CHANNEL CAT Fish, a foot long, tail Forked, that dot a sign: Horn, will work alone to hurt Instinct no bar to boy with pole. He’s daydreaming on the bank, His shadow a most elemental thing More than his room at home A strike might prove no brain.  More than skin allows the hands He worries about the size of something To annoy the threshing out of the marsh The train-whistle never tells him more.  What aura the fins experience, The lightest finger on the line, Lead-line of fairest less or more Than one fisherman might stand.  Quietude’s an elucidation of detail: One long flail of bones, needle-sharp, Deep inside something a good deal more Than gills (must grab them behind).  If it bites it swallows bait and hook. A towel won’t work to uplift the headline: Boy cannot use tweezers or pliers. All hands and eyes, he stays faithful.  To create, he says, living is possible. The table’s set without modifications. In his heart the channel makes its bed. The boy sees flicks of the invisible,  Even as he cuts his cat behind the gills So that he can pull the skin toward the tail, Down with the pliers the way a sock Tends to slide away from the heel.  The head he tosses into the hedge. Catastrophe purrs and dances with bees For a mouth full of whiskers and eyes Glazed with nature’s gifts in progress.   BLISTERED   Words!  Get on, involved in particulars! Throw that pallet down in the sand and wait! Enjoyment’s identity burns pigment. The girls pass me by for long sleeves, a cap.  Watch the red fox and possum prance and shine, Unselfconscious as I would like to be.  Learning’s variation becomes some rules. Words may be true as very rotten wood.  There may be deep streams in your complexion. There may be light darkness, like poetry.  Frightening, to be in the sun too long, Fair-skinned, red haired, freckle-faced, pearly brown.  Without a lesson-plan, go for the pier. Lie down under it:  hard at seventeen.  Body hard, muscles swelling – jumping round, The Charles Atlas course, come-on, one mag ad.  Hype charges on before us, though I am The one blistering in the hot, beach sun.  Two books in the plankhouse I was born in, Sears Catalogue and the Holy Bible.  Peeled skin is the life of apprenticeship.     LIBBY CAMPBELL Libby Campbell’s a wonderland In and of herself, her tutelage Bringing currents warm to Cool Spring Elementary Because she believes in helping Young people, third-graders, especially.  County Iredell’s vibrant with words And promise when Libby promotes and Manages the hunger every soul finds in Poetry:  consider her love of children. Behold, she volunteers to help them Easily as she creates an atmosphere, Leading them to orchestrate their writings for assisted-living                                           residents, Letting them appreciate the need to remember and create.      INDEPENDENCE  You raggedy flag of July’s minions, Come higher from the dirt and let waving Be holiday you salute with plenty Of hats of straw and maids and men merry. Let bells ring echoes over the cow-barn At the Tink and Addie Coats Estate set Aside this day for things windy and warm, The Boy Scouts pulling ropes to raise their sweat Upward the bells many timed tones downward From full force to the hidden, yet still found Once more on every summit and sound toward The sky all the way, the stars, stripes around, The twinkles rankling up unbottled heat Nights fill with rockets showering The Milky Way with swats On the way to what heavens rise and bear Fruit and, at last, support discord’s absence, When light shines on Dame Hymen’s tight lips To lap and lamp every Tuesday morn, When I was a boy, before dreams took me Asleep or awake and left me in bounteous Recall of wrong numbers and poverty And wilt in hills becoming mountainous, Desire lounging big in weather’s bounty, Rules, too, searing how not to burn biscuits Lovers miss while singing songs of  sunshine.  Bring on the brainstorm, then, babe, and remove The high chair for crowds to lean and pitch in To tie a ribbon round the old oak, one Of rainbow’s hues for July, slave girl’s few Years as full person instead of three-fifths. Let zippity spout without gagging On popcorn and beer while boys play nifty Stobs at horseshoes, one throw, success tilling Real veins in a town hurting to be born, Taken over by ones in time seeking The school for shelter and some unforlorn Adults on crutches imbibing as chiefs Mark and swing inside their heads for the score. LOVE WORKS There, summer briars sample air hotter than visitors Can stand.  Buried in the cooler ground Lies our July.  The blistering Sun sings along with children, hey-diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle – fond Of time they do not understand.  There is no moral. Art is not all nursery rhyme, but a sorrowful Beauty in atmospheres sharp as a razor. No one comes to mourn what history sent Bullying its way to bring the slaves here. Great-great-grandpap George got caught up in what to do, then went Along with the laws.  Maybe he was that rare Master who was good to a fault; how will I ever know The thicket ahead of my mower now Will spare more than stones and lichen-etchings. What belies the bellies in their cramped graves? Rats, the prowling cat, the waves The sun slants in salty smears to brave August on?  Today’s news fishes for days When my country will put its money for the right And leave economics under the starry night To long for clear and obvious love. Leave July to sleep with her family. Let the possum trail for love as it plays dead. It needs no mere recognition as North America’s one native marsupial. Its holdings span country and suburbs, Where the fox and coyote, too, make their dens For all to see now and then To aid Love’s contrast, Hate, toward extinction.

This is part of an eleven-segment relationship advice column from Nigerian author and Christian motivational speaker Chimezie Ihekuna, where he identifies and debunks certain beliefs he disagrees with on the topics of relationships, marriage and sexuality.

Deception 10

I’ll become sexually faithful when the right man or woman comes

By deduction, you are presently exploring your sexual prowess with different individuals.   In other words, you are obviously an infidel. Sexually, are you going to be faithful to your Mr. or Mrs. Right in the making? Time will reveal the answer.

In fact, the issue of Mr. or Mrs. Right is being approached by young men and women by a vague selection of ladies and men they have slept with.   In other words, people choose the ones they intend spending the rest of their lives with on the grounds of sexual interaction-probably on the best of competent individuals they have slept with.   We must, in concrete terms, based on this context, define the terms “Mr. right”. Mr. Right is that man who practically believes in chastity and self-control instead of promiscuity while Mrs. Right is the woman who demonstrates a chaste disposition and is never willing to let go of her body to gratify her admirers’ flirtatious desires in the name of a deceptive life-long union.      

Given those definitions, it is anticipated that individuals portray a chaste attitude rather than sexually around while awaiting their so-called Mr. and Mrs. Rights. As an employer, the vacancies you place on bill boards, newspapers and other media outfits  job offers  instructing interested applicants or prospective employees to come with necessary requirements for interested applicants because you have what it takes to fully employ their services.   Similarly in wanting to get a chaste woman or a man with self-control, it is expected of you to be self-controlling or chaste. Unfortunately, it is the other way round- people want chaste woman or men of great self-control without possessing these qualities.

If you influence people with promiscuity, how you do intend getting your Mr. or Mrs. Right? You are like the employer not having what it takes to be one. In the first place, what makes you think that your right man or woman will come to you, given your not- chaste behavior?

When do you think your Mr. or Mrs. Right will come? Do you think the people you slept with are not the so called Mr. or Mrs. Rights?

To an extent, people who are sexually unfaithful have unknowingly be seen as sex objects. Hence, they become “used and dumped” by their partners. Simply, they are “replaced” by other believed-to-be-better individuals by breaking up or demise, separation and even divorce.  Eventually, these imbalances become eminent.

Don’t you think it is more upright to be chaste and self-controlling, preparing you for your Mr. or Mrs. Right than depriving people their sexual worth by displaying promiscuity, vaguely pointing the possibility of meeting your Mr. or Mrs. Right, denying people the worth of chastity and respect?

a series of small tragedies  darkening skies  doom and gloom  i gave up on happiness years ago just about the same time god gave up on me  the holidays are coming up  a series of small tragedies while hanging the lights with glee desperation is the last sign of hope that clings in the chilly night air these are the mornings one of those mornings  where you can’t make it to the bathroom in time and as much shit that makes it in the bowl,  the same amount is in your underwear  and eventually the floor these are the mornings where i completely understand why it makes more sense to choose death a million better places  another waiting room  listless women behind the glass  the annoying drone of the television in the background  i can think of nearly a million better places i could be right now but my imagination likes the back roads and taking its fucking time the inevitable reality  laughter from the back rooms  i suppose it beats the inevitable reality of death  i lost my ability to be light hearted a few deaths ago  i always wonder where the first misstep took place  every shrink i’ve seen has told me it all goes back to childhood of course it does that sad reality  i try not to remember the last time i kissed a woman  i would love to bury that sad reality but i’m not exactly interested in a future all by myself  i refuse to count the voices in my head until i absolutely have to

ORDINARY LOVE

I went up to the boy and got a ticket for the film.

He told me the name of the film

and I said what other love is there.

Unrequainted he said yea I can’t spell it

but I sure have had plenty of it 

but you know every now and then

you have to chance your arm

the women asked me what I wanted

I said coffee she told me she would make it with love

I said only if it is with requainted love.

MARRIAGE

I told her that was what marriage is 

watching you screw up your face

like a wild animal

while you put your bra on or your deodorant.

Things that other people didn’t know

but I had seen you do it a thousand times or more

and each time it still fascinated me.

I can steal these things from your life

so I don’t have to live my own

I only wish I had more people to steal from

EVERYBODY NEEDS A FRIEND

Part one

I walked into the closing down ladies shop

not sure why went to the back

and saw a row of mannequins. 

I had been after one for a while 

didn’t buy it straight away though 

but knew I would take it home paint her

then I would think about driving around

with her in my car see if anybody would notice 

I even thought about getting some roller skates for her  

and walking around with her.

“HI have you met my friend,”

Yea I could have some real fun with people

with that after all I have to get something

from them and besides I get lonely it good

to have someone to talk to even if they don’t talk back.

Part two

I went into the shop and gave them the money

the young woman asked me if I wanted a receipt

and I said I should be okay.

She pulled it into three parts

and said I can come back for a bit later if I wanted.

I said I should be okay so off

I went through the shopping mall

with the crutch through one hand

and the other around the tits with the base.

I got some strange looks especially from some old women.

Then I wished I got a receipt

they may all think I am stealing her.

I couldn’t help but think if anybody asks me

I can say it is the wife she has gone to pieces.

The arm fell off a couple of times

and she started to get heavy so I had to put her down a few times

as all the kids started to come out of the college

then this bloke came up behind me. “Nice bit of skirt.”

He said. “It is the wife she is going to pieces.”

I said. I got her to the car exhausted and she fell in the back.

“Get up you silly bitch.” I said.

Eventually I got her home but as I got her out of there

she started to fall to  pieces in the street.

“Come on pull yourself together.”

I got her inside before any of the neighbours

could see now she points east in the front room

I hope the wife doesn’t get jealous. 

TOILET

I walked out the gym late

the woman at reception gave me a wry smile

as I walked out with a towel on my head,

We went to screwfix to pick up the toilet.

I walked in towel still on my head

she and all the butch men started to look at me

staring at the towel. I walked to the counter.

“What is the matter

nobody ever seen a man with a towel on their head before.

“They all looked away and we left with our brand new toilet. 

THE WOMAN

I met the woman again last night

mostly I have avoided her over the years

the way I avoid everybody.

She told me I looked like a skier

I told her I had been known to ski in my past

but everything was in my past now.

She said she liked my short stories from all those years ago

something that was powerful

that lingered around the coffee table for days.

I told her she was kind but of course she wasn’t.

She was in old people’s care homes with a music group 

breathing new life into the old

keeping them alive just that little bit longer.

She didn’t mention why we had not talked in years.

She had that sense about me that something bad was going to happen

the way a lot of people know even if I didn’t know myself.

Not yet. When she said goodbye she did it with that air

that the conversation was not important to her at all

and off she went.

I wonder if I will talk to her next time if there is a next time

LOSE

What do you do when you are alone

that is the real question.

I don’t know what others do.

I can sit in silence writing and there is nothing else in the world

but more times than not I do other things.

Things so I don’t have to write

but why I don’t know.

Things so I don’t have to be alone even though

I run from people I walk the other way when I see them.

I avoid them but that makes me lonelier so lonely I can’t even write.

So what do I do stay alone 

run to people pester them into talking to me.

It is not that I am uninteresting

I can laugh and be agreeable

yeah I can be a good guy but in the end I have to lose 

I have to lose 

TELL ME A STORY

i want people to tell me about their lives

their stories in that way

I want to be a stenographer of other people’s lives

a chronicler.

My life is not important at all only to tell theirs

but the sick part of it all is I am shy,

I can’t talk to people only when I am thrown into life

but life has not done that lately all it does is keep me here

hiding from everybody.

Sleeping and waiting

TODAY

I know life is all in the adversity 

the gut wrenching pain of it all

horrific drunkard dancing in the streets

but you get to a stage when you can’t do it anymore

like June said to Henry

you don’t even know what you are.

You are a masochist.

But one day it has to stop

you just can’t do it anymore.

That day is today.

Short story, Papel Picado

Consuelo’s father shows Oliver how to place the patrón over the sheets of colored tissue paper and cut the shapes—angels and crosses in this pattern—with the hammer and chisel. They are in the workshop behind the family’s cottage, itself some distance from the hacienda where SeñorOrtiz is the caretaker, while Consuelo prepares quesadillas for their lunch. She has brought him from Mexico City to meet her family, a major step in their affair.

The aroma of garlic and grilled chicken makes it hard to concentrate on the papel picado, but Oliver tries to imitate the older man’s technique. With each tap of the chisel his head pounds, and he is all too aware that Miguel, Consuelo’s twin brother and the instigator of last night’s tequila wars, is watching from the doorway, blocking the fierce noon light.

“Women’s work,” Miguel says in English so that his father won’t understand. A sneer warps his lip.

“Qué?” asks Señor Ortiz.

Oliver looks up, marveling again at Miguel’s resemblance to Consuelo, two impressions from one mold. Last night, in the cantina, Miguel caught Oliver staring. He couldn’t help himself: Consuelo’s lips; her brother’s. That’s when Miguel challenged him to a round of shots, and then another. Oliver had no choice.

Consuelo enters to call them to lunch. Oliver removes the template and lifts a delicate red tissue, lets the light dance through the gaps. He presents his handiwork and kisses Consuelo’s mouth, his eyes searching for Miguel. 

Excerpt from Clifford Garstang’s upcoming novel The Shaman of Turtle Valley:

Driving south on the Pike, Aiken has to pull onto the shoulder as a sheriff’s car flies by, siren wailing, then a fire truck, and then a second. It’s as if he’s racing them, falling farther behind, and he accelerates to close the gap. They turn on his road, and he does, too, skidding on loose gravel, and then he knows. In his gut he understands, even before he sees the smoke, or smells it. And then he does see smoke rising above the trees, black and churning. As he gets closer, he spots three pickups pulled to the side, and men he recognizes from the farmers’ market leaning against their bumpers, watching the flames lick through the roof of his barn. The fire trucks block the driveway, and he pulls into a ditch. He jumps out and into the yard. The barn is engulfed, lighting the night sky. He moves closer, but even if the Sheriff’s man hadn’t dragged him back the angry blaze would have prevented him from getting anywhere near the barn door.

The building burns like dry grass. The windows explode. Now flames are leaping through the roof, and then the roof collapses in a gusher of sparks and cinders. Paint cans erupt inside, each a dull burst, like the echo of a distant gun. Aiken drops onto the steps of the house, eyes tethered to the unfolding catastrophe.

“Got to ask you some questions, Aiken,” Billy says, his leg propped on the step.

“Why would she do it?” Aiken asks. Just then the back wall of the barn collapses, and the two men watch the structure cave in on itself.

“Now, see, that’s just what I was going to ask you,” says the deputy. “We can’t get too near the place yet, of course, but there’s a gas can out in the yard that somebody didn’t bother to hide. I was wondering if you knew anything about that.”

“Me? You think I had something to do with this?”

“I didn’t say that, Aiken. I’ve got to ask. So you think your wife did it?”

“Who else? She wants to hurt me. To punish me. She wants to go home to Korea. Maybe this is her way.”

“Punish you? For what?”

“Damned if I know.” But he does know, and he wishes he could tell her he’s sorry. It’s long overdue.

There’s nothing the firemen can do for the barn, but they stand by in case the flames spread. Billy and Aiken go through the house, room by room, to be absolutely certain she isn’t there. Aiken tells Billy about his dead dog and shows him the gun cabinet. He assures himself and Billy that she’s taken only the shotgun and Hank’s pistol.

“How’d that little girl learn to use a shotgun, Aiken?”

He has no idea. Ordinary people in Korea didn’t own guns, although her father had fought in the Korean War and no doubt knew something about weapons. Maybe she learned from him. But that’s unlikely, from what little he knows about the family, and there has to be another explanation.

It comes to him.

“Cousin Tammy’s a crack shot. She’s been hunting since she was a kid. Damn. We’ve got to call Tammy.”

He dials Tammy’s number, but there’s no answer. It hardly matters. He already knows what she’d say.

“Jesus, Tammy, what have you done?”

---

Clifford Garstang is the author of a novel, The Shaman of Turtle Valley, a novel in stories, What the Zhang Boys Know, which won the Library of Virginia Award for Fiction, and a prize-winning short story collection, In an Uncharted Country. He is also the editor of the three-volume anthology series Everywhere Stories: Short Fiction from a Small Planet, stories set around the world, and the co-founder and former editor of Prime Number Magazine. His new story collection, House of the Ancients and Other Stories, will be published in May 2020.

Garstang’s work has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Blackbird, Cream City Review, The Hopkins Review, Los Angeles Review, Shenandoah, Tampa Review, Virginia Quarterly Review,and elsewhere, and has received Distinguished Mention in the Best American Series. He has won the Confluence Fiction Prize and the GSU Review Fiction Prize and has been awarded fellowships by the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Ragdale Foundation, Hambidge Center for the Arts, and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. He is the recipient of an Indiana Emerging Author Award and an Emerging Writer Fellowship from the Writer’s Center in Maryland.

After receiving a BA in Philosophy from Northwestern University, Garstang served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in South Korea, where he taught English at Jonbuk University. He then earned an MA in English and a JD, magna cum laude, both from Indiana University, and practiced international law in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Singapore with one of the largest law firms in the United States. He earned a Master of Public Administration degree from Harvard University’s John F. Kennedy School of Government and worked for Harvard Law School’s Program on International Financial Systems as a legal reform consultant in Almaty, Kazakhstan. He then served as Senior Counsel for East Asia at the World Bank in Washington, D.C., where his work focused on China, Vietnam, Korea, and Indonesia. Subsequently he earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte. He currently lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.