Mind Lies

Shadows casted by truths I don’t face

A labyrinth of lies my own design

My mind a captive trapped in space 

Covered in webs of falsehoods I’ve entwined

My thoughts start fires like lit matches

Self-imposed confinements, silent pain

I stay stagnated ducking all attachments

Deception an everlasting drain

That placed me inna place so grim

In these twisted rooms—wallow

Choices dim

These falsehoods impossible to swallow 

Tired of feeling trapped in my mind

Tired of feeling wrapped in a lie.

6 Feet Under

Run by a graveyard

A stench wafts through — not one of wet stone or freshly cut grass, 

But a haunting aroma of remorse. Echoes of a life lived in sorrow.

Shadows linger. Serving as a stark reminder.

An example of what not to be when that six foot hole awaits.

Chase Something that won’t cover you in that redolence of regret.

You Will be afraid — Of the misery of stagnation

Don’t flounder uselessly, like a fish out of water. Remember: Mountains to conquer.

You will Slip down — fix your gaze and climb again.

Carry the weights that No One else will bear.

For a knight to be courageous, he doesn’t sheath his sword, he draws it, and runs into battle.

Don’t sheath drive, draw upon it, conviction as your armor.

Shop for food on an empty stomach — you’ll realize after; frivolous purchases.

Don’t alway strive to be happy. Your judgment will be clouded. 

Be proud: you’ll be happy by extension.

That vision. 

The one that will make you proud. 

The one that won’t make you reek of regret six feet underground.

So you can lay, no regrets, in that hole in the grass. 

To be truly exceptional:

Drag yourself through the mud. Do things you must do even though you won’t want to do them.

That’s how you grow. Bite the bullet. Work hard. You’ll become that version you see. 

Have the courage. It will happen.

To be content in that graveyard, not rotting of penance. Go the extra mile. 

Chase something you love and it will happen. Don’t let dreams control you. Control them. 

Dedicate yourself. You will be content under that dirt. 

Poetry Is Labor and Work

 

Poetry is labor and work.

 

People should be paid for their labor and work.

 

Asking people to pay to consider their poetry is exploitative.

 

Taking advantage of people’s desire for an audience is exploitative.

 

Taking advantage of people’s desire for exposure is exploitative.

 

Exploiting labor isn’t thoughtful or beautiful.

 

Yes, this goes for contests as well.

Echoes of Up and Down

To Lucifer my conscience treks a path
Down upward spirals built in temple’s hull
Such lullabies of orchards are his wrath
What harvest’s feed spurs echoes of the skull?
Do I walk back and back across the seed?
Plentiful with their bewildered light’s star
And I, the gardener tempted by need
Throw careless handful at soils endless scar
In a theoretical where is up?
For I swirl a revolved product again
Directionally paralyzed mix up
this great bed, a flesh, felt like acids hot rain
But, like infinity I am not scale
So I, alone, staggered, walk this trail.

We continue to express sorrow over what’s happening in so many different parts of the world and encourage our readers to support people and the planet.

Also, we are hosting our Metamorphosis gathering again! This is a chance for people to share music, art, and writing and to dialogue across different generations (hence the name, the concept of ideas morphing and changing over the years). So far photographer Rebecca Kelly and English/Spanish bilingual poet Bridgett Rex are part of the lineup and more are welcome! This event is also a benefit for the grassroots Afghan women-led group RAWA, which is currently supporting educational and income generation and literacy projects in Afghanistan as well as assisting earthquake survivors. (We don’t charge or process the cash, you are free to donate online on your own and then attend!)

This will be Sunday, December 31st, 2-4 pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church at 317 East 8th Street in Davis, California. It’s a nonreligious event open to all, the church has graciously allowed us to use the meeting room.

You may sign up here for event reminders. RSVP appreciated but not required.

This month, as we prepare to exit 2023 and enter a fresh new year, we contemplate the unfurling canvas of time.

Misha Beggs renders the passage of time into pieces that tenderly trace the soft wooden shape of a guitar and the lines on human faces.

Grzegorz Wroblewski’s mixed media pieces situate their creator in time, reflecting how we are simultaneously physical and spiritual/emotional beings.

John Mellender relates narrative poems of history and humor and survival while Stephen Jarrell Williams finds moments of hope and comfort in a collapsing world.

Bill Tope’s work reflects the effects of institutional dehumanization and slow long-term trauma on a person. John Edward Culp illustrates the renewal we can find in nature and through the intentional movement of our bodies.

Ayganim Beknazarova celebrates the promise of the spring Uzbek New Year celebration and Sayani Mukherjee proffers up a rich, lush take on an edible hibiscus.

Brian Barbeito contributes a poetic take on birds during autumn’s transformation into winter while Aklima Ankhi envisions herself migrating along with sea creatures as she traverses a beach. Alan Catlin evokes environmental change and ruin through his burned-out and storm-ridden landscapes.

Doug Hawley’s humorous tale of Hell freezing over draws on today’s environmental and political headlines.

Duane Vorhees explores sensuality and life’s mysteries through a series of off-kilter poems, and Patrick Sweeney captures people and places within short phrases. John Tustin plays with childhood memories, attraction, and the allure of nature in his collection.

Odina Abdumuminova‘s piece concerns an artist who draws a beautiful clock and yet fails to capture the passage of time. Chukwuemeka Victoria Chiamaka urges us to make the most of our time, as life’s flickering roses will fade away.

In this spirit, Isabel Gomes de Diego’s photography approaches everyday scenes as if they were museum exhibits and Daniel De Culla showcases the chubby Buddha figurines so common in restaurants, highlighting joy and mindfulness in the everyday that will allow us to experience and transcend the mundane.

J.D. Nelson’s work presents uneasy but oddly familiar juxtapositions, as if he’s scanning a room. Mark Young intersperses pop singers and avant-garde artists into his abstract work.

Christopher Bernard presents a gentle, abundant Christmas shopping scene where people have the luxury of only small problems.

Perhaps in a celebratory mood gone awry, Patricia Doyne laments the struggle of opening boxed wine. Tom P. finds moments of ceremony within his personal memories, as well as humor and memorable characters.

Human knowledge and history represents and comprises its own historical timescales.

Irene Koronas takes us on an odyssey of verbiage and color theory while Daniel Y. Harris crafts a mashup of hacker technology aesthetics and Whitman humanist poetry.

Mickey Corrigan explores the life of writer Patricia Highsmith through poetry. Don McLellan relates the perennial writers’ struggle of finding a publisher and an audience for their work. Jerry Langdon laments in a poem reminiscent of a horror fantasy how his poetic words can never match or illustrate the frustrated sentiments of his mind.

Z.I. Mahmud probes class, money, and satisfaction in Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, the power of romance as resistance to an untenable social order in William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, and self-development in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

Elan Barnehama’s piece is an excerpt from his upcoming novel Escape Route, concerning the son of a Holocaust survivor who hopes to avoid the anti-Semitic persecution he fears will come to the United States.

Norman J. Olson traces his journey through Riverside and Rome and his experience of much smaller catastrophes, such as illness and security hangups.

Other contributors speak to personal growth and moving through stages of life.

Alison Gadsby’s piece aims to convey the feelings of new motherhood, of being dislocated and judged. Qiyomiddinova Zilola offers another take on the fear and grief of losing children, the inevitable nervousness of parenthood.

Anila Bukhari gives us hopeful and humane pieces about young girls rising above their circumstances. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects the permanence of her ingrained pre-verbal happy childhood memories.

Replete with joy among falling leaves and still water, Mahbub Alam’s poetic speakers revel in a simple moment of connection outdoors in Bangladesh.

Karmelina Angelica Kelenc’s love poem is steeped in Croatian patriotism while Borna Kekic connects the joy and freedom of birds in flight on a sunny day after a rainstorm to the pride he takes in Zagreb, his native city. Xayrullo Xalikov offers poetic flowery praise to her Uzbek homeland and Iroda Abdullayeva’s pieces revel in the natural and human beauty of her rural Uzbek heritage.

Kristy Raines celebrates aspects of love: care for the natural world and compassion for the struggling around the globe. Anindya Pal remembers a warm afternoon redolent with the aroma of nature and dreams of love. Annie Johnson’s emotions soften with the arrival of twilight as she speculates on the future of her love amidst the twinkling stars, while Maja Milojkovic finds love and self-realization while immersing herself fully within a river.

Peter Cherches‘ story probes the connection between name and self-image and reflects on how we can change through the years.

J.J. Campbell finds moments of peace, or at least acceptance, in a litany of loneliness and longing. Taylor Dibbert speaks to self-reclamation after a breakup, while Zahro Shamsiyya evokes the questioning and bargaining stage of grieving after lost love.

Suyarova Mahliyo Muradxon’s piece reminds us that dramatic situations have backstories, relationships can be more troubled than they seem.

Jaylan Salah reviews Sierra Urich’s film Joonam, the story of different generations of Iranian-American immigrant women.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou celebrates female strength and urges women to support each other, and reflects on her creative inspiration. Wayne Russell renders the precarity and beauty of the creative process.

Mesfakus Salahin memorializes a soldier who gave his life for national Bangladeshi independence, dying for his country’s birth.

Mykyta Ryzhykh speaks to the smaller and larger deaths and dislocations we experience, personally and globally.

Daniel De Culla mourns the absurdity of harming civilians and children in war while Faleeha Hassan comments that armed conflict can reduce all civilians to children searching in vain for comfort from their parents. Chimezie Ihekuna reflects on the economic promise of Nigeria and the instability that challenges foreign investors. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa addresses society’s combined exploitation of women, workers, and nature while Manzar Alam pleads with the world to put an end to war.

Finally, Elmaya Jabbarova urges all of us not to give up on the world, even if it seems about to die around us. We can start to repair where we are, with what we have.

WHAT’S SO FUNNY?

Transcript of Angela Williams’ Interview (for internal circulation, final copy to be edited and approved by SM before filing)

Video/Tape Recorded Interview

Angela Marie Williams/Detective Sergeant Stephen Marshall

6.16.23

Start: 0535 (AW escorted into room by Det. Melissa Blake)

End: 1148 (see medical addendum)

Note: AW appears to disassociate, stare off in a catatonic state, dance to music only she can hear, several times throughout the interview. (I thought she was going to take her clothes off at one point, Micky might want to play that bit back.)

SM:     I know you’ve been here a while. I appreciate you speaking to me. Det. Melissa Blake shared a timeline of events of the past 24 hours, so we won’t go into detail. I think we both know why you’re here. Angela, do you want to have a seat?

AW:    I’m fine.

SM:     You do know why we’re here?

AW:    He said it was normal.

SM:     Who did?

AW:    Father Michael.

SM:     Murder? Your priest said murder was normal.

AW:    Is that what this is?

SM:     We don’t know yet, but it doesn’t look. Angela, you tell me why we’re here.         

AW sits.

AW:    Where are my children?

SM:     Your sister.

AW:    Shit.

SM:     Would you like us to call someone else?

AW:    Anyone but her.

SM:     You’d rather I call a social worker?               

AW:    No. That’s fine. She’s fine.

AW stands, first sign of Awkward Movement (AM)

AW:    You think I’m crazy.

SM:     I don’t think you’re crazy. Can we start from the beginning?

AW:    No.

SM:     Can we start from the end?

AW:    Let’s just start from now. What’s going to happen to me?

SM:     That depends on what happened.

Lengthy Silence (LS)

AW:    He said it was normal.

SM:     Who?   Right. Father Michael.

AW sits.

AW:    I’m here now. Let’s just get this over with. Is it life imprisonment? Do we have the death penalty?

SM:     No death penalty. And it all depends on what happens. What happened.

AW:    From the beginning?

SM:     Yes. From the beginning.

LS                               

AW:    After Clara was born. I had PPD.

SM      PPD? Post-partum depression.

AW:    Yes. But it was bad, like really bad. I was in the hospital for five weeks. I had to stop breastfeeding. My boobs. They gave me a pump and Jessie picked the milk up every day. But he didn’t give it to her. Some days I refused to see him. His face. I wanted to peel it off his head, like an orange, Press my thumbs into his eyeballs and pull the skin back. Or like a pumpkin, I’d carve a hole in the top of his head and pull his face out from the inside, his smug smile and optimistic eyes turned inside out on newspaper at the kitchen table.

(Interruption at door. Det. Melissa Blake takes dinner order.)

SM:     How do you know he didn’t give her the milk?

AW attempts to reopen door exiting the interrogation room.

AW:    It was all there when I got out. When I got home. All of it. There’re still a few bags in the freezer.

SM:     Why didn’t you throw it out?

AW:    I. (Pause) This is going to sound. (Pause) I put it in their macaroni and cheese. (Pause) Crazy right?

SM:     Well.

AW:    I know. Not as crazy as all this.

SM:     Let’s stop using the word. Crazy.

AW:    Why?

SM:     I don’t think any of this should be classified that way.

AW:    Why?

SM:     You tell me.

AW:    What? Oh man, is it going to be like that? Are you going to do that to me too?

AW stands.

SM:     What? Calm down.

AW:    Oh, sweet Jesus. Calm down, huh? It’s going to be like that, eh? You’re going to do that, too?

SM:     Calm down.

AW:    Don’t tell me to calm down. I’ve been here for days.

SM:     Twelve hours.

AW:    Twelve hours. Sure. Can I just go to jail already? They have beds, right? Cots. A place I can lie down.

AW sits on floor. Empty table and chairs indicate suspect is beneath video recording device.

SM:     Are you ready to tell me what happened?

LS

AW:    You know. (Pause) What happened. (Pause) You saw him.

SM:     I did. How did he fall?

AW:    He didn’t.

SM:     He didn’t fall?

AW:    No. Don’t play games detective.

SM:     I’m not the one playing games.

AW:    I’m not playing games.

SM:     Then start from the beginning. You went out.

AW:    Date night.

SM:     You and your husband went out on a date.

AW returns to seat.

AW:    Yes. We went out every Saturday. We went to see a comedy show.

SM:     The Laugh Café?

LS

AW:    Yes. The uproariously unfunny Laugh Café.

SM:     Then you went for a walk down by the quay?

AW:    It wasn’t funny.

SM:     What wasn’t funny?

AW:    The show. (Pause) He laughed his ass off at almost every joke. Everyone did.

SM:     It was a comedy show.

AW:    But it wasn’t funny. Like not at all.

SM:     Why wasn’t it funny?

AW stands, spins, mimes holding a microphone, smoking a cigar?

AW:    My wife. Ha, let me tell you about my wife. Every night she asks me to massage her feet. And I gotta say yes, fellas, amiright, we have to say yes. I just wanna watch the game, but she’s got her feet on my lap and I rub those feet for hours and when I ask if I can massage her pussy with my dick for five minutes, maybe two minutes if she closes her eyes, she gets up and leaves like it’s my dick with bunyons and cracked heels.

            (Pause) It’s not funny. Why are you laughing?

SM:     You’re right. It’s not funny.

AW:    It’s stupid. But Jessie’s laughing. Hysterically. Not just tittering because it’s stupid, but knee-slapping laughing. And I’m thinking, who the hell is this guy? Like, why’s he laughing. We have sex all the time and he never massages my feet. I mean I couldn’t stand it.

AW sits, folds in half, head pressed between knees.

SM:     The laughing?

AW:    Yes. And. I can’t stand him touching me.                  

SM:     You tried to kill him because he laughed at a comedy show?

AW:    It wasn’t funny.

SM:     Again. You pushed him because he laughed at unfunny comedy.

AW:    It was less than funny. It insulted funny. Like if George Carlin was in the audience, he’d have walked out.

SM:     Why didn’t you leave?

AW:    He wanted to see the headliner. Some guy he went to school with. And if you want to underline anything on that notepad of yours. He was the unfunniest guy I have ever heard in my life. It was fifteen minutes poking fun at the guys who played D and D in school. He played Dungeons and Dragons. My husband played it too. He stood up there for fifteen minutes making fun of himself.

SM:     That’s good comedy, isn’t it? Self-effacing.

AW:    No. He never mentioned that he played D and D. He just made fun of dudes who did without actually saying he was one of them. And Jessie was.

SM:     Hysterical?

AW:    He said his gut hurt so bad. When we were walking across the bridge. I mean, how is that possible? I wasn’t even smiling on the inside.

AW dances, jumping jacks, burpees, stretches.

SM:     How did you get him over the railing?

AW:    What?

SM:     How d’you get him over the railing? And on to the highway?

AW:    I don’t know.

SM:     Why do you think you did it?

AW:    I saw a movie about a woman who dreamed about killing her husband and after watching it, I felt, less alone. The husband knew she was going to kill him, but he didn’t know how. I wanted that for Jessie. I didn’t want Jessie to figure it out. I wanted it to be a surprise.

SM:     You’ve been thinking about this for a while.

AW:    Not like that. It’s Clara.

SM:     What about Clara?

AW:    Siobhan too.

SM:     What about the girls? You wanted to kill them?

AW:    No! Don’t say that! Who told you that? I’d never harm them.

SM:     Who said you would?

AW:    The doctor.

SM:     He thought you might kill them?

AW:    Clara. He thought I might hurt her. That’s why. The hospital.

SM:     Right. Well, did you?

AW:    No. Stop it.

SM:     You said.        

AW:    No, I didn’t.

SM:     Tell me what the doctor thought.

LS

AW returns to the corner under the camera. Silence.

AW:    I mostly dreamed about the funeral.

SM:     What does that mean?

AW:    I dreamed of the funerals. I didn’t want them to die. I just wanted them dead.

SM:     You wanted a funeral?

AW:    How many people would come? Would people feel sorry for me? I couldn’t possibly get through the speeches and prayers without someone holding me up, supporting me?

SM:     Taking care of you? You dreamed of a funeral so people could see you crying? See how much you hurt? And hug you? Care for you?

AM starts twirling.

AW:    I don’t think anyone would show up in real life, but in my dreams, it’s like a celebrity died. A packed church, and if they all got killed by a drunk driver, or worse, there is media there taking pictures of me and my face is splashed all over town and people come from all over to the church to pay their respects. To me. Standing room only to hear me tell everyone how incredible my little Clara and Siobhan were. I’m never going to see them married. Never will be a grandmother. My dreams are shattered. In the blink of an eye. Their lives destroyed. Extinguished.

SM:     Does that upset you now?

AW:    Of course. (Pause) Do you like lasagne?

SM:     It upsets you, that you thought those terrible things?

AW:    I said yes. Do you have a tissue?

SM:     Are you crying?

AW:    It’s upsetting to think of them dying.

SM:     This is all I have.

AW:    A handkerchief? Do people still use these?

SM:     I still use them.

AW:    Is it used?

SM:     No. It’s not. Yet.

AW:    It’s hot in here.

SM:     We can go for a walk outside after you tell me what happened.

AW examines her hands, her fingers. She cracks her knuckles.                   

AW:    You know what happened.

SM:     You have to say it.

AW:    Have you ever tasted breast milk?
SM:     I’m not going to talk about that.

AW:    It’s delicious.

SM:     Look at me, Angela.

AW:    I can’t.

SM:     Pardon.

AW:    I can’t.

SM:     Lift your head and speak a bit louder.

AW:    I can’t.

(Pause)

SM:     Lift your head.

AW:    Whoa, why so angry?

SM:     Listen. This is getting tiring. I’ve got kids myself and I’d like to get home.

AW:    That’s rude.

SM:     What’s rude?

AW:    Rubbing it in like that?

SM:     That I have kids?

AW:    That you’ll get to go home and see them.                              

AW stands, dances around the room.

AW:    Don’t look at me like that.

SM:     Start from the beginning.

AW:    We went for dinner.

SM:     After that.

AW:    We went to the Laugh Café.

SM:     After that.

AW:    We went for a walk down on the quay.

SM:     After that.

AW:    The bridge.

SM:     The bridge?

AW:    I don’t remember any of that.

SM:     Yes, you do.

AW:    No. I don’t. Are you allowed to talk to me like that? (Pause) One minute he was here and the next minute he was. Where is he by the way?

SM:     The hospital.

AW:    Oh, thank god.

SM:     Intensive care.

AW:    What happened? Will he die?

SM:     His family is with him.

AW:    What? Who?

SM:     His parents I believe. His brother.

AW:    Jonathan?

SM:     Yes.

AW:    Will he die?

SM:     You asked me that.

AW:    Did you answer me?

SM:     Yes. He’s being taken care of, but he may die.

AW:    Will there be a funeral?

SM:     I have no idea.

AW:    Can I go to the funeral?

SM:     He’s not dead. And. No.

AW:    Why?

SM:     If he dies. You killed him.

AW:    I did?

SM:     Yes.

AW:    The girls. Where are the girls?

SM:     With your sister.

AW:    Shit.

SM:     Do you want us to call anyone else?

AW:    Father Michael.

SM:     We tried. He’s busy with your husband.

AW:    Persona non grata.

SM:     What did you say?

AW:    Persona non grata.

SM:     I heard you, but.

AW:    Father Michael told me it was perfectly normal. That people dream of killing their loved ones. That it never amounts to anything more than a passing fancy. A moment in time when we’re adjusting to life the way it is, the way it will always be and that it would only take time for me to come to terms with the death of my own dreams.

SM:     Your dreams?

AW nods.

SM:     What dreams?

AW:    Pardon?

SM:     What dreams? The death of your dreams?

AW:    I don’t know what you mean.

SM:     You just said Father Michael…

AW:    Is he coming?

SM:     He’s not coming.

AW:    Where is Clara?

SM:     Clara and Siobhan are with your sister.

AW:    She’s a bitch.

SM:     You said that.

(Pause)

AW:    You know she wanted her dead before I did?

SM:     Who?

AW:    Siobhan.

SM:     Your sister wanted to kill Siobhan?

AW:    Siobhan tried to kill Clara. She was crying in her crib. And I was. Busy.

SM:     Siobhan tried to kill Clara?

AW:    I was in the bath. She was crying. When I got out of the bath, Clara was screaming still, but it sounded like she was drowning.

SM:     Where was Siobhan?

AW:    Watching television. She’s always watching television.

SM:     And Clara?

AW:    She was in her crib, but her mouth and eyes were covered in cellophane tape. Criss-cross, apple sauce, her nose, there were cotton balls in her nose. I called Jessie laughing. I said can you believe it? We’ve got a little sociopath on our hands.

SM:     What did he do?

AW:    He said it wasn’t funny.

SM:     And?

AW:    He called our family doctor.

SM:     What did he do?

AW:    He took me away. Can you believe it? She’s the one who wanted to kill her.

SM:     You did too. You told the doctors.

AW:    I said I didn’t blame her for wanting her dead. Things would have been better.

SM:     And?

AW:    I didn’t want to kill her. I just wanted.

SM:     You wanted her dead.

(Pause)

AW:    Where’s Jessie? Will there be a funeral? A big one? At St. Chris’s?

SM:     Sure. Whatever you want.

AW:    I need a dress. My black one with the white pixie collar. Jessie likes that.

SM:     You won’t be going to the funeral.

AW:    Why not?

SM:     Holy crap. This is getting tiresome.

Detective SM opens door, takes white plastic bag with food from MB, dropping it on to the table.

SM and AW eat. AW picks burger patty out of bun and breaks off little pieces.

SM:     Tell me what happened on the bridge?

AW:    What bridge?

SM:     Over the expressway.

AW:    He said I lost my sense of humour. He said I would have laughed at shit like that when we were younger, but now I only laugh at. Listen. I laughed at crappy comedy back in the day because I didn’t know what was funny then…really…about life.

SM:     And what is funny about life?

AW:    This is funny. No?

SM:     Not really.

AW:    You’ll laugh about it one day.

SM:     I don’t think so.

(Pause)

AW:    Anyway, I said, you know what’s funny? And I told him I made lasagne with my breast milk and his mother said it was delicious. I said when she put the fork to her mouth I imagined sticking my nipple in there. I thought about squirting her in the eye. And I told him about the mac and cheese. He said it wasn’t funny, but crazy. I said, you know what’s crazy? I said, you locked me up for six weeks with swollen boobs and a pump for my milk and then you never gave her any of it. He never gave her any of me. For six weeks I made these connections in my head. Like rivers of milk that flowed from the hospital, down Smith Street, across Bolder, through the park and into our house. Into her mouth. I dreamed I was floating on that milk and when she sucked it out of the bottle, I was going inside of her. That when I returned, she’d know me. But he filled her with poison and stocked the freezer with my milk. I asked him why he kept it, if he never planned on using it and he said he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out. I said that’s crazy.

AW moves erratically around the room.

SM:     Sit down please.

AW:    I don’t want to sit down.

SM:     If you don’t sit, I’ll have to put the cuffs back on.

AW:    Where is he?

SM:     Who?

AW:    Jessie? Where is that asshole? I’ll show him crazy.

SM:     Calm down.

AW:    I’m fine.

SM:     Do you want some more water?

AW:    No. I’m fine.

SM:     I can’t have you passing out again.

AW:    I’m fine. Where are the girls?

SM:     They’re with your sister.

AW:    Shit. And Jessie? Is he dead?

SM:     Not yet.

AW:    Will there be a funeral?

SM:     If he dies. If there is a funeral. You won’t be going.

AW:    Persona non grata.

SM:     Yes.

AW:    I’m not crazy.

SM:     No. You’re not.

AW:    He said I was crazy.

SM:     Jessie?

AW:    Yes.

SM:     That’s why you pushed him off the bridge.

AW:    Did I?

SM:     Yes. Tell me why.

AW:    He fell.

SM:     How?

AW:    I don’t remember. One minute he was there and the next, he was gone.

SM:     Sit down.

AW:    Can I see the girls?

SM:     No.

AW:    Jessie?

SM:     Sit down.

AW:    Why am I here?

SM:     You tried to kill your husband.

AW:    I did. Will there be a funeral?

SM:     Fuck sakes. If he dies, you won’t be going to the funeral.

AW:    I know.

SM:     Sit the fuck down.                               Calm down.

AW:    Don’t tell me to calm down.

SM:     What’s so funny?        Why are you laughing?

AW:    Did you know Jessie?

SM:     No.

AW:    Did you know his mother?

SM:     No.

AW:    When I got out of the hospital, she told me she didn’t feel sorry for me.

She told me she felt sorry for my girls. My girls. She felt sorry for my girls.

SM:     And that’s funny?

AW:    I made the lasagne. I mixed two-year-old breast milk in with the ricotta cheese.

SM:     Yes. Just like the children’s macaroni and cheese.

AW:    Exactly. Lasagne is so messy. You can put almost anything in it and nobody will ever know. It looked like lasagne, and she’ll never know. I gave her containers of leftovers. She’s probably eating some right now. Joke’s on her.

SM:     Doesn’t sound like a joke to me.

AW:    You lose your sense of humour?

SM:     Maybe.

AW:    You don’t find this funny?

SM:     No.

AW:    I do.

AW falls forward, resting cheek on table, eyes closed.

AW: Anyway, he won’t die. He never does.

####

–END–

Alison Gadsby earned her MFA in creative writing from the
University of British Columbia. Her stories have been published in various literary magazines including Ex-Puritan, antilang, Blue Lake Review, Coastal Shelf, Dreamers and more. She hosts Junction Reads, a prose reading series, in Tkaronto, where she lives with her family.

Fred, Rick, and Me

            I got rid of my land line years ago, but I wanted to keep my old phone number, so I ported it to a VoIP account and set calls to go directly to voicemail. That way I could still use it for businesses I don’t want to give my cell number to, and also, since I’d had that number for so many years, in case anybody from the past wanted to get in touch with me. When somebody leaves a voicemail, I get an email with an MP3 of the message attached.

            The other day I was looking through my emails and saw one from my VoIP provider with the subject: New Voicemail. I opened the message and downloaded the audio file. I listened to the message. “Hi Peter, you probably don’t remember me. My name is Rick Stahl, and we knew each other in college. You might remember me as Fred.” I did remember him, vaguely. “Anyway,” the voice said, “I’m back in Brooklyn for a few days, and I’m wondering if we could meet for a coffee or something.” He left his number.

            I was surprised to get his call. It’s not like we were ever close or anything. I remember him as a nice guy, an English major, who was in several of the same classes as me. And I remembered his transition from Fred to Rick.

            Fred was a soft-spoken, short, slight-of-build guy who wore glasses with thick black frames, Buddy Holly-style, before they became ironically hip again. I ran into him once again after college, and he was completely transformed. He no longer wore glasses, so I figured contacts. He was tanned, and no longer had the body of a 98-pound weakling; he was wearing a tight black T-shirt; clearly he’d been working out. There was a gold chain around his neck. He seemed much more self-confident.

            “Fred!” I said. “How are you doing? You’re looking great.”

            “I’m not Fred anymore, it’s Rick,” he said.

            “Oh?” I asked.

            “It was my shrink’s idea. I was complaining about not meeting women, wanting a relationship, and he told me my problem was I had the self-image of a Fred. He suggested I change my name and my attitude, and it actually worked. I’m happy, I’m taking care of myself, and I have a great girlfriend.”

            I congratulated him, gave him a very brief account of what I was up to and we parted. I was actually hoping he’d show me a photo of his girlfriend, but he never offered. That must have been at least 40 years ago, and I’d never seen or heard from him again.

            Now, out of the blue, I get this call.

            Well, why not, I thought. He was a nice guy, and I enjoy social intercourse in controlled environments with a reasonable mutual assumption of time limitations. So I called the number he left.

            “Hello?”

            “Rick?”

            “Yes.”

            “This is Pete Cherches, returning your call. Peter.”

            I had changed my name too, in a small way. I kept Peter Cherches as my nom de plume, but starting at around age 25, actually not long after I had last seen Rick, I decided I liked the breezy informality of Pete in my everyday life. It had no effect on my physique or my love life, at least not that I was aware of.

            We agreed to meet by the college, for old times’ sake, at The Campus Coffee Shop, a couple of days later.

            I got to the coffee shop first. I had looked around and didn’t see anybody the right age to be Rick. A few minutes later a bald, chubby sexagenarian walked in. Definitely not Rick, I thought, but then he came up to my table and said, “Peter?” And I thought, oh yes, Rick’s face is buried in there somewhere.

            I stood up and shook his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

            When I knew him he looked kind of like Sal Mineo. But the guy I was looking at now was more of the Jackie Coogan, Joe Besser, or Don Rickles type.

            “You haven’t changed, Peter. I’d recognize you anywhere,” he said, as he took a seat.

            “You can call me Pete,” I said, without commenting on his looks.

            “Aha! So you did it too! Changes everything, right?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “The name change.”

            “Oh,” I said. “I just like the informality of Pete.”

            “I see.”

            I said, “I was surprised to hear from you after all these years.”

            “Well, when you get to be our age those old friendships start to take on a new importance.” I didn’t mention that we were never really friends. “So I figured as long as I was coming for a visit we ought to catch up.”

            “Glad you did.”

            “Remember when I changed my name to Rick?” he said.

            “Sure, and everything changed for the better.”

            “For a while, maybe, but look at me now.”

            I hadn’t stopped looking.

            “Well, we’re all getting older.”

            “Yeah, but in my case it happened sooner than later, and it was all Chanterelle’s fault.”

            “Chanterelle?”

            “Yeah, my girlfriend. I couldn’t believe my luck. She looked like a freakin’ model. And wild in bed like you wouldn’t believe.” I was starting to envy his former self.

            “So what went wrong?”

            “She met another guy.”

            “Well, these things happen. They sting for a while, but we have to move on.”

            “I wish that were so in my case, but it was who she left me for that irked the hell out of me.”

            “Someone I know?”

            “Yeah, Arnold Markowitz. Remember him from college?”

            I certainly did, though the only memorable thing about him was what an out-of-shape schlub he was for someone who wasn’t even old enough to drink. He was prematurely bald with greasy, stringy hair on the sides, had a body best described as roly-poly, a whiny voice, and perennially bad breath. I couldn’t remember anything else about him. Was he smart? What were his interests?

            “I do,” I said.

            “I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, all buff and tanned, a regular Adonis if you don’t mind my saying, and there she was leaving me for a loser like that. I was so angry and depressed that I started letting myself go to pot. Binge eating, couch potato, you name it. Then, after a while, when I was fat and out of shape, I realized, wait a minute, maybe I had become the type she really went for. So I called her. I said to her, ‘Chanterelle, can we give it another go? I’ve changed. I know you think I was unbearably vain and self-centered, but that’s all over. I’ve turned over a new leaf.’ And you know what she said? She said, ‘I’ve told you, Rick, it’s all over. Arnold and I are very happy together.’ Then I said, ‘Forget about Rick. Rick is dead. Call me Fred. Can’t we at least get together for a coffee or something?’ And she said, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rick, I mean Fred.’”

            “So you never saw her again?”

            “Nope. Never on purpose, never by accident. But I did see Arnold once, on the street. I almost didn’t recognize him. He had lost weight, gotten into shape, and was wearing a tight shirt that showed off his pecs, with the top three or four buttons open, revealing a hairy chest. I mean Wolf Man hairy. He had shaved his head, and it looked kinda good on him. When he spoke his breath smelled of violet mints. ‘Man,’ I said, ‘You’re looking great. When did all this happen, the new you, I mean?’ And he said, ‘A few years after college. I was tired of being someone everybody thought of as an unattractive lump, so I took the bull by the horns and started working out, and everything just kind of fell into place. And I mean big time. I met this great girl. Smart, sexy, beautiful, amazing in bed, sometimes almost more than I can handle, but not quite—I couldn’t believe my luck. You’d like her.’”

            “Bummer,” I said.

            “Yeah, and then I said to him, ‘What about your name?’ And he said, ‘What about my name?’ So I said, ‘I don’t know, do you think Arnold goes with your new look? Not even Arnie?’”

            “And what did he say?”

            “He said, ‘I like Arnold. Arnold is my name. It’s who I am. I hate it when people call me Arnie.’”

            After that Rick and I made small talk, nothing worth recounting. About a half hour later we shook hands again and parted. When I got home I plopped down in my easy chair and thought about how thankful I was that I had never really considered making such a drastic change, though I was glad I had grown more comfortably into whatever, whoever, I, Pete or Peter, Pete and Peter, was.