the back kitchen door.” Sharon’s fingers intertwined with mine. “Wait a sec.” Sharon stopped at the end of the breezeway and leaned over a bed of petunias. I looked over her shoulder while she peeked through the parted curtains. “That asshole.” Sharon shook her head at Gino halfway hanging off the couch, his Thin Lizzy concert T-shirt covered in vomit. I glanced up at the stars and thought: For once, Mercury-in-retrograde’s working in my favor. Without shame I left Romano, possibly to suffocate on his own puke. ~ ~ ~ We stood outside her parents’ place on Niagara Avenue. “Come here.” Sharon pulled me close. We embraced and then kissed. Our hearts pounding as one, we escaped old stories, created new history, and prepared our sails for the land of Persephone. A car door slammed shut and a cat cried out. Startled, we parted—then giggled. “You’re a good kisser.” Sharon stroked my numb cheek. “You too.” I ran my fingers through her thick, black, Ashkenazi hair. “I want to love you tonight,” she cooed. “Me too,” I said and thought: Why just tonight? ~ ~ ~ My drug-tainted sex lasted forty seconds. Draped in a sheet, Sharon got up from bed. Her downturned lips spelled disappointment. She blew out the candles, and we were engulfed in black-hole stillness, Sharon’s braces shimmering no longer. I curled up in the fetal position and played possum, waiting for the sleeping pill to abduct me. When I came to, the dark room was filled with Sharon’s snores and the purrs of her calico, Simone. The nightstand clock said 6:04 a.m. The feline couldn’t talk so I searched for dawn clues, only to find my remorseful reflection in Sharon’s cracked bureau mirror. Unsure if the buses were yet running, I slunk away, cat-burglar style, to the tree-shrouded safety of Niagara Avenue. ~ ~ ~ Summer came; Sharon appeared at the Full of Life lunch counter. Hey,” I said, refilling the glass, herbal iced tea dispenser. “I didn’t know you worked here.” Sharon’s eyes caught the late afternoon sun; she sat on the padded stool. “Uh-huh.” I wiped my hands on my apron. “Gino’s in jail.” Sharon’s eyes turned doughy. “Really?” I looked over my shoulder. I wasn’t supposed to talk with customers. “What’s good here?” Sharon looked down at the menu. “Try today’s veggie burger.” I leaned over the napkin dispenser and condiments. “It comes with a side of oven-baked yam fries.” I pointed at the daily special, paper-clipped to the menu. “And I’m off at six.” Sharon looked up and smiled. Her braces were gone and her sheer blouse lent a perfect view of her black, lacy bra safeguarding her small, pointy breasts. ~ ~ ~ For two months I snuck Sharon in and out of my bedroom window. We got stoned, had sex, but rarely talked, felt, or breathed as one. Our only connection was penis and vagina. Then a new girl started waitressing at the lunch counter. Sharon’s sexuality was no match for Shirley's almond eyes. ~ ~ ~ Five weeks later I received the call. “I’m pregnant.” Sharon’s voice trembled. “I want to be with you and have the baby.” “I can’t,” I said. “My auto insurance was just canceled.” “I told your mother.” Sharon was desperate. “She said she would help us.” “You what?” I covered the phone and cursed Mom. “And Mrs. Cohen at the Jewish Family Center said we could apply for Welfare,” Sharon sobbed. I tried to picture Sharon and me living in my parents’ basement: baby crib, toys on the floor, dirty diapers, and me in the middle of it all, trying to find a scrap of peace and quiet for my daily drug addiction. “NO!” My moral compass had long been smashed but somehow knew twenty-something druggies living back at home didn’t have kids. “Okay, okay,” Sharon wailed. “You’re right, I’ll make the appointment.” She blew her nose. “Can you at least help me pay?” “Sure.” My shoulders sagged. “Thanks.” Sharon’s voice was broken. “I gotta go.” She hung up. The next day Sharon called. “The appointment’s set. I’m having it at Olive View Hospital on Tuesday,” she said. “I’m so scared.” “You’ll be all right.” I had no clue what all right even was. “I need one seventy-five…is that okay?” “That’s it?” I was relieved she’d gotten a deal. “Yeah,” she said, “the State’s paying the rest.” “When do you need the money?” I swallowed hard. “Just take it to admissions by noon,” Sharon sighed. “All right.” I figured I’d ditch work at my lunch break. “I love you.” Sharon’s words bludgeoned me. “Uh.” I wanted to reciprocate but had long forgotten what love was. “I’ll see you afterward.” The line went dead. Dial tone blaring, I sat, paralyzed, on my unmade bed. ~ ~ ~ Olive View was wedged into the North San Fernando Valley foothills. “I’ll get you the receipt.” The nurse gave me a smile I was unworthy of. “It’s okay, ma’am.” I put my wallet away. “But can you tell me where the chapel is?” “Third floor,” she said and looked over her glasses. “Down the hall from recovery.” “Thank you.” I wanted the over-rouged lady dressed in white to get up from her desk, walk around the counter, hug me like Aunt Bea, and say something like: Oh honey, it’s gonna be okay, but she didn’t. I turned around, wiped my eyes on my shirtsleeve, and climbed the metal stairs. My echoing footsteps couldn’t compete with the tsunami of voices in my head: You’re gonna get fired for leaving. Now you can’t pay Bobby for that last bag of coke. What are you gonna tell Shirley? I opened the third-floor door and stepped into the hall. Chapel—this way the sign read. I followed the arrows. Other than the low hum of fluorescent ceiling lights and my dirty sneakers squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor, the corridor was a tunnel of sterile emptiness. I began thinking of past days. I thought about my ex-best friend Coz, whom I’d abandoned, and our spiritual LSD trips to the desert. I thought about Lori. I thought about my arrest. I thought about Sharon in one of those backless, paper-thin hospital gowns and how cold and alone she must feel. I found the chapel and walked in. I wasn’t religious but remembered some scene from a nameless movie. I walked up front, knelt down, lit a candle, and wept, wondering: What would his name have been? ~ ~ ~ Six months later I ran into Romano at the Van Nuys Courthouse. I was sitting in the Division 101 courtroom, where defendants wait for legal counsel to show at the last minute, if not late. Romano leaned over from the row behind me and whispered as though we were old friends: “Sharon’s getting married this weekend to some dude named Lloyd Mossberg.” “Oh.” The news severed my spine like Ahab’s harpoon. A buzzer buzzed and a muscle-bound bailiff entered the courtroom. “All rise, this court is now in session.” The tall lawman flexed his brawn. “The Honorable Judge London presiding.” “You may take your seats,” the robed charlatan said and took his bogus throne. I remembered the helpless bull’s demise in that living room painting and wondered: Am I beast or slayer? I was almost at my breaking point, but another eight years would pass before I’d be struck sober. Either way, I hate matadors. creative non-fiction by Jon Epstein Tom Barlow Tom Barlow is an Ohio Writer. Other works of his may be found in anthologies including Best American Mystery Stories 2013, Best of Ohio Short Stories #2, and Best New Writing 2011, and many periodicals including Hobart, Temenos, Redivider, The William and Mary Review, Anomalous Press, and The Sonder Review. His novel I’ll Meet You Yesterday and short story collection Welcome to the Goat Rodeo are available on Amazon. See more on his web site www.tjbarlow.com. Marty Carlock Marty’s work has been published or is forthcoming in American Literary Review, Appalachia, Carbon Culture Review, Crack the Spine, Diverse Arts Project, Edison Literary Review, Fiction Fix, Glint Literary Journal, The Griffin, Halfway Down The Stairs, Hawaii Pacific Review, Hobart, Ink Pantry, Inscape, The MacGuffin, The Madison Review, MARY: A Journal Of New Writing, Menda City Press, Minetta Review, Moon City Review, Old Red Kimono, The Penmen Review, Pennsylvania English, RiverSedge, Phantasmagoria, Rosebud Magazine, Sanskrit, Schuylkill Valley Journal, The Storyteller, and Waxing & Waning. For almost 20 years, Marty was a regular contributor to The Boston Globe and other publications; more than 30 newspapers and magazines have published some 1,600 articles under her byline. She is an author of two editions of A Guide to Public Art in Greater Boston. At the present time Marty writes for Sculpture and Landscape Architecture magazines, and she reviews fiction and nonfiction for the Internet Review of Books. Kelle Schillaci Clarke Kelle Schillaci Clarke is a Seattle-based writer and journalist with L.A. roots. Her recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Barren Magazine, The Citron Review, Ghost Parachute, Pidgeonholes, Menacing Hedge, and others. She can be found on Twitter @kelle224. Jon Epstein Jon Epstein is an emerging writer and a fine artist inspired by the daily trials and joys of simple life—as well as a father, grandfather musician, surfer, and recovering drug addict. He lives in the San Fernando Valley with his wife of thirty-one years. Jodie Filan Jodie Filan was born in Saskatoon, Canada in May 1992 making her a Taurus. She is completely self taught. Unfortunately she like many others in her community, is suffering from addiction to methamphetamine .You can find her and her art at www.facebook.com/JodieFilanArt L. Mari Harris L Mari Harris splits her time between Nebraska and the Ozarks, and works as a copywriter in the tech industry. Her work has appeared in Atticus Review, Bending Genres, cahoodaloodaling, Gravel, Lost Balloon, Milk Candy Review, among others. Follow her on Twitter @LMariHarris and read more of her work at www.lmariharris.wordpress.com. Lisa Low Lisa Low’s poetry, reviews, interviews, and academic essays have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Boston Review, Cross Currents, The Boston Herald, Phoebe, The Portland Press Herald, Potomac Review, and Aphros Literary Magazine, among others. She is one of the editors of Milton, the Metaphysicals, and Romanticism, published by Cambridge University Press in 1994. She received her doctorate in English Literature from the University of Massachusetts and spent twenty years as an English professor, teaching at Cornell College in Mt. Vernon, Iowa; Colby College in Waterville, Maine; and Pace University in New York City. In addition to her work as an educator, Low was briefly a film and theatre critic for Christian Science Monitor. Stephen Massimilla Stephen Massimilla is a poet, scholar, professor, and painter. His multi-genre volume, Cooking with the Muse (Tupelo, 2016), won the Eric Hoffer Book Award, the National Indie Excellence Award, the Independent Author Network Book of the Year Award, and others. Previous books and awards include The Plague Doctor in His Hull-Shaped Hat (a Stephen F. Austin University Press Prize selection); Forty Floors from Yesterday (winner of the Bordighera/CUNY Poetry Prize); Later on Aiaia (winner of the Grolier Poetry Prize); Almost a Second Thought (runner-up for the Salmon Run National Poetry Book Award, selected by X.J. Kennedy); a study of myth in modern poetry; a Van Rensselaer Award, selected by Kenneth Koch; several Pushcart Prize nominations; and other honors. Massimilla has recent work in AGNI, American Literary Review, Barrow Street, Chelsea, The Collagist, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Diode, Epoch, Fields Magazine, Fogged Clarity, The Literary Review, Marlboro Review, Paterson Literary Review, Poet Lore, Poetry Daily, Posit, RHINO Poetry, The Round, Tampa Review, Verse Daily, and many other journals and anthologies. He holds an M.F.A. and Ph.D. from Columbia University and teaches literary modernism, among other subjects, at Columbia University and The New School. For more info: www.stephenmassimilla.com and www.cookingwiththemuse.com Lorrie Ness Lorrie Ness is an emerging poet, having just begun submitting work in 2019. She draws inspiration for her writing through time outdoors. Writing is her means of refuge and connection. She has forthcoming publications at Barren Magazine, FRiGG, Sky Island Journal, SOFTBLOW, The Maryland Literary Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Rosebud and the Big Windows Review. Contributors Poetry Editors Olivia Kiers Elizabeth McIntosh Creative Non-Fiction Editor Suke Cody Editor-in-Chief Kerri Farrell Foley Crack the Spine Staff Creative Non-Fiction Editor Suke Cody Poetry Editors Olivia Kiers Elizabeth McIntosh Short Fiction Editors Becca Wild Konstantin Rega Editor-in-Chief Kerri Farrell Foley WWW.CRACKTHESPINE.COM BECOME A MEMBER OF CRACK THE SPINE CRACK THE SPINE LITERARY MAGAZINE