Why Didn’t I Name a Parasite?

April 2022 | fiction

There is a rumble beneath the dormant kernels of wheat like hunger during the fast from humanity. Kernels of wheat germinate when the water content in the grain is about 35 to 45 percent by weight. The embryo struggles for food, pushing out the root searching for moisture.

There is a parasite in my mind, it pervades and perseveres and keeps me unique and alone, swimming in the blood of humanity, the words and thoughts that effuse from the wearers of flowered linen suits and dresses.

There is a whisper slicing through the bones buried deep in the mass graves in the field. Voices of the past offer words and stories forgotten beneath propaganda. Words from the grandparents are brushed off like dandruff on a black dress in October. ‘Can’t you laugh, grandma?’ ‘Can’t you smile, grandpa?’

There is an absence of memory, of history in the mind of the parasite. The parasite repeats again, and again, and again. Latch on, devour and consume, procreate and propagate, over and over, and over. The parasite is nameless.

There is a tear rushing through the heart like a kayak rolling over rapids in spring landing on the porous neutral soil. The soil absorbs the tear of the child, the grandparent, the nation, and the world. The embryo swells, its strength derived from starch, like the starched shirt props up the fearful child who grasps the hand of an unknown aunt before laying a rose on a stained wooden box.

There is a parasite in my mind that consumes my memory, my history, my heritage. The heritage is crumpled beneath the rubble and piles of twisted rebar and concrete shards. The parasite is never satiated.

There is a coleoptile to break the surface of the soil. Coleoptiles are the armor that protects the first leaf of the seedling derived from the swollen embryo. The mustiness of spring, the dank dirt filled with rows of dilapidated boxes, shudders when the surface breaks.

There is a child with my eyes, my cheekbones, and my mouth. There is a tearless child with my face beside the crushed chaff. There is a face that doesn’t know how to smile. There is a parasite that gobbles memory over and over like a cliched bottomless pit. There is a nameless parasite in your mind that is hungry.

Carol Ann Parchewsky

Carol Ann Parchewsky is a writer based in Calgary, Alberta. She received her MFA in Fiction at Queens University of Charlotte and her Bachelor of Science, Mechanical Engineering, from the University of Saskatchewan. She is working on her first novel and a short story collection. Her fiction is published in and forthcoming in On the Run, Flash Boulevard, Drunk Monkeys, Stanchion, and The Drabble Advent Calendar.

Boxed Flowers

April 2022 | nonfiction

For my sixty-ninth birthday, my husband bought me a years’ worth of flowers. FedEx dutifully delivers a box on my doorstep each month. I quickly unpack them, trim the leaves, find a vase, and add the special powder to the water.  Then I center the flowers on my kitchen table where they’ll last about a week.

That first month I thought, such extravagance! I considered all the practical things I could have used instead. A new bathrobe. A hat to hide my graying hair. But each time I walked into the kitchen, that splash of color brightened my day. It was a minor miracle. A delightful, disarming surprise. The flowers were as lovely as they were useless. I suppose that was my husband’s point.

Alongside the kitchen table sits my writing desk.  I’ve always been a writer. In high school, I wrote copy for the yearbook. In college, I majored in English. Somewhere in my closet I have piles of handwritten blue books, my term papers typed on a Smith Corona with more than one funky key. But for the last dozen years, as I turned the corner from middle-aged to more, writing has become an obsession. Short stories. Verse. A memoir.

Inside the world of literary journals, I’m doing well. I’ve learned to handle rejection. And I’ve learned to embrace the times when I’m published with a kind of giddy glee. Of course, I’m seldom paid. And on the rare occasions when I’m sent a check, it maybe covers lunch.

Only after gathering my courage do I tell my friends. Check your inbox, I’ll email. I have something posted that you’ll like.

But while I wait for their response, my stomach knots. If I could see my friends’ faces, they’d be forcing a smile. If they could reach through their screens, they’d be patting the top of my head. Like a child, I’m patronized. Very nice, they write back. Good job! But the subtext always lingers. If you’re not compensated, does your labor have value? If a writer isn’t paid, are words on a screen considered work?

I’ve always been a housewife. I had children to raise and a husband with a time-consuming job. Unlike me, most of my friends led professional lives. In their minds, writing is transactional. They’ve written law briefs, essays for medical journals, applications for grants. They view my efforts as a hobby or indulgence– like playing mahjong or knitting baby booties for the kids.

Maybe they’re right. Yes, my writing doesn’t serve a function. Yes, my writing doesn’t pay the rent.  I simply write about ordinary people who lead ordinary lives. An old lady shuffling in the supermarket.  A lost child spinning on the sidewalk.  A caretaker desperate for help.

And what takes weeks to create has a lifespan of minutes. The reader clicks the link, and it’s hello and goodbye.  A story there and not there. A blink and it’s gone! Just like a boxful of flowers.

Marlene Olin

Marlene Olin was born in Brooklyn, raised in Miami, and educated at the University of Michigan. Her short stories and essays have been published in journals such as The Massachusetts Review, Catapult, PANK, and World Literature Today. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of The Net, Best Small Fictions, and for inclusion in Best American Short Stories.

Tradeoffs

April 2022 | poetry

Especially in winter

everyone knows coyotes

are tempted by lapdogs – on leash or off –

as much as by rabbits or mice.

Their wild eyes glow white like stars

in their dark dens. No coyote pup grows up

with Grandma’s yarn Shih Tzu gracing

its duvet.  Or stays cute all its doggy years.

Better make yourself Big. Wave

your arms. Pretend to be wild

to protect little Gizmo who must

pretend to be human for you.

Paula Reed Nancarrow

Paula Reed Nancarrow is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and winner of the Winter 2020 Sixfold Poetry Prize. Print publications include Sixfold, Artemis and Whistling Shade, with work forthcoming in Permafrost, Paterson Literary Review, The Avalon Literary Review, and Night Picnic. Find links to poems available online at paulareednancarrow.com.

DS Maolalai

April 2022 | poetry

The apple.

lightheaded, dizzy

and smoking

in the morning.

and I know

you don’t like

when I do this

so early, so I go

somewhere else

while I do.

bring my first

cup of coffee, my phone

or a book. and you come in;

you don’t mind – talk about

the coming workday

and ask me

would I like

an apple

for breakfast

to go with the coffee,

the cigarette. and I do;

not because

I want the apple

but I want you

to come back here

and to hear you

saying

more things

while you bring it to me.

 

Seeing the moon in daylight

it’s not uncommon,

but still is a thing

you might note. like birdsong.

a rock – the right rock reaching out

to your hand from a riverbed.

white rim asplinter;

a piece of white eggshell, sinking

so deep into blue. listen –

we were walking together.

the moon was there.

over the city. july

and the 5pm blue.

like pulling a rock

out of water –

the smooth feeling:

fingertip cold.

sometimes they reach

when you see them.

when they do

you do too – look at them.

put them in your pocket.

 

DS Maolalai

DS Maolalai has been nominated nine times for Best of the Net and seven times for the Pushcart Prize. He has released two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019). His third collection, “Noble Rot” is scheduled for release in April 2022.

John Morabito

April 2022 | visual art

Back Against the Wall

John Morabito

Born in 1987 John Morabito has been making photographs for the last 20 years. John studied at UMass Lowell as a student of Arno Rafael Minkkinen where he received a BFA with a concentration in fine art photography. His work draws influence from street photographers like Robert Frank, Diane Arbus, and contemporary photographers such as William Eggleston, Larry Clark, Stephen Shore. John’s interest in photography began in high school where he often could be found during free periods and even some missed classes in the darkroom. John’s work is largely documentary in nature and centers around themes of love, loss, and loneliness. His subjects often include his family, partners, and friends but sometimes include passers-by. Primarily shooting 35mm B & W film, John also uses digital and color film. Photographic series include Damaged Goods, Laundrolove, and The Bathers Project.