«2»

Q uiet L ightning
sPARKLE
& bLINK

«3»
 Q uiet L ightning
sPARKLE
& bLINK
as performed on
Aug 2 10
@
Rickshaw Stop
© 2010 by Evan Karp + Rajshree Chauhan

978-0-557-56957-1

front + back cover art by denny holland

« dennyhollandstudio.blogspot.com »

cover design by dawn andres

« dawnandres.com »

layout by evan karp

« evankarp.com »

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For information:

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lightning@evankarp.com
 Q uiet Lightning
is

a monthly submission-based reading series

with 2 stipulations

you have to be able to be there to submit

you only get 3-8 min

submit

!
!

each month

1 attendee of those who put their names in a hat

gets 2 weeks to respond

via mail or email

to the last reading b4 break

« s’napse »

it will be published

on the blog

printed

and read at the subsequent

Quiet Lightning
!
!
 « contents »
pam benjamin

many men can eat 50 eggs 8

amy elizabeth cole

skunk river 12
d.w. lichtenberg

our generation is one of moving back in with your mother 20

ian tuttle

thoroughbread 22
all caps poem 24

andy o. dugas

five ways to say fuck you in our post-modern era 26

elise hunter

the men 36

keely hyslop

on the question of who is to blame 40

small madness 42
salsa is a form of meditation 44
shideh etaat

origin of the veil 48

 eriq martin

ladies, one day 52

lauren becker

closest 62
his days 64

chris cole

a prayer for midwest fields 68

if you don’t pick your bad days, they’ll pick you 70
distance is the square root of desire 72
we’re making new medicine to heal old wounds 74

charles kruger

i guess this is a love poem 76

greg gerke

the bookcase | the bee 81

the lute music cd 81
the iron 83

c.r. stapor

kamchatka 85

meghan thornton

the number 89
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

Many Men Can Eat 50 Eggs

No one believed when the story came through on the AP wire. Two copy
editors and a composing room intern grabbed it off the reel and passed it
around the press room jokingly. It was straight out of “Weekly World
News;” maybe Batboy was behind this caper.

“No man can eat 50 eggs.” The announcer Louisiana drawled into the
microphone. The Pork Palace was stuffed to capacity; the folks of
Trotterville loved their eating contests. The preferred consumptive was pork,
but the mayor’s son Ricky Lee watched “Cool Hand Luke” fourteen times
last week on TBS and wanted eggs.

“I can eat 100 hot dogs pork OR beef!” Jim Bob screamed to the adoring
crowds with raised fists. He could hork down strait pork, but always had
problems with the bread. It stuck to his mouth, and he had to chew, but the
hot dogs always went down whole. They piled in little meat tube pyramids
in his tummy and Jim Bob was known to massage his belly to restack the
contents. It never worked if there was bun involved. “So let’s see about these
piddily eggs!” A small wager between competitors had four large men
hunched over 200 pealed white chicken eggs, medium size. They glistened
in the sweaty summer sun, their yellow yolks ringed with grey because
Margie Sue overcooked more than a few.

The prize was three thousand dollars and pride, but side bets reached over
thirty grand. The whole town of Trotterville was invested; even third graders
had Pokemon cards doubled down. Everyone loved when the fat men came
to town. These traveling monstrosities were better than Santa; the town

«8»
 Pam Benjamin

would be buzzing about the eggs for weeks to come, but these Santa’s
squared gifted disaster and exploded stockings.

This was Jimmy Ray’s first rodeo. He joined the competitive eating circuit
three days previous, but trained his whole life for moments like this. He’d
always been obese, not just fat; his folds needed to be powdered twice a day
to avoid crevice rot. He didn’t mind being made fun of, he’d made money
off it. “Jimmy Ray! Jimmy Ray! Betcha can’t eat three bologna sandwiches
in one minute!”

“For five dollars, betcha I can!”

“Jimmy Ray, Jimmy Ray! Betcha can’t eat two snails and a jar of peanut
butter in under two minutes!”

“For five dollars, betcha I can!”

His youth was spent preparing for the big time, and he’d finally made it.
Those eggs didn’t stand a chance; he planned on chewing every other one:
swallow, chew, swallow, chew. His mama would be so proud.

Travis and Trevor, the eating twins, were rumored to train on whole pigs.
Their daddy owned a butcher shop in Louisville, and would bury a pig in a
pit, Hawaiian style, letting the boys split the whole animal in a sitting for
practice. They were best with ribs and oysters, separately, and took New
Orleans last month. They played to the crowd with tandem dances and
football style end-zone celebrations. Trevor “The Python” Jones was favored
to win because he’d had his back molars removed last year and could
swallow almost anything whole.

«9»
 Pam Benjamin

The four fatties sat ready for the gun.

The contest was less dramatic than the town of Trotterville hoped for. All
four finished their 50 eggs. Big Jimmy Ray finished first, followed by
Trevor, then Jim Bob and Travis. All were within thirty seconds of one
another. They slid off the stage and rolled back to their shared room at the
Motel 6 on the main drag. None vomited their precious cargo. Jimmy Ray
even went to the chicken and waffle house for dinner and ate three crispy
leg-thigh combos with extra butter and syrup for dipping. Some kids asked
for his autograph; he burped in a young girl’s face to which she lovingly
replied, “I’ll never wash this face again.”

The egg gas was funny at 7pm. All four reposed on their beds, farting
loudly, shaking the walls; the smell wafted under the door and caused
complaint in the next room. The whole area surrounding their stink vacated.
They laughed and caroused, pulling one another’s fingers, until Travis and
Trevor decided to show the newbie a childhood trick. “Have you ever lit one
on fire?” They asked.

“Naw. I thought about it though.”

“We do it all the time. It’s easy. I can make a fireball as big as your head.”

Travis bent over as Trevor held the lighter behind.

AP–Trotterville, LA: “Four Competitive Eaters Die in Methane Explosion.

« 10 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & BLINK

Skunk River
an excerpt from A Welcome End to Knowing

He was going out to check the Skunk River. That was what Billy told his

mother the night that he ran away. It was 1992 and one of the first days of

spring. The war was over. He was sixteen years old and he’d never had a

girlfriend—at least not anyone they knew.

Late at night and he walked quickly to the overlook: he saw his

father’s acreage, and the faint outline of Buxton in the valley below—a

former coal-mining town, a former “guru” town, with its golden domes and

flags on masts. He looked up as the moon broke out from between clouds

and there was brightness on the path and brightness in the fields. He knew

that leaving was right.

Two miles from the highway he veered left toward the lake, taking a

shortcut through last year’s crop. The corn stalks, once waxy and resilient,

draped against the row, leaves eaten to mesh, and the color of chalk. The

corn had full-on spit its insides out. Billy walked through rows of corn that

stood as gravestones—markers to the skeletons of roots, reaching like hands

into the pit of the earth. He reached down and grabbed the dirt, filling his

pockets with it, until the silt stained his hands and poured from his pants like

an hourglass.

« 11 »
 Amy Elizabeth Cole

He had worked these fields himself: harrowed, plowed, detassled,

fertilized. One spring a tornado had touched down yards from where Billy

and his dad were stringing barbed wire at the edge of the field. They sat in

the tractor’s cabin until the hail stopped and the black swirl passed, and then

Billy’s father said, “Get the nails. Ten more yards of fence and then it won’t

matter.” Billy got back to work.

Now Billy walked east towards the highway, past the silo and his

father’s shed, which always smelled of chemicals and exhaust and which his

father filled with harrows, plows, the John Deere and walls lined with metal

oil canisters, solvents, laquers, and paintbrushes. His father kept everything.

Billy would leave everything, take nothing.

In his mind he recalled cornfields whipping by and tasted the dust

kicked up by the wheels of the truck as his older brother veered suddenly

off-road, and felt the lurch of the truck bed and the sting of twine knotted

into a D ring as it wrung through his palm and he tried to hold on. In his 11-

year old memory he had skinny legs and knobs for knees but his brothers, all

three of them, were strong and shirtless. They drove on like this for what

seemed like miles—Martin, the oldest, driving, the red-headed twins also in

the cabin, laughing, and Billy in the truck bed.

He could only hold on for so long. The rope bit his hands. His

« 12 »
 Amy Elizabeth Cole

stomach went taught then slackened. But it was more than that. He wanted

to let go and fall and feel the dust and the scrapes and be alone. He wanted

to stop trying so hard. The rope slipped farther and farther and Billy watched

his brother’s tanned shoulders shrink and this time when the truck jumped

Billy flew. He hit the truck bed once and seemed to bounce off, then

dropped heavily and finally into the plowed dirt.

Trying to sit up, Billy grimaced. Everything hurt—his knees and

elbows bled, his gut in his throat. He laid back again in the dirt and the

stillness of nothing was so easy and pure.

Fifty feet ahead, Martin had slammed on the breaks and leapt out. His

stride was hard and long, almost angry. His pupils tightened into fists, and

for a moment Billy imagined his brother was coming to knock him in the

face.

Martin was completely reckless. He loved heroically, almost

tragically, did wheelies on the frozen pond in January, gambled on

Mississippi riverboats. But he was fiercely loyal. Billy would always cherish

in his mind the image of his oldest brother kneeling with his back to the

barn, a cigarette in his hand, and only the faint orange light of sunset over

the empty fields. Martin was different. He understood Billy.

Martin kneeled down and said, “You ok?”

« 13 »
 Amy Elizabeth Cole

“I hate that fucking truck,” Billy said, brushing off his bloody knee

like it was nothing. Billy looked down and saw something glinting in the

dirt. It was the watch he’d taken from his dad’s dresser that morning—the

same watch his dad polished like a goddamn trophy. He had asked their

mother about it after breakfast. Did you put it in with the laundry? Billy tried

to stuff it back into his pocket, but it was too late. He waited for his brother

to say something.

Martin was quiet for a second and then he looked back towards the

truck. “Assholes,” he muttered. “I should fucking kill them.”

From the ground the sun seemed to spray off Martin’s back, off his

bowed head and heavy boots like something bronzed and heroic. And Billy

in the dust, a gash in his eyebrow oozing thick coagulated blood, his arm

limp, was smiling. Martin reached an arm out to Billy and Billy grabbed it

with his good arm and pulled up.

“Get out of the truck,” Martin yelled to the twins, walking ahead.

Billy stood for a moment. There was a blue dome of sky with thick,

muscular clouds touching the fields of corn whose sway was almost

lackadaisical. He watched his brother’s back and imagined him walking

straight through the horizon like a movie set, past the cornhusks, ripping

apart the papery blue, which to Billy seemed impenetrable. The twins each

« 14 »
 Amy Elizabeth Cole

swung their legs over the side of the truck bed, and Billy slid in beside

Martin. He heard a breeze coming through the crop and then the hollow

sound of the rusted hinge as he pulled the door shut and he wondered if he

would always feel so lonely. Everything was fading.

And the wonder of everything: of running until the air burned like fire

in his lungs; of anatomy and motors—the way the eye bolt and rotor and

bearings fit; the wonder too of mother, of swimming, of the turn towards

fall; everything that seemed permanent had an end. – It frightened him. It

frightened him because it was happening now, too soon. The Hoplite house

of four brothers, all born to pull behind them a century of farming, to carry

like oxen the heft of acreage, of power, of success—all was unraveling. It

was on that day that Billy knew that his brother, Martin would not be staying

long in Keokuk.

That night Martin and Billy crossed paths in the hallway and neither

said a thing. It was hot that night and Billy lay shirtless in his bed, curled

around his arm as if it was separate from him, and he did not sleep.

Two days later Martin told their parents he was leaving. Billy waited

behind the door as Martin stood in the dimly lit den towering over their

father, who dressed neatly, his thick white nails trimmed too far. Martin

squared off against their father and looked him in the eyes, and spoke clearly

« 15 »
 Amy Elizabeth Cole

and softly. “I’ve got a job in California,” Martin had said. And father stood

almost numbly, his crossed arms and wide stance full of sanctity and heft.

The next morning Martin came into Billy's room:

"I'm going out to check the river," Martin said.

Billy scrambled up out of bed. “I’m coming with you,” he said,

sliding his jeans up over his boxers.

“Not this time, Billy.”

Billy slumped back down onto the bed. Martin stepped forward,

smiling his wide smile that seemed to put everyone at ease. He nodded.

"See ya," was all Billy could muster, and he watched his brother turn

and go.

That summer Billy did the detasseling, which was the hardest job

imaginable, for two extra hours each day during a drought. Every night for a

month he closed his eyes and all he saw was corn. Corn mosaics and corn

Pollacks and corn on trees and corn growing from ears. He saw corn in the

reservoir and corn coming from his father’s mouth. As Billy left home that

night—running away for good this time—all he could think was no more

corn.

« 16 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

Our Generation is One of Moving Back in with Your

Mother Until the Shit Storm Passes

I remember my first cigarette. Maybe it wasn’t my first ever cigarette, but

my first cigarette leading to the point of me being an addict. It was in Berlin,
it was a Galouise Blonde, which I think is sort of a girls’ cigarette, but don’t
know even to this day. Which I guess shows how much I care.

I remember my mother telling me my sister was a drug addict for the first
time. It was on Valentine’s Day my freshman year of college. My long-time
girlfriend had just broken up with me a week before and I’d ask her to be my
Valentine even though we’d broke up, but she said no.

I remember when I thought I was in love.

I remember the first time I had a poem published. I was in high school and
my high school literary magazine had decided to publish my poem on page
one of the journal and I was strangely proud of myself in a way that I’d
never known before, to the point where I mostly didn’t know how to feel,
and didn’t feel anything at all really. Which is the way, I think, I feel about a
lot of things these days.

I remember After the Goldrush.

I remember All Things Must Pass.

I remember the day George Harrison died.

I remember taking a shit after this girl dumped me. There was no toilet paper
so I used a Safeway advertisement.

I remember taking the F train to work every day. When the train went over
the Manhattan Bridge, I turned 180 and took in the view of the city. I felt
like a tourist, but it never got old.

I remember on father’s day (2010) a few people called me and I answered

and I could not talk to them without choking on crying so I hung up. And
then some of them kept calling and hearing the phone ring made me cry.

I remember going to prom and not wanting to dance.

« 17 »
 D.W. Lichtenberg

I remember practicing dancing in my bedroom.

I remember the first time I had sex with this particular girl. I didn’t come
and I was embarrassed for her so I didn’t say anything.

I remember thinking: This is it.

I remember telling my mother once in an email that I loved her.

I remember being drunk and saying to myself: When none of my other

friends are there, Philip Morris is.

I remember smoking in bed with an ashtray resting on my belly.

I remember the first time I very straight-forwardly and honestly told a girl
that I like liked her. It didn’t go so well. But that didn’t stop me from
continuing to use the strategy.

I remember tonight and a girl kind of breaking my heart for the third time.

I remember there not being anything else to do but wait.

« 18 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

Thoroughbread
They embrace long enough for one trolley to arrive and depart outside, and
then a second, and finally a third. The sun sets a little more. The lights turn
yellow, and red, and green.

When he holds her he thinks of whales. He thinks of warm, long songs

traveling through acres of water. She feels like that, like a saline home in a
volume of sea, like weightless safety.

He knows that he should not care so much. But the comfort is so great.

Holding her, he remembers way back to the night she invited him in to
her house. They were sitting side by side in his new car. The steering wheel
offered him a place to rest his hands while they both watched the clouds turn
leaden in the dusk.

“Walk me in?” she asked, still staring straight ahead.

“Tonight?”

She just got out of the car, leaving the door open, and he scrambled to
catch up.

On the windowsill beside the door a sentinel of metal birds was

arranged not to stare outwards, as he first suspected, but rather to peer in
through the window like curious toms.

Just inside the door the cool darkness of the house lapped at his ankles
and he shivered.

“Mother,” she said.

It wasn’t a call, or a question. It was a statement.

And her mother appeared, and he tried so hard to stay composed, but
gasped in spite of himself. She wore a bone-colored dress, and she had piled
her hair into a black tower of curls. His eyes went instantly to the
adornments on her shoulders. They looked like streamers, or crepe paper
ribbons. But they were snakeskins, draped like sashes over her clavicles and
around her neck.

« 19 »
 Ian Tuttle

“Mother, this is the boy I told you about. He loves me.”

The chill of the house surged around his legs and he thought of his car
parked in the gravel drive. He thought of the steering wheel, the firm,
controllable connection it provided to the concrete, reliable earth, and he
turned and walked away with as much dignity as he could manage.

Years passed. College years, and years after.

It is a random chance that they meet again. She is visiting a friend in

the neighborhood. She lives far away now. And he usually does not eat out
for lunch. But here, in line for sandwiches, they recognized all that has not
happened. They recognized the choices they made, before they knew they
could choose. Now they hold each other tight, not yet ready to acknowledge
the difficult work of undoing that lies ahead, and outside the sun keeps
setting, and sets a little more.

« 20 »
 Ian Tuttle

ALL CAPS POEM

THIS IS AN ALL-CAPS POEM

THEREFORE IT IS LOUD
AND IT DEMANDS YOUR ATTENTION
THEREFORE IT IS URGENT
IT IS A TRAIN RUSHING CATTLEGUARD FIRST INTO YOUR TIED-
TO-THE-TRACKS HEAD
IT IS THE OPPOSITE OF EE CUMMINGS
WHO ESCHEWED CAPITAL LETTERS
IT IS HERE LIKE BILLBOARDS
IT IS EVERYWHERE LIKE SALES TAX
IT IS ABOUT YOU AND WITHIN YOU
IT IS THE ACHE OF EVERYTHING YOU WANT TO DO.

THIS IS NO COFFEE TABLE BOOK WITH RINGS STAINED COFFEE-

COLORED ON ITS UNOPENED COVER.
THIS IS NO SUGGESTION
THIS IS NO WHISPERED PROMISE
IT IS YOUR OLD FASHIONED ALARM CLOCK BEFORE THE BIRTH
OF SNOOZE

TOMORROW SINCE THIS IS ALL CAPS IT WILL STILL BE RINGING

THE NEXT DAY SINCE IT IS ALL CAPS IT WILL STILL BE RINGING
AND FOREVER SINCE IT IS ALL CAPS IT WILL PEAL LIKE
BAGPIPES THROUGH THE FOG AHEAD OF AN ARMY OF YES AND
A NAVY OF NOW AND AN AIRFORCE OF CARPET BOMBING
BOMBERS LEVELING ALL THE OBSTACLES OF IMPRUDENCE.

LIKE I SAID, THIS IS AN ALL-CAPS POEM.

IT CAN DO WHATEVER THE FUCK IT WANTS.
AND IT WILL
AND IT DOES
AND IT HAS.

« 21 »
 Ian Tuttle

« 22 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

Five Ways to Say Fuck You in Our Post-Modern

Era

1.

He had just finished the dishes when she came home from work, iPhone in
hand. He dried his hands and leaned in for the welcome-home peck.

"Another long day, huh?"

"End of the quarter." She set down the phone and shook off her coat.

"How's everything here?"

"Good, good. Honey, can I show you something?"

She made a face. Once upon a time that question would've have piqued her
interest instead of her dread. "What?"

Her phone chimed.

"Is that a text?" he asked.

"It's just the office." She unclasped her auburn hair and shook it
loose. Once upon a time that gesture would have fanned the flames of his
longing. "What did you want to show me?"

He lifted a white coffee cup from the sink and tilted it like a
cannon, pointed right at her.

"What?"

« 23 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

"Look." He handed it to her. "Look inside."

She tilted it for better light, already knowing what to expect: the brown
circle of coagulated coffee at the bottom. She sighed. "And?"

"And?" He crossed his arms. "We've talked about this a million times—"

"Oh for Chrissake! I come home from a hard day and this is how you greet
me?"

He rolled his eyes. "C'mon honey, is it too much for you to just rinse out the
cup so this doesn't happen?"

"I can't believe you're doing this."

"Honey, honey." He tried to take her hand but she pulled away. "This is
about the cup. Don't make it about us, okay?"

"Whatever." She grabbed her phone and left the kitchen.

"Honey, please!"

She shouted back, "WHAT. EVER!"

2.

Later, after The Bachelorette and after she'd been too quiet for too long, he
snuck a peek into the home office. She was curled up asleep on the futon
loveseat.

In his mind, he would gently rouse her, lead her to their bed, where they
mingle in the heat of their bodies and make slow love.

« 24 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

Then the iPhone chimed.

He picked it up. Someone named Randolph wanted to know: "R U still

there?"

"Can I help you?" She'd awakened and was staring at him.

"Yeah, you can help me. You can tell me who the fuck this Randolph is
that's texting you at eleven o'clock at night."

She grabbed the phone. He tried to hang onto it but she dug her nails in.

"It's work stuff."

"At eleven o'clock at night?"

She sat up, her fingers dancing across the small screen. "I told you, it's end
of the quarter. Some people are pulling an all-nighter."

"Oh really? I don't remember any Randolph and why is he in your address
book in the first place?"

She handed him back the phone. The screen asked for a password he didn't
have.

"Are you going to answer me or not?"

She stood up and stretched. "I'm over this conversation."

"What?"

She looked him in the eye. "I said: I. AM. OVER. THIS.
CONVERSATION."

« 25 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

3.

In the morning, he prepared a special breakfast while she showered.

When she came into the kitchen, she went straight to the coffee and filled
her commuter cup. Her iPhone beeped and she pulled it from her coat
pocket, her thumb sliding and tapping on the screen.

"Aren't you going to have any breakfast? I made your favorite. Waffles with
fresh blueberries."

She glanced at the kitchen table. "I can't. I'm late."

He sat down and patted her chair. "Come on. I even heated the maple syrup.
You can't go to work without any breakfast."

"Honey, I don't even have time to put on my makeup. I'll have to do it on the
bus." She didn't look up from her phone.

He crossed his arms. "I made this breakfast for you. The least you can do is
sit down and eat some. Don't be rude."

"Hah! So now I'm rude?"

"Are you going to sit down?"

"Honey, I'm a busy executive. That's just the way I roll."

He slapped the table with both hands, making the plates jump. "Really?
Really?" He pulled the phone from her grip and smashed it against the table.

"What are you doing? Are you fucking crazy?"

« 26 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

He smashed it again and again until pieces came loose and tumbled into the
hot maple syrup and across the stacks of purple-smudged waffles.

"No, I'm not crazy." He dropped the phone carcass and kicked it into the
corner. "THAT'S. JUST. THE WAY. I. ROLL!"

4.

That afternoon, he drove to his wife's office. A little surprise visit.

The receptionist, a thirty-ish man wearing a tight pink Oxford shirt and a
single diamond stud earring, eyed him warily when he entered. "And how
may I help you, sir?"

He stated his name and that he was here to see his wife.

The receptionist transformed. "Oh my goodness! So you're the

mysterious hubby! We've heard so much about you, it's such a pleasure to
finally put together a face with the name."

"Uh... Yes... I..."

"Just wait one little second." He picked up his desk phone and tapped the
keys. "Hi, it's Randolph in reception. I hope this isn't a bad time… Your
husband's here … Well, that's what he said … Five-ten, brunette, handsome
in a kind of Ben Affleck meets young Bruce Willis way… Okay, sure, of
course."

The receptionist made a face and hung up.

"They are SUPER busy—end of quarter and all that—but she said she'll be
right out."

« 27 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

He didn't know what to think. "Did you say your name was Randolph?"

"That's me." The receptionist crooked his eyebrows. "I hope she isn't
gossiping about me behind my back!"

"No, no. Nothing like that." He looked around. To either side he could see
cubicles and office workers in mid-scurry. "Is there another Randolph that
works here?"

"Just me, sweetie." The receptionist smiled like the devil. "She has been
talking about me, hasn't she?"

His wife appeared. "What are you doing here?"

He straightened and cleared his throat. "Hey honey, I was just in the
neighborhood and I…"

"I told you we're crazy busy. What is it? Did something happen?"

"No … I …"

She took him by the elbow and walked him back to the elevators. "You have
to leave. I can't talk right now." She pressed the Down button.

He gestured back to reception. "So that's Randolph, huh. Nice fellow."

One of the elevators opened with a ding. She said. "I think we're done here."

"Maybe we can have a quiet dinner. Watch Casablanca."

She pushed him into the elevator. "I said: WE'RE. DONE. HERE."

« 28 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

5.

That evening he prepared salmon filet and arugula salad. He chilled a nice
blanc the guy at the wine shop recommended. He put Casablanca into the
player. They'd watched Casablanca at the Red Vic on their first date and on
his last birthday, she'd given him the blue ray disk.

Then he waited.

When seven o'clock came and went, he tried calling her cell phone, then
remembered. He called her office instead, pressing this and pressing that
number until her extension was ringing.

"Yes?" she answered.

"Hi."

"What is it? We're very busy."

"Sorry, sorry. I, uh, I made dinner and I'm just wondering…"

She didn't let him finish. "I'm not coming home tonight."

He bit his lip. "You guys pulling an all nighter, huh?"

"Yes, but that's not it."

"But you are coming home at some point, right?"

She was silent. Then: "I can't have this conversation right now."

"If it's about the phone, I'm really sorry. Please." For the first
time in his marriage, he was afraid.

« 29 »
 Andrew O. Dugas

"I told you. I. CAN'T. HAVE. THIS. CONVERSATION. RIGHT NOW."

She kept her word. She never came home again either.

« 30 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

The Men

Nora held up two manila folders. Suzanne stopped fiddling with a

fertilization brochure and looked up.
“Tall high school teacher or short lawyer?” asked Nora.
“The teacher. Wait, forget I said that. No comment. If it turns out
badly, I don’t want any blame,” said Suzanne.
Nora flipped through the dented file cabinet and plucked a few more
files. She leafed through them gingerly, as if her fingerprints would damage
the phantom Dads.
“Ooh, how about an architect who got a 1580 on the SAT? It says
here that he’s, well, he’s obese, but that could be a lifestyle thing.” Nora laid
out the files in a straight line on the chrome table.
Suzanne danced her fingers across the files, “Eenie, meenie, minie
moe—”, but Nora swatted her hand away.
“How often do you think they change out the porno mags in the
rooms?” murmured Suzanne as she pressed her face to a small window of
the locked door in front of them. She pictured the men coming in here,
walking down the bare white hallway, a smiling assembly of different
ethnicities and professions, little board game figurines hobbling around on
plastic stands.
“I don’t know,” Nora sighed. “I wonder if there are any firefighters in
these folders.”
“Stop looking for your ex-boyfriends,” said Suzanne.
“You’re not helping,” snapped Nora.
“Sorry, this places weirds me out.”

« 31 »
 Elise Hunter

“It’s ok, I think I need some time alone. With the men.” Nora flashed
her that sad, tight smile, the I’m-more-practical-than-you-will-ever-
comprehend smile.
“I need a cigarette anyway,” said Suzanne. “Holler if you need
anything.” Once outside, Suzanne found shade next to a dumpster, away
from the searing heat. She tried not to picture what was in the dumpster. Her
hands trembled as she reached for the pack of menthols in her back pocket.

Nora had announced her decision at their parents’ house a month earlier,
with a gallows resignation. She said she didn’t want to run out of time, and
she was going to take action. As she spoke, she curled her knees up to her
chest.
“Always such a sensible girl,” said their mother, patting Nora’s knee.
“Love is totally unnecessary these days anyway,” said Suzanne.
Everyone looked at her. Their mother inhaled sharply. “I just mean that you
don’t need two people anymore. In this day and age. One person can totally
raise a kid. People do it all the time. I mean, it’s not that you’re not loveable.
You are loveable, of course. It … takes a village?” Suzanne felt her face
growing hot. Their father just shook his head.

Suzanne took a long drag on her cigarette. She hadn’t understood why Nora
asked her to come today. Nora had plenty of friends. But, these friends were
married, some of them pregnant. She figured that was why.
Suzanne heard footsteps coming towards her and she crouched more
tightly into the crevice next to the dumpster. She didn’t want to be caught
loitering outside of a sperm bank by someone she knew. Especially someone
cute.

« 32 »
 Elise Hunter

The footsteps stopped close by, probably on the other side of the
dumpster.
A man’s voice spoke: “Dude, I don’t know about this. What if my kid
finds me later?”
“It won’t. You have to agree to that first, and I never do.” The second
man’s voice was deeper, more gruff.
“What job do you say you have again?” said the first one.
“Geologist.”
“Geologist?! Ain’t no rocks around here, nothing but plains.”
“They wouldn’t let me in if I told them I work at BevMo.”
Suzanne pressed her ear against the side of the dumpster. She put out
her cigarette when she saw plumes of smoke rising from their cigarettes.
“What job should I say I have?” said the one with the higher voice.
“How about engineer? Or lawyer. Lawyers are popular, I hear.”
“But won’t they check?”
“Never did. Not once. Didn’t check on my bad heart either.”
“You’ve got a bad one.”
“I sure do. They don’t call your doctor or anything. But dude, don’t
worry, I make like six grand a year doing this. You won’t regret it.” He
hacked out a laugh.

Her hands clenched in fists, Suzanne emerged from the other side of the
dumpster. She marched by the men, pausing briefly to take them in. They
both wore faded jeans. One had sandy hair, and he looked down at his feet as
she passed. The other one scratched his pencil-thin beard and squinted back
at her, stupefied. Suzanne could not guess which one was which. She
decided that they were the most ordinary men she’d ever seen.

« 33 »
 Elise Hunter

The late afternoon sun blazing at her back, Suzanne swung open the double
doors, determined to save her sister from making a very practical mistake.

« 34 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

on the question of who is to blame

I nominate Catholicism
that lonely, lecherous moralist
who chaperoned every trip
to the wedding bed

It was you all the time,

Catholicism
who told my grandparents
Be fruitful and multiply
times two
times three
times four
to unravel the rope
to tie the severed pieces
of twine together in knots
extending it further
stretching it tauter
until there were just two
interwoven threads
fraying against one another
hanging below them
a chorus of gaping mouths
a gallery of growing bodies

When the doctor

a modern-day Oracle
told my grandmother
the ninth baby would kill her
it was you,
Catholicism
who had so much respect
for the Fates
you secret worshipper
of multiple gods
it was you who made
the condom shameful

« 35 »
 Keely Hyslop

the pill a poison

it was you who made
my grandfather
beg his wife to let him
continue to bury himself
in her tangles
when she refused him
when his daughter heard him crying
night after night
you were still in bed
with the husband
who slept with a pillow
between him and his wife

Did my grandmother sleep

through those nights?
No one remembers
which of them it was
who decided
that grandpa should sleep
in a twin bed
in the garage
for the rest this
after-life

I think it was Catholicism

who hid away the alternatives
stuffing them into its mouth
like hard candies
so that all my grandparents
could see
was a pile
of empty wrappers
previously filled
with unspeakable sins
at least they could give up
speaking to one another directly
The Lord,
Catholicism
had blessed them with so many

« 36 »
 Keely Hyslop

willing go-betweens
a house full of messengers without wings

a small madness

Grows massive,
Monstrous when fed
By love, becomes
Aware of itself,
Aware of its preferences,
Peculiarities; married for a year,
Then there was a desert,
A breakdown
Of a car, a mind,
A narrative. My mother fed
My father’s madness
Until it became its own
Institution capable
Of holding meeting,
Passing bylaws.
My mother fed
My father’s madness
Until it rumbled
Through the city
Like a public bus,
The wrong bus
Carrying her in a great arc
Away from her
Destination and then
Back to her point of origin.

« 37 »
 Keely Hyslop

My father tried
To end himself
So many times.
He was unsuccessful.
He placed his hands
Around my mother’s neck,
Tried to squeeze the air
Out of her. He was unsuccessful.
I carry his name. Hyslop.
It’s a name that remembers.
My mother doesn’t
Carry it. I carry the madness
It takes to tell.

« 38 »
 Keely Hyslop

salsa is a form of meditation

She tells me that

for her salsa
is a form of
meditation.

And I believe
her. On the floor
amid the crush
of gyrating
bodies. The crowds
part for her
cactus green skirt
swirling over
exposed calves.

I have been taking salsa lessons,

admiring the arithmetic
of muscle memory, keeping
count, submitting to patterns,
encouraging
my body to
give the music
the benefit
of the doubt… doubt

Her feet do not

count and when she
is dancing the
music is no
longer piping
from stereo
speakers mounted
from the ceiling.

The music sweats from

her body, the twist

« 39 »
 Keely Hyslop

in her hips, the

sex in her smile.

Watching her dance

is like making
love in the dark
with eyes open.
Your lover floats
over you, a
scorching shadow.
You’ll never see
her touch the ground.

She tells me that

salsa brings her
back into her
body. Her mind
wants to pretend
it can distance
itself from the
assailable
flesh and then the
music begins;
her partner asks,
she consents, and
he leads her to
the floor. She knows
the steps from here.

When she dances

salsa her mind
recollects what
it is to be
whole, the feeling
of being one
woman in one
body before
splintering in
to several

« 40 »
 Keely Hyslop

women, each with

eyes that map the
landscape. Women
who can find the
exits even
in the darkness.

She recalls the

rhythm of when
all her moves felt
intuitive,
before she was
suddenly forced
to inherit
a derelict
ceramics shop.

All broken and

scattered but there
was no choice but
to salvage the
pieces and display
the mosaics
in the window.

When she dances

her body tells
the lie that all
women’s bodies
tell, the lie of
never having
been bruised, forced, held
down, the lie of
being fresh and
new or at least
renewable.

Women’s bodies
heal themselves and

« 41 »
 Keely Hyslop

create a more
complex passion,
a so much more
compelling strength.
But still, women’s
minds resent the
careless body’s
resilience.

When she dances

salsa her mind
forgives because
her body’s lie
is beautiful.

« 42 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

Origin Of the Veil

The 1979 Islamic Revolution transformed the country of Iran from a

constitutional monarchy under the Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi to an

Islamic Republic under the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Most people

believe that under the notion of a perfect model of splendid, humane, and

divine life for all the people of the world, Khomeini introduced the Sharia,

or Islamic law, literally meaning the path to the water source, forcing

women to cover most of their body, but mainly the evil, seductive forces that

lay within the strands of their hair—all of it—under the thick fabric of a

chador.

The truth, however, is another story. The Ayatollah Khomeini being a

stingy man who didn’t believe in giving into the material pleasures of

worldly objects and experiences, was sick of paying for his wife’s monthly

hair removal bill. For, like most Iranian women, Khadije Saghafi was hairy,

and her husband believed that if she was covered at all times of the day (and

sometimes at night even in their bed) she wouldn’t care if her husband or

anyone else saw her hairy legs or her hairy arms, or the hair that extended

from the side of her face down to her chin. With the new implementation of

the veil, his wife’s body and most of her head covered, he would only have

« 43 »
 Shideh Etaat

to worry about paying for her eyebrows and maybe the hair on her upper lip

at most, to be removed by Haleh Khanoom who owned the salon down the

street.

And thus, “O Prophet! Tell your wives and daughters and the

believing women to cover themselves. Thus, they will be recognized and

avoid being molested. God is the Forgiver, Merciful,” from the Koran,

turned into seventy-four lashes on your bare back for being a slut and not

covering all of your hair and body (well, except your hands and feet). Let us

not forget that Khomeini had the best interest of all his fellow comrades’ in

mind when making this law.

It is rumored though that Khadije, frustrated with the summer heat and

the layers of thick fabric she was forced to wear by her husband and his

regime, being an educated woman and having read the Koran in its entirety

at least two hundred times, and finding no text stating that a woman’s entire

body and hair should be covered, was so angered by her husband’s new

laws, and his underlying frugality when it came to her hair removal needs

(for it wasn’t for him or for any other man that she did it, it was more for

herself, to feel beautiful and clean and to respect and care for her body—

which she saw as her own private temple, or mosque in this case), it is

rumored that one day she decided to walk naked through the crowded streets

« 44 »
 Shideh Etaat

of Tehran. It was a boiling summer afternoon, too hot even for tea, and she

walked with the most beautiful arched eyebrows, the smoothest arms, legs

and upper lip anyone had ever seen, and a well-managed, thin strip of hair

below, thanks to the always reliable Haleh Khanoom and the white string

she had used to turn Khadije’s young body into silk.

The religious clerics, and Khomeini himself thought she was a ghost,

a smooth-skinned phantom sent by Allah himself, a sign that Yawm al-

Qiyaamah, or the Day of Resurrection was upon them. Tears formed in their

eyes as they got on their knees and bowed to her, mumbling Allah O Akhbar

under their breaths, suddenly feeling the heaviness of their sins, and praying

for forgiveness. But the women—well, the women knew better than that.

And as their husbands meditated on their wasted lives, and watched the

phantom move through the city, stopping even the loud shouting of men in

the bazaars, the cracking of sunflower seeds between their teeth, the

persistence of car upon car on the freeways, as even the birds came down

from above to watch, the women lined up outside of Haleh Khanoom’s

salon, and waited their turn.

« 45 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

Alive

I am not a monster. All my life I was burdened with a sense of boredom and

emptiness. I spent my teenage years searching for activities that would fill

my thirst for adrenaline. Skydiving, bungee jumping, scuba diving—none of

it was satisfying. None of it fed my hunger.

My search for adrenaline became an obsession, which soon turned

into an addiction. I began questioning myself, wondering how long this was

going to last, all while tearing my family apart. Every night, my mom would

sit me down, crying, asking what was wrong with me. And every night I

would say the same thing, and she would just cry and sniff her way to her

room with my sister and two brothers behind her, oblivious to the situation.

On my eighteenth birthday, my mother attempted to do her parental

duties and made me a cake. I paid no mind to the cake. All my birthday

signified was that I had experienced eighteen years of boredom. I hated

getting older; I hated having my life being so useless. My mother threw a fit,

but at that point I didn’t care. My mother and I both knew that our

relationship had turned from a loving and caring one, to a tolerant more

systematic agreement.

« 46 »
 Eriq Martin

A couple months after my birthday, I began using drugs. Sure getting

high was slightly fun at times, but it wasn’t enough. I had to take my search

for a fulfilling activity to new heights. Within a two-month time span, I had

robbed two convenience stores, vandalized countless buildings, and broken

into numerous houses. It seemed that police didn’t exist whenever I broke

into a house or robbed a convenience store. It was as if I was meant to never

be caught; fate wanted me to reach my goal.

Within that two-month time span, I managed to collect a grand total of

six thousand, three hundred and twenty eight dollars. About half of that

came from pawning different assortments of jewelry. Initially I didn’t know

exactly how to use the money until one day a car sped past me on Young

street going at least 100 mph.

Street racers dump thousands of dollars into their cars, praying for a

faster and lighter ride. On an empty street, cars can reach up to 200mph.

What really interested me, however, were races on busy streets. There are

two main reasons why racing on a busy street is more exhilarating than

racing on an empty one: high chances for collision, and high chances for

incarceration.

Cheating death was the most exhilarating thing I had ever

experienced. Dodging a car by only a few inches gave this rush that I had

« 47 »
 Eriq Martin

never felt before. There were rays glaring past my window. I was in a vortex

of light, maneuvering through bliss. I soon became infatuated with racing,

believing I finally found a reason to live.

I built a routine: race Monday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I had

raced for 3 months. I never got pulled over, never lost, and never got into an

accident. This all ended when I broke routine.

One Monday, I went to the usual spot on Young street, but there were

a bunch of horrible racers, so I decided to go to Montgomery Road where

there wasn’t any traffic. At the meeting spot I met a guy named Zach. He

was the kind of person who never had to do any real work in high school

because his looks and jersey number carried him on a pretty pedestal. I will

forever remember the name Zach. I will forever be in debt to him for helping

me realize what true happiness is.

Driving on this street was completely different than driving at my

usual spot. Because it was in a suburban area, there weren’t many

streetlights. Looking down the pitch-black road was like looking at the gates

of hell, with the Devil’s hound, Cerberus, waiting to pull me in.

Everything was going smooth; the entire race Zach and I were side-

by-side going around 150 mph. A corner was coming up, so I slowed down,

but Zach sped up—he was ahead. After the turn I slammed on the gas,

« 48 »
 Eriq Martin

attempting to catch up, and when I was two feet behind him red lights

flashed and a screech filled the air. Zach managed to swerve out of the way,

but I was lucky enough to hit Desmond. He was just in the wrong place at

the wrong time.

I ran out of my car towards the body with a sense of urgency. When I

arrived, I had the best feeling I had ever experienced. Watching the blood

run down the side of his head, slightly grinning when I noticed his leg was

broken in three different places.

As I stood there grinning, he was looking at me and begging for help.

As the words slid past his bloody lips, more blood would begin to pour out. I

didn’t help; I just stood there looking at him with that same grin on my face.

He died with his eyes open, and as I looked into them, I saw his

sorrow and pain. I killed this man, and it felt so damn good. I became

mesmerized. This man’s life was gone because of me. I had taken control; I

had beaten the Grim Reaper to his prize. I had finally found my calling—my

way to feed my adrenaline.

After that day, I became complete.

I wanted to do it again, I needed to do it again; this is what I had been

waiting for my entire life. The very first night I went out to intentionally kill

was extremely satisfying. I figured bums would be a great place to start

« 49 »
 Eriq Martin

because nobody pays attention to bums. They could be screaming for help,

but everyone would just believe they were crazy. We live in a society today

where most people don’t have the slightest care for the people financially

beneath them.

I walked down Lawerence Street to find any potential candidates, long

black trench coat, knife in one hand and a camera in the other. As I passed

an alley I saw a man sleeping in a pile of newspapers and cardboard. As I

looked around to make sure we were alone I walked towards him. When I

reached him, he was sleeping directly on his back. Looking down, a million

different ways to kill him went spinning through my head.

After standing over him for almost five minutes, I finally came to a

conclusion. I simply placed the sharp knife to his throat and cut across.

Blood came spewing from his throat like magma from a volcano. The bum

squealed, attempting to gasp for air only to inhale more of his own blood.

There wasn’t a grin on my face anymore; it had turned into a full on smile. I

loved seeing this man die. I began to laugh uncontrollably. He looked at me

with his glossy eyes and let out his final word—“Why?”—and lay dead on

his pile of newspaper and cardboard. I pulled out my camera and took a

couple of pictures. After putting the camera away I felt the need to answer

his question. I got close to his ear and whispered, “Because it’s fun.”

« 50 »
 Eriq Martin

Once every other night I would find a bum on the street and slice his

throat. Once in a while I would change it up and simply stab them in the

back numerous times. Seeing their blood leak out and the agony on their

faces is indescribable.

By the time I turned nineteen I had evolved. I moved up from bums on the

street to low-key communities. Torturing had become my new itch that I

loved to scratch. The act of torture is where original happiness comes from.

The Coliseum, the Roman gladiators used, was a torture complex. Gladiators

fighting to the death for the crowd’s enjoyment. My coliseum was the

victims’ homes, and it was getting larger.

I am not a monster; I don’t kill babies or children. I make sure I don’t

hit a house that has kids younger than fifteen. There are girls who are getting

pregnant at fifteen years old. If they are old enough to get pregnant, then

they are old enough to die.

Breaking in while they were asleep, tying up the entire family with

rope or electrical wires found around the house. The sheer thrill of

controlling them was almost as satisfying as killing them.

I would first kill the sons and daughters. I wouldn’t kill them first

because I wanted to finish them quickly. I did them first because the cries of

« 51 »
 Eriq Martin

the parents excited me. The brilliant red of their blood reflected in their eyes.

Their eyes would match what I saw in Desmond’s: sorrow and pain.

Sorrow, it overtakes your body, fills you with hatred and weakness.

You’re willing to take your own life in order to end it. It’s a suicidal disease

caused by death itself. Watching your own son die, cuts up and down his

naked body, fingers sawed down to little stumps of clotted blood. The whole

ordeal takes a toll on your body. It begins to shut down; some go into a

hysterical state, screaming out nonsense. Others become sick and vomit. The

human mind can cause the most remarkable bodily effects if given the right

stimulants.

Surprisingly, I came to learn that it is usually the father that breaks

down first. He cries and sweats as if he were in the Sahara Desert. The

mother sometimes just sits there. Maybe she is so out of it that she can’t feel

a thing. Before I even rub my knife against her, she’s already dead inside.

She doesn’t care anymore—her child, the person she carried in her womb for

nine months, is gone in a matter of minutes.

As time went on, the newspaper started to notice a pattern. They

dubbed me “the insomniac killer” because I broke into people’s homes

around two in the morning. A reporter, who was tracking me, called me a

monster and said I belong in an insane asylum.

« 52 »
 Eriq Martin

He, nor anyone else, realized the pain I had to go through. Not finding

what makes you happy is a crime in itself. All I did was what was best for

me. Any human—deep down—would kill his or her own mother if they

knew it would be in their own best interest. That is what I have learned, and

that is what I have been doing. It’s not that my daddy didn’t love me

enough, or that I was teased as a kid. It’s just my human nature; I am only

following my natural instincts. People who deny that are only denying the

very basis of life.

I don’t care what anyone says, I am going to continue to be happy. So

trust me when I say: I am not a monster.

« 53 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

Closest

I’m 11. Going on 12 in August. My sister was 15.

My sister is 15. Going on 16 in September. Her name is Lisa.

She is 5’4” and a little bit fat, but not really. She has light brown hair,
shorter in back, that falls in her face. She sucks at the ends sometimes, but
only on the left side.

She is kind of shy. Her best friend’s name is Julia but we call her Jules. They
used to come to this coffee place almost every day after school. They poured
out most of the coffee and put in lots of cream and Splenda. They were
learning how to knit. Some college girls did “Stitch and Bitch” sitting on
these worn out orange couches near the windows. Lisa and Jules tried to
always sit at this red table near the door. It was closest to the couches.

I came in sometimes after school with my best friend, Hannah. Lisa told us
to get out but we got hot chocolates with whipped cream and sat at the
closest table to them, licking the whipped cream off of those little coffee
stirrer straws and using them to sip our drinks. We played games on our cell
phones and Lisa sometimes told us to shut up.

Soccer started a month ago, so Hannah and me stopped going in much. One
time, we walked by and saw Lisa sitting at the red table with a man. Hannah
thought he was 37, but I think he was around 27. The police report says one
of the girls who works here said he looked about 29 or 30, so I was closest.
But one of the stitch and bitch girls said he looked about 35, so Hannah says
she was closest. I think the coffee girl knows better because she saw him

« 54 »
 Lauren Becker

close up when he bought coffees for Lisa and him. The report says he bought
her coffees about five times.

Hannah thinks the man was tall but she doesn’t know anything ‘cause he
was sitting. She says he had brown hair and a biggish nose. I didn’t think his
nose was that big. The report says the coffee girls looked at pictures but said
he wasn’t in them. They don’t pay that much attention to anyone except for
guys they know. We thought he was probably one of her teachers.

Jules says his name is Eric and he’s Lisa’s boyfriend. They met on the bus.
Jules never met him. She says Lisa wouldn’t let her at first because she
didn’t want to look like a little kid. Jules says Lisa is in love with Eric. Lisa
never told her what he does or where he lives.

She’s been gone 10 days. Since March 29th.

It’s kind of cold today. Soccer got cancelled and I came here. I told Hannah I
wanted to go by myself. I don’t care if it hurt her feelings. She never had a
sister anyways.

« 55 »
 Lauren Becker

His Days

On his bad days, he warned me against having hope. He needed company in

his desolation and I walked down dangerous steps to meet him. He made me
scones and coffee. He watched me eat and drink and brightened when I said
the scones were good.

I bought the raspberries at the farmers’ market because I know you love
them, he said. I thought to tell him I do not love raspberries, but blueberries,
but he did not attend to the things I loved. His bad days became mine. He no
longer needed to warn.

On his good days, he did not call. He found more good days. He found a girl
and took her to the farmers’ market, where she chose raspberries. He made
scones for her and invited me over. She was tall with brown hair; some
thought her pretty, including her. She looked like me.

He told me about her and we both listened to things she knew. She was a
pediatric nurse, she grew up in Maryland, she used to dance ballet. They
laughed about her ugly feet. I liked her. I felt lonely and went home.

We met awhile before at a café where he watched for the few minutes it took
me to complete Thursday’s New York Times crossword puzzle. I thought
guys only spoke to girls in cafes when they were interested. I thought when
he asked me to get together, it was a date.

We didn’t go on a date. He pegged me as a caretaker; I took care. I listened

to him talk about girls. Sometimes he cried. He likes selfish ones. He
introduced me to a few. They looked a little like me.

« 56 »
 Lauren Becker

I entered a crossword competition I learned about in a documentary. I

practiced. I timed myself. I was close to the winning times from the year
before. I didn’t tell him.

On a good day, I told him. He said he wondered why I hadn’t been around as
much. It was too close to turning into his story. I was on flat ground. I didn’t
want to descend.

He said be prepared to lose.

Waiting was unnecessary. Good or bad, they were his days. They had little
to do with me when they didn’t have to do with him.

I thanked him for the caution. When we parted, my love for him halved. I
stopped for ingredients. By the time I arrived home, it was halved again.

I made blueberry scones. They were the best scones I ever had.

The girl who looked like me—the ballerina—left him. He called me, crying.
I listened to voicemails while doing crosswords. I had two weeks. I did not
have time to take care. I was lighter, safer. I got better, faster.

I did not prepare to lose. I did not prepare to win. I did neither.

After, he didn’t ask how it went. I didn’t offer. I told him I liked blueberry
scones. He made me blueberry scones. I told him they were good. They were
not as good as mine.

« 57 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

a prayer for midwest fields

what have we been talking about

all this time
rolling
in midwest samadhi grass
praying to gods with names
that aren't supposed to be said out loud

we are hidden
and exposed
our bodies and the ground
wet with so may things

there are diamonds sparkling

that no one has bought
and wishes
with arms that can hold us

i can see them blink

like the stars
when you laugh
at whatever it is i said

a cracked pattern appears

and disappears
revealing what's beyond
the veil that we wear

we are held by the moon

drenched in the light
that it borrows
from the sun
and before it lets us go
there is a song

it only lasts a few seconds

but it's enough

« 58 »
 Chris Cole

that i will never forget

the simple melody

even as the sun comes up

and turns our wishes
into steam
that powers our invisible engines

and i just wish i knew

where i was going
or at least
how to get there

« 59 »
 Chris Cole

if you don’t pick your bad days, they’ll pick you

sometimes
we can't fit
and it doesn't mean
that we don't belong
it just means
we don't belong
there

not where
there are rules
not made to be broken
or promises
not meant to be kept

we live in an age
that values
attention
but not all
attention
is good

and not everything

that's good
is really
good for you

pick a day
to do something bad
pick a day
to be anything
they wouldn't approve of
pick a day
to break every rule
that won't hurt you
or someone else

« 60 »
 Chris Cole

i am surprised that you called

when you knew
i'd be here
when you knew
i would answer
and you knew
that i knew
it was your breath on the line
before the phone went click

« 61 »
 Chris Cole

distance is the square root of desire

the stars
they hang there
like i could actually
touch them
like i could actually
touch you
from this far away
through all of the smoke
and mist and haze
and miles
through all of the things
i have to do
just to keep shit going
i could touch you
if i could only reach you
if i could just make my arms
as long as these thoughts
as close as the stars
when there are no city lights
to hide them
and their meaning

it all changes
with each day that passes
as they move across the sky
as we move across the grid
that's got us locked in tight
to whatever it is
we think we're accomplishing

we spell something different

each time the day turns
its back on the night
time passes without warning
but moves
without seeming

« 62 »
 Chris Cole

to end up anywhere at all

and i forget where we started
but i don't think it matters
as long as we find out where we are
right now
as the sky clears
and the map folds
so that our bodies
are pressed up against each other

« 63 »
 Chris Cole

we’re making new medicine to heal old wounds

we’re dropping
young beats
off a cliff
over ancient rhymes
just to see
if they can fly
or if they float

pop the clutch

and gun it
for as far
as you can go
as long
as you can manage

before you end up

right where you began

we came here
from opposite directions
yet we seem to go in circles
spinning around each other
but it doesn’t feel like a revolution
it doesn’t seem like we’ve made it
all the way around

these late night talks

the earth
around the axis
the ring
around your finger
the path
that brought you here
they all go around in circles
and you twist
in nervous expectation

« 64 »
 Chris Cole

and get all knotted up

and it’s hard to come undone
but it needs to happen
to all fall apart

sometimes
the only way to break loose
is simply to break

« 65 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

i guess this is a love poem

So here I go with some straight talk about alcoholism. Booze.

My old buddy.
The stuff that dreams are made of.
My connection to the starry dynamo of the machinery of the night.
My lover’s lover.
The magical elixir that used to carry me to excesses of dreaming poetry
chanted in the streets
Hours of imagined intimacy with imagined friends
Flirtations in bars where the men told me my eyes had more sparkle than the
Milky Way
And I believed them
Piano bars where I sang (and I shouldn’t have)
Everything wonderful
Everything grand
Just grand

My Aunt Karyl died of pancreatic cancer.

And I heard that her pancreas got sick because of the booze.

I remember her clearly, one Christmas morning, the guests arrive to the
grand old house on Westland Avenue, 11 o’clock, flinging her arms with
that flamboyance that made me love her so, and calling out in that trumpet of
a voice, a gift from her actress mother, “Bar’s Open” — and how she made
it sound like the opening of a horse race and oh how we all galloped.

And Jim.

We met drunk and that’s how I found the courage to follow you home
To that dim studio above the Sunset Strip
And push you back on the bed and climb on top

« 66 »
 Charles Kruger

And hold and hold and hold.

We drank for the next three years
And you pushed me into school
And you pushed me into writing
And you pushed me into art and history
And politics and friends and long boozy nights of philosophy

And I remember how one night my friend Pandora

The most beautiful girl I ever met
Beautiful like Elizabeth Taylor
Said how wonderful it was to be with us
Because we were always touching so lightly and gently

And we didn’t even know it.

And I remember, my boozy friend,

How your father yelled
The night we came for dinner
And finished all the good scotch
And how we laughed at him

And the night we tried to drive to every gay bar in San Francisco
And ended up crying for the drunks at Twin Peaks and I said how pathetic
they were
And you asked, “aren’t we?”
And we laughed.

And the long nights of opera and how you taught me to hear it.

And your fingers on my back

Can’t forget that

« 67 »
 Charles Kruger

And then came the fights and the flung dishes

And the wedgewood bowl that Jon gave to us
After one drunken party
That got flung across the floor and how I knew
That was the night it ended

But we kept trying and your sister said I was a leech

And then one drunken night
I told you that you were pathetic

And then one day you were gone and I had a drink or two and that was that

All of this, you see, is a history of the booze and that is the only lover.
The rest is imaginary.
Does that make sense?
It is what it is.

The night Susan died a suicide

My most beloved cousin
The comfort of my childhood
Who hugged me into something like happiness
I called my friend Kevin and we drank for hours
And I don’t remember what I felt
And Oh, Susan, you deserved better
And I suppose I grieve you now
But it’s been 30 years 
And where was I then?

There was another love

Right off the streets of fantasy
A dwarfed sized Mexican Schwarzenegger
With eyes like chocolate and poetry like…well…like poetry

« 68 »
 Charles Kruger

And a voice like honey

And I wandered away one night

And when you called years later to tell me you were sick
I pretended not to understand what THAT meant
And never went to visit and drank to forget
And you loved me and you called me from your deathbed
And I didn’t … I didn’t … oh hell

Is it any wonder I died inside?

But then sobriety for nearly 20 years

And slowly, slowly, slowly I wake up.

And now I’m Rip Van Winkle and the young men no longer
speak of my honeyed eyes or my sparkle.
And when I found my boozy lover he left this message:
“Let the past be the past”

And where, now, is the starry dynamo

Nothing is what it was

And my young friends

Oh my friends
I see you dancing your boozy
Romances and
How is it possible
How could it be possible

That I am envious

« 69 »
 Charles Kruger

And I am not envious

And I am sorry
And I am not sorry

And I am after all

So glad to be alive
And safe and sane and sober

But still …

« 70 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

The Bookcase
In January his girlfriend inherited a nice bookcase from her Aunt Ruth. He
came home from work one day, folded his ham slices into bow-ties and ate
while examining the bookcase. “This is a quality bookcase,” he said, but his
mouth was full and he littered ground ham on the bookcase.
His girlfriend rejoiced over the bookcase. It looked old, like how
Vienna might have once looked. He claimed to love Vienna and so she
thought he would stare at the bookcase and finally let her be.
The bookcase occupied him because it was empty and it smelled like
1978 and 1978 was a good year. He was seven and eight that year. A lot of
ice cream and orange soda, but he hated penmanship class.
He went to the basement for a while, but there wasn’t much to look at
down there. That bookcase you like is upstairs, a voice in his head told him
and he returned to the bookcase with a bottle of kahlua.
At midnight he made a little bed in front of the bookcase. He sang it a
three verse love song.

The Bee
They were wrong for each other, but they were in the same car. She was
Norwegian and didn’t make a big deal about it. He liked that, but less and
less. A bee flew into the car and she laughed.
Why is she laughing in such a dangerous situation? he thought. I’m
driving. The insurance company calls me if we crash. She gets carted around
night and day and what if I told her she’s only in my presence because going
to a swimming pool alone is weird? I don’t want guys hitting on me.
Did she laugh thinking of their favorite Shakespeare quote? The fault
dear Brutus is not in our stars but in ourselves. How many more times could
that be funny? She didn’t even like Shakespeare—Ibsen forever! And she
loathed how he carried that academic hauteur even though he said he didn’t.
But it’s summer and I’m trying to make it work because unemployment is a
bitch and the musk smell behind his ear still invites me.
The bee was in the back. It was mad because she was laughing at it.
You motherfucking woman, I’m a bee and I’m stuck in a car. It’s hot and
I’m hungry and you laugh at me? Still the bee kept trying to get out the rear
window. Glass was glass but sometimes he would creep over a lip and buzz
away.

« 71 »
 Greg Gerke

The Lute Music CD

The lute music CD remained on the phone table for five months though they
didn’t have a phone anymore. They didn’t have children either and there
were no substitutes.
His friend Paul had given the lute music CD to him for a birthday
present. Something different, said the accompanying card. When dusting she
refused to dust the front cover displaying a Flemish print of a bleak, country
landscape. Even if some part of her happened to like lute music, the CD
repelled her because he had ignored it so.
In bed at night she would look at his back. Sometimes he spoke in his
sleep. I actually don’t like you Paul, he said, or Get on top of me.
She wanted to start smoking so she could de-ash all over his naked,
sweating body. She’d be more unhealthy, but a little happier. Things would
even out or at least she’d hurt less and he’d hurt more.

« 72 »
 Greg Gerke

The Iron

The iron came from a rummage sale. He said, Why not? Her mother had told
her never to buy used appliances. She didn’t love him so much anymore so
she didn’t argue.
He didn’t take much when he left and the iron stayed behind, on a
high shelf with an old National Geographic. Its underside speckled with
black dots, its dial set to linen.
She used to like to iron, but not now. She would come home after
work, fix a drink, put on dance music and sit down.
The iron hadn’t moved in three months. He’d used it once when they
went to an event at the University. It works really good, he’d called from the
bathroom, holding the iron away from his body like a relic.
I hate you, she whispered.

« 73 »
 Greg Gerke

« 74 »
 C.R. Stapor

Kamchatka

The glasses were half empty, but then they were full. Her tongue tipping the
bottle. Twittering ear. Biting the line then nibbling neck. Full again she said
shoot, we have to shoot. The glasses or Billy, she purred, slipping off her
panties. Pale thighs shimmering behind the cheap plastic vodka. He reached
for the shot. Said fuck.
» I caint do but two fifty.
» Hafta downgrade. Got some decent Berettas.
» Sheeet.
Rain pissing her off the thick foliage loving it. Vomit speckling his
chin. Islanding up in the deep puddles of rainfall. He collapses. Again. She
says something but he doesn't care. Screaming doesn't help. Limply he hands
her the gun, keeping his head down. Away from the body, the blood.
Ten miles outside Sevierville the Camaro stops. Smoke from the
hood, an impotent key. Stuck in two feet of mud with an engine giving up.
She's mad and to prove it fills the whole night sky with her petulant rage.
» Whooo! Damn!
» He don't matter—
» Hell kinda liquor's this?
» But that money, now, that money—
» Cam-chat-ka?
» But that money'd matter greatly. Am I right?
Her legs again, his eyes. He hears her but the words are screwy.
Coming from somewhere far below.
» Really ain't got no Magnum at two fifty?

« 75 »
 C.R. Stapor

» Son. Reckon you're wasting my time.

» Aright, aright. Show me them Berettas.
He buys one then a twelve pack of Natty. Heads out to the far side of
the farm, slams a few for targets. His aim improves as the targets increase.
Way he sees it. Thick steel in hand not objecting.
Billy's Camaro was already at the quarry. Grins at him, grabs his
thigh. Starts telling him again how all of this will play out. Nods here and
there, more interested in the gun. How to holster it right. Time they reach the
tracks it starts to rain. Thinks he's got it, the gun. Tries to hold her hand but
she's already a few paces ahead, stepping carefully on every other railroad
tie.
» You're right. But what if he don't show?
» Honey, I'll see to that.
» Yeah? Bet you would.
His eyes in infant revolt.
» Honey, I see to everything.
» And after?
Her fingers unfastening brastraps like a crime. Tossing the empty
thing over the bottled spirits.
» What about right now?
It took her some time to find the two shell casings. Chipped a nail
doing it, on a slimy piece of chert. When she had them a certain weight left
her world. Then the thought to leave the Beretta with the boys arrived, but so
too its objection. Decided to bring it along. Tossed it into the duffel along
with the green tinged ziplock baggie. Headed for the Camaro.

« 76 »
Quiet Lightning » sPARKLE & bLINK

The Number

I could tell by the way she didn’t hold my hands, how they were just limply

sitting in my grip like a pair of old socks, that she didn’t forgive me. That

maybe she would never forgive me.

“Other couples have been through worse than this,” I said, “Lots

worse.” We were standing in the kitchen, facing each other, surrounded by

an audience of appliances. It occurred to me that most of them had been

wedding gifts.

Deb said nothing. Her gaze drifted down to my hands and stayed

there. I let go of one of her hands to lift her chin. She tilted her eyes away to

somewhere beyond my right ear. Beside us, the fridge began to hum.

“Sandra and Mark—he cheated on her … slept with another woman.”

I felt it important to clarify. “And look at them, happy as can be. I didn’t

even cheat. I didn’t do that.”

She was silent still. I started to get a little angry.

I said, “Aren’t you going to talk to me? Why won’t you talk to me?

Just talk to me. Can you at least do that?”

“I …” she started and that was it. Her mouth opened for the merest

second and then shut. I relaxed. I let go of her chin and it dropped. A red

« 77 »
 Meghan Thornton

curl fell over her eye. She looked so defeated. But I hadn’t really done

anything to her. Not really.

“I’d only just met her. Nothing even happened. She gave me her

number and that was that. I only took it to be nice—so I wouldn’t hurt her

feelings. That’s all I was doing.”

Deb shook her head. She was staring at our hands again. I wondered if

she was staring at the matching gold bands there. I thought I could almost

hear what she was thinking. I touched my finger lightly to her ring. I felt the

scrape of the quarter carat diamond there.

“I would never cheat on you, hon. Never—”

She looked at me then, and I wished she hadn’t. I’d never seen her

look at me that way.

“Yes, you would. You would have if I hadn’t found her goddamn

number.” Her whole face was trembling as she spat this at me. I could feel

her hands tremoring too—like the kitchen tiles she was standing on were on

some separate, shifting plate of earth.

“No, baby, I wouldn’t …” I tried to put my hand to her cheek and she

knocked it away. I was stunned.

“You couldn’t have just told her you were married?”

“I did! I tried—I did! You know some women—they just don’t care.”

« 78 »
 Meghan Thornton

“No. I don’t.” Deb had taken her hands back from me and crossed her

arms in front of her. Her breathing came in and out with a violence, like she

was punishing even the air that came near her.

God, I wished I were a better liar. Why couldn’t I have just told her

the number was one of my coworkers—playing a prank, putting her lipstick

on it—just trying to be funny?

A statistic popped in my head then, something I’d read once back in

my junior year of college, when Deb and I had been dating for about a year.

There was some study done where they interviewed a bunch of guys and

asked them, “If you could get away with it, with no one ever knowing,

would you cheat?” The number who would was something like 90%. Maybe

not that high, but about that. Back then I’d pitied the schmucks that felt that

way, that took that test. My guess then was that they’d never loved anyone,

really and truly—not the way that I loved Deb.

All this time that I was thinking this, Deb was probably thinking

something similar. Maybe about some article she’d read in Cosmo about

cheaters, something like that. She was closed up in thought, like a flower

shut down for the night. But I had to get in there. I was desperate to get in

there. To have her understand.

“I don’t know why I took her number.”

« 79 »
 Meghan Thornton

Deb looked at me and what I saw there in her eyes was disgust and

maybe a little hate. I couldn’t stand it.

“It was stupid. I don’t know why I did it. I felt like I was just being

friendly—like I wasn’t doing anything wrong but, God, Deb, I never

imagined it coming to this. I never thought it was anything but harmless.”

“That’s how it starts,” she said, as if she were expert on the subject.

“That’s how it starts? Please, you telling me you think I’m capable of

that? You think that little of me?”

“Why’d you keep it then?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t think much about it. Hon, you gotta believe

me. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She started to cry then. She leaned back onto the kitchen stool where

my jacket still hung, the other contents of its traitor pocket still lying on the

floor: a cough drop, a gum wrapper, a dime, a penny.

“Hey … Deb,” I tried to get close to her, to hold her, but she pushed

me away.

“Nothing’s stopping you from calling her,” she said, angry now that

she had let herself cry. She didn’t like to cry in front me, in front of anyone,

for that matter, not even her best friend.

« 80 »
 Meghan Thornton

“What? Of course I’m not—I’m not calling her.” I didn’t see where

she was going with this.

“Go ahead. I’m not going to stop you.”

“I don’t want to call her. I don’t want to. I want you. I just want you.

That’s all I ever wanted.” I was surprised by how easily this confession

came—how urgent it felt. Deb was standing right there, but it was like I

could feel her moving away from me.

“Then why?” She pushed the business card at me. The way she held it

in her palm, thumb crushing its middle, I couldn’t see the guilty side, the

side with the red lipstick and the phone number. I wanted it nowhere near

me. I wanted it gone. I plucked the thing out of her hand by its corner. I held

it like a piece of trash— a dirty diaper or a rotten banana peel—and threw it

in the garbage disposal. It rested there in the drain, clinging to the rubber

splashguard until I tapped it in. I turned on the water and threw the switch.

The garbage disposal whirred. I couldn’t tell when it was finished. There

wasn’t the usual satisfying shift of sound when the blades freed up. The

paper was too thin to make much difference I guess. I switched it off, half-

wondering if it was still in there, pressed against the dark chamber wall.

Feeling I’d done everything I could, I turned back to Deb.

“It’s gone.” I said.

« 81 »
 Meghan Thornton

“Promise me you won’t call her.”

“I can’t! It’s gone! You saw me get rid of it.”

“Promise me anyway.”

“I promise,” I said, smoothing her hair back, pulling her into me,

feeling her tears wet my shirt. “I promise.” I said it again. I felt I should.

Deb and I stood like that for a while, me holding her while she cried.

She got quieter and quieter. Then she pulled back and looked away from me,

embarrassed like I’d caught her licking the spoon she’d been cooking with.

“I’m gonna go up and have a shower.” She smiled this little, flat smile

and I could see she was going to forgive me. This would be over—not today,

but eventually.

I squeezed her shoulder as she walked away from me. She

disappeared into the dark living room. She didn’t even turn the light on. A

moment later I heard her on the stairs.

I looked at the mess on the floor. I made a little pile with my shoe and

then put it all back in my pocket, not bothering to sort out the wrapper or the

pocket lint.

That damn business card, I was thinking. That damn blonde woman

with the lipstick. It turned my mind back to the sink, to the disposal. Hadn’t

I heard somewhere that you weren’t supposed to put paper into the disposal

« 82 »
 Meghan Thornton

system? I was suddenly sure I’d heard that. The card was small but still,

could be enough to stop up the works. It only takes a small thing. One

minute everything’s fine, the next your toilet’s exploding.

I walked over to the sink and looked down. I couldn’t see much

beyond the guard. I stuck a couple fingers in and peeled the rubber back.

Then I stopped. It had occurred to me, what if my wife came back right then.

The water wasn’t going upstairs yet. If she came back, and I had my hand in

that garbage disposal, I knew what it would look like. There was no question

of what it would look like to her. I couldn’t chance it. I turned the water on

and let it run.

« 83 »
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