April 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Paulina Shur
The ballet recital at the end of school year was as usual: little girls (and occasionally one or two boys) demonstrated their achievements before an audience of adoring relations.
Light-colored tutus, epitomizing the eternal beauty of classical ballet. Sweet-sounding melodies, including Tchaikovsky’s. Bouquets of flowers held by the dressed-up adults. Suspense: when will my baby come on stage? Sighs of relief: here she is, so adorable! Generous applause at the end of every number. All of these created the mood of festivity and excitement.
But when Julie Andrews’s beautiful, unmistakable voice started the tune of “My Favorite Things,” sighs of thrill and pleasure swept through the space like a wave, swallowing up all other sounds and emotions. Faces were lit by smiles; bodies slightly moved to the rhythm of music; hums and whispers were heard. Kittens . . . mittens . . . strudels . . . noodles. As if under a spell, the spectators gazed at the stage, but, it seemed, saw the screen, their children cuddling in bed, throwing pillows at one another, and dancing with Maria.
When the song ended, all got up, applauding and cheering —Bravo! Bravo! They didn’t realize that their one standing ovation of the night was not for the cute, but clumsy little children dancing in a dull and uninventive dance, but for one person only: Julie Andrews.
Her peerless voice, genuine acting, and that funny face, forever associated with Maria’s, brought to life the enchanting story, music, and songs of “The Sound of Music.” It has been seen by all, loved by all—as much today as fifty years ago, when the parents of the grandparents sitting in the audience saw it for the first time.
Julie Andrews made it ageless. Bravo, Julie Andrews!
April 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Justine Schofield
One of the few things that I remember about my first childhood home, which my family had lived in until I was eight, is the shower drain. The grate covering the drain wasn’t screwed in, so it simply rested in the indentation of the drain hole. Every now and then I would accidently kick it out of place while showering, exposing the softball-size drain below. The uncovered drain became a dark abyss in the middle of the shower and when I would look down into it a dull throb would kick in my stomach, a slow torturous feeling, like being jabbed maliciously and repeatedly with the nub of a broom handle. Every time the depth and darkness of the drain was exposed I would have the same overwhelming fear-a snake. I had intense, paralyzing images of a snake slithering up from the drain, slowly and broodingly coiling its never-ending body around my legs, caressing every inch of my skin with its pipe grime laden underbelly, wrapping itself tighter and tighter around me, until it was tickling my chin with its thin, lisping tongue. I would go down in history as the young girl who died in the shower by a snake attack, all while my mother was washing dishes in the next room. To think! The misery of it all! I would use my toes to grasp the drain grate and drag it back into place as quickly as possible, to block the dreaded snake from emerging from the darkness, to return all back to its proper place, to put life back in order. The unknown, the dark, it all seemed to converge into all the dismal possibilities of the world or rather, at that time, probably just the dismal possibilities of my young life.
April 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Susan Gibb
I happened by your street last night, just as you were going out the door. I wanted to say hello but you seemed in such a hurry so I followed you instead, thinking that perhaps I’d catch you when you came to your destination.
It was an unfamiliar part of town–at least to me–so I parked several cars behind you. I waited a moment too long and you were out and up the stairs of an address I just scribbled down. A short while later you came out and a girl was a step or so behind you. Odd, you both got in your car.
You went to Antonio’s Real Italian Restaurant. Isn’t that funny–you and I went there all the time. I guess you must have really liked it there and hadn’t lied. I thought about going in and having dinner too, then I’d get a chance to talk to you and meet your friend. But honestly, I wasn’t very hungry.
She looked quite tipsy, your friend; was it the sauvignon? Or did you have the burgundy we always had with the lasagna? I deliberated and then decided that I shouldn’t approach you both just then. I’m sure she would have just been too embarrassed.
I waited for a long time when you dropped her off. Then I woke up in the morning and your car was gone. I would have liked to say hello and ask you if you miss me.
Susan Gibb, recently both recipient of the 8th Glass Woman Prize and a Pushcart nomination, writes one blog on literature analysis and another on hypermedia writing and reading. Her poetry, fiction, and digital art have been published in many fine zines. Her work is included in the “Valentine Day Massacre” chapbook (Cervana Barva Press). She wrote 100 hypertext stories in Summer, 2009, 100 flash fictions in Summer, 2010 and in 2011 she’s teamed up with an artist and writes one flash piece each day. Her work has been linked as a resource in Creative Writing courses in several fine universities.
April 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Christian Altamirano
A man got up from bed, went to his bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror. He saw people come in full circle and detach themselves. He saw a person use another’s authority for their own gain. He heard that its better that people should be described by their actions then their actions be described by those people. He learned he had a voice that could be felt by others. He realized that he isn’t the only siren that could be listened to. He met an enemy’s ally and made them a friend. He looked himself in the mirror and realized he was a monster. He began to listen to more sirens one ringing strongly while another hummed lower. The louder siren speaks of a place of fire where bad people live and good people visit. While the man speaks of an animal who doesn’t exist. He finds an angel who speaks of Milos and the man creates a sound of earth, but the louder siren speaks harder with a sound of retaliation, and after the loud siren creates a boom into the man’s ear, the man begins to see things differently not because of the boom but because of praise after. The man starts to see Messiahs being praised while saviors are being forgotten. The man starts to see people drown themselves on each other but no one flooding themselves on him. The man starts to hear people tell him his own flaws of being a monster. The man begins to be ignored by people who don’t want to hear his own voice. The man’s siren begins to not be listened to and feel worthless. The man’s enemy of his enemy becomes his enemy instead of his friend. The man starts to become nothing and his siren will soon wither and die. And along with the siren the man will die also, he begins to scream at himself in the mirror with what siren the man has left and his reflection shatters before he could realize that it doesn’t matter how many people love his voice but as long as one person holds the voice dear to themselves then no man or monster can be worthless. I then wake up and find myself broken, in the beginning of the circle, in “Ruin.”
April 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by William Fedigan
The angels want Jimmy’s head.
Jimmy runs. Jimmy runs scared. Jimmy runs to church. God help me, please! Dark church, black-as-coal church, black-as-pits-of hell church. Can’t see. God help me, please! Can’t see Christ, cross, nails, thorns, painted blood on hands, feet…can’t see. God help me, please!
On altar, tiny light over picture of lamb. Lamb of God, lamb chops, lamb stew, Easter lamb rises from dead and runs…Jimmy runs.
The angels want Jimmy’s head.
-Slow down, Jimmy, Where you going? It’s Flower. Jimmy likes Flower. Flower’s OK.
-The angels want my head.
-Sure, Jimmy, sure they do, Flower says. Slow down. Talk to me, Jimmy. Flower likes Jimmy.
-Gotta get the fuck outa here. The angels want my head!
Jimmy runs. Flower runs after Jimmy. Ambulance runs after Flower. Angels run after ambulance. The angels want Jimmy’s head.
God, help me, please!
Jimmy’s in lockdown Ward. Isolation Room.
Jimmy hears wings. Jimmy feels wings on head. Angel wings.
Jimmy screams, screams.
Nurse gives Jimmy shot in ass.
–Help me, please! Jimmy’s crying. Help me, please! The angels want my head!
The Devil looks at Jimmy’s head.
The Devil looks at Jimmy.
The Devil smiles.
January 2011 | back-issues, fiction
Shirley tells me that she once owned a horse that won the Kentucky Derby.
She says she had a doe living inside her house for two years until her husband said she had to let it go.
She says that after the deer peed on her throw rug she spanked it and it never messed in the house again.
Shirley says that her dog, Little One, is a beagle and that her five other dogs hate
Little One because she gets to lay on the davenport.
Shirley says she owns 19 sets of dishes and had to count each plate and bowl after her house had been broken into last year.
The thief had taken only guns, she says, 300 guns.
After her husband’s surgery, Shirley tries to kiss the heart surgeon on the mouth.
I sit next to Shirley in a hospital waiting room while doctors scrape from my wife’s womb our third attempt at parenthood.
Who can cry when a 70-year old woman is leaning in, spinning tales, yanking sleeves?
When Shirley says that she won three million dollars in a Coke bottle cap game but that she forgot her wallet at home and asks me to buy her two lunches in the cafeteria, I say sure.
There will be time for crying later.
