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ken*again
, the literary magazine  
         
   
Sixth anniversary issue
ken*again
is a quarterly, nonprofit e-zine presenting a
hearty, eclectic mix of prose, poetry, art and photography:
accessible, obscure, soothing, disturbing.

Wrap your mind around a good read.
 



 



Poetry


Ruby in Sand  Tracee Coleman
It's still easy  Tracee Coleman
Last train for Edinburgh  Jon Stocks
Solstice Eve  Jon Stocks
Aunt Beth's Photographs  Jon Stocks
Alicia's Diary  Jon Stocks
Paradox at the End of a Visit  Joanna M. Weston
Snow Angels  Joanna M. Weston
Late Fires  Joanna M. Weston
Old Game  Joanna M. Weston
Average  Sandy Hiss
The Secretary  Sandy Hiss
Rummy Park, 57 (Collision)  Rebecca Lu Kiernan
Rummy Park, 58 (Sundays)  Rebecca Lu Kiernan
The Favorite Daughter  Uma Asopa
Catharsis Contained  Uma Asopa
Compulsions  Uma Asopa
Ceasefire 
Uma Asopa
Forever Father  Robert L. Harrison
The Poet Max Wheat  Robert L. Harrison
Airport Blues  Robert L. Harrison
When We Were Alive  Brett Yates
New Functions  Brett Yates
Years of Silence  Aurora Antonovic
Oh So Formal 
Aurora Antonovic
Mining Town Reverie  Thomas D. Reynolds
The Cave  Andrew Kaye
Circus Monkey  Andrew Kaye
Fighting the Sun
  Patrick Carrington
Toward Emptiness  Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Wet Dreams  Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Elegy  Joseph Lewis
Pipeline  Joseph Lewis
Egret  Michael Estabrook
but the wind doesn’t make the curtains move   Michael Estabrook

Prose      

Margaret  Pamela Boslet Buskin
That Year   Ron Klosterman
A New Jersey Left  Brett Yates
From My Car Window  Michael Estabrook 
The Fun Fair   Russell Ainslie  
Her Secret Admirer   Lisa Braxton
The Wages of Plunder    Dipita Kwa
The Flood   Sarah Nowell 

Serial 

Remembering the Nam  R. T. Tracy

Art

Self Portrait I  Janet Ellen Lusk
Self Portrait II  Janet Ellen Lusk
Homestead
  Janet Ellen Lusk
Wall Mural of Che's Partner Cuba
  Janet Ellen Lusk
Energy Vampire
  Jeff Foster
Crown  Jeff Foster
Midway Diner 
Jeff Foster
Interjection  Jan Kraus Stephens
Rough Around the Edges  Jan Kraus Stephens
North Coast Island  Jan Kraus Stephens
Lone Fir   Jan Kraus Stephens
Chittenango Falls   Robert L. Harrison
Death of Cleopatra  Alexander Chubar
Death of Lucretia  Alexander Chubar
Interior With A Girl  Alexander Chubar
Interior   Alexander Chubar
Interior 1  Alexander Chubar
Photos from Rummy Park series
   Rebecca Lu Kiernan
The Garden of Eden  Konstantin Skoptsov
Sacred and Profane Love   Konstantin Skoptsov
Hens and Chickens   Amy Chace
Small   Amy Chace

And another thing... 

Pam  Laura Tennen


 

CONTRIBUTORS

 

Russell Ainslie (prose) is 32 years old and was born and raised in Croydon in South London, but has now managed to escape (though not very far) to Colliers Wood, near Wimbledon, also South London.  He is a civil servant, but please don't read anything into that; he is a nice guy, really.  Mr. Ainslie has always enjoyed reading and writing (apparently born with a book in his hand) and also enjoys sports (he is an avid AFC Wimbledon supporter) and socializing.  Russainslie@aol.com

Aurora Antonovic 
(poetry) is a Canadian freelance writer and visual artist.  She has had two one-woman shows, and partaken in a number of group shows.  She currently writes on women's issues and politics for Canadian publications, and is the former co-editor and columnist of the now-defunct GT Times.  Her poetry has recently appeared in Sidewalk's End, Reflections Journal, Poet's Pen, and Poetic Voices, where she was the featured poet for the month of May.  She is slated to appear in other publications later this year.   aurora_antonovic@yahoo.com

Uma Asopa (poetry) lives in India with her husband and an adorable dog.  She is a pediatrician by profession and writes poetry to explore herself.  Her poems have appeared earlier in sites like Lily Literary review, Slow Trains, Subtle Tea, Poetic Voices, and Spillway Review.  umaasopa@rediffmail.com

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal (poetry) works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.  His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press.  His poems have appeared in Free Verse, Pemmican, and Zygote In My Coffee.   Cuatemochi@aol.com

Lisa Braxton (prose), a native of Bridgeport, Connecticut, is a former television news anchor and reporter.  She spent her television career at stations in Illinois, Pennsylvania and Connecticut.  She is also a former newspaper reporter and radio reporter.  She is currently manager of public education projects for a nonprofit fire safety organization in the Boston, Massachusetts, metropolitan area, where she writes, edits, and produces fire safety materials and also makes public presentations.  In addition to dabbling in fiction writing, Ms. Braxton enjoys volunteering her time mentoring young people, travel and physical fitness.  Her short stories have been published by Snake Nation Press, New Works Review, Sweet Spot Destiny 3 publishing and Foliate Oak Review. lisabraxton@hotmail.com

Patrick Carrington (poetry), a Pushcart-nominated poet, teaches creative writing in New Jersey, and is the poetry editor for the art & literary journal Mannequin Envy.   His poetry has appeared in numerous print journals and anthologies, most recently The Roanoke Review, Rosebud Magazine, Confrontation Magazine, The Marlboro Review, Pearl, The Raintown Review and Mobius, and on-line at The New Hampshire Review, The DMQ Review, Frigg Magazine, Blue Fifth Review, Pedestal Magazine and many others.  His first book-length collection, Rise, Fall and Acceptance, is forthcoming in late 2006 from Main St. Rag Press.   patcarringtonpoet@yahoo.com

Amy Chace (photography) is a NYC based freelance photographer.  She learned from the best, Mom and Dad.  She is intrigued by human interaction and mis-interaction.  Her work has been seen in Time Out New York, Girlfriends, GO, JestRockpile and others.   twinreflex@mac.com
 
Alexander Chubar (art) was born in 1958 in Donetsk, Ukraine.  Now living in Brooklyn, New York, he has exhibited extensively throughout the United States.  His works are in private collections in the USA, Germany, Japan, Taiwan, Russia and Poland.   alchu195@yahoo.com

Tracee Coleman (poetry) is a hopelessly addicted poetry lover who spends most of her free time editing and maintaining alittlepoetry.com.  Recent work can be found at The Argotist Online. admin@alittlepoetry.com

Michael Estabrook (poetry and prose) says, "Well the three kids are gone, out on their own, but the wife is still here and the stupid dog and the computer and email so I will write on, to what end I am not sure, but write on I will; still trying to get into the best poetry journals possible, both online and otherwise, and hoping to publish a real book of poems, called A Superlative Woman, about my superlative wife, one of these days."  mestabrook@comcast.net

Jeff Foster (art and photography) is influenced by Gustav Klimt and Hieronymus Bosch.  He tries to create nebulous pictures of spirituality with his art.  His work is currently in Tar Wolf Review and Steamticket.  Mr. Foster lives in Missouri with his wife Pam and teenager Kassie, where he runs his own cleaning business.  kas@asde.net

Robert L. Harrison (poetry and photography) earned a B.A. from Stony Brook University and an advanced study degree from Hofstra University in Instructional Communications.  Robert is a historian, as well as a playwright, poet and photographer.  He has researched and published articles on Long Island's historic past and has presented lectures on forgotten Long Islanders, the Island's baseball history, and presentations on Long Island poets.  Robert's plays "Bloom & O'Hara," "Confessions of a Shakespeare Addict" and "The Long Island Dead Poets Society" have all been presented on Long Island this year.  He has published over 400 poems in his own poetry books, as well as in magazines and literary journals.  In 1995, one of Robert's poems received a Grammy nomination in the spoken word category and last year he co-authored the children's book "Goblin Giggles" with Gene Fehler, published by Simon & Schuster.  For the last three years, Robert has served as the poetry judge for the Freeport Council of the Arts Celebration of Poetry contest for Nassau County high school students.  As a photographer, Robert has been written about in Newsday and the New York Times.  His photographs have been shown in more than 100 exhibits across Long Island and in September, Robert's photographs of Long Island's 9-11 memorial sites will be part of the "Voiceless in the Presence of Realities" exhibit at the Emily Lowe Gallery, Hofstra University. Among his many photographic awards is a 2004 Folio Award from the Long Island Coalition for Fair Broadcasting and an Award of Excellence from the Art League of Long Island.  Robert was recently listed in Marquis Who's Who in America.   harrisonbd@hotmail.com

Sandy Hiss (poetry) resides in Wyoming with her two children and husband.  Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Cabaret New Angeles, Autographs Mag, Eskimopie.net, Scorched Earth Publications (Editor's Choice Feb/Mar issue), Autumn Leaves, The Cat's Meow, True Poet Mag, and The Green Silk Journal.  Her work will also be featured in Underground Window's July edition.   She hopes to publish a chapbook in the near future.  SandyB1070@msn.com

Andrew Kaye (poetry) lives in a box somewhere in Northern Virginia, where he edits the literary humor magazine Defenestration.   His work has most recently appeared in Sweet Fancy Moses, The Lampshade, and Tryst.  Send him electronic salutations at akaye08@yahoo.com

Rebecca Lu Kiernan (poetry and photography) has published in MS Magazine, Asimov's Science Fiction and numerous books and magazines in the U.S. and Australia.  Her first poetry collection, "Sex With Trees..." was published by 2 River PressYgdrasil Press published her second collection, "The Man Who Remembered Too Much."  She was nominated for a Rhysling award for the cautionary tale, "When a Snake Bites You in the Ass"   She lives on the Gulf Coast. geckogalpoet@hotmail.com

Ron Klosterman  (prose) was born in obscurity and grew up listening to 80’s hard rock.  He is now a Chicago-based writer, living in obscurity, and still listening to 80’s hard rock.

Dipita Kwa (prose) was born on the 2nd of July 1979 in Tiko, Cameroon, and was raised by peasant parents in the village of Mondoni.  He obtained a B.Sc in Economics from the University of Buea and is among the twelve first participants of the Crossing Borders Programme in Cameroon.  He has written seven unpublished short stories—one of which won a silver trophy in short story writing at the University Festival of Arts and Culture (UNIFAC2001) but was never published—and a few poems.  He is currently working on two novels.  titann5@yahoo.com

Joseph Lewis (poetry) has published poetry in various print and ezines including ken*again, Sunspinner and sometime city.  He lives in Virginia.
ezwriter101@netscape.net

Janet Ellen Lusk (art), born on January 30, 1944, has spent most of her life on Long Island.  Ms. Lusk graduated from Syosset High School and Stony Brook University with an MA in Liberal Studies.  She  won prizes in art as a child and teenager but life got in the way and her painting and drawing continued but not in a formal way.  Painting together with her dear friend and great artist, Janice DeWitt, has given her much insight and encouragement as an artist.  Her "Self Portrait" pastel won second place at the juried art show "Reflections" with the East End Arts Council (www.eastendarts.org).  "In the week previous to this honor I prayed to The Universe and in that moment for the first time I felt as if I were part of a greater whole.  All that I for prayed for was all that I wanted; and that was to be a good artist."   janetellen@optonline.net

Sarah Nowell
(prose) is just beginning to attempt a career as a writer.  She was born in Sri Lanka in 1978 and moved to the UK as a teenager in 1992.  She lives in London. snowell@UK.EY.COM

Thomas D. Reynolds (poetry) received an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University and currently teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas.  In his work, he combines his interests in history, folklore, Midwestern life, and poetry.  A chapbook of his poetry titled Electricity was published by Ligature Press of Topeka, Kansas.  Publications which have accepted his work include the following:  New Delta Review, Alabama Literary Review, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, Potpourri, American Western Magazine, The Green Tricycle, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, Tryst, Prairie Poetry, Strange Horizons, and Miller's Pond Poetry Magazine.   tomrey8@yahoo.com

Konstantin Skoptsov (art) was born in Odessa, Ukraine in 1958.  His works are displayed at exhibitions and included in permanent expositions of  museums, associations and private galleries.  He specializes in symbolic paintings and graphics.  villon@farlep.net

Jan Kraus Stephens (art) was born in New York in 1952.  The schools she attended had wonderful art departments.  In addition to visual art classes in public school, she was taught oil painting by a local artist and attended a school for the visual and performing arts on weekends.  During her high school years in Syosset, Long Island, she took the train into Manhattan to attend the Art Students League of New York.  After graduating from Clark University with a BA in Fine Arts and a teaching credential in art in 1974, she became an artisan.  She and her husband, Gary Stephens, work and reside on a hydro and solar powered homestead in Northern California.  They started "Wooden it be Nice", a woodworking company and from 1975 to 1995 made wooden bowls, silk-screened wooden boxes, coasters, jewelry, selling them at west coast craft shows. They presently hand-dye, print and paint on organic cotton clothing and changed the name of their business to Organic Attire (organicattire.com).. She earned her California Teaching Credential and an MA in education from Sonoma State University in May of 2002.   jan@organicattire.com

Jon Stocks (poetry) lives and works in Sheffield UK, a city once famous for its steel industry but now re-inventing itself as a creative arts and new media city.  Like most poets he also spends a lot of time in bars, drinking Latte’s or red wine.  He finds that both help to facilitate moments of deep, solipsist insight.  Mr. Stocks is widely published in the UK, recent work having appeared, or being scheduled to appear in The Coffee House magazine, Coffee House, Littoral, the Other, Cambridge University Review, Manifold, Candelabrum, Decanto and others.  He is currently working on a first novel and also writes short stories, winning the Carillon magazine short story competition last year.  His poem, "Moon dreams" was recently short-listed for the National Poetry Anthology.  A small number of poems are currently being transformed into short films as part of a film poetry project, and his poem, "Alicia’s Diary" was selected to be performed in Sheffield Cathedral as part of a Multi media poetry presentation.  Other work has been performed on live radio on World Poetry Day.  bladeinnotts@hotmail.com

Laura Tennen (And another thing...) is a college student from New Jersey.  She is a Theatre major, with a minor in English. She has never been published before this, but is very grateful to get her name (and her work) out into the world.  After she graduates, she hopes to get a job involving theatre, whether it be on the management or the acting end.

R. T. Tracy (serial) was a newspaper man before deciding to risk self employment as a free lancer a number of years ago.  He is currently employed by a large insurance company as a security guard.
RICHARDTTRACY@AOL.COM

Joanna M. Weston
(poetry) has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty years.  She has a middle-reader, The Willow Tree Girl in print.
weston@islandnet.com

Brett Yates (poetry and prose) is a poet, short story writer, novelist, and connoisseur of Westerns, gangsta rap, and Russian literature.  He currently resides in New Jersey.   brettayates@gmail.com

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Margaret   Pamela Boslet Buskin
That Year  
Ron Klosterman
A New Jersey Left  
Brett Yates
From My Car Window
  Michael Estabrook

The Fun Fair   Russell Ainslie
Her Secret Admirer
 
Lisa Braxton
The Wages of Plunder
  
Dipita Kwa
The Flood
  
Sarah Nowell

 


 

 

Margaret                                                    

 by Pamela Boslet Buskin



at your peas, Margaret.  Eat your peas, Margaret.  Eat your peas, Margaret.  "She's not gonna eat the damn peas!  Leave her alone!"

What's wrong with these idiot nurses?  Nurses?  They are not nurses, I have to be careful what I call them when Donna is here.  She is so damn touchy about that.  The whole family is crazy.  I'm the only sane one left.  Poor Margaret.  She was so ... dependable.  So dependable.  Doesn't sound too romantic.  I don't think she used to be dependable, way back when.

Oh Lord, here she comes again.  Oh no, this is a different one.

"Okay, William, are you done now?"  What's this one's name?  Nice name, Delilah, I think.  I like the sound of her voice.  Not her face, no, her face is fat and blank, but her voice, that nice West Indian accent, that I like.  I wish we were there now, on the beach somewhere.  We never did go, never.  I always wanted to but Margaret... such a homebody.  How she ever made it to this country, I'll never know.

"Margaret?  Margaret?  You in there tonight?  Remember when I wanted to go to the beach?  To one of those Saint islands—St. John or one of them?  Remember, Margaret?"

Delilah glances over at Margaret.  "Oh, she's out now, William," Delilah says.

"Where are you from?" I ask her.

"Trinidad," she says.

"Is it nice there?  What's it like?"

"Oh yes, it is beautiful.  Always warm, always sunny.  Smells good.  Everybody friendly.  Not like here.  Not at all like Staten Island."

"So why did you come here, then?"

"Oh, you know why, William.  Same reason everybody come:  money.  Probably the same reason Margaret come, right?"

"No, Margaret came for me.  Only for me."

Margaret starts to moan.  We ignore her.  The moans get louder.  Delilah walks to her bed, pats her on the head, and walks out of the room.  The moaning is hard to take.  It goes on for hours, sometimes.  If not from Margaret, from another room down the hall somewhere.  There always seems to be somebody moaning.  But every time I put my pillow over my head to drown it out, one of the aides takes it off, sure I will suffocate.  Can't have me dying a quick, painless death, can we?

I asked for earplugs once.  I thought, well, they will let me have that, you can't die from sticking an earplug in your ear.  It took weeks before they finally got them, I don't know why I didn't just ask Donna or my idiot son to get them.  But when I finally got them, they just popped right out of my ears.  Too much wax, maybe.  I always had a problem with that, ear wax, used to have to get my ears cleaned out at the doctor's office.  They don't do that here, they don't really care about my ear wax.

"Hey, Pop."  It's my idiot son.  Dressed like a slob, like always.  And that stupid pony tail.  My God, he's 57 years old.  What is wrong with him?

Margaret is moaning, moaning.  Martin walks right past her bed.  Barely looks at her.  A lotta people do that when she is like this.

"How ya doin', Pop?"

"Tip top, Martin."  Martin smiles.  He probably believes me.  "Where's Donna?  She comin' tonight?"  At least she is not an idiot.  Fat, maybe, yeah, fat.  But not an idiot.

"Nah, she's workin'."  Donna is a nurse, a real nurse, not like these poor imitations they have here, walkin' around in nurses' uniforms but they don't know nothin'.  My damn dog knew more than they do, and he wasn't too smart.

"Well, what about your sisters?  They comin'?"

"Geez, Pop, they're gone, remember?  They've been gone for years."

Gone?  Now, how the hell am I supposed to keep track of everybody?  I got enough to do just takin' care of Margaret.  She's a real handful now.  And it ain't fair.  She's younger, a lot younger, seven years, that's part of why I married her, so I wouldn't be stuck takin' care of some sick old woman.  And now I am anyway.  Oh, these people here think they are takin' care of her, but it's really me, I am the one who does it.

"Wanna take a ride, Pop?"

"Sure.  I want to go to Nathan's.  I want a hot dog."

"Nah, I meant down the hall, in your wheelchair.  Check out some of the nurses."

Good Lord, he is a fool.

***

"Margaret?  Margaret?  Where are you?  Oh my God, she is gone.  MARGARET!"  One of the aides comes in, in no hurry.

"It's okay, William, she isn't here now, remember?  She went for some tests, remember?  To the hospital."

William doesn't remember, he doesn't remember at all.  What he does remember is a beautiful, lithe, blonde girl who barely speaks English.  He has never met her.  She stares at him in wonderment:  she has never met an American before.  It is 1940, and her little town in Sweden is far from any place an American might want to see.  Unless he has family there.  William came over with his mother, who was born there.  He came over once before with her, as a child, but he didn't like it then.  All these strange people speaking a strange language.  They all stared at him, he hated it.  He was a quiet child and he didn't like being stared at.  Margaret wasn't here that time; she wasn't born yet.

But she was here now, tall and blond and beautiful.  She was 18 and he was 25.  He still didn't speak Swedish, or not more than a few words, but it didn't seem to matter as much this time, especially after he met Margaret.  They found ways to communicate.

When he went home to New York, they continued to communicate.  They wrote dozens of letters, using dictionaries and the few words they knew of each other's languages.  Sometimes they even drew pictures.  It was very sweet, really.  They both saved all their letters and when Margaret came over, she brought hers with her.  They were still there in their apartment, mixed together now in a flowery box in the closet.  Or so William thought, not remembering that the apartment was emptied out almost a year ago, when they came here.  Martin had ripped off most of the stamps when he was little, for his stamp album.  He was such a strange child.

But Margaret was truly a lovely woman, and William couldn't believe his good fortune.  He was not outgoing, not at all, and he couldn't dance, which he perceived as a great character flaw.  He was awkward and ungainly and easily tongue-tied.  It should have made him more tolerant of his son, later, but it didn't.  He just got frustrated and angry at Martin's inability to express himself.

But when he was young and had his beautiful Margaret at his side, it didn't matter that he wasn't the most articulate or well-educated young man, because she could barely understand him anyway.  To her, he was brilliant; she saw herself as ignorant because she couldn't speak English.  When she learned, or learned well enough to understand William, things changed a bit.  A lot, actually.  But what could she do?  She was alone, she didn't know another soul in America, and then there was Martin, followed soon after by Annette and then Marie.  And when first Annette died and then a year later, Marie, Margaret thought she would lose her mind, and she couldn't leave, William and Martin were all she had left.

Besides, William was more than just her husband.  He was a blood relative.  Their mothers were sisters.  William and Margaret were cousins.

And now, sixty years later, here they were, the cousins, still together, side by side in the nursing home in matching diapers.

***

"Oh, Jesus, where is my Margaret?  I want to see Margaret!"

Why are they keeping her from me like this?  Don't they know I have to take care of her?  I don't understand.  I don't understand.  My stomach is killing me and they won't let me see Margaret.  Oh God, here she comes.  Oh, thank God.

"Okay, William, here she is, I told you she'd be back.  She's had a little something to relax her, though, so she might be a bit groggy."

"What did you do to her?"

"We just took her for some tests, that's all.  Your son is on his way now, he will explain everything."

Explain everything? He couldn't explain his way out of a paper bag.  "Hello, Martin."

"Hey, Pop, how's it goin'?"

"What did they do to your mother?  What's wrong with her?"

"Oh, it's nothin', Pop, just a little fluid in her stomach.  They were tryin' to see where it was comin' from."

"And?  Where is it comin' from?"

"They don't know, but it's nothin', don't worry about it."

He must think I am as much of a fool as he is.

"Villiam?  Villiam?  Aw, it hurts, it hurts."  My poor old girl.

"Just rest, Margaret.  Just go back to sleep."

"Hey, Ma, I'm here."

"Aw, Martin.  Come here, hold my hand.  It hurts."

He's not a bad kid, really.  Kid, he's 57, but he acts like a kid.  Never grew up, really.  Or never grew up right, anyway.  Now what are they talkin' about, I can barely hear them.  I hate when they do that.  "Speak up, stop whisperin' over there!"

"Pop, she's just moaning, mostly.  Don't worry, we aren't keepin' any secrets from you, right, Ma?"

"Secrets... secrets..."  That's when she does it, tells him after keepin' it in all these years.

"Martin..."  Her voice is faint, but I can hear it anyway.  Seems to me like she is screamin'.  "Cousins.  The pastor said it was ok to marry us.  Cousins."

"Ma, what the hell are you talkin' about?  Who are cousins?"

"We are."

"We?"

"Daddy and me.  Our mamas were sisters.  Oh dear Lord, it hurts, it hurts."

Oh shit, now she's done it.  Now he knows.  "Let sleeping dogs lie."

***

Martin's children—all grown now—show mock horror.

"Jesus fucking Christ.  Cousins?  My grandparents are cousins?  Jesus Christ, we are trailer trash!"

Martin had told his kids, partly because he thought it was funny and partly because, he thought they should know.  He thought maybe problems could crop up in the future, in them or in their kids, if they ever have any, even though medical science was now saying the risk was very low.

"Trailer trash," Martin says, chuckling.  "Yeah, I guess so.  We've always joked about living on Tobacco Road,  Christ, now I know we really belong here."

Donna also finds it amusing.  She always knew Martin was weird.  Now she knows why.

***

"Margaret!  Where are you now?  Why do you keep going away?"  I've gotta get some sleep.

***

"Ah, Margaret, you're back.  Thank God.  You okay?  Margaret?  Wake up, wake up, tell me what they did to you.  Come on, wake up.  Margaret?  Margaret?"

Oh God, why isn't she waking up?  What did they do to her this time?  Oh my God, I don't think she is breathing!  She's not moving at all.  They killed her.  Oh my God.

"Nurse!  Help!  Help!  My wife, she's not moving!  Help!"  Where the hell are they?  I've gotta get to her.  I will get to her, dammit!  Come on, you damn old man, get out of this bed and take care of your wife.  I can do it, shit, just sit up, slow, come on, you can do it, come on, one leg over, okay, steady now, steady...

"Pop!  Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing?  You're gonna fall outta the bed!"

"I am going to your mother.  Nobody will help me.  And don't try to stop me."

"Pop, wait.  Just wait.  I will help you.  Just let me get you a wheelchair.  Just wait.  Please!"

Poor kid, he doesn't know his mother is dead yet.  "Fine. I will wait."

***

Martin comes back with the wheelchair and a nurse and an aide.  Together, they get William into the wheelchair.  A moment later, he is at Margaret's side.  He picks up her hand and holds it.  It is warm.  She is not dead after all.  He stays there, at her side, holding her hand, for a very long time.

© 2000  by Pamela Boslet Buskin

 


                                                                                                        
 
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That Year                                                  

by Ron Klosterman 

                                                                       
ain is usually a boon to the Midwest.  Crops grow and the grass turns green, but rain didn’t help anything that year.  The streets were flooded, the insects were bad and the air was so muggy that it felt like molasses in your lungs, and sometimes, just to breathe out, a man would have to spit.

It had poured all summer and when fall had finally rolled around, Sputnik laid a red patch across the sky and a young boy had died.

I believe it was late in August when the gentle breeze had blew into town, shooing away all those biting flies that had tormented everyone for so long.  Though the red whelps would fade, over the years, the town barbers would still grab for their holstered towels while children would quickly roll tight the newest issue of some comic at the slightest buzzing sound.  They had never gotten over the assault, perhaps that was why Russ was forgotten so easily.

Russ Clark had floated into town with that August wind.  His clodhoppers kicking up dust, as he whistled an offbeat tune from the radio.  It was not uncommon to hear the opening of Gunsmoke or some catchy Woolworth jingle coming from around a corner, and bet that it was him.

Russ and his father had moved in three doors down, and my mom, being the local saint, had suggested—though rather forcefully—that we both should get to know our new neighbors.  She had baked a cake, made a call and had even dolled herself up a bit.

Ever since my dad died in the Pacific, every new neighbor was a possible suitor, from old Mr. Harms to a Chinaman who went by the name of Slant-Eyed Sammy.  The grocer had called him that once and I had giggled.  My mother cured me of this immediately as her hand popped me across my scalp.  She then turned to the grocer and scolded him about compassion of the common man.  Russ’s father was no exception to the rule.

Loving my mother, the way I did, I didn’t even bother with a lie.  I simply went to my room, put on some clean clothes and sucked in a deep breath.  I had already met Russ at school and things had not gone well for him. 

The first time me and my friends saw him, he was swinging at the air with a badminton racket.  It was September and he had come across the last hideout of the horseflies, and was knocking their fat, bloated bodies to the ground where he would then grind his toe like a man who had just tossed a butt.  During his swings, he was playing it up as an Allied anti-aircraft gunner, shooting down Jap zeroes or—as the times were beginning to dictate—Red Army Beagles.

A group of horseflies were waiting patiently atop an old two-by-four for their orders.  The command came suddenly when Russ stomped one end of the board, catapulting the insects into firing range.  They flew up into the air and then slowly began their descent, as wings—laden with old age—began to flap.  The sound of the bugs hitting the racket was amplified by his imitation machine gun fire, his screeching wail of the falling plane and the final KABOOM of the crash.

We all just stood there looking at the kid, thinking the same thing.  The boy had missed second gear, so we decided to treat Russ to lunch, a knuckle sandwich type of lunch.

Jimmy, our little gang’s muscle, walked up to Russ—Jimmy’s smile had made many a girl swoon—and gave him a wallop right across the mouth.  This of course sat the poor kid on the seat of his pants.  But the kid was odd; he just sat there looking at us, all cow-eyed and innocent.  At the time, we were of the mindset that no one was that innocent, and started to circle around him.

That was when Principal Abbot came running up and demanded, “What’s goin on here?”

I pulled out a cigarette, trying to play the part, and then put it in my mouth to light, “nuth’ns goin on chief,” while Peter Smith yelled from across the playground, “Hey Abbott!” which made us all snicker.  The principal ignored him.

Eyeing me for a moment, he smacked the cigarette from my mouth, “Enough of your back talk, boy. You will all see me after school.  Understood?” he pointed a finger at my chest, and then gave me a nudge, eyeballing each of us in turn.

“It’s like a bell,” we all said in unison.  “Yeah, a cracked bell,” I heard whispered.

Meanwhile, Russ had gotten to his feet and dabbed at his mouth with his shirt.  The teacher walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, kindly.  That was the first time we had heard Russ speak.

“Get off!” he had said, shrugging the hand and walking away.  We all smiled, the boy had bypassed a severe beating, but he would still be beaten, none-the-less.

What I would soon gather from my mother, about Russ’s family, was that his mom had left when he was five.  In the words of the father, “she had fancied herself an actress and had turned to the bright lights.”  Up on the mantle, in the back, was a picture of her; it showed her smile as absolute joy.  Russ’s, as I would find out later, was a sad smile—one of loss.

Her strangled body had turned up, a year or so after she had left, in the Chicago River.

That first visit to the Clark’s home was very discouraging.  Russ did not talk to either me or my mom; he had even been given a light backhand from his father for not answering a question about his stamp collection.  I couldn’t blame Russ as he still sported the fat lip from the day before.

“It is not that nice,” he stubbornly responded while giving the evil eye to me, and stepping away from his father’s hand.  It would take two whole weeks to get a smile from him.

It wasn’t because we became friends that we hung out in the early fall.  It was just assumed that while my mom dated his dad, we would be pals.  Perhaps, it was the cat that we had both began to harass at the same time or that we both like to play catch.  His dad was an old ball player, and Russ could really fire one into my mitt—many times I went home with a sore palm and numb fingers.  But if I had to pick one moment when I considered him a pal, it would have to have been the egg I tossed at a passing car.  When it hit, the car stopped and an old woman got out.  She shouted something in German, “Bastards!”  I am sure, and gave us both the middle finger.  We ran like stripped ass apes and ended up down at Mort’s, sharing a pop.  We moved from there to climbing trees and building forts.  I even introduced him to my other friends, and Jimmy promptly walloped me in the eye.

“What’s that all about?” I groused.

“If you’re gonna vouch, I want my money up front!” he said, eyeing Russ.  He then spit at Russ’s feet and walked away.  I didn’t blame him.  If Russ turned out to be a bad egg, I would be the one to take the licking for it.  At least, Jimmy owed me one, and if Russ turned out okay then all the better.

Yet, our parents didn’t click, and while they remained friends, we both distanced from one other.  When I stole cigarettes, peeped in windows or beat up other kids, he stood there off to the side, almost an afterthought.  Our friendship that started to blossom wilted on the vine.  When my mom got engaged to Bentley, a southern writer, we all dragged Russ into the bushes and gave him what for.

Just for that, all of us—including Russ—were dragged into principal Abbot’s office.  He had a nurse there with him who had a black case filled with inoculations.  She had arrived before we were all ushered into the office.  Abbot looked at us and then he smiled at the nurse.

“Maggie, looks like we have our first volunteers.”

“Sure does, Jim,” she responded.

After-words, we made sure to each tag Russ right on the mark where the needle had bit.  We all laughed as that poor wilted flower stumbled away, and when I had made it home that night, I cried a little.  When Russ’s wane smile appeared in the school’s photo-album the following year, I had to tear the book up and toss it in the river.  We had beaten him up, shoved him ahead of us for the shots and then beat him down when we left.  Things like that should not be remembered.

He did not show up for school the next day nor the day after.  He had been dead two weeks when Len Bentley, my new brother, came to live with us.  No one knew.

Len was the one to finally ask what happened to Russ.  The word around school was that “Russ Clark had become very ill.”  So, Len had asked the teacher if he was okay.  The teacher had responded, “No, Russ Clark will not be okay.  He is dead.”  Again, no one knew.

The first of many exaggerations said that Russ had been knifed by a couple of Negroes on the north side.  They had been caught the next day with his dad’s stolen watch and both of his ears in a brown bag.  The story had gone around so much that it was mentioned in a high-profile segregation case, going on in the next county.

A few weeks later, it was that Russ had been helping his father cut wood, not minding the fact that they did not have a fireplace or wood burning stove, when the axe missed and split him in two.  The reaction to the swooshing chop sent many girls into hysterical faints.  It was assumed that the father had been held for questioning, but then released on his own recognizance.  It was then that the old maids in town began covering their mouths when they passed Mr. Clark on the street, as if they could smell something putrid; his ‘good days’ met with ‘well, indeeds’ or "I nevers.’

The best one came almost three months later, even after I had known the truth.  Both Russ and his dad had been involved in a car crash with an old woman and Jack Dempsey.  The windshield had broken and decapitated poor Russ in the passenger seat, leaving his father drenched in blood.  As the story goes, because of the Manassa Mauler’s liability, Russ’s father got the chance from his insurance company to either receive monetary compensation or honorable compensation.  Mr. Clark chose the honor and challenged Jack to an exhibition fight only to lose in the second round via knockout.  There was even a blurry cutout down at Mort’s from the Daily Sentinel of Dempsey standing over a fallen foe.  It was assumed that the fallen fighter was Mr. Clark.  Of course the caption had been neatly trimmed away, and this was long after Mr. Clark had moved away.

When I asked my mother about Russ, she told me that he had received a vaccination from the school.  It turned out that the new polio vaccinations were not all they were cracked up to be.  There were approximately 260 vaccinations across the country that had actually infected the patient.  In fact, a year or so later, we all had to be inoculated once again.  This time Sabin had the right formula and Polio became a bygone memory.

Russ had been the only one from our school to get a bad shot, and on top of that, he had been one of the very few that had died.

 

 



                                                                                                        
 
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A New Jersey Left                                 

by Brett Yates                                                                          


n the Petersons' backyard, Freddie, the wide receiver, lined up beside his quarterback, Owen.  About two feet in front of Freddie stood Adams, who, as not just his team's cornerback but their entire secondary, would guard him.  The defensive line, too, had only one member, Trent.  Games of only four players required some concessions:  They had neither running backs nor offensive linemen.

Freddie and Owen, who had scored just two touchdowns to their opponents' three, crouched at the line of scrimmage, which also happened to be the goal line:  Because the playing area was so short, each team started at its own goal line and then had four tries to cross the field to the other end zone, marked by two cones.  Freddie waited for Owen to hike the ball.

Owen did.  Freddie took off, and Adams began to backpedal.  The wide receiver spun, hitting the cornerback's sternum with his shoulder.  As he did this, he for a moment caught sight of Trent, who was waving his arms and beginning his count to five, the completion of which would allow him to try to sack the quarterback, whom the rules forbade from running the ball without Trent first crossing the line of scrimmage.

Freddie dashed inside, to the middle, trying to outrun his defender.  But Adams stayed with him.  No pass came.

"Three," said Trent.

Abruptly, Freddie stopped on his left foot.  He forthwith sprinted in the opposite direction.  He felt the other players' eyes on him, marveling at strength of the move, wherein all his velocity had bounced off his left leg, which had abided the impact of the momentum and allowed it to ricochet in the other direction.  It was as though he had not only halted the earth's rotation but had also, with only a millisecond's pause, had gotten it spinning the other way.

"Four," said Trent.

Adams had not changed directions as quickly as Freddie, who had taken him by surprise and now looked open.  Owen shot a pass whose trajectory met Freddie's.  Freddie pulled the football in until it pressed against his chest.

He was, by this point, close to running out of bounds on the right side, so he curved his route, swerving towards the end zone.  But, coming around the bend, he spotted Adams in the corner of his left eye.  Adams leaped forward and speared Freddie, pushing him into the sideline.

In the Petersons' backyard, the sideline was a wooden fence.  Freddie's shoulder hit it first, and its force made the fence creak and groan.  Then came Freddie's skull, which met the wood with a loud thump.  His legs crumpled beneath him.  A surge of pain shook him.

"Holy shit," said Trent.

On the grass, Freddie took a moment to breathe and check for embarrassing tears.  There were none.  He stood up, smiled, and made a show of brushing himself off.

"Sorry," said Adams.  "I didn't mean to knock you up against the fence."

Freddie shrugged, refusing to give any hint that Adams had injured him.

"That was the craziest hit in the fucking world," said Trent.

Trent swore more often than any other eleven-year-old Freddie knew.  The only person he knew who swore more frequently was their history teacher, who cursed under his breath but with just enough volume that attentive students could hear.

Adams nodded in agreement with Trent's statement.  Adams's real name was Clarence, which everyone but he had concluded was unacceptable.

"I could hear it back from where I was," Owen said.

"The problem," said Freddie, "is this yard.  It's too small."

"Where else are we going to play?" said Owen, to whose parents the yard belonged.  "It's a lot bigger than your backyard."

"It's still too small," said Freddie.  "We need a real field."

"Where?" said Trent.

Freddie could think of none that were viable.  There was no park within walking distance.  The school had an open field behind it, but that too was on the other side of town.  The idea of bringing parents, who could give them a ride, into their afternoon offended his sensibilities.  He was sure none of others would even consider it.  They had dealt with teachers all day at school, and now the green afternoon in May belonged not to any adults but to these kids.

"I can't think of any," said Owen.

"God, this town sucks," said Trent.

"I don't know about a field," said Adams, "but we could try Dwayne's house.  His backyard is really big."

"Dwayne's an asshole," said Trent.

"Yeah," said Freddie, "but his backyard really is big.  And he lives near here.  It's a good idea.  Let's go."

Adams collected the cones, and Freddie, still holding the ball, led his friends to the section of the fence that stood opposite to the back of the Petersons' house.  After tossing the ball over it, he grabbed one of its pickets with each hand and pulled himself up until his right foot rested on top of the higher of the two horizontal beams.  Then, in one smooth movement, he swung his left leg over the top and hopped down onto the dirt on the other side.  The entire maneuver took less than a second.  The others performed it just as easily.

On the other side of the fence, beyond the Petersons' backyard, lay what passed in suburban New Jersey for a forest.  It was a dense but thin stretch of trees, which the developers had left standing in order to obscure the closeness of the houses on Chinook Lane, where Owen lived, to the ones on the parallel street, Kiowa Drive, where Dwayne lived.  The tall oaks served their purpose admirably well, and Freddie wondered if the adults on Chinook even knew of Kiowa's proximity.  Probably they didn't; they would follow the roads for a mile to reach a neighbor who lived fifty yards away.

Freddie was proud to know the shortcuts.  He loved them.  Stepping onto land that had been left untouched felt almost illegal to him.  Rocks, weeds, sticks, and moss lived only in the cracks of his orderly suburb.  Someone, he convinced himself, had slipped up here and forgot to squeeze in another tract house.  Freddie had to keep quiet about it.  A small but consistent stream of water trickled by, and this seemed a great triumph of nature.  Its ability to assert itself even in the most sterile environment seemed more impressive to him than the mountains and rain forests that he'd seen in books.  He had no interest in the beauty that some grown-ups claimed those had, and he considered that perhaps he would, with age, develop an eye for attractive scenery in photos, but for now the transgression of the little stream, which he now crossed, filled him with life.

"What are we going to do with Dwayne when he starts playing?" said Owen.  "That'll make five.  Are we going to play two against three?"

"What about Dwayne's little brother?" said Adams.  "Maybe he can join and give us an even six."

"Eric?" said Owen.  "That kid's in the third grade.  He won't be able to catch or tackle or run or anything.  He can't play."

"His name's not Eric," said Adams.  "It's Derek."

"He still can't play," said Owen.

"Well, who else is there?" said Adams.

"Why the hell don't we just keep the game to just us four?" said Trent.  "Just because we're going to use Dwayne's yard, that doesn't mean we have to invite him to play."

Owen rolled his eyes.  "Good thinking, Trent."

Trent shoved him.  "Well, if that's no good, then let's not use Dwayne's yard at all.  I don't like him anyway.  You know how he thinks he's hot shit because he knows his times tables and all that?  I don't know what's so great about times tables anyway."

"That's fine with me," said Owen.  "I don't know why we decided my backyard wasn't good enough in the first place."

"It's too small," said Freddie.  "There's no room to run."

"Dwayne's yard isn't even that much bigger.  I mean:  It's bigger, but it's not that much bigger."

"Fuck Dwayne.  That's what I say," said Trent.  "Fuck Dwayne."

Adams, visibly uncomfortable in the presence of Trent's profanity, said, "Well, there's gotta be somewhere else we can play."

Freddie stopped and searched his mental picture of the landscape for an alternative.  Finally, he said, "I have one idea.  I'll just show it to you because I don't know if you'd know it if I told you."

The rest followed him as he hurdled the fence and passed through the backyard that separated them from Kiowa Drive.  When they reached the street, they turned right and walked about two hundred yards, at which point they met Fox Road.  There, they made a left and continued until Freddie could hear the sounds of the cars on the highway next to it.

"I think Lonnie Stewart lives in one of these houses," said Owen.

"We're not going there," said Trent.  "Are we?"

"No," said Freddie.

"Good," said Trent.  "I hate that bastard."

"Well," said Owen, "then where are we going?"

"It's just, like, another minute away," said Freddie.

On the right side of the street, he passed quietly over another fence and through another backyard whose owners he did not know.  The others followed.

They found themselves on a three-foot strip of dirt beside Route 18, a six-lane highway that provided the town with access to its strip malls before continuing on to the next town and its strip malls.

"What the hell are we doing here?" said Trent.

"It's just a little farther up," said Freddie.  "Hold on."

Trent, Owen, and Adams formed a single-file line behind him.  Taking care not to step onto the road, they marched against the flow of traffic until they met the reverse jughandle that provided drivers with an opportunity to make a U-turn or a roundabout left onto the Old Bridge Turnpike.

The broad curve of the reverse jughandle took the shape of a large oval.  At the center of the oval, a few feet below the level of the cars, they spotted a grassy area that, end to end, measured about sixty yards.  Trent, Owen, and Adams stared at Freddie with a mixture of disbelief and glee.  He grinned back at them.  They waited until the road became clear of cars for a moment before they dashed across and met the grass.

It was wonderful.  The grass's only interruption was an easily avoidable storm drain.  Adams set up the cones at each end.  They did not hear the noise of the cars that encircled them.  They did not wonder what the drivers thought of the boys playing in the center of the jughandle.

"Owen and me'll start our drive over from the beginning," said Freddie.  "It'll be easier that way than trying to guess the yards we got from the one play."

Trent and Adams glanced at each other, as if to confer over the possibility that Freddie might be trying to cheat them; when they silently concluded that he wasn't, they nodded to him.  Freddie tossed the ball to Owen, and they trotted to their goal line.  When everyone had found his correct position, Owen hiked the ball.

Freddie sprang from the line of scrimmage.  He faked right.  This did not much fool Adams, but it created a little separation when Freddie headed left.

"Three," said Trent.

Owen threw a tight pass, a little low.  Freddie pulled it up without breaking his stride.  On their leftward route, he was a step ahead of Adams, yet Freddie hadn't created a large enough gap to turn right, the direction of the end zone, without colliding with him.  He needed to run faster.  He ordered himself to do this.  All this extra space!  He'd use it.

He began to take off.  He saw Adams slipping behind.  Before reaching the left end of the field, Freddie made a right turn, and as he crossed Adams's path, the cornerback dove.  Adams hit air and then hit grass, but he did not hit Freddie.  The wide receiver was gone.  Even with Adams on the ground and nobody nearby, Freddie did not slow down on his way to the end zone.  In the corner of his eye, he saw a cars driving by on the highway, and he tried to outrace them.

When he reached the end zone, he stopped and let go of the ball.  Then he turned and looked at his friends.  What triumph!  He wondered if he'd ever again live as excellently as he had today.  That run!  And he, Freddie, had come up with the idea of using this empty space as a playing field!  Even the grass was bright and soft.  Did someone bring a lawnmower to this place that no one cared about, or did the grass remain the perfect length— not with the artificial shortness of a golf course but not so long that it tickled the ankles—naturally?  No matter —what a lovely day!  What had guided him today to the best part of his nature?  No matter—he'd found it!  Inevitably, it'd had to manifest itself sometime.

Freddie caught his breath.  It was time to play defense.

 

 



                                                                                                        
 
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 From My Car Window                               

by Michael Estabrook 


solitary man’s boot alongside the road for weeks now, standing upright, the heel on the pavement pointed in towards the road, the rest remaining comfortably in the dirt.  Probably it fills with water during the rain and there must be sand and road dirt inside, spiders too, their webs lacing back and forth across the opening.  I pass this boot every day on my way to work wondering when it will be moved or knocked over or when someone will walk away with it.  Not sure why, but I like seeing the boot every morning, it’s a comforting reassuring sight, heel on the pavement, the rest in the dirt, as if poised to run away, but stuck in the weeds filling in all around.

 

 


                                                                                                         
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The Fun Fair                                                  

by Russell Ainslie                                                                          


asting furtive glances around, the fugitive breathed as heavily as he dared.  Every breath seemed to rush into and back out of his throat as loudly as a gale at sea in the silence that his own mind had created.  Fear had already dispelled all the other noises of the fun fair, which lay on the other side of the sea of tents and caravans behind which he had taken refuge like a fox evading the local hunt with their baying hounds hot on his heels.  The distant echoing screams of joy and fear and the usual pounding beat of fairground music were no longer a distraction to him.

The lack of flickering lights also failed to capture the young boy’s troubled mind.  Only the large Ferris wheel spread it’s illumination to the back rows of the tents, occasionally showering a small, oval face, petrified with terror, with red, green, orange as it poked around a corner of an innocuous dirty-white tent.

Sweat now beaded the small boy’s forehead as he struggled to control the whirling confusion in his mind.  He was finding it impossible to concentrate on the task of evading his pursuers; the nightmare of capture was the dominant thought in his mind and everything seemed to be conspiring to reveal his present hiding place.

The wind whistling through the treetops would whisper to his stalkers the identity of his whereabouts; the lights from the Ferris Wheel pointed directly to him, illuminating him like a search-light on an escaping convict.  His own gale-force breathing was sure to attract them, and even the concealing nature of the darkness would tell the gang that this was the place to look, the obvious place to hide, the obvious place to die.

The hour spent in flight seemed like five and weighed heavily on his pudgy limbs.  They trembled like saplings in a strong breeze; the knees had turned to water.  More than once, a hand had reached out to a tent-pole for support, or a body leaned against a caravan, gasping for the breath necessary to continue running.

His heart was pounding heavily, his mouth was dry.  His palms were clammy with sweat, but his whole body still felt cold.  More than one shiver ran down his back, like someone had sent an ice-cube sliding down his spine.  The boy jumped every-time a shadowy flicker, caused by the lights of the big wheel filtering through the maze of tents, caught the corner of his eye, or a rustle of the surrounding foliage reached his ears.

The not-so-distant sound of voices almost stilled the pounding of his heart.  Although too faint to make out clearly, the boy was convinced they had found him.  Panic assailed him and the stench of fear was strong in his nostrils.  He desperately wanted to run, to keep running until he was home to his mother’s smiling countenance and protective circle of arms.  Home—where he was safe; but he could not move his legs.  His plump head darted from side to side but he could not force his body to take a step in any particular direction.

Nearer came the voices, interspersed with heavy footsteps now, and cruel, mocking laughter.  The boy could sense an excited energy emanating from the conversation, and imagination forced words into his head.  Death threats mingled with gruesome descriptions swirled around his brain, and through it all he could see a vision of his mother crying, dressed all in black, with his grandfather supporting her.  He realised he was picturing his own funeral and a harsh lump came to his throat.  He just wanted to fall on his knees and weep, but could not even manage to bring his emotions out into that physical act—he was literally scared stiff.

Sharply the voices cleared his mind of images and he was back to the reality of his desperate situation.  The group of approaching people had entered the last couple of rows